"I don't think sulking is going to help," Harry says, perching on the edge of the kitchen table with his feet on a chair and his elbows resting on his knees.

Frank stares up at him from the hearth and then looks away pointedly.

Harry sighs. "If you'll recall, it wasn't me who said you couldn't come."

"You would not fight for me. You would so easily leave me all alone and celebrate in some other place," Frank says wretchedly, resting his head on his coils. "Do not care for such abandonment."

"I know," Harry says wearily, at the same time fighting to control a smile. It's a fair possibility that Frank the snake is the most dramatic entity he has ever had the pleasure of dealing with. "Believe me, I'd love to take you, if only for the look on Lucius Malfoy's face, but you know how Draco is."

"Unfeeling. Callous. Never shares his bacon," Frank offers, tongue flicking viciously.

"Bacon's bad for you," Harry says, adjusting the sleeves of his coat and wondering just what, exactly, Draco is still doing upstairs. Perhaps it's best not to know, but, still, they're going to be late.

"Does not stop you," Frank points out.

"That's true. But it doesn't change the fact that you're not allowed to come with us to the Manor."

Frank slithers across the tiles and insinuates himself between the spindles of Harry's chair, muscles rippling. "So cruel. So, so cruel. All alone, left to wither away, such a tragic and beautiful waste of life, such a—"

"Alright, alright, that's enough," Harry cuts in, getting down from the table and ducking into the pantry. When he emerges, bacon in hand, Frank's tongue darts out, tasting the air with enthusiasm. Harry rolls several rashers into an easily-swallowable, snake-friendly lump and holds it out. "You can have this if you promise to stop being so melodramatic. I've got enough to worry about today without your help."

"Delicious," Frank says, head waving almost drunkenly from side to side.

"Promise," Harry demands, holding the bacon out of reach and hoping that Draco doesn't choose this exact moment to finally enter the kitchen. Because this moment, in which he's using raw bacon to bribe a highly-strung python, he'd rather like to keep to himself.

Frank's head nods vigorously and Harry allows him to snap the bacon into his wide-open mouth and then disappear under the table with it. He sighs, looking down at his slightly sticky fingers and heading to the sink to run them under the hot tap. Anxieties are already running high this morning, what with the impending Malfoy Day and the wearying prospect of heaving that fucking lamp through the Floo network with them, and even now that Frank has been neutralised, the possibility of being unpunctual looms large and ominous.

"Come on, Draco," he mutters, perching once more on the kitchen table and all the while wondering whether or not it might be better for everyone—well, for him—if Draco just stays up there, tapping walls or playing with his hair or whatever he's doing. The memory of midnight is still glowing inside him with noisy intensity, and the wriggling thing, rather than being sated by the kiss, has been sent into overdrive. Fortunately... unfortunately, he thinks now, there hasn't yet been a chance for things to become awkward.

Draco, of course, having no idea that anything so momentous had just occurred, much less that he had just kissed a confusedly turned-on, falling fast, supposedly-straight Harry Potter, had clattered into the house, carefully put away his clothes and dived under the sheets without a word. By the time Harry had managed to find the approved homes for all the different parts of his outfit, Draco had been curled on his side and breathing softly, stirring only to reach out for Harry and press their cold skin together.

And now... now, it's two minutes to ten in the morning and the only words they have exchanged have been: "Good grief, must we?', "Do you want some toast?" and "Please see to that snake before I have him stuffed and mounted."

"Right, come on, let's have done with it," Draco sighs, striding into the kitchen with a large bag slung across his shoulders and a fancy-looking basket in his arms.

"Anybody would think you didn't like your parents," Harry says quietly, still unsure of the nature of Draco's relationship with Lucius and Narcissa, and wishing someone would give him a clue.

Draco snorts. "You know very well that they're better in small doses," he says. "Very small doses. Don't forget your... that," he adds, indicating the shimmering patch of air by the fireplace where Harry's lamp is hidden by a heavy duty Disillusionment Charm, ready for transport.

"Unlikely," Harry says grimly.

Draco lifts an eyebrow. "Okay. So... clothes are matching, hair is... passable, anti-insult armour is on—I hope."

Harry's heart sinks a little more, and the possibility that today might be anything more enjoyable than an endurance exercise starts to fade away.

"Yeah." He attempts a smile. "And if nothing else, I've always got Celestina."

Draco's mouth twitches and his eyes warm, just for a moment. The basket in his arms crackles as he adjusts his grip, drawing Harry's eyes. He frowns.

"That's what we're giving them?" he asks, staring down at the selection of gifts in disbelief. There are several boxes of biscuits, some of which Harry has never heard of before, some beautifully wrapped cheeses and two bottles of oak-aged mead. It's an extremely attractive gift, that much is evident, but he can't quite believe he and Draco aren't giving the Malfoys something more... extraordinary.

Draco closes his eyes briefly and manages to encapsulate pure exasperation in one soft sigh. "Please don't tell me you want to swap it for the other one now. Because in case you hadn't noticed, it's Christmas day and the shops are closed."

"No, I mean.... isn't it kind of small?"

Draco laughs shortly. "So, you've managed to forget how much easier this whole debacle is since we stopped trying to impress them with our presents?"

"No, it's just, erm, I thought you got the one with three bottles of mead," he lies lamely, instantly regretting his careless words when Draco's eyes sharpen.

"I wouldn't buy three of anything," he says irritably. "You know that."

"Sorry, wasn't thinking," Harry mumbles. Bad numbers, he reminds himself.

"You'd better start or my father will eat you alive. Come on, we're going to be late," Draco says suddenly, and there's a note of accusation in his voice that makes Harry scowl.

"I've been ready for ages," he mutters under his breath, grabbing the lamp and following Draco into the flames.

He's always hated Flooing.

**~*~**

When Harry steps out of the Malfoys' fireplace, he is suddenly grateful for his coat; the reception room is practically arctic. He just has time to look around, to take in the polished marble floor and the four vast oil paintings, one on each wall, before the door flies open, admitting a small female house-elf wearing a surprisingly clean, red linen pillowcase.

"Oh dear," she cries, raising both long-fingered hands to her face. "Oh dear, oh dear. Master Malfoy, Mister Potter, Senka is being so very sorry. Senka had to be putting out a small fire in the kitchens, sirs," she explains, batting at a slightly blackened patch of pillowcase and blinking huge blue eyes. "Please forgive, sirs."

"It's alright," Harry says hurriedly, though tempering his instinct to leap to the elf's defence. It doesn't seem to matter how many years pass, or how Ron continues to tease Hermione about SPEW, one look at a house-elf and Harry's mind is full of his friend, Dobby.

She stares at him and begins to hyperventilate.

"Take a breath, Senka, for goodness' sake," Draco says. Smiling, he adds: "It wouldn't be Christmas without a little inferno, would it?"

Senka's ears droop and she exhales loudly. "So kind," she sighs. "Mister Malfoy will be cross."

"Well, he might be," Draco admits, unwinding his scarf and giving Senka an absent pat on the shoulder as he heads for the door, "but you know how he is. He gets terribly bored when he has nothing to carp about."

Harry and Senka exchange glances before she scurries to the door, almost knocking Draco over in her haste to reach the handle first and yank it open for them.

"Thanks," he mumbles, and her ears twitch in response. Her large eyes flick to the near-invisible lamp in Harry's grasp, just for a moment.

"Mister Malfoy and Mistress Narcissa are being in the parlour, if sirs will follow Senka," she says, startling Harry as she lets the door bang behind them and takes off down the corridor. "If Senka hurries, perhaps they won't smell the burning." She looks briefly over her shoulder without slowing down. "It was a turkey fire," she confides. "Too many combustibles in the stuffing. Senka told Bilby, but Bilby has problems with the listening."

Harry snorts, feeling for the unfortunate Bilby, who is probably slaving away somewhere in the bowels of the house, and noting for the first time the slight Eastern European inflection to Senka's rapid-fire words.

Beside Harry, Draco says nothing, but he seems amused. His eyes are bright and the gritty, 'let's just get this over with' expression has softened considerably.

"Fortunately, we's also having the goose," Senka says. "Maybe no one will notice."

Draco snorts. "I think you are more optimistic every time I see you."

Senka laughs. It's a strange sound—a sort of soft, bouncing lilt—and Harry is struck by the idea of a house-elf, any house-elf, being allowed to laugh inside Malfoy Manor. He smiles.

"Senka knows this is no flattery, Master Malfoy," she says, and, continuing before Draco has a chance to reply: "All is set up, Senka hopes it is as nice as last year, but had so much trouble with the tinsels... they's not always wanting to cooperate," she says darkly, and then brightens. "Mister Potter's gift is very beautiful, Senka is seeing it, of course."

Harry glances at the heavy bugger and then at the back of Senka's head, surprised. "Oh. Thank you."

Draco lifts an eyebrow. "You didn't even wrap it?" he murmurs, mock-offended.

Harry pokes out his tongue and continues to follow Senka through the maze of corridors. Having taken note of each turn and each memorable object—a suit of armour here, a painting of a spectacularly ugly woman there—he thinks that he could just about find his way back to the reception room if pressed, but it would be a challenge; the place is vast. The air is cold here, too, and the lack of festivity is striking, but if he strains he can just about smell roasting meat and spices coming from the lower floors where, no doubt, poor Bilby is hard at work.

Still, he has to admit that it is a beautiful house, and so much brighter and cleaner and generally well-kept than the last time he was here, not that that's surprising, under the circumstances. Idly, he wonders if this Malfoy Manor was still the setting for the horrors hosted by its counterpart during the war. Some new horrors, of course, he already knows a little about, he thinks, glancing down at his leg and pushing away his prickling curiosity. Now is not the time.

