Harry's nose itches.

Sleepily, he wrinkles it and frowns without opening his eyes, but when it soon becomes clear that the irritant is reluctant to be dislodged, he forces his eyes open.

"What do you want?" he asks wearily, blinking myopically at the small black eyes and the flickering tongue that continues to swipe across his nose, even though he's clearly awake now.

"You have so many smells," Frank replies. "Many people."

"Yeah... but couldn't you have maybe waited until I was awake to start licking me?" Harry complains, batting Frank's head away from his face until he retreats, disgruntled, onto Draco's empty pillow.

"Not licking," the snake says disdainfully. "Was merely keeping you company. Think you should be grateful for such a decorative companion."

Harry laughs, irritation dissolving into the cold air. "Of course. Do you happen to know the location of my other, er, decorative companion?"

Frank rests on his coils with such exasperation that Harry can't help thinking that he'd sigh and raise an eyebrow if it were possible. And if he had eyebrows.

"Downstairs, making more smells... " The black tongue flickers in demonstration. "Obviously."

Harry frowns, both at the statement itself and the barely-veiled insult, but when he sniffs at the air and detects fresh coffee, bacon, and toast amongst other mouth-watering scents, he understands.

Still, he thinks, dragging himself out of bed and searching for a pair of non-scary jeans, someone ought to teach that snake some manners.

Later.

For now, he needs food, caffeine and time to process, probably in that order, because despite definitely not being hungover, his head is full of whirling images, colours, snatches of sound and faint new memories that stir his heart and send him off balance at the same time.

"Take the unknown road now," he murmurs to his reflection as he pulls a long-sleeved t-shirt over his head, shoves on his glasses and ruffles at his messy hair. "Turn. And he did. He fucking did."

"What on earth are you wittering on about?" the mirror demands crossly. "And don't swear."

Harry stares at his own eyes, bright and confused, barely hearing the question. "I suppose the real question is—where's my purple fish?"

"Going without you," Frank advises from the bottom of the bed, and before Harry has time to respond, he's disappearing around the doorframe and heading for the stairs.

Harry sighs and follows him before the mirror offers any further opinions.

"I haven't got anything for you," Draco is saying, looking down at Frank's curiously-waving head and brandishing a spatula. "This bacon is very expensive and the toast would get stuck in your silly digestive system."

Harry leans against the counter and watches them both in silence. Frank is clearly on the scrounge, tilting his head this way and that and coiling himself attractively at Draco's feet, and Draco looks... Harry swallows dryly. Dressed simply but at no doubt terrifying expense in dark, fitted jeans and a soft green sweater, he radiates warmth and contentment, and his angular features are arranged into a genuine, clear-eyed smile that yanks at Harry quite without his permission.

"No dice, Frankfurto," he continues, poking playfully at the snake with his spatula. "Go and catch yourself something disgusting."

"You know he can't understand you, don't you?" Harry manages at last, voice scratchy.

Draco looks up, eyes warming further even as he lifts an eyebrow and says: "Oh, good. I was beginning to wonder if you'd expired in the night."

"Charming," Harry retorts, crossing his arms over his grumbling stomach. Despite his best efforts, he soon has to look away from Draco—the embarrassed, squirmy, 'what did we do?' feeling that had started building from the moment he entered the kitchen is now too much to bear, and he has to look at the floor, count the kitchen tiles, anything rather than burst into flames.

He has no idea why it's quite such a big deal... except that he does. And the most terrifying part of it—alternative universes and horrible embarrassment aside—is how normal it is beginning to feel.

"... and you know that very well," Draco is saying, now with his back to Harry as he assembles two breakfasts. "Anyway, I think he understands a lot more than he lets on."

"Hmm," Harry mumbles, pretending not to notice that Frank has coiled on an empty kitchen chair, concealing himself beneath the table as Draco hands Harry a delicious-smelling plate and pulls out the final empty chair for himself.

"Thanks," he adds, eagerly slicing into the perfectly-crisped bacon and arranging it on a piece of buttered toast. Ginny really hates it when he does that, and he's never been able to understand why. He looks up cautiously, but Draco, who has no doubt been brought up with perfect table manners and fine dining, says nothing. He merely crunches neatly on a toast triangle and watches Harry thoughtfully.

"So," he says, swallowing a mouthful and running his foot along Harry's calf under the table, "since you'll be at the 'shop all day, tending to the furniture-purchasing masses, I thought I'd go and deal with my mother."

Harry pauses, reaching for his coffee. "Er... what do you mean?"

"I mean that I'm being incredibly selfless and taking the flak for both of us." Draco frowns lightly and softens his voice: 'Why aren't you staying the night? Is that a grey hair? All I want for Christmas is a little grandchild, Draco...'" he says, giving his fork a fierce glance. And then in a passable imitation of his father, "how is the... wood trade, Mr Potter?"

Harry snorts. "Yeah. On second thoughts, I think I can do without that this morning."

"That's what I thought," Draco says, looking ever-so-slightly smug, and the expression is so reminiscent of his schoolboy self that Harry is immediately caught up in a tide of suspicion.

"Are you trying to butter me up for something?" he demands.

Draco sighs and wraps his hands around his coffee cup, eyes fixed on the table. "Not entirely."

"Meaning?"

Hunted grey eyes lift to meet his at last, and a sudden dread speeds Harry's heart.

What the fuck now? is all he can think. What the fuck have you done?

"Draco?"

Another sigh. Fingers clinging onto that cup for dear life. And then: "Well, last night wasn't exactly my finest moment, was it?"

Puzzled, Harry sets down his bacon and toast and rubs his eyes under his glasses. "What?"

"You can stop pretending that you aren't disgusted with me," Draco snaps. "I can handle it."

"I'm not... do you mean because you, er... were ill?" Relieved, Harry manages a grim smile. "I've seen a lot worse, you know."

Draco's eyes, genuinely anxious, search out his across the table. "Oh, really? And where was that?"

"At wo—er, when I was at the Dursleys'," he amends quickly, doubting that his little workshop has seen a huge amount of vomit over the years. "Dudley was always throwing up everywhere, the greedy little bastard."

Draco shudders. "I thought perhaps you were angry."

"No," Harry says, voice softening. Wondering at this man's need for reassurance, wondering if, perhaps, reassurance is what he has needed all along, wondering if he is always the one to reassure.

Imagining that his other self doesn't mind. Suspecting that this one doesn't, either.

"Yes, well," Draco says briskly, picking up another toast triangle and seeming to shake his anxiety from his shoulders and onto the floor. "I always think it's rather bad form to start things without finishing them," he adds, and a new light flickers in his eyes, one that simultaneously terrifies and excites Harry.

"Mm," he manages, chewing on his lip and trying to catch his breath. Stupid Malfoy, sitting there and looking so... "How do you look so healthy, anyway?" he blurts.

Draco grins. "Easy-No-Queasy, of course. Fantastic stuff. Anyway," he says, ignoring Harry's groan and getting to his feet, "I need to go. You know how my mother is about punctuality. Merlin help us if we're late on Christmas Day. Part of me thinks she might actually have us disembowelled, just to make a point."

"Thanks for that," Harry mumbles, accepting his kiss in silence and watching Draco disappear into the flames of the kitchen fireplace.

Apparently aware that the coast is clear, Frank emerges from his hiding place and flicks his tongue over Draco's half-empty plate with interest. Harry watches him, amused, until Draco's last words drop into place with alarming clarity.

Christmas Day. With the Malfoys. And if today's Saturday...

... he has less than two days to find out... well, enough to keep his organs on the inside, by the sounds of it. He desperately hopes that Draco's words were figurative, but one never knows, especially when Malfoys are involved.

Reluctantly, he pushes his chair away from the table and sighs.

"I'm going to do some research," he announces. "Don't eat too many leftovers, I'm sure they're not good for you."

Frank says nothing, but as Harry folds the last of his bacon and toast into his mouth, grabs his coffee cup and makes for the study, he suspects he's being followed.

**~*~**

Almost an hour later, Harry is ready to give up. Apart from the fact that he's drawn a massive blank on the fact-finding front, he's starting to think he's late for work. It doesn't seem to matter that he's self-employed, or that he has no idea what kind of hours a Diagon Alley carpenter should work on a Saturday. Whichever way he decides to slice it, it's nearly half past ten and that has got to be pushing it.

He sits back on his heels once more and surveys the messy pile of scrapbooks on the rug. They've been interesting, there's no doubt about that. He's managed to find out that Ginny and Blaise have been married for seven years and together for more than ten, judging by some of the newspaper pictures of the two of them with Harry and Draco at various glittering functions.

He's learned that this Ron does indeed collect antique broomsticks and has featured in an extremely amusing series of Quibbler articles about them, and that here, with a successful playing career behind her, Ginny is a well-respected Quidditch coach. Harry finds several pictures of her from the Prophet sports pages, windswept and celebrating with her team-mates, complete with Draco's snippy little annotations, through which it is now possible to see the warmth and pride he feels for his friends.

He also finds a nice photograph of himself, Hermione and a tiny Rose, sitting on a wall at the seaside. All three of them have huge ice creams with flakes and Harry has a protective arm each around the little girl and the heavily-pregnant Hermione. She is radiant, beautiful, and Harry aches with missing her. Though, of course, they are still friends in this place, things are inevitably different when one couple has children and one does not. He sighs, looking at their relaxed, happy faces, and wonders about the whereabouts of Ron and Draco, until he catches sight of the note:

So... Weasley and I are finally working together for once, and you decide to abandon us on the hottest day of the year to swan around in Newquay. You deserved all the reporters you got, I assure you.

He also learns that a six-foot python, dangling from bookshelves and fireplaces and tables, is extremely distracting.

Unfortunately, he fails to learn anything useful about Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, and it's with an exasperated sigh that he returns the leather scrapbooks to their places—carefully and by hand this time—no one can say that he's not learning.