"No, Master Malfoy, Bilby has not yet burned the roasted potatoes," Senka is saying, causing Harry to smile at the carpet and remind himself that he really ought to be paying attention. "There is still time, but Senka has a back-up. A reserve of roasted potatoes. Senka is not going to be shown up this year. Oh dear, no. Reserve turkey next year, too, would be helpful," she sighs, finally pausing to take a breath.

"I'm sure it will be fine," Draco assures, just as they come to a sudden stop in front of a heavy oak door, which, while just like all the others they have passed, appears to be their destination. Harry takes a breath.

Senka flings open the door and curtseys briefly. "Mister Malfoy, Mistress, your guests are here."

"Thank you, Senka," Narcissa says softly, rising from an ornate chaise and joining her husband, who is standing importantly, straight-backed, in front of the fireplace, hands behind his back.

Harry finds himself noticing this time that every part of Lucius' complicated, stiff formal outfit is black. Only a quarter-inch of pure white collar dares to disturb this gloomy accord, and the long, white-blond hair seems to gleam in the sharp morning light that floods the room. He cuts an intimidating figure, whether Harry wants to admit it or not, and as he stands there, one hand barely grazing Draco's and the other hanging grimly onto his lamp, he has no idea what to expect.

At his side, Draco quietly removes his coat, eliciting a split-second eyebrow lift from his father as he reveals the smart but vivid aquamarine-coloured shirt and thin silver tie he has chosen to wear. The rebel, Harry thinks, continuing to stare at Lucius.

"Merry Christmas, Mother," Draco says, and Narcissa smiles but says nothing, as though she, too, is waiting for something to happen.

And then it does. Lucius narrows his eyes, tilts his chin and bellows: "The magic in your eyes, my dear, bewitches me still!"

The combination of intense eye contact and amorous words is startling, and just for a moment, Harry is thrown utterly off balance, but he recovers himself quickly and flicks through the jumble of lyrics he has managed to commit to memory.

The magic in your eyes... drama... strings... bewitches me still... and...

"And the sparkle in your smile of which I never get my fill," Harry returns triumphantly, and a little louder than he intends to.

One pale eyebrow twitches and Harry can barely restrain his victorious grin, but he manages it, hanging onto the stem of his lamp and determinedly not looking at Draco. Swelled by success, he throws out the first line that pops into his head:

"And you claimed me, like only you can."

Lucius frowns. It's just a split-second wrinkle of the brow, but Harry sees it, and, judging by her puzzled expression, Narcissa sees it, too. Beside him, Draco emits a small, soft sound of amusement and it suddenly occurs to Harry that perhaps he doesn't usually return the challenge.

Well. He's done it now, hasn't he?

For long seconds there is silence, and Harry can just about hear the strident voice of Senka from the floor below, and the answering crashes and bangs from her clumsy colleague. And then Lucius clears his throat. Clasps and unclasps his hands behind his back.

"Take me gently, my curse-breakin' man," he sings, looking right into Harry's eyes, and despite the alarming inference, Harry really does smile this time. And then Lucius' eyebrows are crooked with defiance, and he's breaking into song once more. "Whisper the words, no clash and no skirmish?"

"Bubbles of love in the poetry of Mermish," Harry shoots back, accomplishment wild in his veins. It's ridiculous and wonderful, and the tiny flickers of chagrin on Lucius Malfoy's face are so rewarding that Harry almost forgets there is anyone else in the room. "Under the planets, aligned in the sky?"

Lucius hesitates, closing his eyes briefly, as though steeling himself. "Making sweet, fierce love, you and I."

"There's a disturbing thought," Draco murmurs, reminding Harry of his presence.

"He said, 'I am your ruin, my heart painted black'," Lucius rumbles, finally breaking out of his rigid stance and sweeping one arm out to the side.

Harry stares. Chews his lip. Rifles, again and again, through his bank of appalling lyrics, to no avail. Finally, suffused with a mixture of disappointment for running aground and horror for making it this far, he sighs and concedes.

"I'm afraid I don't know that one."

Lucius smiles expansively, displaying straight, white teeth. "You do not have her newest record, Mr Potter."

"Erm... no, Richenda didn't have it," he mutters, mostly to himself.

"Of course not," Lucius says. "It's not available until the new year. Unless one knows the right people, of course."

"Isn't it fascinating how your definition of 'the right people' has altered over the years?" Narcissa offers from her chaise, and though her face remains impassive, Harry detects the delicate, wry humour in her voice, and he warms to her, just a little.

"As fascinating as the lines on your face, my dear," Lucius snaps, looking stung. "They have seen some alteration over the years, too."

"None of us are as young as we used to be, Lucius," Narcissa says, gazing at him appraisingly. "Waistlines can be ever so telling, can't they?"

Lucius bristles and holds himself very erect while Harry glances between them, intrigued, and feeling as though he's accidentally privy to something he was never supposed to see—the human side of the Malfoys.

"Don't start," Draco sighs, and Harry turns to look at him. He runs an exasperated hand through his hair and gazes wearily at his parents. Lucius and Narcissa glance at one another and remain silent and almost—but surely not—apologetic.

"Who would like a drink?" Narcissa offers, glancing around for a house-elf.

"At ten in the morning?" Lucius grouses, and then: "Mead, if you insist."

"I'm not insisting anything," Narcissa insists and snaps her fingers. "Senka!"

When she appears, still looking slightly singed, Harry is careful to ask for an apple juice, and even more careful to make sure he asks for it within Lucius' earshot. Whatever it takes, he's determined to prove to Mr Malfoy that he is not a drunk.

Lucius does not deign to comment on Harry's choice of beverage, distracted as he appears to be by the scent of slightly... well-done food that Senka has brought in with her. He sniffs at the air and frowns.

"Why can I smell burning?"

Senka curtseys hurriedly and disappears without a word.

"Strange creature," Lucius sighs, gazing first at the empty spot of rug from which Senka has just disappeared and then at Harry. "Still, I have never regretted investing in some foreign help. Very hard workers, the Russians," he confides.

"Mm," Harry manages, uncertain just what response is expected of him.

"He's not interested in your sweeping generalisations, Father," Draco says, steering Harry over to a surprisingly comfortable-looking sofa with a gentle hand on the small of his back. Harry allows himself to be guided, focusing his energies on dragging the sodding lamp with him and settling it into position at the edge of the sofa. Harry sinks down onto the cushions and wonders if he can persuade Draco to carry it back home; it is his lamp, after all.

"I am merely trying to educate him, Draco," Lucius says coolly. "You needn't worry about his head exploding; I doubt it is currently overburdened with information."

Insulted, Harry bites down on the inside of his mouth with the effort of keeping his expression neutral. So, Lucius Malfoy thinks he's stupid. He can't say he's surprised, but it stings all the same, and he wonders just how his other self puts up with what he suspects is a regular procession of insults and pointed insinuations from his might-as-well-be father-in-law.

"Stop it," Draco says, just as Narcissa responds:

"Take heart, Mr Potter. At least you have youth on your side... to an extent."

This time, Harry can't help it. He laughs. Beside him, Draco shakes his head and snorts gently. Lucius sighs and examines his hands critically. Narcissa stares into the fireplace with an odd little smile on her lips. Already, this is easily the strangest Christmas Harry has ever experienced, and it's not even lunchtime.

Senka reappears with the drinks and Harry sips gratefully at the apple juice which she has seen fit to warm and spice with delicious results.

"This is fantastic, thank you," he says, ignoring Lucius' disparaging noise. He imagines he isn't supposed to thank the help, however efficient and Russian it is. Senka smiles brilliantly.

"Mister Malfoy, Mistress, Senka will bring the gifts now?"

Lucius nods in the affirmative and Draco stands, levering himself up with a hand on Harry's thigh, and excuses himself.

"Oh, no, Master Malfoy," she cries, hurrying after him. "Senka will fetch it, Senka will bring it!"

"It's heavy, Senka," Draco says calmly, distressing her further by reaching for the handle and opening the parlour door himself. "And besides, you don't know where it is. I hid it."

"Master Malfoy! Allow Senka to assist!" she cries, disappearing after him, and Harry can hear her anguished protests and Draco's footsteps all the way down the corridor.

When the room is once more plunged into silence, Harry is seized by awkwardness, and in order not to make eye contact with either of the Malfoys, he glances around at his surroundings. The parlour is spacious, tastefully decorated in rich creams and golds, and dotted with luxurious sofas, chaises, armchairs, and beautiful tables and shelves in what he now recognises, with some pride, as cherry. It's full of antiques and rugs that were probably made by Guatemalan goblins and cost more than he makes in a year as an Auror, but still—he can't believe they're going to open Christmas gifts in a room so painfully lacking in festivity.

He hadn't expected a tinsel-decked tree or gaudy garlands, but there isn't so much as a wreath or a sprig of holly in the entire room. It's silly, he knows, but he aches for the mismatched baubles at the Burrow or the glittery, gluey stockings that Lily, Albus, and even James hang up at home. Even the fairly ascetic number twelve has a string of white lights and a shelf full of brightly-coloured Christmas cards.

"May I see it, Mr Potter?"

"Excuse me?" Harry looks up quickly and meets Narcissa's eyes.

She gestures toward the lamp, and Harry realises he has once again wrapped his fingers around the smooth wooden stem without noticing it.

"Er, yeah," he mumbles, caught off guard, dissolving the Disillusionment Charm with a flick of his wrist.

"How unusual," Narcissa says. Harry looks at her sharply, but, for once, there seems to be no undertone to her words. She's smiling.

"Thanks," Harry says, allowing his other self a pat on the back.

Lucius clears his throat and hesitates, as though he knows his next words will cause him some discomfort. "That's exquisite, Mr Potter—a rare show of taste. Where did you get it?"

As the words sink in, Harry becomes aware, via the delicious thrill in his chest, the enviable position in which he now finds himself. Lucius Malfoy has just accidentally given him a compliment. And yes, there's a small part of him that's insisting he has the situation all the wrong way up, and that the last person he should want to impress is an ex-Death Eater with a terrible attitude and a cruel streak a mile wide, but right here, in this strange place, it seems to be spouting nothing but irrelevancies.

"I made it, Mr Malfoy," he says, catching slate grey eyes at exactly the right moment.

"Really?" he manages, genuinely startled. The pale eyebrows flicker, communicating an inner anguish to which this man would never admit. "I thought you made tables and such things."

Harry smiles wryly, deciding not to share with Lucius the fact that tables are a bit of a sore point at the moment. "I make all sorts of things. Actually, we've been experimenting quite a lot with glass recently," he offers, suddenly brightening at the memory. "We just bought some blowing pipes and we're learning how to blow our own glass—it's fascinating, actually."

"We?" Narcissa enquires, tucking her curtain of pale hair behind her ear.

"Oh, Arthur Weasley and I. And little Maura, you know, Ginny and Blaise's daughter," Harry says. "She's been helping me out during the school holidays when they have to work."

At the mention of the Weasleys, Lucius wrinkles his nose and looks out of the window, but Narcissa smiles and leans closer, threading her fingers together. As she does so, Harry notices that, although her face has barely aged over the last twenty years, her hands betray her, a tangle of paper-wrinkled skin, bony fingers and opal-studded silver jewellery.

"Maura is a lovely girl," she says, eyes wistful. "I haven't seen her for such a long time, though. I really ought to owl Blaise. Is he well?"

"He's fine," he assures. "Just about the same as usual."

To his astonishment, Narcissa laughs softly. "That is good to hear. I always felt he was a positive influence on Draco when they were both at school."

Lucius snorts and Narcissa glances at him sharply. "Do you have something to add, Lucius?"

"No," he says, almost sulkily.

"Don't get married, Mr Potter," Narcissa advises. "All men turn into their fathers eventually, and I needn't expand on how that might end messily for you."

Harry smiles. Against all his instincts, he's starting to enjoy himself.

"Let us not begin to discuss your mother, then," Lucius murmurs, still gazing out over the grounds, and then: "What on earth is Draco doing? And where did that blasted elf get to?"

"Senka is sorry, Mister Malfoy!" the elf cries, barrelling into the room, laden with gifts.

Draco, close behind her and carrying something large and unwieldy in his arms, stops short as his eyes are drawn to a spot somewhere to Harry's left. Far too late, he remembers that he has forgotten to recast the charm to hide the lamp.

"Ah," he attempts, and then sighs. Scrubs a hand through his hair. Shrugs. "I made you a lamp!" he says redundantly.

The split-second expression of surprise has melted from Draco's face and he's irritatingly composed as he rejoins the group and unloads his burden onto the vacant sofa. "Are you sure?" he asks.

Panic-stricken, Harry stops breathing as he scrambles for the right lie. "I really did," he insists, face heating. "I made it in my workshop."

Draco lifts an eyebrow, visibly amused. "I'm sure you did. I meant... are you sure it isn't a lobster? Or a teacup? Or a set of carving knives?"

Harry sags and closes his eyes briefly. "You are a horrible person," he mutters. "Merry Christmas."

"He takes after his mother," Lucius puts in.

Draco raises his eyes to the ceiling and ignores his father, stepping closer to the lamp and reaching out a curious hand to slide over the curves of the wood, just as Harry had done when he had first seen it. Silently, Harry draws his wand and flicks fire into the glass shade, lighting the lamp and standing back to admire the scale and intricacy of the patterns cast on to the walls of such a large space.

"That is extraordinary," Draco murmurs, eyes flicking between the shifting patterns on the walls, the moving shards of green glass, and, finally, Harry. His sharp cheekbones are slightly flushed, his eyes bright, and his smile is unrestrained now—not weary or sardonic, but genuine, delighted, and utterly ruinous for Harry's insides.

He swallows hard. "So, you like it."

"You actually remembered that I said I needed a lamp for reading," Draco says, opting not to answer the question. "Can you have it still as well?"

"Er..." Harry begins, but Draco already has his wand out and is tapping gently at the glass.

"Oh, lovely," he enthuses, as the soft green shapes fall motionless and the room is filled with gentle, glowing light.

"Of course you can," Harry says, feeling illogically impressed with himself. Quickly, though, as he basks in the pleasure on Draco's face, misplaced pride melts into inadequacy. His other self clearly knows exactly what Draco wants; he can't even remember to wrap a lamp, or keep it hidden until the proper time.

"Mm," Draco hums softly, fingers tracing the smooth green glass. Harry holds his breath without knowing why. "Thank you," he says at last, turning glowing eyes to Harry and then, before he has time for the surprise to register, draws Harry close, hands on his hips and lips against his cheek, the smell of warm citrus everywhere and the words repeated, "Thank you," and "I love you," against his skin.

Harry's heart clenches almost painfully, his pulse jumps, and the wriggling thing attempts to turn his stomach inside out. Say something, hisses the lonely logical voice inside his head, but he's frozen.

"We will still be here when you choose to remember us," Lucius says acidly.

Startled and not a little embarrassed, but grateful for the distraction, Harry turns to face Mr Malfoy, who has moved to sit by his wife's side on the chaise. Flushed, he forces an apologetic smile.

"And I trust you'll be just as melodramatic, too," Draco returns.

Narcissa blinks innocently, hands in her lap, but Lucius narrows his eyes at his son.

"A little respect wouldn't go amiss, Draco," he sighs. "Aren't you going to give Mr Potter his..." He pauses, wrinkling his nose and indicating the silver-wrapped mass that takes up most of the sofa. "Well, that. It's not a block of wood, is it, Draco?" he asks, attempting humour but still managing to sound disparaging.

Draco exhales heavily, flicks a long-suffering glance at Harry, and then lowers himself onto the arm of the sofa and gestures in silence toward the gift.

Puzzled, Harry squeezes himself into the last few inches of sofa and pulls gently at the wrappings, which he now realises are made of a soft, thin silver fabric that feels strong and slippery under his fingers and sparkles in the green light. When he reveals a huge pile of neatly-stacked branches, Draco's exasperation becomes clear.

"Will you look at that, Narcissa?" Lucius mumbles.

"It isn't a block," she observes.

And she's right, of course. What Harry is now confronted with is, in fact, a collection of smooth, honey-coloured branches, each around the width of his forearm and each with a slight curve starting halfway along the length. Instinctively, he lifts the topmost branch to his face and examines the grain, turns it over and over in his hands, inhales the unusually sweet smell of the wood.

He has no idea what it is, but he knows it's special. He looks up. "They're beautiful," he says truthfully.

Draco smiles, tapping his fingers on the arm of the sofa in an anxious rhythm.

"They're tree branches," Lucius says, sounding scandalised.

"They're Veneficus branches," Draco corrects, eyes fixed on Harry. "Canadian Veneficus at that. I was told their magical properties are stronger than the European... I'm sorry it's such a measly amount, but they're damned difficult to get hold of in any quantity."

The name rings a faint bell somewhere in the depths of Harry's memory and he's suddenly aware that these odd little sticks are very special indeed. And that Draco must have gone to some trouble to get them for him. Strangely overwhelmed, he takes a deep breath.

"Don't apologise, they're fantastic," he says looking up to meet Draco's eyes.

Draco shrugs lightly and swipes his hair out of his face, pretending nonchalance, but Harry knows better.

"Well, I know you've wanted to have a play with some for a long time. You would have had it last year, but there was a problem with the crop in Ontario. Something about Hoodoo beetles, apparently."

Narcissa shudders lightly and glances down at her hands and clothes as though the mention of creepy-crawlies has sent them clambering all over her. "Goodness, Draco," she says at last, suppressing her horror and setting her features, "how on earth did you lay your hands on Veneficus?"

He finds a smile for his mother. "A friend with his business in the field is always helpful," he says. "And when things weren't moving as they should, I plagued Blaise day and night until they did."

"He's a terribly successful boy, isn't he?" Narcissa says approvingly.

"Do I not always say that it's whom one knows that is important?" Lucius puts in, but his heart doesn't seem to be in it.

Amused, Harry continues to admire the branches. Even without a true understanding of wood, he can see that they are exquisite, and the mysterious magical properties almost seem to hum around them like an invisible, gently-pulsing energy field. He wouldn't dare to sacrifice this gift at the altar of the Little Table, but he can't help thinking that if he did, things would somehow, miraculously, work out beautifully.

"Thank you," Harry manages at last, unsure whether he's relieved or disappointed that Draco can't reach him, separated as he is from Harry by the stack of Veneficus branches. He'd said 'I love you'. Of course he had. Because he does love Harry. The other Harry, the one who makes him lamps and drags him out to feed the homeless. Harry sighs softly, squirmy with confusion. Draco, who has bent over to retrieve something from the floor, doesn't notice.

"Here's the traditional basket," he says, rising briefly to pass their gift to Narcissa.

Surprisingly, her pale eyes light with enthusiasm as she examines the contents. "Cheese! Oh..." She frowns lightly, raising one package to her eyes to scrutinise it more closely. "Drunken Goat cheese. Draco, you find such strange things."