"What do you think, Frankfurto?" Harry asks of the snake, who is hanging upside down from the mantelpiece, exposing his shiny, iridescent belly.

"Many things."

"Great. I'm so glad we talked," Harry mutters, getting to his feet and stretching. As he turns to leave, his eyes are caught by the record player sitting neatly on a pretty little carved table that seems to be mocking him somehow—the table, not the record player; that might actually be a tiny bit useful. Or at least, the one he's certain he saw in the corner of his workshop might be.

"Like the dragon, you're to blame," he mumbles to himself, crossing the room quickly and rifling through the stack of records. Quite a selection, he thinks, some wizarding and some Muggle, but—he's all at once relieved and disappointed to note—absolutely no Celestina Warbeck.

And, for better or for worse, she is going to be the thing.

Wonderful.

**~*~**

Suffused with a new, strange sense of purpose, Harry makes his way to Diagon Alley, relying on his memory and the theory that some things just never change, in order to find what he's looking for. Surely it's still there; he's bought a thing or two for Ginny over the years, but mail order quickly became less of a hassle than dealing with Diagon Alley. But still, he hopes. Turns the corner, waves to yet another sweet little old lady, and—yes!

The place is much as he remembers it: a tiny, slightly shabby shop front with leaded windows and a swinging sign reading 'Richenda's Records' in scarlet and gold. The door opens with a bit of a push and a small, soft tinkling sound announces his arrival, causing one or two customers to look up momentarily from their browsing.

The bare boards still creak under Harry's feet and the place even smells exactly the same, of cardboard and wood and vinyl, and of the bundles of dried aromatic plants that decorate the walls. Church-silent, the shop is much bigger than it appears on the outside, and lit only by the glow of myriad tiny white lights on strings, and it takes Harry quite some time to locate the relevant section.

Bewildered, he stares with hands in coat pockets at 'Celestina Warbeck: Greatest Hits—including "A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love" and "Dragon's Lair"', which seems fairly comprehensive, but then there's also 'Celestina's Forty Years of Love' and 'Veelas, Nymphs and Squibs: the ultimate collection'. Each sleeve carries a frighteningly lurid photograph of the ageing singer, wearing far too much makeup and posing with cats and harps and broomsticks.

In the end, he grabs a copy of each one he can see and creaks over to the counter.

"How are you this morning, Mr Potter?" asks a statuesque middle-aged lady behind the counter, who, if memory serves (and it might not) is Richenda herself. Her glossy black curls are piled on top of her head as though in readiness for an impromptu dinner dance, and she radiates personality and bonhomie from every velvet-clad part of her. Harry has the impression that this version of himself is a regular customer and he smiles at her.

"Very well, thanks," he says, trying to hide his embarrassment as he places the three records on the counter.

Richenda smiles, wine-coloured lips curving in amusement. "I didn't know you were a fan."

"Er... I'm not. They're not for me," Harry lies pointlessly.

She holds his gaze for a split second before rich, warm laughter seems to reverberate around the room. No one looks up this time. "Do not be ashamed of your musical choices, Mr Potter, embrace them!" she declares, wrapping bejewelled fingers around the records and beaming at him.

Harry chews on his lip, thoughtful. "Well, you know, I'm sure there are plenty of people who love... Ms Warbeck," he says, glancing down at the beaming woman in the pictures and deciding impulsively to confide in Richenda, "but in my case, it's a matter of bonding with the in-laws, you know?"

Richenda's mouth twists into a grimace. "Terrible things, in-laws. I've been married to Alfonso for thirty-two years now, and his mother likes to remind him that there's still time for him to find the right girl," she says, expression turning sour for just a moment, but it is soon replaced by a rueful smile.

"She clearly doesn't know what she's talking about," Harry says, flashing her a smile and wondering why it's just always so easy with older ladies, however glamorous they are. That being said, he doubts Richenda has fifteen years on him, and it's a terrifying thought.

"You're rotten, Mr Potter. I hope you don't think you've a chance of a discount, flattery or none," she teases, raising a dark eyebrow.

Harry laughs. "I'd rather not have to pay for these, believe me. Or listen to them, for that matter, but I wasn't thinking of ripping you off."

"That's two Galleons, fifteen, for your sins," Richenda says, visibly amused as she takes Harry's money and reaches for a sheet of brown paper in which to wrap his purchases—just in case.

"Wish me luck," Harry says grimly as he pulls the door open.

"Oodles of it, Mr Potter," she calls, leaning on the counter. "And I hope your efforts are appreciated. Merry Christmas!"

Harry smiles, looking back into the shop one more time. "Merry Christmas."

When he turns to face the sparkling, snow-covered street, his eyes need a moment to adjust from the atmospheric gloom of Richenda's shop. Taking a deep, cold breath, he heads into the crowd and allows it to carry him toward his destination, carefully-wrapped paper package clutched tightly to his chest, hoping silently that no one will guess his shameful secret.

Once he's made it to the 'shop with his shame intact, he dusts off the record player and drops the needle onto 'Celestina Warbeck: Greatest Hits'.

He slips off his coat, hangs it up and ties on his apron as he listens with some trepidation to the opening strings of the first song. He's determined, if nothing else, to have another go at the blasted little table today.

"A bad, bad man accursed my soul, but you walked in and made me whole," croons Celestina, and Harry groans. It's painful, but there doesn't seem to be any other way. He has just hours to learn enough to keep up with Lucius Malfoy, and just maybe, retain his dignity and his bollocks. Perhaps if he just thinks of it as an assignment. A task. A project.

A crash course, maybe.

"He fettered my heart with his spells and charms, but you swept me up into your heavenly arms," warbles Celestina.

"Oh, god," Harry mutters.

"Oh, yes, you did," she continues.

"Something about arms," Harry attempts, levitating another chunk of beech onto his table. "Oh, yes, you did."

"You're the curse-breaker, you broke me apart," Celestina bellows, making Harry jump. "You had me wanting, right from the start. And you claimed me, like only you can, take me gently, my curse-breakin' man."

Resting his hand on the rough surface of the wood, Harry turns to look at the record player in horror. Suddenly, the only thing he can think about is that Molly Weasley is a Celestina fan. Molly Weasley, the mother of a curse-breaker. He can only hope that Bill has never had to listen to his mother singing along to this particular song.

Still, disturbing images or no, he needs to learn the bloody thing.

"You're the curse-breaker, you broke me apart," he sings through gritted teeth, picking up his chisel and joining in with the second chorus.

**~*~**

By the time he has received his third surprise visitor (and not a knock in sight), Harry has a quick-draw Silencing Charm down to a fine art. Unfortunately, the first couple of attempts at shutting up Celestina have scratched the record so badly that he will, to his horror, have to return to Richenda's and purchase another unwanted copy of 'Celestina Warbeck: Greatest Hits'.

Fortunately, the next set of intruders is far more welcome. There's still no knocking, but the sound of approaching children is enough of a heads-up for Harry to silence the music, and when Hermione struggles through the door, laden with bags, he understands.

"Hi, Rose, Hugo," he says, smiling at the children as they follow their mother into the 'shop, bundled in coats and scarves and gloves. Rose, who is wearing a very fetching pair of fluffy earmuffs, returns his smile and darts curious glances at Little Table Mark Two. He doesn't blame her; it's not going well.

"Hi, Uncle Harry," Hugo pipes, running to give him a hug. Surprised and delighted, Harry hugs him back and tweaks the bobble on his hat.

"It's crazy out there," Hermione sighs, dropping her bags and shaking the snow out of her hair. "Anyone would think it was the weekend before Christmas," she adds with a quirked eyebrow, a fraction of a second before her face melts into an expression of horror. "That was a Dad joke, wasn't it?" she asks wearily.

"Definitely. Sorry."

Hermione smiles resignedly. "I think I've been spending too much time with Arthur this week. You should probably expect a visit from him, by the way," she advises, leaning down to rummage in one of her bags, dark curls falling into her face. "He's very excited about the new purchase."

"The new purchase? Ah, the new purchase. Yes," Harry mumbles, glancing hopelessly around at the shelves and boxes and stacks of wood.

"He said he was going to come over and see if you'd let him play with it," Rose says innocently, and when Hermione straightens up and swipes her hair out of her face, she's smirking.

"Well, as long as you're both careful," she says and her eyes glow as she hands Harry a steaming paper cup. "We thought you might be cold."

"Thank you." Harry accepts the cup, warming his hands and inhaling the rich scent. Impulsively, he adds: "Hermione, do you remember when we went to Newquay?"

Surprised, she stares at him for a moment. "When I was pregnant with Hugo? Yes, of course. Why?"

"No reason. I was looking at some photos this morning, that's all," he says, feeling silly.

"I remember that," Rose puts in, and Harry turns to look at her. "When we went to the seaside? You, me and Mum?"

"That's right. What do you remember?"

Rose frowns, deep in thought. "Really big ice creams." She smiles and her serious face is transformed. "We made a sandcastle... and some people took our picture and put it in the newspaper."

"Oh, no, I look huge in that photograph," Hermione grouses, folding her arms with some effort in her bulky coat.

"You look beautiful in that picture, 'Mione," Harry says stoutly, and she flushes. And sticks out her tongue.

"I don't remember," Hugo says, sounding utterly put out. Rose giggles.

"It was before you were born, that's why," Hermione explains, to her son's apparent disappointment. "Maybe we'll all go again one day," she placates.

Harry catches her questioning look and his heart thuds in approval, sadness, resolve. "Definitely."

"If I wasn't there," Hugo begins, gazing up at Harry, forehead creased, "where was I?"

"You were in Mum's tummy, silly," Rose supplies, apparently amused by the whole thing.

Hugo's frown deepens. "How did I get in there?" he demands of Harry.

"Erm..." Harry attempts, suddenly very aware that he has inadvertently pried open a can of worms, and if someone doesn't move quickly, there will be no getting it shut again.