"Harry chose that one, actually," he says, dropping his voice to add—only for Harry to hear—"I believe you said it made you think of my father."

The resulting visual that floods Harry's mind is far too much for him, and he looses a loud squeak/snort that easily draws the attention of everyone in the room; even Lucius is distracted from his avid inspection of the label of a mead bottle.

"Is there something wrong, Mr Potter?" he demands.

"Excuse Senka," interrupts a small voice. Harry's insides flop with relief. "Would Sirs and Mistress like to come to the dining room now? Christmas lunch is being served very soon."

Draco stretches and gets to his feet. He smiles at Harry. "Come on. Time for the main event."

Something about those words is disconcerting, but Harry brushes it away as he gently covers his Veneficus and goes to follow Draco and Senka, who appear to be once again racing each other to the door.

It's just a meal, after all.

**~*~**

In contrast to the rest of the house, the Malfoys' dining room is lavishly decorated; the table is draped in rich, dark red fabric and laid with glittering silverware; a huge tree, decorated with what looks like real, non-melting snow and groaning with sparkling baubles sits regally in one corner, and Bilby, under the watchful eye of Senka, seems to have produced enough festive food to feed a small country.

Harry, however, is struggling to pay much attention to his surroundings, entranced as he is by the Malfoys' Christmas gift. Even the food on his plate is being neglected in favour of... that thing.

"What's the matter?" Draco hisses, leaning along their side of the vast table and just about managing to graze Harry's thigh with his fork.

Harry hesitates, assures himself that Lucius and Narcissa are still embroiled in their argument about the proper serving temperature of a roast suckling pig, and replies without averting his eyes:

"I can't not look at it."

"The swan?"

"The swan," Harry confirms, poking at the delicious food on his plate, shaking his head slowly.

"What about it?" Draco whispers.

Harry blinks repeatedly in the direction of the swan, but it stays put. He's never seen anything like it in his life, this... object that sits on the edge of the table. Looking at him. When Senka and Bilby had produced it, at the click of Lucius' fingers, in between the third course of melon and the current course of roast meats and vegetables, he had been completely baffled.

And though Draco seems unperturbed, even amused, Harry's so far out of the picture that he doesn't know if it's a surrealist landscape or a naked lady.

Or a huge, slightly disturbing glass swan.

"What about it?" Draco repeats, leaning even closer.

"Sometimes I think about having your mouth sewn up in your sleep," Narcissa says darkly.

"What the hell are we going to do with it?" Harry hisses.

"You'd better have a house-elf do it," Lucius snaps. "You cannot sew a single stitch."

Draco's mouth twitches. "What do you mean? We're going to put it in the Horrible Parlour with all the other Horrible Things, of course."

Harry frowns, finding his eyes dragged inexorably back to the swan. "It's so ugly."

"Of course it's ugly. They're always ugly. Is there any reason why you expected it to be different this year?" Draco asks.

"This has to be the ugliest," Harry mutters, eyeing the swan's sinister glass face and trying to reconcile himself with the idea of an endless parade of grotesque Christmas gifts from the seemingly self-appointed King and Queen of good taste.

"You must be joking," Draco says, disbelief strengthening his voice. "You think it's uglier than the moose? The moose, the yard stick by which all ugliness is measured?"

Harry laughs into his linen napkin, trying not to look at Draco's expression of genuine inquiry, but ultimately helpless to resist. Still grinning, he looks once again at the swan and resolves to find this collection of Horrible Things for himself as soon as possible.

"I concede. It's not as bad as the moose."

"Good. I was worried for a moment that there was something terribly amiss in the natural order of things," Draco says, sliding a forkful of perfectly-roasted goose into his mouth and chewing it thoughtfully. "Maura will like it, I think. She likes that godawful duck we got two years ago. Strange child."

Maura, Harry thinks suddenly, staring down at his plate. He's almost certain that Draco and her real Uncle Harry wouldn't have forgotten her at Christmas, but he's also suddenly aware of how many times she's rescued him, and is seized by an uncharacteristic desire to take her to Diagon Alley and buy her anything she wants.

"Aren't you enjoying your goose, Mr Potter?" Narcissa inquires.

Harry looks up to find four Malfoy eyes staring at him from the other side of the table. It's unnerving.

"No, I mean, yes, of course," he stumbles, just about resisting the urge to saw manically at his meat and begin shovelling it into his mouth. Instead he fixes Narcissa with his calmest smile. "It's all lovely."

"Leave it, Narcissa," Lucius advises, staring over his goblet at Harry with an odd mixture of pity and disdain to which Harry is becoming accustomed. "I think it's a little late to address issues of taste, especially those with their roots in... unfortunate parenting."

Furious, Harry sets down his knife and fork and opens his mouth to respond, but then there's a hand on his knee, a murmured, "He doesn't mean your actual parents, you know that," and a sharp, quelling look from Narcissa Malfoy to her husband, and the room seems to fade to static.

"Those Muggles were abhorrent creatures," Lucius mumbles, somewhat chastened.

"As far as I know, they still are," Harry says a little too loudly, fighting the anger prickling under his skin. It's not as though this is the first time Lucius has managed to insult him, but each one, along with the rich food and the swans and the constant sniping, adds to the pressure inside his head. He wants to take his Veneficus, the lamp, and Draco, who has somehow become his most steadfast ally in all this, and make a dash for it down the drive.

But he won't.

Some air would be nice, though. Any air at all will do. Something seems to have sucked the dining room clear of it.

"Would you excuse me for a moment?" he says, laying his napkin beside his plate and rising from the table.

"Senka, bring the thread," Narcissa snaps as he heads for the door.

"It isn't my fault he's so oversensitive," Lucius mutters, and then Harry is out into the corridor, walking quickly and taking turns at random, hoping for the best even though he has no idea where he is heading.

Just when he thinks he's completely lost, he walks out into an immense, marble-floored entrance hall dominated by an ornate curved staircase and a decorated tree even larger than the one in the dining room. Best of all, though, a pair of doors that, though closed and bolted, definitely lead to the fresh air he's seeking.

He doesn't stop to think before he's blasting open the bolts with a swish of his wand and a series of heavy clicks, flinging the doors open, and missing his step as his leg gives way beneath him. For an alarming few seconds he skids on the marble before he manages to grab an ornate doorknob and scramble to a stop, heart racing and palms slippery on the cold brass. Possibly the last thing he needs at this moment is to come to a sticky end at the front door of Malfoy sodding Manor. He supposes, like Blaise says, there's always time.

Shaking out his leg, he steps out onto the portico and gulps at the freezing cold, winter-scented air. Leans against the nearest stone pillar and closes his eyes. They're sore, a sure sign that he's exhausted, and he feels old. Tired and old and overstuffed, even though he's barely halfway through course four of a promised seven.

"Oh, no," he groans, recalling Senka's somewhat boastful description of the huge, brandy-soaked Christmas puddings that are her speciality.

He opens his eyes. The sun is dipping below the horizon now, flooding the grounds with liquid orange light, and Harry wonders just how long he has been sitting at that table. It's beautiful here. Confusing and beautiful. He sighs.

"I thought you might need a drink."

Harry turns to see Draco, eyebrow lifted in what appears to be concern, holding out a heavy glass tumbler half-filled with some brown liquid or other. Fuck it, he thinks, and takes it, swallowing down most of the fiery contents in one gulp.

"Don't worry, I wasn't planning to stay out here all night... afternoon... whatever it is." Harry frowns. "I really don't have a clue any more. And this is the first drink."

Draco smiles softly. He shrugs and takes the glass back from Harry, draining the contents and inspecting the bottom of the glass. "Sorry about my father. I know he can be..."

"Difficult?" Harry offers.

"Well, I was going to say 'a bit of a shit' but we can use your word."

Harry laughs. "Thanks."

"The crazy thing is, I don't think he's actually meant to offend you for years, but, well, the words just have a habit of coming out." Draco leans against the wide pillar beside Harry, so that their shoulders touch. He sighs. "My mother is still trying to train him, of course, but I think we all know she's fighting a losing battle."

Harry raises his eyebrows at the sunset, feeling a little of the pressure inside his head drain away.

"She's almost as bad. Why does she still call me Mr Potter?"

"She's always called you Mr Potter," Draco says. "She's not going to change now. It isn't done."

"Change?"

"Not for Malfoys," Draco says, linking their fingers together where they touch against the cold stone.

"I beg to differ," Harry almost whispers, shivering as a sudden gust of wind rips at his face and hair. "Take the unknown road now."

"A one-time event," Draco mutters, an odd little smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. "I am an immoveable object."

This time, when Harry kisses him, he doesn't even think about it.

**~*~**

Several minutes later, partially restored by Draco and a mouthful of excellent firewhisky, Harry returns to the table and resumes his fourth course with a little more enthusiasm. The Malfoys are still arguing, but no one has yet had their mouth sewn shut, which Harry takes as a good sign.

"Good grief," Lucius says, apparently noticing their return at last. "What have you done to your hair?"

Harry instinctively reaches up to subdue his wind-ruffled mop and manages to streak it with gravy from the fork he has forgotten to put down. Lucius' eyebrows flicker in mute distress.

"It's a little... er, blustery outside," he manages, immediately wanting to hex himself in the face.

"Blustery?" Draco mocks, voice low and face half hidden in his goblet.

"Shut up," Harry whispers, kicking him under the table and delighting in the spark of mischief that lights in his belly.

Draco snorts and mumbles something that sounds a lot like 'set the swan on you'.

"Senka, the tartlets, please," calls Narcissa, and Harry's roast goose disappears mid-slice.

Three more courses to go, he tells himself. And then... well, he's not entirely sure what then.