Rose and her mother exchange a meaningful look, and Harry watches the little girl's face turn serious once more as she seems to realise just what she's started.

"I think we'd better be going, Harry," Hermione says, retrieving her bags with a resigned expression.

Even though he can't help but feel partly responsible for whatever uncomfortable conversation his friend is now about to have with her son, Harry gives in to the urge that makes him stride across the floor and envelop Hermione in a tight hug before she braves the streets.

"Good to see you," he whispers.

"You too," she says, eyebrows drawn down in concern. "You'd tell me if there was something wrong, wouldn't you?"

"Of course," Harry assures, and as the door slams shut behind her, he's not sure whether he's lying or not.

**~*~**

"Don't need no Stunning Spells, don't need no potions of love," Harry sings, chipping away at what he hopes is starting to look like a table-top, "don't need no cupid's arrows and the... fucking rest of the fucking line," he improvises, as, from behind him, Celestina warbles on.

Dissatisfied with his work, Harry steps back, wiping his hands on his apron. It's terrible. If possible, it might even be worse than his first attempt.

"It's your fault this isn't working, you horrible old bat," he mumbles into the instrumental section.

"Woah, oh-oh-ohhh," Celestina interrupts breathily.

"Shut up." Harry sighs. He's all too aware that his lack of skill isn't really anyone's fault, and he also knows that, in all likelihood, all his current efforts are futile. But he's not quite ready to be beaten by Lucius sodding Malfoy and a chunk of wood.

A knock at the door startles him, but he silences the music efficiently and even has time to draw a Disillusionment Charm over the mangled wood, just in case this is another customer hoping to collect their purchase. If so, he only hopes, nearly prays, that the purchase in question is both in plain sight and completed. So far, his other self has proved himself astonishingly organised on both fronts, but Harry is all too aware that he is flying by the seat of his bizarre designer jeans, and it could all fall apart at any moment.

The door creaks open and he holds his breath.

"Harry, I'm having a crisis," Ginny announces, pushing her way into the 'shop with a snow-dotted Maura at her side.

Relieved, Harry sags against the worktable and finds a smile for her. He'll happily take what looks very much like a childcare crisis over another customer with an incomprehensible request. The last shopping day before Christmas seems to have brought them all out. Perhaps, he thinks, brightening, Maura will be able to help.

"Join the club," he offers, flashing her a wry smile. "How can I help?"

Without a word, Maura hugs her mother around the waist and then runs to Harry to be lifted onto an empty worktable. Amused, he complies, admiring her corduroy trousers and new shiny shoes at her silent request.

"You're getting as vain as your father, young lady," Ginny sighs. "Anyway, sorry to spring this on you, Harry, but it's an emergency—please can you watch her for the afternoon?"

"Absolutely," he says, watching her face relax and taking in her smart black zip-up jersey, her navy and yellow Puddlemere team scarf and her bulging shoulder bag. "Work crisis, by any chance?"

"Oh, you're a lifesaver. McGann has gone down with Kneazle Pox, the match is at four, and we have to completely rehash all the plays with the reserve Seeker," Ginny says, looking harassed.

"Sounds like fun, Gin," Harry says, suppressing a smile. "I take it Blaise is working, too?"

Ginny rolls her eyes. "No, but she didn't want Daddy. Daddy is not feeling his best right now. Apparently, he's 'stinky and won't open both his eyes at once'," she explains, flicking a glance at Maura, who wrinkles her nose at the memory.

Harry snorts. "Apparently Easy-No-Queasy is the way forward, though I can't help feeling that Fred and George are just looking for easy victims to test it out on," he says, voice catching slightly at the feeling of Fred's name in his mouth. The 'Fred and George are'—it's been a long time.

"I'm not really feeling inclined to help him right now," Ginny says darkly. "He managed to kick me out of bed four times last night. Right, I'll have to go. Thanks again, Harry. Maura, behave yourself... if possible."

"Bye, Mummy," Maura calls, leaning precariously from the worktable to watch Ginny leave. "I hope you win!"

"Do you think she will?" Harry asks, wandering over to slam the door shut.

"Probably," Maura says, swinging her legs back and forth. "Seven out of the last ten matches won, six Snitches caught. The Magpies are on a losing streak. Mummy's team is stronger in inc... incolment? Um, bad weather than the Magpies. But her Seeker is sick. So I don't know, really."

"Right," Harry says softly, impressed. He hadn't expected such a detailed answer to his question, but then he supposes that Maura has grown up with Quidditch; she's a little expert. "Well, let's hope so, shall we?"

Maura nods. She turns to look around the room, shiny red button-shaped hair-bands glinting in the bright sunlight. "The big chest has gone! And the snake lamp! And the round wardrobe! All sorts of things," she exclaims, turning to face Harry, eyes sparkling.

"Yeah. People came to get them." He smiles conspiratorially at her. "I think I kept it together."

"That's good," she says seriously. "You're lucky that you already finished most of the Christmas things. You work really hard, except on Saturdays when we play games."

"What sort of—hang on, what do you mean most of? What haven't I finished?" Harry asks, panicked.

"That," she replies, pointing at the standard lamp, the one he has made for Draco.

"What else was I going to do with it?"

"I don't know," she admits, biting her lip guiltily. "I think you told me, but... I think that was the day the man came in with the big dog, and I can't remember."

"Ah, the big dog," Harry murmurs, even though he has no idea about the big dog, and even though Maura knows he has no idea about the big dog, too.

"Sorry," Maura says, picking at her coat buttons.

"It's not your fault. We'll figure something out," he says, hoping but not quite believing.

"Alright, Mr Potter," booms a large, bearded man, bursting through the door with a cursory knock and startling Harry and Maura. "How's it going? I've come for me sideboard."

"Er, great, thanks," Harry says, tipping his head back to make eye contact with this immense man who seems to fill all the available space in the workshop, barrel-shaped, beaming, and almost as tall as Hagrid, who would be banging his head on the skylights if he were here.

"Hello," Maura says, hopping down to the floor and smiling up at him. She clatters around the room, coat flapping behind her, while Harry and the huge man watch her. "Is it this one?" She points. "Or this one?"

"That's it, young lady," the man rumbles, creaking across the floor toward her and lifting the large mahogany and glass sideboard into his arms as though it were made of paper. "Lovely job, Mr Potter, now all I have to do is hide it from the wife until Monday!" He grins. "Here's what I owe you."

Harry accepts the weighty money bag, still feeling slightly bewildered. "Thank you."

"Have a lovely Christmas, the both of you!" he bellows as he manoeuvres carefully through the door that Maura holds open for him.

Harry shakes his head and gulps at his now-tepid coffee.

"Come on, Uncle Harry," Maura chides, staring up at him from the doorway. "Start acting normal, there are more people coming!"

**~*~**

As the afternoon wears on, Harry does his best impression of 'normal' and Maura, as predicted, makes herself very useful indeed, helping to locate each customer's order as they flock in to collect their custom-made Christmas gifts.

When Harry gives in and reluctantly reinstates Celestina, Maura is horrified.

"Grandma Molly likes this," she says, pulling a face. "It hurts my ears."

"Mine too," Harry admits. "But I have to learn it to impress Draco's dad."

"That doesn't make any sense," Maura complains, but she endures it with only a modicum of drama, and helpfully falls about laughing every time Harry sings along. By one o'clock, she's studying the sleeve notes and telling him where he's going wrong.

"It's 'fly me away on your broomstick, my love' not 'fly me away on your broomstick of love'," she insists, puzzled at Harry's laughter.

Extraordinarily relieved that no actual carpentry is required in spite of the rush, Harry's mind quickly turns to the one project from which there seems to be no escape.

"There's this other thing," he confesses to Maura during a brief lull, and her concerned expression makes him feel curiously as though he's the child in this situation. "I have to make a little table."

"What sort?"

Harry digs out the notebook and shows her the specifications. She shrugs.

"Spindles," she says with interest.

"Spindles," Harry agrees, perching next to her on the worktable. "So, you don't know what it's supposed to look like either?"

She shakes her head, lashing him with a bouncy pigtail. "Nope. Did you try making it?"

Harry nods.

"Can I see?"

"Not really. I already vanished the first one."

"It must have been very bad," she says, dark eyes wide.

Harry snorts. "You could say that. I tried again today, though." He flicks his wand and the Disillusionment Charm fades, revealing a pile of wood shavings and an uneven slab of beech. It's worse than he remembers.

"Oh," Maura manages, frowning. She tilts her head this way and that, as though trying to figure out exactly what she's looking at.

"I think we'll just get rid of this one, too," Harry mutters, flicking his wand and sighing.

"It wasn't that bad," Maura says, and Harry laughs softly, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and hugging her briefly for trying.

"It was. Maybe I just need to try a different approach."

He pulls his feet up onto the table and crosses his legs, copying Maura. Lifting both hands to scrub thoughtfully at his hair, he stares, unseeing, at the far wall and wonders. Breathes in the now-comforting scent of wood and varnish and pictures Mr Pepper's table as clearly as he can in his mind. He knows it's not all about this particular table, knows that there will be more, but somehow it feels as though, if he can just get this one right, everything else will be okay.

And perhaps... perhaps there is still hope. After all, he's turned matchsticks into needles and teapots into tortoises and plant pots into cats. Granted, that was years ago, and he doesn't have much call for regular Transfiguration these days, but he's certain it can't be all that difficult. In fact, as the idea becomes stronger and more compelling in his head, he wonders why on earth his other self chooses to do all his work by hand.

"Right," he says decisively, gripping his wand tightly and sliding back onto his feet. He collects another chunk of beech, trying hard not to think about the expensive materials he has already wasted.

Maura leans forward. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm not exactly sure yet," Harry admits. "Just... think of a table."

Harry narrows his eyes, points his wand at the wood, and attempts to focus all his magical strength into forcing one thing to turn into something else. Table, table, table. Spindles and twelve by twelve. It flows out of him, tingling down his arm, crackling through his fingers, his wand, through the air; he tastes static on his tongue as the wood shifts before his eyes—yes—heart speeding, he holds onto the cast as something decidedly table-like starts to take shape.

"Cool," Maura whispers from behind him, the sound drifting to his ears and spurring him on.

He's done it, he's... fucking hell, it definitely looks like a table.

Triumphant, Harry turns and grins at Maura. He hadn't really expected it to work, and from the astonished smile on her face, neither had she. Harry suspects he owes Minerva McGonagall a very large drink.

"Uncle Harry doesn't do it like that," Maura advises, "but I don't think it matters."

"Hopefully not," Harry agrees, eagerly stepping closer to the workbench to admire his creation. He reaches out a hand to touch one of the elegant spindles, and the moment his fingers connect with the wood, it all falls apart.

Quite literally, in fact. Harry watches the entire table, spindles, etched glass and all, crumble into dust in front of him. Horrified, he swipes his fingers through the fine brown powder, hoping pointlessly to find something solid among the dry remains scattered in mounds across his worktable, but there's nothing.

"Maybe that's why he doesn't do it like that," Maura says quietly, and Harry balls his dirty hands into fists and closes his eyes for a moment to avoid snapping at her.

"Maybe," he manages at last, through gritted teeth.

At that moment, the door creaks open. The ever-watchful part of Harry's subconscious rises above his frustration and disappointment and forces the spell that silences Celestina, who has been screeching helpfully throughout this whole debacle.

"Hello, Grandad."

"Hello, Maura. I like your shoes," says a very familiar voice.

Harry takes a deep breath, wipes his hands on his sides, smearing apron and jeans and not caring, before turning to face Arthur.

"Hi. I was told to expect you," he says, smiling. It's not Arthur's fault that not only is he useless at making tables, he can't Transfigure them either.

"Yes, yes. Has it arrived yet?" Arthur asks, almost rubbing his hands together in excitement.

Harry hesitates. He has no idea.

"I think it's over there, Grandad," Maura says, pointing to a large wooden crate in the far corner of the workshop.

"What is it?" Harry hisses out of the corner of his mouth.

Maura leans up on tiptoes to watch Arthur. "Um... you and Grandad... well, Uncle Harry and Grandad, wanted to learn how to blow glass out of a stick. I don't really know why."

"Me neither," Harry says, raising his eyebrows as Arthur cries out delightedly and starts to carefully float the crate over to Harry's workbench. Hurriedly, he grabs a rough cloth and wipes away the worst of the failed-table dust.

"Wonderful that it arrived before Christmas, isn't it?" he enthuses, eyes crinkling. He faces Harry over the crate. "You've still got time to have a go, haven't you?"

"Sure," Harry says, silently adding 'Why the fuck not? Might as well embrace the madness.'

"Great." Arthur exchanges a gleeful glance with Maura, who seems to have jumped on board with impressive alacrity. "Right, I've got the spells here," he says, pulling a bit of parchment out of the pocket of his duffle coat.

"Hmm?" Harry says vaguely.

"The spells for the different temperatures of the flames," Arthur explains. "It's a shame we can't do it with the three furnaces, you know, the proper Muggle way, but I suppose you're right that there's not enough space here, he says, looking around ruefully at the small workshop. "Still, maybe one day, eh?"

"Maybe." Harry takes a deep breath and, with Arthur's help, prises the lid from the crate and begins to unload carefully packed boxes containing rods and fragments of coloured and plain glass, several metal stands and unfamiliar tools, and a selection of slender clay pipes of various lengths. From the bottom of the crate, Harry lifts out a large iron object, rather like a very heavy saucepan, and drops it onto the worktop with some relief.

"Wonderful, isn't it?" Arthur beams.

"It's certainly something," Harry murmurs, poking around in the bottom of the box for instructions but finding nothing but packing beads and shredded paper. "Maybe we should try—"

"Come on then, my boy, let's melt some glass!" Arthur interrupts, clearing the workbench, and from his wand erupts a cascade of fire so intense that Harry has to leap backwards to keep his eyebrows intact. In doing so, he almost falls over Maura, who appears to have had the presence of mind to stand well back.

For a moment, Harry gazes through the flames at his surrogate father, taking in his lined face, messy red hair and excitable expression as he waits for Harry to make his move, and it's with a rush of delight that he realises that this relationship—his and Arthur's—is just the same as the one he knows. It's playful and warm, comforting and just a little bit bonkers.

He grins. "Right you are," he agrees, grabbing the iron pan and floating it into the flames.

"Maura, hand me the box of glass," Arthur mumbles, eyes fixed on the flames. "Good girl, thank you."

"Are you alright?" Harry asks, as Maura creeps back to his side and takes his hand.

"Yep," she says brightly, and when Harry glances at her, she's transfixed, mouth slightly open as the dancing flames reflect in wide, dark eyes.

When Arthur dumps the glass pieces into the pot, Maura squeezes Harry's hand and he squeezes back, breathing through the pang in his chest as he is reminded of Lily, who loves her Grandpa Weasley's experiments, too.

Lily, wherever she is, would love this. The colours and the scrape-sizzle-whoosh and the smell of hot metal and glass, the heat driving into them in waves. Soon, Maura and Arthur have shed their coats and Harry is swiping sweaty hair out of his face and blinking against the flames and the brilliant glow of the molten glass.

By the time Harry chooses a clay pipe and attempts, with Arthur's encouragement, to gather a blob of the lava-like glass on one end, he's hot, sticky, and utterly determined.

"Oh, good job!" Arthur declares, clearly dying to have a go. "Are you going to give it a blow?"

Harry bites his lip and draws down his eyebrows with the effort of suppressing the juvenile laughter bubbling up in his chest. He's thirty-seven, for crying out loud. And as such, he should definitely be capable of... er, giving it a blow. Unfortunately, his head is all at once full of images that make the bubble of laughter drop and sharpen into a twinge that yanks at the pit of his stomach.

He scowls, lifts the slender pipe to his mouth and steadily pushes his breath down the tube and into the glass; it swells, just a little, and he tries again.

"It's working!" Maura cries, shoes scuffling on the stone floor in her excitement.

"It's marvellous, isn't it?" Arthur mumbles from behind him. "One or two more and I think you'll be able to start turning it!"

Heartened, and not just by the fact that Arthur at least seems to have done some reading-up on the subject, Harry drags in a deep breath, holds the pipe steady, and then crashes to the floor.

The first sensation is one of shock, as his legs jerk out from underneath him, followed swiftly by pain, as his backside connects with the cold stone. The pipe, grasped grimly in his fingers, crashes down with him and the bulb of half-blown glass skitters across the table in slow motion.

"Careful, Maura," Arthur calls, and Harry is halfway to his feet in panic before he sees that there is no danger. "Are you alright, Harry?" he inquires, holding out a hand to help Harry rise fully to his feet.

Arthur shoves his wand back into his waistband and gazes at the immobilised piece of glass. Their first promising attempt now lies twisted, misshapen and somehow slightly blackened at the base of the iron pan, and he sighs gently.

"Sorry, Arthur," Harry says, feeling his disappointment and hating this ridiculous disability with fresh new bitterness.

"Don't apologise," he insists, patting Harry on the back. "I think we made a cracking start. Tell you what, Maura and I will go out and get some lunch, and when we come back..." Arthur grins, "it's my turn."

**~*~**

When Maura returns clutching a half-eaten courgette and chocolate spread sandwich, Harry finally thinks he knows what happened to that last spinach cake. He installs her and her disgusting sandwich on the spare workbench, keeping her well out of harm's way while ensuring her a good view of proceedings, as he and Arthur clean up and prepare for another attempt.

Between them, they start up the flames again and the heat quickly fills the small space. Arthur gleefully takes the pipe and follows Harry's example, save for the ill-timed meeting with the floor, and after a few wobbles, produces an uneven, lopsided, but fully-formed bulb of glass. Astonished by this moderate success, and determined to secure it before it disappears, they cast the third spell, Lehro, together, and place the glass into the soft, green flames.

"Brilliant," Harry enthuses, wiping his damp forehead with the back of his hand, equal parts impressed and envious. "Well done."

Arthur grins. "It's good fun, isn't it? Molly thinks you're bonkers, by the way," he adds.

Harry lifts an eyebrow. "Just me?"

"She's known about me for a long time. What do you think, Maura?"

They both turn to look at the little girl, who has crept down from the worktable and is now looking up at them with wide eyes and a smudge of chocolate on her nose.

"It's pretty," she says, smiling at the licking green flames.

"It'll be prettier once we learn to do it properly," he says, ruffling her dark curls. "Come on, let's leave Uncle Harry alone to get his work done."

"Oh... really, there's no need," Harry attempts, dismayed at the thought of coping with the rest of the afternoon without his useful little friend.

Arthur puts on his coat, pulls a knitted hat out of the pocket and puts it on. "It's no problem. In fact..." He leans in conspiratorially, "I could do with a bit of help with some last minute shopping." He pauses, eyes suddenly hopeful. "You don't happen to know what Ginny would like for Christmas, do you?"

"I'm afraid not," Harry says, hoping that Draco has taken care of their responsibilities in that area.

"Ah, well." Arthur claps him on the shoulder again and holds his hand out for Maura's. "Come on, young lady, let's go and buy your mother something shiny and overpriced from that shop that hurts my head. She'll like that. Stick your head in over Christmas, Harry... maybe we can arrange to have another go?"

Harry nods, eyes flicking between their contrasting smiles, Arthur's expectant and Maura's apologetic.

"Okay, good luck," he calls, just before Arthur tugs the door closed behind them.

Finally alone, he sighs and allows himself a quiet moment before he forces himself to reinstate Celestina.