"Are you sure you won't stay the night, Draco?"

Harry keeps his eyes on the intricate little tartlet that has just appeared on his plate. He doesn't need to look at Draco to imagine the expression on his face, and he can practically feel Draco gritting his teeth.

"No, thank you, Mother."

"I really think you should."

"I know. And I'd really like to go home."

"I had Senka prepare your bedroom."

"Thank you. I have a bedroom at home." Draco pauses. "We have a bedroom at home."

"Mr Potter is welcome to stay also."

"That's very generous of you," Draco says drily, leaning back in his chair.

Narcissa sighs. "Don't be like that, Draco."

Harry listens in silence half wondering just what those round purple things in his tartlet could be, and half reflecting that—in his limited experience—it seems like all mothers are the same, really. Some are warmer or rougher or easier to understand, but they all want to protect their children, however old they grow, to fuss over them unnecessarily, to wish for more time.

"Sorry," Draco says softly. "I don't sleep well here, though, you know that. And neither does Harry."

Harry inhales sharply, chews on his lip. Because things did happen here. They did.

"You would sleep perfectly well if you deigned to take the Sleeping Draughts I always offer," Lucius puts in, eyes narrowed. "You would sleep here. You would sleep on a bloody broomstick."

Something in his voice makes Harry look up; Senka is hurrying to fill Lucius' goblet with mead, and Draco's fingers are gripping the napkin in his lap tightly. Narcissa chews delicately on a mouthful of tartlet and gazes wearily out of the window as though she knows what is coming next and has absolutely no interest in it.

Draco's voice is tight. "I'd rather not sleep at all."

"When you have spent five years in Azkaban, Draco, talk to me again."

"I think I'll take your word for it," Draco snaps, leaning forward and cutting savagely into his tartlet.

Caught up in the sudden tension, Harry's eyes flit anxiously around the room and happen to meet Narcissa's across the table. Her mouth twists ruefully as she shoots Harry a disenchanted but conspiratorial glance which he returns after a moment's astonishment.

"You are—"

"That's enough, Lucius," Narcissa cuts in sweetly. "And please save some mead for the rest of us."

Lucius scowls but falls silent, opting to push away his plate and stare into the bottom of his goblet.

"Are you okay?" Harry whispers, glancing sidelong at Draco, who is chewing slowly, knife and fork gripped in whitened hands.

Draco meets his eyes through an errant fall of hair, just as the remains of the tartlets disappear. Harry's, too, fades into nothing, untouched and taking with it the mystery of the round purple things.

"Two more courses to go."

**~*~**

Finally, the plates disappear for the final time, leaving only the delicate cups full of rich, dark coffee that blazes a welcome, energising trail down Harry's throat and out to his fingertips. Revived, he sips it slowly, leaning back to silently observe the conversation between Draco and his mother. Perhaps 'conversation' isn't the right word for Narcissa's not-so-subtle discourse on Oriana-from-her-lunch-circle's new baby granddaughter.

"Mm," says Draco.

"She's a beautiful little girl," Narcissa says wistfully.

"Mm," says Draco.

"A child is a gift," Narcissa adds.

"Mm," says Draco, glancing wearily at his mother over the top of his coffee cup.

"Tick-tock, Mr Potter," Lucius murmurs, grey eyes flashing humour in Harry's direction.

He sighs inwardly, draining his cup. It's just possible that they're all completely insane.

When Lucius and Narcissa leave the table to follow a relieved-looking Senka into the parlour for drinks, Harry hangs back, walking slowly, and Draco falls easily into step at his side.

"You know, I was almost afraid she wasn't going to mention my childless state this time," he says, sounding amused.

"I'm sure you'd have dealt with the disappointment," Harry offers, and there's a light brush of fingers against his that makes him smile.

They turn into a wide, portrait-lined corridor with Lucius, Narcissa, and Senka way out in front, their conversation barely audible now, and Harry slows, eyes drawn to the nearest carved door. It's just like all the others, heavy, ornate, and closed, but something makes him stop.

"Something the matter?"

"This room," Harry mutters to himself, reaching out for the knob before he has time to think about it. His memory tugs at him painfully, replaying scenes he'd rather forget—that he has tried to forget, almost successfully, but as the door swings open with a slight creak, they rush in around him in a cold cascade, chilling him until he feels as though he might throw up.

The drawing room is much as he remembers it and nothing like he remembers it all at once. Gone are the scorch marks and broken furniture and echoes of boots on bare tile; the space is clean, opulent, and beautifully appointed just like all the others, but the imposing fireplace is present, the tall, thin windows, and the air of disuse that stagnates in Harry's lungs.

"There really are far too many rooms in this house," Draco sighs, looking over Harry's shoulder. His warm breath lifts the hairs on the back of Harry's neck and he shudders. "For two people, anyway."

"Are you suggesting we move in?" Harry asks absently, grateful for the warmth at his back as he stands there, fighting the confusion tangling in his stomach. Even if it is the warmth of a person who was part of the horror that took place in this room, at least where he comes from. A person who couldn't quite bring himself to identify Harry and his friends. Here. At least... where he comes from. Harry frowns and rubs at his face.

"Sorry, what?" he asks, realising he's completely missed Draco's answer.

"I said, we will move in with my parents over my dead body."

Exhaling messily, Harry takes one more look around the room, forces a reassuring smile for Draco, and stalks back out into the corridor. Lucius, Narcissa, and Senka are nowhere to be seen, but the strange compulsion that has seized him flattens any remaining concern for propriety.

As Draco follows him out of the drawing room and pulls the heavy door closed, Harry heads for the next door along, heart racing, and finds himself in a magnificent ballroom. This door is slightly stiff and he has to shove it hard to open it all the way. He releases the cold knob and walks slowly into the centre of the huge space, tipping back his head to admire the complicated moulded ceiling with its swirling patterns of gold and sparkling chandeliers.

"I'm surprised you want to be in here. You've never wanted to before."

Harry drops his eyes and, in the mirrors that line the ballroom, sees Draco, hanging back by the door and staring at him.

"Why would you think that?" he asks without turning around, even though he thinks he knows why. Even though the confusion in his stomach twists and solidifies into a heavy ball at the words.

Draco makes an odd sound of surprise that echoes in the cavernous room, and he clicks across the floor to stand beside Harry with his arms crossed over his chest.

"Why would I think that?" he repeats, incredulous. "Possibly because it always struck me as perfectly rational that you would want to avoid a place in which my delightful aunt tortured you nearly to death and left you with a lifelong injury," he snaps, eyes narrowed fiercely as he glares into the mirror immediately before him. "And yet here you are, staring at it like you've never seen it before. Forgive me my confusion."

Harry swallows hard, hands clenching into fists against the hot prickle starting up behind his eyelids. Bellatrix Lestrange tortured him, not Hermione. In this very room. In a ballroom full of mirrors. He supposes she'd have enjoyed that.

He glances at Draco, wondering if his fury is aimed at Harry or his now deceased aunt. He hopes the latter, but if Harry knows anything it's that it's dangerous to assume anything.

"It just... felt different today," he says at last.

Draco stares at him but says nothing, and for a gut-wrenching few seconds Harry fears the worst, that he has carelessly blown his cover. That Draco knows. And then he nods, slowly, as though he's turning Harry's strange behaviour over and over in his head, allowing it to settle in around him.

"Why?" he asks, voice soft.

"I don't know," Harry admits, jittery with relief. He looks around the room, avoiding his own reflection, and scrubs at his hair. "I don't want to be afraid of a room. It's just a room."

"It's a ballroom," Draco says eventually, eyes downcast and lips twitching at the corners.

Harry frowns. "Yeah."

"You have to dance in a ballroom," Draco elaborates, lifting gleaming eyes to meet Harry's in something a lot like challenge.

"I can't dance," Harry says, alarmed.

Draco grins, smoothing down his immaculate shirt and taking several steps closer to Harry.

"I know you can't. That's why I always dance with Ginevra at the Ministry balls."

"Right," Harry agrees, distracted by that surreal image. "It's probably too late for me, then."

"Nice try," Draco murmurs, deftly catching Harry's hand and placing it on his shoulder. "The hole in your argument, however—" Cool, slender fingers wrap around his other hand, "—is that the quality of the dancing isn't what's important here."

"Oh, really?" Harry manages, inhaling sharply as his body is pulled flush against Draco's and his nose, pressed suddenly into the angle of Draco's jaw, is flooded with the scent of warm citrus and alcohol.

"Really. It's about intention."

"Intention?" Harry echoes, startling slightly at the hand wrapping around his hip.

"Yes," says Draco, smiling against his cheek. "The intention to at least attempt to fucking dance."

Harry's heart swoops, and he's doomed, he knows it.

"I see," he manages in slightly rough voice, "because otherwise the room would be offended?"

Draco laughs softly, hot breath and flickering eyelashes against Harry's skin. "If it helps you to think of it that way. I just happen to think that one should inject at least some semblance of propriety into a situation..."

He breaks off midsentence as Harry snorts, dropping his head, grin first, onto Draco's shoulder for a moment as he allows the irony of that statement to sink in. He wonders just how many propriety points he's due for this situation—a ballroom in Voldemort's old headquarters, an illicit-not-illicit embrace with an old enemy, an old, confused married man—married with children—coursing with desire and bewilderment, alive with it.

"You know what I mean, you absolute horror," Draco murmurs, sliding his hand absently under Harry's shirt, making him shiver. "It's like that time I decided we absolutely had to have a morning room, even though you said that there was no point, because we're always working or in bed in the mornings. You said that, but you helped me decorate it and bought all those sodding plants that would have expired long ago if you didn't open the curtains every morning and remember to water them... even though you were right, and we never do spend any time in there. You know?"

"Not really," Harry admits, tightening his grip on Draco's shoulder and mentally making a note to seek out the morning room and the neglected plants as soon as he has a chance.

Draco sighs heavily. "Never mind. Just dance."

Before Harry can respond, he is being pulled out into the middle of the floor, shoulders-to-hips pressed against Draco, the hand at his waist driving him gently as he awkwardly follows Draco's graceful steps, realising he is being led and realising he doesn't mind one bit, only wishing he could make his slides and turns look as effortless.

"This feels really strange without music," he mumbles into Draco's neck, lips brushing the stiff fabric of his collar. Forcing his eyes open to regard, over Draco's shoulder, the strange spectacle they make pressed together, his dark hair against Draco's light, his own anxious eyes and the peaceful little smile on the lips of his dancing partner, reflected a hundred times over in the sparkling mirror-lined walls. And then:

"Sing, then," Draco instructs, straightening his posture and whisking Harry around in a circle with alarming ease. Now inches apart, Harry finds himself staring right into expectant grey eyes. Draco smiles. It's a tiny smile, insignificant, even, but it shatters Harry, and the little voice that whispers, 'Anything' inside his head makes his heart race out of control.

"Okay, but..." Harry hesitates, searching his mind for a song that won't make him look like a complete idiot; he's no singer, anyway, he's well aware of that, and the fact that his head is full of nothing but Celestina Warbeck lyrics cannot bode well. Draco lifts an eyebrow in inquiry and Harry throws reason and caution to the wind—once a Gryffindor, always a Gryffindor, he supposes.

"Take me away from this godforsaken place," he begins, trying to hold his eye contact with Draco. It's easier than he expects, perhaps because, in a way, it's always been easy with Draco. He's never had to try to impress him, or to keep his attention. Terrified and not, all at the same time, Harry continues, even when Draco grimaces and resumes leading him around the floor.

"You really couldn't think of anything better than that?"

"I dream each night of your saving embrace," Harry offers, shrugging and stepping on Draco's foot.

"Oh, good grief."

"The Dementors are calling from the sky above," Harry sings, adding a touch of drama just to see Draco's eyes flick to the ceiling. Seconds later, he's being spun repeatedly along with Draco, placing his feet down frantically and without rhythm, just hoping to stay upright.

"Fly me away on your broomstick of love!" he manages breathlessly, spotting his error too late.

Draco snorts, catching Harry against his chest and burying a smile in his hair. "Oh, please tell me that's the real lyric."

Harry grins. "Sadly not. I thought it was an improvement, though."

"And there I was, thinking those songs were beyond hope," Draco says, pulling back from Harry's shoulder to regard him with a wry smile; at the sight of it, the wriggling thing is back with a vengeance. "Alright, continue."

"You want me to keep going? With the awful song?"

Draco sighs and draws him wonderfully, warmly close again. "Obviously. How else am I going to teach you a half-decent Veelan Waltz?"

"Obviously," Harry mumbles, as though it is. He takes a deep breath, preparing for the next spin. "We'll take to the sky in a cascade of stars, my love!"

Draco groans. "If you step into the turn with your left foot, you might stop crushing mine," he advises.

If I just focus on how ridiculous this is, I might be alright, Harry thinks, before he nods and is lost in the whirl of mirrors, tiny lights and the heat of Draco's body against his.

**~*~**

"Shoulders down," Draco says for what feels like the thousandth time, tapping his fingers admonishingly at Harry's hip and leading him in a series of delicate little steps that he just can't seem to master.

He can't be sure how long they've been dancing—the combination of the vast, glittering space and Draco's gentle commands is heady, alcoholic—but he's hot and, to his surprise, on the edge of breathlessness. Ties have been loosened, shirts untucked, and sleeves rolled up; Draco's hair falls into his eyes with every spin and Harry's upper lip is salty with exertion. By now it is all too clear why Draco apparently opts to dance with Ginny whenever the need arises. Harry, sadly, is not a natural.

What he is, however, is stubborn, so he counterbalances his inability to produce a decent Veelan Waltz by treating Draco to every Celestina Warbeck song he can remember, by way of musical accompaniment.

"If you sing one more song about your tortured soul or your lost love," Draco threatens as Harry finishes 'Curse-breakin' Man' with a deliberate flourish, lifting Harry's chin with his finger. "Stop looking at your feet, you're supposed to be at least pretending to be graceful."

"I thought it didn't matter if I was any good," Harry protests, and then: "If I sing one more of those songs you'll do what?"

Draco's eyes narrow in thought. "I'll remind my father that we're here."

"Do you really think he's forgotten?"

Draco corrects Harry's posture, lips twitching ruefully. "I don't know. With luck he'll have forgotten what day it is by now."

Harry glances down at his feet again, knowing better than to ask questions that don't really need to be asked. And anyway, for all he knows, the two of them might disappear after dinner every Christmas, though there's something in the intensity of Draco's stare when he glances back up that suggests otherwise. Perhaps he's not the only one who feels brand new.

"Let's try again," he says softly. "I promise not to look at my feet. Or sing."

Draco smiles and exhales slowly, feathering cool breath across Harry's damp skin. "Alright."

This time, when they spin out into the middle of the floor, Harry concentrates as hard as he can on the movements, partly to prove that he can, and partly to drag at least a little of his focus away from the man he's dancing with. Falling for, most probably. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Where are you going, exactly?" Draco murmurs, amused, pulling Harry's hips tightly against his. The hint of arousal brushing against him makes his pulse jump, and he scrambles for words. Any words.

"I thought I was supposed to be... er, maintaining a space in hold, or something."

Draco laughs. "Trust you to start listening now," he says, slipping cool fingers over the sticky skin at the small of Harry's back. "I'm giving up."

"Oh," says Harry, caught somewhere between relief and disappointment as they slow, not quite to a standstill, but to a languid circling at the edge of the floor. Then, as he lifts his hand from Draco's shoulder to brush the pale strands of hair from his face, and Draco's eyes meet his, warm and pewter-bright, a thrill of heat crashes through him, and he knows at once that it's different this time. That there's no escape.

"You're a fucking terrible dancer, Harry Potter," Draco sighs, and kisses him.

Harry isn't sure exactly what he had planned to say, but the soft sigh of surprise that falls out of his mouth definitely isn't it. For a moment, he fails to react, allowing Draco to take advantage of his parted lips and flick his tongue into his mouth, sending his stomach into freefall and sharpening the sigh into a quiet moan. Startled at the sound, Harry pulls himself together and kisses back, pulling his hand away from Draco's and threading both into his hair, needing just a tiny bit of control, even if they are still circling slowly, and even if Draco's tongue is stroking his and Draco's hands are sliding inside the back of his trousers and Draco's hips are pushing hot-firm-desperate against Harry's growing erection.

Breath catching hard in his chest, he weaves his fingers more tightly into Draco's hair and deepens the kiss, pulling gently at his lower lip with his teeth and revelling in the groan that means he isn't the only one spiralling out of control. Still, with the fierce, messy mesh of their tongues, the fingernails scratching heat into his buttocks, the blood pooling and aching in his groin, he has no idea how he's still standing up.

And then, of course, he's not. He feels the support of his knee dissolving beneath him and the swoop in his chest that always precedes a fall, but this time, he doesn't connect with the floor. Blinking and somewhat disoriented, he looks up at Draco, who has managed to catch him against his chest with hands under his arms and a knee wedged between Harry's. The position is precarious and slightly uncomfortable, dangling from his armpits with his cock throbbing painfully against his tightened trouser fabric, but there's something about the calm expression on Draco's flushed face that makes Harry think he is well-practised at this.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you did that on purpose," he sighs, performing a complicated little twist that allows Harry to grab his hands and haul himself to his feet.

Harry glances down at his leg, which appears to be taking his weight once more, and exhales in a messy rush. "No, I'd rather not do it at all, to be honest."

Draco taps his fingers against his thighs in an anxious rhythm only he understands. "I shouldn't have said that. Not when..." He pauses, glancing at their surroundings. "I wasn't thinking."

Surprised by the ease of this almost-apology, Harry looks up. "It's alright. Let's just..."

"... find a nice flat surface?" Draco suggests, lips quirking into a dangerous smile.

Harry's cock jerks inside his restrictive trousers and he swallows. "Like what?"

There's a light shrug; Draco's eyes flick to each corner of the room in turn, and then before Harry realises what's happening, he's being backed into the mirrored wall and pinned there by the wrists. He has a second or two to register the freezing cold glass through his thin shirt, and to realise with some horror that all of his lightning Auror reflexes seem to have gone the way of his self control, before he's being kissed with a slow, aching intensity that liquefies any thoughts more complex than 'oh, god' and 'why have I never done this before?'

He barely hears Draco's amused, "Indeed, all these years you've been missing out on ballroom sex," because there are fingers stroking his neck, sliding over his hammering pulse point, easing his shirt buttons out of their holes and pressing cool palms to his chest.

"Mm," he manages, pulling at the bottom of Draco's shirt, and trying to decide where to look—at the stunning contrast of aquamarine fabric against pale abdomen, at Draco's fingers spread out across his chest, at bright grey eyes and flushed skin, at the pull of Draco's erection against his trouser fabric... fabric that is warm and silky to the touch, firm under fingers that Harry seems to have no control over, reactive and delicious against the palm that pulls a low, stifled groan from Draco.

Spurred on, prickling with heat all over his skin, Harry leans in to fasten his mouth to Draco's neck, submitting mindlessly when there's a tug at his shirtsleeves and gasping when he's pushed back against the mirror, bare skin against glass.