**~*~**

"And you can throw me down into the dungeon, I'm not afraid, you see," Harry sings along as he saws away doggedly and yet another section of beech. "For the love that grows in my wounded heart is more potent than any key."

Thomp, goes the long section of wood as it tumbles onto the worktable. "Oh, yes it is," Harry adds.

"Ooh-ooh, whoa," Celestina warbles.

"And that as well," he mutters to himself, hating how quickly he's picking up the lyrics to these appalling songs, however useful they're going to be. He has a horrible feeling that once the words are lodged into his brain, it's going to take something drastic to shift them.

Still. It's not all bad. It's almost five o'clock and the stream of customers into the workshop has slowed almost to a standstill. He's lit the lamps, tidied away the glassblowing equipment for the day and has decided to have one more go at the sodding table before he has to give in and decide what to do with Draco's lamp. And then, of course, all he has to worry about is Christmas Day with the Malfoys.

Harry sighs, closing his eyes briefly and hanging onto his saw as though it's a lifeline.

"Free me from my chaaaaaains!" demands Celestina.

Harry forces his eyes open. "One ridiculous problem at a time, I think."

"We'll be together agaaaaaain!"

"You and me, betwixt and between," Harry joins in reluctantly, drawing his wand and staring at the stick of beech, hoping for a miracle, or at least something resembling a spindle. "We'll cross the seas, and the forests of green, searching for a... Hippogriff in a waistcoast," he improvises, losing the end of the chorus.

"I didn't know you could sing," comes an amused voice from the doorway and Harry spins around, still with wand in hand. "Goodness, you're jumpy," Goldstein adds, amused, holding up his hands in mock surrender.

"I didn't hear you come in," Harry says coolly, lowering his wand to his side.

"Evidently." Goldstein smiles slowly and his eyes travel over Harry's body, taking in his dirty apron, his messy hair, his burned and scratched hands, all of it with an obvious pleasure that makes Harry want to throw his not-quite-spindle across the workshop at him.

"You could have knocked," Harry points out, not unpleasantly.

"Oh, Harry, must friends be so formal?"

Harry hesitates for a moment, all too aware that he could be in the wrong here—after all, this life has been his for less than a week, if it is his at all. In all likelihood, he's just looking after it. Keeping it warm. Trying to figure some things out.

But then Goldstein's smile turns into a smirk and it dissolves Harry's restraint. "Friends?" he repeats, lifting an eyebrow. "I wouldn't go that far."

"Through a sky of diamond dewdrops, my love," offers Celestina, and for the first time, Harry doesn't jump to silence her. He has the strangest feeling that right now, overwrought and clichéd though she may be, she's on his side.

Goldstein's dark eyes flash with anger, just for a split-second, but Harry catches it before he moulds his expression into one of ingratiation, and the interrogator, the observer in him, fires up with warm satisfaction. He can deal with this man.

"Harry, why so cruel? Surely I haven't done anything to offend you," Goldstein murmurs, sounding hurt. He steps away from the doorway and comes to lean casually against Harry's worktable, not-so-subtly displaying his lean, black-clad figure and pressing his height advantage over Harry. He hates that. He's always hated that.

"Look," Harry sighs, folding his arms across his apron and comforting himself with the thought that, yes, Goldstein might have three or four inches on his five feet ten and a bit, but Harry could probably knock him over without trying too hard. "What do you want? I'm closing up soon."

Goldstein licks nervously at his bottom lip. Harry scowls. Draco, he's noticed, does the same thing when he's anxious, and for some reason that he can't explain—some reason other than that he truly dislikes this adult Goldstein—it fills him with uncomfortable rage to see it on this slimy bastard.

"Well, I just thought we could finish our conversation," he says softly, and the smile is back, slightly sheepish this time. "I realise I was a little... ah, intoxicated, and perhaps wasn't making much sense."

Harry snorts softly. "No, I think I got the message."

Goldstein brightens. "So..." he begins, fixing Harry with intense eyes.

Resisting the urge to groan and rake his fingers through his hair, Harry stands firm, arms folded, posture solid, hoping fervently that his legs stay beneath him for the moment; the last thing he needs is for Goldstein to think he's some kind of damsel in distress.

"So, what? I wasn't tired of Draco yesterday but you thought I might be by now? The answer is no, and if you've any sense, you'll stop asking," he says quietly.

"People change, Harry," Goldstein murmurs, shifting position so that his expensive shoes crunch on the wood shavings; he jumps, causing Harry a ripple of silent amusement. "Do you know what everyone at the Ministry thinks of Malfoy? Him and his toxic, seditious little articles?"

Harry frowns, almost thrown by the change of tone. "Seditious?" he repeats, incredulous.

Goldstein's smile flickers back into life briefly. "Yes, it means—"

"I know what it means," Harry interrupts, forcing the words through gritted teeth. "I'm not stupid."

"Well, of course not," Goldstein stumbles, flushing. "But we do... ah, inhabit rather different worlds these days, and I... I want you to know that there's nothing wrong with that. There's certainly no need for you to settle with someone like Malfoy."

Harry exhales messily, losing his composure for the time it takes for him to scrub both hands through his hair, tip his head back to stare at the stars through the skylight and wonder just how he—or, indeed, his other self—has managed not to hex this prick in the balls.

"I'm not settling, Goldstein," he says at last, dropping his hands to his sides and forcing himself to make eye contact. "I certainly don't need your approval on my lifestyle choices, and I expect that the only people who are worried about Draco's... erm, seditious articles are the ones with something to hide."

"I don't think that's quite..." he begins, flustered and bright-eyed with indignation.

"Well, I do think, and I'm not daft enough to let you change my mind, whatever you might think about me. I don't know what world you've been living in for the last thirty years, Anthony, but when no one keeps an eye on the Ministry, bad things tend to happen. Who will guard the guards, and all that," Harry finishes, slightly breathless but certain that Hermione would be proud.

"Who will what?" Goldstein frowns.

Harry can't help himself; he smiles. "Nothing to worry about. A tip for you, though... if you're trying to impress someone, it's probably best not to imply they're thick."

"There's no need to be like that," Goldstein manages after a long silence, and the smirk has quite disappeared from his face. "I just thought you could... do better, that's all."

Harry snorts. "Have I ever given you the impression that I might be interested?" he demands, suddenly afraid that his other self has somehow encouraged this.

There is a long silence between them, into which Celestina chants and wails about her lost love.

"Well... I... you've never been quite so hostile before," Anthony mutters at last.

"So, no, then," Harry surmises, heart leaping with relief so intense that it's startling. "You really are clueless, aren't you?" he adds under his breath, knowing that the part of himself he is addressing is not present, but needing to do so regardless.

"Excuse me?"

Harry shakes his head. "Nothing. I really do have to close up in a minute, so do you think you could see yourself out?"

Goldstein takes a step back, posture rigid and long fingers curled into fists at his side. His eyes are quietly furious as he gives Harry a stiff nod and walks slowly to the door, as though he expects for Harry to change his mind and call him back at any moment.

"Have a wonderful Christmas, Harry," he says quietly, and then the door slams.

"Thank fuck for that," Harry mumbles, giving up on any further notion of working on the little table today and hoisting himself up onto the spare workbench. Much as he'd like to hope, he has a nagging feeling that he hasn't seen the last of Anthony Goldstein for the moment, but under the circumstances, a temporary respite will do. And, if nothing else, he has—in the words of Molly Weasley—sent him away with a flea in his ear.

Harry pulls a face and scratches at his ears at the thought. He leans back on his hands and gazes around at the chaos of his workshop, at the half-arsed fourth attempt at Mr Pepper's table, at the piles of wood shavings and scattered tools, at the box of glassblowing equipment and the soft, green glow of the slowly-cooling flames around Arthur's twisted bulb.

And, alright, he's not very good at this. He's doing the best he can with the talent and training—or lack thereof—that he has available, but he's not a natural. Whatever his shortcomings in the craftsman department, though, it's becoming increasingly obvious that he is vastly better at reading people than his other self. He has an understanding of expressions and tells, an awareness of motivations, an above-average level of suspicion, but most of that comes from almost twenty years as an Auror.

This Harry, he supposes, the one who lives here, the one who learned how to make furniture instead of learning how to chase down criminals, this Harry is the person he would have been without any of that training or experience. Harry chews his lip thoughtfully and plays with his shoelaces, wrapping them around his fingers. This Harry trusts people, takes them almost at face value. This Harry has been allowed to let his childhood and the war dissolve behind him. This Harry doesn't carry his past on his shoulders everywhere he goes.

This Harry is so contentedly oblivious that he hasn't noticed Anthony fucking Goldstein trying to slime all over him for god knows how long.

This Harry just is.

A wave of something hot and prickly rushes through Harry's sinuses and he gulps at the cold air, rubbing the knees of his jeans with the heels of his hands and throwing everything he has in front of the tide of sadness.

Good health.

Close friends.

Three beautiful, happy children—four, he supposes, picturing a mischievous, Al-flanked Rose.

Harry breathes. Wraps his fingers around the edge of the worktable, cold, hard, rough, and listens to the needle lifting from 'Veelas, Nymphs, and Squibs', then silence.

Finally, he lowers himself to the floor and makes his way over to the beautiful lamp that Maura has reliably informed him is 'nearly finished'. Pensive, he lights the flame and stands back, allowing the soft green shapes to fall across the walls, the floor, and his skin. Once again, he's astonished that any version of himself could create something so magnificent, and as he watches the glass stripes shifting and melting into one another, and reaches out a hand to smooth over the curved wooden stalk, he can't imagine that there's anything he could add to it that wouldn't ruin it, and not only because his skills leave a lot to be desired.

He hesitates only for a moment before making a decision.

"Sorry, mate," he says, addressing his absent other self as he extinguishes the flame and casts a Disillusionment Charm over the lamp. "This is just going to have to do."