"What's the matter?" Draco mumbles, dropping Harry's shirt to the floor without even an attempt at folding it.

"Cold," Harry manages. He yanks at Draco's shirt until it slides from his shoulders, leaving the thin silver tie hanging loosely around his neck; Draco shifts obligingly, allowing him to slide the sleeves away, revealing pale, marked skin. Harry scrapes his fingers over the faded snake and skull, and traces the four neat letters that symbolise Draco's redemption.

Take the unknown road now. Harry closes his eyes, feeling the tug of multiple tiny buttons at his fly. He wraps his hands around slender hips, fingers slipping on soft leather and warm skin, rests his forehead against Draco's bare shoulder, inhaling citrus and fresh sweat. His heart is pounding, his blood racing in his veins, and he knows that no one is going to ask him if he really wants this, if he's sure. As far as Draco is concerned, there's nothing new here, except maybe a risky location, and the risk is nothing to the hardness pressing into Harry's hands and the quickening breath against his neck.

The rapidly-fading rational section of his brain, though, remembers Lucius and Narcissa, and without opening his eyes he lifts his hand and aims a wandless spell at the doors, listening to the satisfying sound of heavy bolts dropping into place.

"What was that?"

"Locked it," Harry manages, and just in time, too, he thinks, as his trousers and boxers are pulled down in a swish of fabric.

"Silencing Charm?"

"That's probably a good idea, too," Harry concedes. Distrustful of his wandless skills for this, he tugs Draco's wand from his waistband without thinking, and casts what he hopes is an industrial-strength Silencio at the doors.

"Lovely," Draco says, flashing Harry a smile. "Now, put that down."

Harry is puzzled for a moment only, until Draco kisses him hard, leaving him breathless, naked, exposed, and drops to his knees, pinning Harry to the glass with one hand and wrapping the fingers of the other around his cock, making him shudder and groan. There's a low hum of approval and then Harry is caught in a riptide of pleasure as he is taken into a hot, wet mouth and stroked by a flickering tongue. It's been so long, so long, and already he is almost overwhelmed.

"Draco," he rasps, screwing his eyes shut and splaying his damp hands against the glass.

Draco responds by taking him deeper, sliding his lips over the sensitised skin, following the path of his fist in a smooth, practised motion that sets Harry's mind into overdrive, imagining the hundreds, maybe thousands of times he's lost himself in Draco's mouth. Flooded with images, a patchwork of sounds and smells and textures, he can't stop himself from jerking his hips, wanting more, forcing his eyes open and staring down at the filthy, beautiful vision of that clever, smirking mouth sliding onto his cock, and when Draco slips a hand between Harry's thighs, skating over his entrance and looking up at him with lust-darkened eyes, there's no suppressing the harsh moan that rips out of him.

"The Silencing Charm was a wonderful invention," Draco offers, pulling away abruptly and sitting back on his heels.

"I'm not usually noisy," Harry says, embarrassed.

Rising up on his knees in order to kick off his shoes and wriggle fluidly out of his trousers, Draco snorts. "That's a good one. You know very well you're the noisiest I've ever heard, and I slept in the Slytherin dorms for six years."

Harry stares, barely able to make sense of these words because Draco is sitting at his feet, every inch of pale skin on display as he leans back on one hand, slender legs spread, and hard, flushed cock against his belly. Mouth dry, Harry watches elegant fingers skate over the shaft and linger, gathering shiny fluid on their tips and making Harry's cock ache and leak in sympathy.

He drops to the floor, kicking away the remnants of his clothing, and reaches for Draco. Ignoring the creaking of his knees on the hard wood, Harry pulls his hand away by the wrist and pins it to the floor with more force than he thinks he should, but he no longer cares. He just wants this; his mouth is tingling for it, the smell of another man's arousal is wild in his nostrils, and he wants...

Harry licks his lips, closes his hand around the warm flesh and drops his head, allowing Draco's cock to glide and leak against his tongue. The sound of Draco's shaky inhalation shocks down Harry's spine, and without thinking he reaches between his thighs and squeezes his own arousal, as though steadying himself. Yes.

This is crazy, he knows it is, and when the thought of Ginny flashes, unbidden, into his mind, even the guilt it spikes in his gut isn't enough to stop him. To stop this.

Suddenly there's a hand in his hair, pulling gently, and Harry lifts his head with some effort, breathing hard and trying to focus through off-kilter glasses.

"Mm?"

Draco stares at him, eyes unfocused. "What do you want?"

"You," Harry pants, hoping it's the right answer.

Draco lifts an eyebrow but says nothing until he's sitting upright with Harry sprawled between his thighs, hair sticking to his face and chest flushed a beautiful, incongruously vulnerable pink. Stretching, he retrieves his wand.

"Accio," he whispers, and his abandoned trousers fly towards him.

Harry chews his lip, still absently stroking his cock and watching Draco as he retrieves a small glass jar with an ornate silver lid. The implication, when it finally penetrates his lust-hazy brain, strikes hard. It isn't as though it hasn't occurred to him how this whole gay thing works; it's not as though he's never thought about it—in fact, he's probably been thinking about it for years before he ended up here, at least on some level—but still. He's going to be fucked. He's never been harder.

Draco nudges him onto his back with a series of achingly gentle kisses that never quite satisfy, slipping between Harry's thighs. He unscrews the jar, releasing the warm scent of cloves into the air, meets Harry's eyes for a lingering few seconds, and then it's all happening so fast that all Harry can do is hold on.

Slick, warm fingers, stroking his cock and circling his entrance, massaging and sliding inside, one moment burning a stretch that steals Harry's breath, the next, massaging and caressing places, secret nerve endings that blaze pleasure all the way from his spine to his fingertips. On fire and vulnerable, he keeps his eyes closed and scrabbles for purchase at the shiny floor, arching helplessly into Draco's touch.

"Fuck," he groans, feeling his orgasm rising, "fuck, fuck, fuck."

"Hold on," Draco admonishes, stilling his movements. Harry opens his eyes, and the chandelier-strewn ceiling seems to spin above him like some insane carnival ride.

"Hm?"

"Wait for me, you fucker," he says, pulling his hands away and leaning over Harry until his hair brushes Harry's forehead. "It's hardly ballroom sex without... well, sex, is it?"

Something nudges Harry's slicked opening, making him jump, but he laughs, startled and delighted by the genuine humour in Draco's voice. It has never occurred to him that sex could be anything but serious, and it's a revelation, the thrill of the discovery easily making up for the distressing amount of wasted time.

"Better hurry up then," he says at last, gripping Draco's arse and dragging him in tight. "You know, before I seize up. I'm old... I'm not used to a hard floor," he teases.

Draco's lips twitch. And then: "You know... now that you mention it, I think I have a better idea."

Bewildered, Harry watches him scramble to his feet, cock hard and slick and strange silver tie flapping across his chest. He accepts the hand that's held out to him, and within seconds finds himself face first against the mirrored wall, hands spread stickily over the glass as he attempts to support himself.

"This is your better idea?" he demands, trying to inject a note of scathing disdain into his voice but failing miserably. It wouldn't have mattered anyway, he supposes, not when he's panting and exposing himself shamelessly for Draco, staring at his own clouded eyes in the mirror and noticing for the first time that he, too, is still wearing his dark grey silk tie; it brushes a peaked nipple as he shifts position and he inhales sharply, gazing at Draco in the reflection and fighting the useless thoughts of 'if they could see me now...'

Draco shrugs, slipping an arm around his waist and pressing his hardness into Harry's back.

"It would be a terrible shame to waste all these mirrors, don't you think?" He kisses Harry's neck and meets his eyes in the glass. "I know you don't believe me, but you're still extremely hot, and you should see... what?"

Horrified, Harry drops his eyes. He's never been good with compliments and he's suddenly very, very aware of his naked body, reflected as it is a hundred times over. It's not as though he's ever felt particularly unattractive, but Ginny's always been a lights-out, under-the-covers kind of lover, and he's always been very comfortable with that.

"You're insane," he says at last.

"I know," Draco murmurs, and then he's pushing inside Harry, holding him open with slippery fingers; he eases his way deeper and Harry, startled into silence by the sensation, stares at him in the mirror, watching his eyes flicker and close and his mouth fall open against Harry's shoulder in a soundless groan.

Finally, Draco is able to press himself all the way along Harry's back again and uses both hands to draw him firmly, all the way back onto his cock, urging a hot, deep penetration that makes Harry cry out.

"Oh," he manages, watching Draco's eyes open, darkened and desperate over his shoulder.

"I know," Draco whispers, breath catching.

Harry swallows dryly and looks at himself in the mirror, at the toned, wiry lines of his body, the scattered dark hairs with the odd grey, the flushed skin of his cock, which slides against the glass, trailing sticky fluid, aching and heavy. Draco shifts slightly inside him and he holds his breath, suddenly half-terrified that he might break apart with this powerful fullness, even though he knows that this body can take it; this body wants it, almost as much as he does.

"We really should have more mirrors," Draco sighs, leaning to cover Harry's hand with his own against the glass; Harry threads their fingers together and holds on tightly as a slow, deep stroke starts up inside him, stealing his breath, with each slide out leaving him empty and each slide back dragging a low, primitive groan from his chest.

His hair plasters messily to his forehead and his glasses slip from his nose, clattering to the floor, but he barely notices; pushing back into each stroke, he gazes blurrily at his own eyes in the mirror, heart leaping over and over at the reality of what's happening to him—Draco Malfoy is fucking him, and he likes it. Draco Malfoy is fucking him and he's watching it happen, watching his cock jump in rhythm, watching the blood pooling in the nail-marks at his hip, watching the glass steam under his hot, panting breath. Watching them make something exhilarating and confusing and brilliant.