Humming under his breath, he walks around and turns out all the lights. Then, seeing no other reasonable way—it will surely be crushed or snapped in the madness that is still Diagon Alley—he wraps his arms around the lamp, hopes for the best, and Apparates onto the pavement outside number twelve.

He has the front door wedged open with his foot and the lamp halfway into the hallway when Draco emerges from the kitchen, notepad in hand and quill tucked behind his ear, and demands:

"What the fuck are you doing?"

It's a fair question, Harry supposes. Even though it's dark in the hallway and he does do rather a good Disillusionment Charm, if he may say so himself, it's still fairly obvious that Harry is attempting to sneak something rather large into the house. And not all that smoothly, he has to admit. He's stubbed his toe on the base three times now, and Draco's interruption startles him and causes the glass shade to clonk him quite severely on the head.

"Nothing?" he tries, dragging the lamp another few feet. If he can just get it to the end of the hallway rug, he can kick the front door shut, and he's quite confident that every aspect of this operation will be greatly improved by not having an icy wind blowing up his bottom. "Argh, bastard!" he adds, managing a simultaneous clonk-stub and a thomp to the backside as the heavy oak door escapes from behind his foot and catapults himself, the lamp, and half of the rug into the hallway.

"Nothing, eh?" Draco repeats, lifting an eyebrow. "Well, I'll let you finish your nothing, and then you can come and not tell me all about it. It's your turn to make dinner, you know."

As he turns away, the corners of his mouth are twitching, and Harry doesn't think he imagines the sound of muffled laughter emanating from the kitchen just seconds later.

"Come on, you heavy sod," Harry grunts, dragging the lamp across the hallway. It is becoming apparent that the thing previously thought delicate is, in fact, more durable than its creator. When he finally gets it into a rarely-used parlour and removes the charm to examine it, he quickly sees that in contrast to himself, there isn't a scratch on it.

He supposes that's a good thing, even as he rubs at the lump on his head and prods at the rapidly-forming bruise on his left buttock.

Reinstating the charm, he locks up the room and wanders into the kitchen, already wondering how well his cooking is going to go down. He's certainly capable, and he enjoys it when he's in the right mood, but cooking for a Malfoy might well be a whole new kettle of fish.

Still, he thinks, ignoring the occasional giggle from the man at the table and rummaging in the cupboards, Draco does make a mean chilli, so he can't be all about quail's eggs and filet mignon. It might actually be nice to cook for someone different. The children, with the occasional exception of James, who goes through phases of adventurousness, would always rather have chips, and Ginny is always too tired to really appreciate her food.

Just as he's pulling onions out of the cupboard, Harry notices the state of his hands and hurries to scrub them with hot water and soap before Draco notices. Something tells him that 'it's only a bit of wood dust' will not fly in this house.

"Spaghetti Bolognese?" Harry offers, drying his hands on a soft white tea-towel and surveying his ingredients.

"I don't think we have any spaghetti," Draco says without looking up from the photograph in his hands.

Harry goes rummaging again. "Hmm. Okay, well, twisty-round pasta Bolognese?"

Draco snorts. "It must be gourmet night." He throws down his photograph and picks up another one, and when Harry looks over his shoulder, he's smiling to himself. "Throw in some garlic bread and you're on."

"I think I can manage that," Harry mutters, selecting a sharp knife and beginning to work, allowing the regular rhythm of chopping and stirring to soothe away the last of the tension from his muscles, and to ease away the more bizarre elements of his day.

Behind him, Draco rustles and scribbles and mumbles to himself, and Harry is less surprised than he perhaps should be to find these noises comforting, too. As the room begins to fill with steam and the fragrant, savoury aroma of his pasta sauce, Harry stops thinking altogether and begins to absently hum, and then sing, under his breath.

"Through a sky of diamond dewdrops, my love; through the dark and forbidden forest, my love; through the ocean deep and... something, my love, until I find you again," he sings, poking at the pan of pasta with a wooden spoon.

"My father has a lot to answer for," Draco sighs, but Harry ignores him. He's actually enjoying having someone in the kitchen with him, even if it is a grumpy someone he never really asked for.

By the time he turns to set the two steaming plates on the table, Draco has managed to cover the entire surface with his scribbled notes and shiny photographs and assorted items. There are five empty coffee cups strewn around and a very long stripy scarf drapes, snakelike, over two of the empty chairs. Frank himself is nowhere to be seen, but then the table is quite crowded enough without him.

"You're going to have to move something," Harry says, and Draco finally looks up, blinking, as though he's just broken out of a trance.

"I feel like setting fire to the lot of it, to be honest," Draco says, scowling and neatly Summoning all his photographs and bits of parchment into his hands, allowing Harry to set down the plates and scrape up a chair. "Everyone at MLE is clamming up. I wouldn't be surprised if fucking Fitzwilliam has put the frighteners on the lot of them."

"Delightful man," Harry offers, spearing several pasta twists on his fork at once and conveying them to his mouth. "No help from the Auror department, then?" he asks, mildly curious.

Draco shakes his head, chewing slowly. "No," he says at last, "they were the worst of the lot. Who'd be a bloody Auror?" He sighs. Examines his fork. "This is nice," he says absently.

"I... er... thought about it, once," Harry ventures, feeling slightly stung even though he's fairly sure he doesn't want to be one any more, either. "You know, being an Auror."

Draco sets down his fork. "I know," he says quietly.

"I was just saying," Harry says, tasting the change in atmosphere and sensing he may have said the wrong thing. "I... it doesn't matter."

"Don't be ridiculous, of course it matters," Draco says sharply, looking up and meeting Harry's eyes with sudden fierceness. "I just didn't know you were thinking about it again. It's been a while."

Harry hesitates, caught in anxious grey eyes and a years-old connection that seems to reach out and wrap around him as though he's never been away, never let it go. He coughs dryly.

"Yeah... I suppose it was just hearing Ron's news... " Harry shrugs. "It's not a big deal."

"You're impossible," Draco sighs, pushing back his chair. "I'll make some tea, shall I?"

"Because that'll solve everything," Harry murmurs to himself, leaning back and folding his arms.

"You know it to be true, Potter," Draco says, assembling the tea paraphernalia and then turning and leaning against the marble counter. "Now come on, spit it out."

"I don't want to," Harry says petulantly.

Draco releases a light sigh. "I know you don't, but it's far better to say it than carry it around with you for days on end, isn't it?" He turns around to pour the hot water. "Not to mention turning into a complete nightmare to live with, all angst-ridden and such," he adds.

Intrigued and a little indignant, Harry gives in. At least it won't be the first time he and Draco have had this conversation, and it sounds as though it won't be the last.

"I was just wondering if I made the right decision—not becoming an Auror."

Draco passes him a hot cup and reclaims his seat, balancing his elbows on the table and holding his tea close to his face. "You did, Harry."

"But how can you say that for sure?" Harry presses.

"I can't say anything for sure," Draco admits, grey eyes serious, "but I do remember how long you agonised over it, and that has to count for something. I also remember how torn you were when that Ministry letter came—we're willing to overlook your injury, Mr Potter, we'd be delighted to accept you into our training programme," Draco recites scornfully, fingers gripping tightly around his stripy teacup. "Who exactly did they think they were, putting you in that position?"

"I don't know," Harry whispers, horrified at the idea that the Ministry, presumably because of his name alone, were prepared to risk lives by employing a person with an unpredictable injury in such a dangerous position; Draco's hatred of the Ministry is becoming ever more understandable. "They should have just said no."

"Harry, it wasn't a case of saying no, was it?" Draco argues. "They just sent their sneaky little offer, apropos of nothing, and expected you to carry it on your conscience. They are bad people, Harry, and you know I don't mean people like Weasley and Granger, I mean the ones in charge—every single one of them is either clueless or corrupt and you're better off out of it."

"Do you really blame me for wondering 'what if'?" Harry asks, gulping at his tea.

Draco sighs. "No, of course not. Do you think I don't wonder what would have happened if you hadn't come up to the hospital wing that night?"

Harry's stomach flips. For a long moment, he stares into his cup, unable to make eye contact with Draco, with a Draco who is here in this moment with him because of that decision. A decision that, save for Boris, was never made. Fuck, his head is a mess.

"Mm," Harry murmurs. "I suppose that some days I just find it strange to be doing what I do. It's not quite what I planned."

Draco looses a hollow laugh. "You love your job, Harry, I know you do. I don't ever remember having a plan beyond impressing my father... although I did want to be a chocolate frog when I was little," he adds, nose wrinkling briefly as he remembers.

Harry grins. "I'm sure you would have been excellent at that."

"Shut up," Draco says, and then, quite unexpectedly, sets down his cup and reaches across the table for Harry's hand. He threads their fingers together and stares down at the table, tongue-tip flicking out over his bottom lip. "You don't really think you made a mistake, do you?"

Harry isn't entirely sure the question is a real one, but he answers it anyway. "No."

"Listen, because I don't care how this sounds, or how many times I have to say it—barely a day goes by when I don't think about what happened to you at the Manor that night, when I don't wish I was there with you instead of being 'kept safe' somewhere..." Draco pauses. "When I don't wish I could help, or make it disappear. But I can't."

Harry is silent, because the words are laced, soaked through, with meaning, and he is laid open by the rough edge to them that tells him Draco doesn't really want to mean them. Heartsore, he slides his thumb over the back of Draco's hand, soft skin and sharp knuckles. Just a pale, strong hand, tangled with his and trying to keep him afloat.

"I know," he says at last, forcing himself to look up.

Draco's eyes are bright. "Knowing is always a start." Without releasing Harry's hand, he picks up his fork and resumes eating. "You know, I think this actually tastes better cold."

Harry snorts. "I'm not sure how I should take that."

"Like a man," Draco advises.

**~*~**

Harry wakes the next morning with an odd sensation of compression. It only takes a moment's bleary-eyed investigation to ascertain the cause: in a quest for warmth, Frank has slithered under the sheets and blankets and coiled heavily on Harry's bare chest. Looking at the wide-open window, Harry can barely blame him, but it really is a miracle he hasn't suffocated.

"Move, you," he directs, prodding the snake.

"Sleeping," Frank says.

"You know, Draco won't remember to feed you if you crush me to death," Harry points out, starting to wheeze a little, only partly for effect.

"Such drama," the snake says, unwinding himself and turning his head to show Harry the small scrap of parchment that has been Spellotaped to his triangular head. "Do not approve of this. Do not."

Immediately reminded of Al and his notes, Harry chews on a sad smile and reaches out to carefully unpeel the tape from Frank's head. "Sorry about that," he says, dragging in a deep, grateful breath as the snake slides fully onto the mattress.

"Not a message service. Not a display board. Not for receiving the sticky notes!"

Amused, Harry strokes the shiny head as he reads his note.

Merry Christmas Eve, you lazy old bugger.

I have gone over to Zabology to speak to a man about a dog (well, to Blaise about your Christmas present, but Hermione assures me that it's a genuine euphemism) and I shall see you later on.

Please tell Frankfurto I'm sorry, but I really didn't know where else to stick it.

Be good.

D.

"I'll not be good if I feel like it," Harry announces to the room.

"Ooh, you're a young wag," says the mirror saucily.

"Thanks," he replies, flattered.

He grins, reflecting that the scale and variety of communication in this place really is incredible. Not only does Draco Malfoy talk to him, but so do strangers in the street and snakes and mirrors.

"Draco says he's sorry about making you feel like a notice board," he says, and Frank flicks his tongue, unimpressed.

"Careless striped human," he complains, disappearing under the sheets.

Harry watches him, half-amused and half-bewildered, and something in that curious mix of feelings reminds him sharply of his children, of James' blue hair and Al's insistence on keeping all of his food separate on his plate, and Lily's penchant for giving Frank the cat a bath. Aching, Harry punches his pillow and curls on his side, closing his eyes against this world and allowing himself to miss them.

Christmas Eve, he thinks, feeling the sharp edges of Draco's note against his palm. He and Ginny have always made it special for the children—she wanting to give them the family Christmases she grew up with, and Harry needing to give them the security and warmth he never had. And it had worked; by the time Al was born, those cosy, sparkly celebrations had replaced in Harry's mind the years of cold Dursley Christmases and that one bleak year spent on the run with Hermione.

By the time Lily was born, the family traditions had been firmly in place. The cup of tea left out for Santa (because, James said, grown-ups are always drinking tea) and the parsnips left out for the reindeer (because, Al later pointed out, they might be sick of carrots) and the insistence on staying up until midnight, even though no one but James, armed with caffeine and sugar, ever managed it.

He smiles at the memory, pressing his stinging eyes into his pillow because he feels stupid, even though there's no one here to judge him for his display of emotion. His children aren't here, but they're fine, they're okay, Boris has assured him of that, and while he's fully aware that Boris is a tricksy old boot, Harry trusts him on this one. But even though that's true...

... they're not here. Or he's not there. Whatever.

He should be wrapping last minute presents with Ginny and taking the children to the Burrow for dinner, tripping over animals and furniture and assorted Weasleys. Instead he's... well, he's still in bed at ten fifteen, according to his copper clock, and has no agenda besides being good.

Tomorrow is going to be a shiny, fancy, extravaganza of awkwardness at Malfoy Manor. Oh, joy.

Harry gives himself a mental slap and gets out of bed, stretching and gazing out of the window at the falling snow. Sighs. It will be fine. It will.

Seeking solace, he shuffles into the bathroom and turns on the shower as hot as he can stand it, allowing the almost-scalding water to pound his body and willing it to sluice away his sadness. He soaks his hair and withdraws, gasping and blinking through his dripping fringe at his luxurious marble bathroom. The one he shares with Draco Malfoy, who is creeping into his veins and confusing everything he is from the inside out.

He stares, allowing droplets of hot, clean water to slide down his throat. It's beautiful. Clean and shiny and, perhaps, just a little bit shallow.

**~*~**

Harry isn't sure what time it is when he hears Draco Floo into the kitchen. It's dark outside and he has been lying motionless, starfish-like, across the bed for so long that he has almost forgotten about the hours passing. He has wandered around the house, flipped through scrapbooks, poked through drawers and flitted around the pantry, eating things out of packets, but he's been unable to shake the heavy, empty malaise that has settled around him.

He flops here now, gazing sightlessly at the darkened ceiling and absently stroking whichever part of Frank is sliding through his outstretched fingers at any particular moment as the snake idly explores the ruffled bed sheets.

The temperature of the bedroom, judging by his bare feet and his fingertips, feels barely above freezing, but he can't quite find it in himself to do anything about it. He sighs.

"He is imminent," Frank offers from somewhere very close to Harry's ear.

"I know," he replies, listening to the hiss of the kettle and the sound of Draco's boots on the kitchen tiles.

"As is my deadly revenge," the snake continues, and his meaningless threat tugs a weary smile from Harry's lips.

Draco footsteps are light and rapid on the steps, and then: "Bloody spider, keep to your own side of the stairs!" Seconds later, he's throwing open the door and flooding the bedroom with enough light from the landing to make Harry cringe.

"Was that entirely necessary?" he demands irritably, throwing an arm up over his eyes and dislodging Frank, who treats him to a couple of Parseltongue expletives before disappearing back under the sheets.

"What's the matter with you? Are you ill?" Draco frowns.

"No," Harry admits, and then falls silent, finding no more words to describe his mood.

Draco strides into the room, flicking light into the lamps, and bringing with him the unmistakeable scent of winter and the outdoors. He stands at the foot of the bed, looking down at Harry with narrowed eyes. His long, tan-coloured leather coat hangs open over his tight, faded-on-purpose jeans and his complicated sweater, and the long scarf with its multicoloured stripes loops twice around his neck and falls almost to his knees. His hair is wind-ruffled and hangs into his eyes, half-obscuring the exasperated stare that is pinning Harry into place.

"Then why aren't you ready?" Draco demands, eyeing Harry's outfit with distaste. "It's almost eight!"

"Ready for what?" Harry grumbles, pushing himself up onto his elbows. His head spins as he readjusts to being upright, and with one eye closed he twists to watch Draco as he stalks over to the wall of wardrobes and flings open each door as he passes.

"You're funny," Draco mutters, leaning into a closet and rummaging around. "You're very, very funny, Harry Potter. But if you make us late, I will have to hex you a little bit."

"I don't think I'd like that," Harry says absently, stretching luxuriously and then flopping back into his starfish shape, wondering whose party or function he'll be attending tonight. Whatever it is, there's a very high probability of uncomfortable clothing and strangers who aren't really.

"Behave, then," Draco instructs, throwing several heavy items of clothing onto the bed and walking back along the bank of wardrobes, tapping his fingers over each in rhythm, lips moving softly and eyes closed. The average observer might think he was doing magic, but Harry knows better. Knows that some things that seem strange are just as important as magic.

"I'm behaving," he murmurs, reluctant to break the hush.

Draco pauses, facing the window, and taps his fingers at his sides: once, twice, three, four, five times.

He turns, eyes clear. "Hurry up and get dressed, then, or all the good ones will be taken!"

"What?"

Draco's expression is one of pure exasperation. "The ones with the crazy stories!" He crosses the room, leans down to give Harry a cold, minty kiss, and stalks out of the room. "Come on!"

Harry watches him, bewildered, and then turns to look at the pile of clothing next to him. He frowns and sits up, lifting a hand to rub across lips that still tingle a little.

"Well, that's a surprise," he says softly, reaching out to pick up a long, black woollen coat with tiny green flecks, a thick, heavy sweater, two pairs of socks and a pair of solid leather boots that look as though they'll take several hours to lace up.

"What do you think, Frankfurto?" he asks, and then: "About this, in case you were wondering."

"This is a nice thing for sleeping on," he says, emerging from under the sheets and sliding over the dark blue jumper.

"Somehow, I think that will get me in more trouble," Harry sighs, shaking the snake from his sweater and pulling it over his head. He puts on the socks, slides his feet into the boots and stares at them for a moment or two before drawing his wand and lacing them up tightly, if not neatly. As he puts on the coat, which fits like a dream, he discovers a fringed cobalt-coloured scarf at the bottom of the pile and throws that on, too.

As he regards himself in the mirror, the fact that he looks, for want of a better word, co-ordinated, almost cancels out the frightening knowledge that he has just been dressed by Draco Malfoy. Again. And he has no idea why but he definitely looks ready for adversity.

"Harry! Good grief, are you knitting up there? Milking a cow? Birthing a child?"

"All of the above," Harry calls back, ducking the spider on the stairs and clattering into the hallway.

"Finally," Draco sighs, gazing at Harry from the front door, and although his foot is tapping with impatience, there's a slow smile pulling at his lips that makes Harry want to kiss him. Really, really want to. Breath caught in his chest, he closes the distance between them in three long steps, wraps his hands around Draco's leather-clad shoulders and leans in, closing his eyes and reaching for that soft, sharp, mocking mouth—not knowing why and just doing it anyway.

At the first achingly gentle brush of lips, Draco's hands slip inside Harry's coat and wrap around his hips. Terrified, Harry presses on, and Draco pushes him away with a soft huff of laughter.

"I don't think so. We have things to do," he reproves, grabbing Harry's hand and pulling him into the night.

**~*~**

The streets are brilliant, sparkling, crunchy underfoot as they make their way deeper into London and the air that swirls into Harry's lungs is almost painfully cold, but he savours it, holding onto it and blowing out twists of white breath into the darkness. As they cross into a Muggle area, the infrequent cars make slushy patterns in the roads and Draco points out the worst of the gaudy outdoor decorations with delight.