He knows it won't last long, though; he won't last, so close to the edge to begin with, and the searing newness of this feeling is pushing him quickly and relentlessly toward the edge. Clenching his toes against the smooth grain of the floor, he stretches, strains against the glass, wanting Draco deeper, harder, gripping around the cock inside him and wrapping his fingers tightly around his own, not knowing whether he wants to delay the end or reach for it.

"Don't stop," Draco pleads in a harsh whisper. "I want to see you come."

Harry whimpers and then hisses at the unexpected pain of Draco's teeth sinking into his shoulder, but he complies. Keeping his eyes fixed on Draco's, he picks up speed, pushing his cock into his fist and gritting his teeth as Draco responds by fucking him harder, faster, filling the cavernous room with the hot-dirty sounds of skin slapping against skin, harsh breath and mumbled, fractured demands: yes, there, please, fuck—harder, Draco, I...

"Draco, I..." Harry closes his eyes as he starts to lose it, but the burn at his shoulder compels them open, forcing him to watch himself cry out as a flood of sensation whips at his insides and he comes in powerful, shaky spurts over himself and the glass.

Before he has time to control his breathing, Draco is leaning close, tightening his fingers around Harry's, pushing one, two, three... four long strokes and shuddering, emptying himself inside Harry with a low, cracked cry that makes Harry wonder if he has the energy to start all over again. His eyes seek out Harry's in the mirror as he rests his chin on his shoulder and exhales untidily.

"I really need to sit down," he says after a moment, and Harry is just relieved he didn't say it first.

Disentangled and slightly less sticky due to a couple of half-arsed Cleaning Charms, they slump to the floor, backs against the mirror, and sprawl, sweat-damp and breathing hard.

Harry pulls his knees up to his chest and scrubs at his hair, not quite able to believe what he's just done. He sighs and—moving with care—retrieves his glasses. And there it is: a small jar, lying innocently on its side next to one of Draco's shoes.

"Draco?"

"Mm?"

"Any particular reason why you brought... well, that, to your parents' house for Christmas?"

Draco smiles, fiddling with his silver tie. "Well, you never know, do you?"

Harry snorts. "I have absolutely no response to that."

"You may well mock, but you have just been fucked in a ballroom."

Harry chews his lip. "Hm."

"And you have come on your tie," Draco adds.

Harry looks. "So I have."

"I bought you that tie," Draco says darkly. "It's French. Or rather, it was."

"It'll come out," Harry says, examining the stain and resolutely ignoring just how surreal this conversation is. "I reckon it was worth it, anyway," he muses, mostly to himself.

Draco stretches, brushing his bare shoulder against Harry's. "Absolutely. It may even have been better than that time in your workshop last year."

"Ah, yeah. That." Harry keeps his face impassive, trying not to think about the splinters.

"The splinters were horrendous," Draco says. "That'll teach me to let you bend me over a workbench, I suppose."

Harry, who had been reaching for his trousers, almost chokes on his own tongue. "I suppose so," he murmurs, pulling them on quickly before Draco notices that he's getting hard again.

Draco watches him languidly for a moment, and then levers himself to his feet, stoops to collect his clothes, and begins to redress. He pauses for a moment to shoot a look of utter disdain at his dishevelled reflection, picking desultorily at his hair and smoothing creases from his shirt.

"Shall we?"

Harry looks up, horrified, from his attempt to clean his tie with his wand. "I'm not sure I can look your parents in the eye after that."

Draco frowns. "You must think I'm some kind of sadist. I meant shall we go home?"

Relief courses through Harry, quickly followed by guilt. "We can't just leave."

"Every year," Draco mutters, rubbing his face. He sighs. "You know how my father gets by the evening. We survived dinner—all seven courses—and nobody killed, maimed, or even threatened anyone. Now it's time to escape with the remains of our sanity."

The eyes that pin Harry to the spot are pleading and alight with something conspiratorial that he can't resist.

"Let's go home."

Draco's small, relieved smile is the last thing he sees before he's caught in the spin of Apparation.

**~*~**

Harry fidgets, twisted uncomfortably in his sheets. Draco sprawls out peacefully next to him, breathing lightly, beautiful under the grey light of the early morning. Nothing to keep him awake. Harry closes his sore eyes, punches his pillow again and tries to settle. He's exhausted, body aching in all kinds of new places, mind weary, fractious, afraid. He can still hear Lucius Malfoy's darkly exasperated response to his sleeping troubles, and there's a little part of him that would, right now, sell his soul for a bottle of Dreamless Sleep.

He sighs and kicks at the sheets.

"Must you?" Frank demands, uncoiling himself from around Harry's feet.

"No one rattled your cage," Harry snaps.

"There will be no cage," Frank says acidly.

Harry listens to the thump as he drops to the floor and slithers out into the hallway in a sulk. He listens to Draco's gentle breathing, in and out, in and out, and finally, finally, falls into a fitful sleep.

**~*~**

There's a light at the top of the stairs.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

Darkness and the smell of healing potions.

"Listen. Listen."

Desperation. And yet he's been here so many times.

"I don't believe in much of anything, Potter."

Sitting on the floor, cloak folded softly on his knees. The sky outside the window fading to grey-blue, and the bed empty. Sheets thrown back. Pillows cold. He's on the floor, too, opposite Harry and tucked between his own bed and the next.

"Why me, Potter?" Striped sleeves pulled down over fingers, eyes sharp, knees tucked up in defence and eyebrows everywhere.

"Maybe I believe you're more than this."

"Maybe you're full of crap."

Harry knows he's smiling. "Maybe. But what have you got to lose?"

"Fuck you." But the venom, at least, much of it, is gone.

"I have a question."

A long-suffering sigh.

"Why the hell are you wearing those pyjamas?"

Flared nostrils. A glance downwards.

Haughty. "They're Goyle's, if you must know."

Harry is amused, mouth twitching, laughing at him with genuine warmth for the first time ever.

"Do you often wear Goyle's... um... nightclothes?" A pause. Exhaustion does terrible things to the self-control. "Does he wear yours? Is he wearing yours right now?"

"You are completely classless, Potter, as I have always suspected." A cold expression, and then a grimace. A face that is every inch human: "I wish you hadn't put that image in my head." He stares down at his oversized cuffs. "I do like stripes, though."

Laughter, first from Harry and then from both, inappropriate and gasp-hushed in the tomb silence of the hospital wing. Unreal. Just the two of them, sitting in a patch of moonlight and pretending for a moment that the war doesn't exist, talking about pyjamas in order to cement a connection so new and fragile that it feels dangerous to even think about it.

"I asked him to bring me some pyjamas. It didn't seem to occur to him that I might want my own."

Harry smiles. Carefully. Hopefully. "Stripes are good."

**~*~**

Harry wakes to an empty bed and a cloudy sky. Still weary after his fretful sleep and vivid dreams, he considers pulling the quilt back over his head and trying for a couple more hours, but an exploratory prod at his copper clock provokes a troubling puff of red smoke and the news that it's almost eleven.

He hauls himself out of bed, dresses for comfort in jeans and a warm, if slightly bizarre, green sweater and creaks down the stairs, noting the elaborate new web slung between the upper and lower banisters.

"Impressive," he says, ducking as the spider swings low on a long thread of silk.

"Maybe, but how long before the stairs are impassable?"

Draco lifts a sardonic eyebrow from the bottom of the stairs and winds his long, stripy scarf around his neck.

Stripes are good, Harry's own voice echoes inside his head.

"Where are you going?"

"I thought I'd better nip back to the Manor and retrieve our gifts, apologise to my mother and hope that my father hasn't used your Veneficus to stoke the fire in his study."

"Do you want me to come with you?" Harry asks, scrubbing at his messy hair and praying silently that Draco says no. "You know, to help with the lamp..."

Draco stares at him for a moment and then laughs. "I'll see you later." He shakes his head and turns away, stalking into the kitchen and disappearing, seconds later, into the fireplace.

As he rises slowly through the fog to full consciousness, Harry stares after him, heart thumping with approval and lips twisting into a lopsided smile. He holds onto the polished wooden bobble at the end of the balustrade and sighs.

"Terribly lonely, all alone, left to fend for myself," Frank says, descending slowly from the landing and dangling in front of Harry's face.

"Don't be dramatic," Harry scolds, weaving backwards out of the way of the flickering tongue and eventually opting to plonk himself down on the bottom step. "And anyway, you wouldn't have liked it. Lots of tension and twiddly little food."

"Abandoned, forlorn, solitary, lost without a soul..."

Harry rolls his eyes and then groans as Frank drops from the staircase and he suddenly finds himself with a lapful of python.

"You missed me, then?" he teases, automatically reaching out both hands to catch the slippery coils before Frank slides to the floor in a heap.

"Merely your presence," Frank says airily, head waving from side to side.

He laughs, stroking the shining scales absently. "We missed you, too, you histrionic sod." He sighs, heart twisting. "I'll miss you."

"Going somewhere else?" Frank demands, fixing him with beady black eyes.

Harry swallows hard. Suddenly awash with fear, he has no words for Frank, because if he's going to miss a self-obsessed snake when he leaves this place, how can he leave Draco behind? All reason is screaming that he can't fall in love here; this world is ephemeral, temporary, and so is his part in it. He knows that Boris could reappear at any moment and steal it all away from him... return him to his children, and oh, god, he aches with missing them, but it's just not that simple any more.

"No," he lies, taking a deep breath. "I'm not going anywhere."