He wants to ask where they're going, but with some effort, he keeps his curiosity bubbling just under the surface and instead revels in the journey, relishing the opportunity and the time to just walk somewhere, anywhere. And thinking about kissing Draco. Or not quite kissing Draco, he supposes. He's not really sure exactly what happened, but whatever it was has taken up residence in his stomach and begun wriggling like some kind of wriggling thing.

"This snow isn't very cold, you know," he says vaguely, running his fingers along a powdery white shop windowsill as he passes.

"Snow isn't cold?" Draco laughs, poking Harry with his elbow. "It's a revelation."

"No, really," Harry insists, turning to display a palmful of the fine snow. "Look, it's—"

"Lovely and warm? Absolutely," Draco agrees, snatching the snow and stuffing it down the back of Harry's coat.

"I fucking hate you," Harry grumbles, shivering and attempting to shake the admittedly-still-quite-cold lump out onto the ground as they cross a quiet side road into a square containing a huge, brightly-lit Christmas tree.

"I know," Draco says with a small smile, "but stop swearing—that girl has ears like a bat."

"What girl?"

Draco points across the square to where Ginny, Blaise and Maura are standing, bundled up in coats, hats and scarves.

Harry grins, genuinely delighted to see all three of them, even if he is still mystified about what is happening here.

"You're late!" Ginny calls, catching sight of them. Draco gives Harry a look.

"Sorry," Harry says as they draw close. "It's my fault, I think."

"He was being difficult."

"I was being difficult," Harry admits.

Ginny smiles. "You're not the only one. Someone was supposed to be staying at her grandma's tonight," she says darkly, glancing at her husband, "but she has her daddy wrapped around her little finger."

"Oh, Maura-fedora," Harry says, mock shocked.

Maura gazes up at him, large dark eyes puzzled. "What's a fedora?"

"It's a hat," Draco says, taking her red and white bobble hat and spinning it around on his hand. "Like this, see?" He draws his wand, narrows his eyes in concentration, and the hat shifts to form a handsome miniature fedora. Impressed, Harry wishes he could just ask Draco to make the little table for him; he's obviously the Transfiguration expert in the household.

Draco holds the hat out to Maura and she takes it delightedly and pulls it on over her unruly curls.

"Like Indy!" she says, beaming.

"Who?" Draco inquires, frowning gently. Blaise laughs, and once again the sound seems a little too loud and too joyful for the setting.

"From Uncle Ron's moving pictures," she explains, humming a vaguely familiar tune and looking exasperated at the stupidity of adults.

Harry grins. "Never mind, Draco," he murmurs, and exchanges a knowing glance with Ginny that warms his chest and pokes at the wriggling thing in his stomach.

"Fine. Are they here yet?" he asks, trying to look around the vast Christmas tree.

"Yes, hence you being late," Ginny says, rolling her eyes good-naturedly.

"Fabulous chicken soup this year," Blaise puts in, rubbing his huge gloved hands together. "Sandwiches too, but it's all about the soup." He grins, white teeth blinding in the darkness.

"You're a horror," Ginny sighs. "The soup is not for you. Are you needy?"

"I might be," Blaise argues, looking appealingly at Harry. Unfortunately, Harry is unable to back him up, still having no clue what any of them are talking about.

"You're certainly not starving," Ginny laughs, prodding her husband's stomach, and Harry would have to agree with that; he's certainly not a fat man, but neither has he missed any meals lately.

"I don't know why you're bothering," Draco sighs. "Blaise talking his way into tasting the soup is as much a tradition as the old man that flirts with Ginevra, and Harry falling over on the ice, and everyone running out of socks."

"Well said, my friend." Blaise straightens his daughter's hat and beams at Draco. "A man with a healthy respect for tradition is a man after my own heart. Shall we investigate?"

As the pieces start to fall into place, Harry's heart lifts and his astonishment stops him from holding back his smile, so it's a full-on grin that greets Blaise's invitation. "Let's do that."

**~*~**

"Hello, Draco! Harry—good to see you again! And who's this?" asks a short, middle-aged woman with reddish-brown hair and a two-pointed knitted hat that makes her look a little like a slug. She is clutching a clipboard and standing next to the open back doors of a large transit van.

"Hello, Julia," Draco says, and indicating Maura, who has escaped from her parents and attached herself to Harry: "This is our niece, Maura... who had better behave because it is way past her bedtime."

"Lovely to meet you, Maura," says the woman called Julia, holding out her hand for a very serious shake. "I like your hat."

Maura smiles but says nothing as she shakes Julia's hand, suddenly shy.

"Where do you want us, Jules?" demands Blaise, appearing behind them with Ginny.

She glances at her clipboard, mouth pursed. "If you can start on King Street, and then Lambert, and then..."

Her voice fades away as Harry catches another conversation. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a tall man with a fleece and clipboard and a young woman with curly blonde hair and a worried expression.

"Don't worry, Seela, you're not going to be on your own. We'll pair you up with someone more experienced," the man explains. "The first thing is to let them know that the nearest shelter is open, tell them where it is, et cetera. But some of them don't want to move, so that's why we have the care packages. Food, socks, underwear, toiletries, that sort of thing."

"They don't want to move?" asks Seela, chewing her nails.

Harry gnaws on his lips in empathy, having been wondering the very same thing.

"People grow accustomed to all sorts of things, given long enough," the man says softly. "I'm sure you can imagine wanting to hang onto what you know... even if it is a shop doorway in December."

Harry thinks he can, actually, but he doesn't get to hear Seela's reaction because Maura is tugging at his hand and Julia-with-the-slug-hat is handing him a large canvas bag, which he takes. When he looks, Draco is holding one, too, and Maura, apparently over her shyness, is reaching out for her own and insisting that she's strong enough to carry it.

And then Blaise is ushering them out of the square, making a rude gesture to the man with the clipboard who yells after them, reminding him that, "the soup is for the clients, Zabini!" and Harry looks back as they turn the corner, looks back for Seela, his fellow feeding-the-homeless virgin, and hopes that they'll both be okay.

He hopes she has someone to look out for her like he and Maura have. Someone intimidating like Blaise, someone smart like Draco, and someone fierce like Ginny. It's a comforting feeling, not needing to be looked after, but being surrounded by those who can, and who would.

"Come on, Maura," Ginny calls. "It won't kill you to spend a bit of time with your actual parents."

Harry releases her, returns her wave, and quickens his pace to keep up with Draco, who is crunching away through the muddied snow, canvas bag swinging at his side and leather coat flying out behind him.

"Left or right?" he calls over his shoulder.

"Ah... left," Harry calls back, and Draco crosses onto the right side of the road, leaving him not quite alone.

Dragging in a deep breath, Harry looks slowly around the street. The orange streetlights don't do much to soften the darkness, only serving to make the snow and the cars and the shop-fronts appear dirtier and sadder than they are.

He walks slowly, kicking up the slush as he passes more boarded-up windows than he's ever seen in one place before, and it isn't long before he stops short and gazes down at a skinny young woman, wrapped in a sleeping bag and curled up in the doorway with a ragged cat on her knee and a hat pulled down over her stringy dark hair. She's not sleeping, but she doesn't seem to notice Harry until he speaks.

"Excuse me?" he whispers. Coughs.

Her head jerks up and she fixes him with narrowed dark eyes. "What?" she snaps, clutching at her cat with thin, dirty fingers. "I'm not moving! I keep telling you lot, I'm not moving!"

"No, I..." Harry holds out a hand. "What lot?"

"Pigs," she whispers, eyes flitting from side to side, searching. "Fuckin' pigs. Trying to take my baby." She cuddles the cat against her chest and it chirrups softly.

"I'm not a... police officer," Harry says, dropping down to her level and kneeling in the snow, ignoring the icy water that soaks through his jeans and reaching into his bag for one of the packages. "I just... I brought you something... some food and things. It's Christmas Eve."

"Is it?" she rasps, eyes darting to his for a moment, and then to the brown paper-wrapped package.

"Yeah." Harry swallows hard. "I promise there's nothing bad in this."

Still holding tightly onto the cat with one hand, she tentatively reaches out and takes it, drawing it onto her lap. "Is there something in here for Charlie?"

Harry drops his hands into his lap. "There's some chicken in the soup and I think some ham in the sandwiches... he might like that. My... my daughter has a cat, and ham's his favourite," he says, chest tightening.

The girl nods, and slowly, the cat turns its head and stares at him, ears twitching—one black and one white. "He likes you," she mumbles. "You have pretty eyes."

"Thanks." Harry smiles.

"Harry?" Draco's voice cuts through the crisp night air and he turns.

"I have to go. There's an address in the box if you change your mind." He bites back the automatic 'Merry Christmas' on his lips and gets to his feet, brushing ice crystals away from his clothing. "Take care."

As he makes his way up the street and away from her, feeling as though something significant has just happened to him, he doesn't think he imagines the faint, rusty miaow and the mumbled "Thanks."

**~*~**

By the time he has found Draco, helped to sort out a minor balancing crisis and distributed food packages to the homeless of (the very long) King Street, Harry is feeling a little more grounded. Each interaction is different—some want to talk, some seem angry and affronted to see him but grab the food anyway, and some are so small and vulnerable that Harry wants to forget this ultimately futile exercise and vanish their suffering with a wave of his wand.

And it doesn't matter how much he tells himself that it just doesn't work that way, the feeling remains.

He sighs and watches Draco approach an old lady with a collection of dirty old plastic bags. Turning away, he starts at the top of Lambert Lane and walks along the edge of the pavement, avoiding the slush which is now creeping up the legs of his jeans and trying to connect with the freezing cold wet patches on his knees.

He spots an old man huddled in the doorway of a greengrocer's shop and picks his way through the snow towards him, holding his bag tightly and trying to pick out a face between the oversized flat cap and the mass of beard.

"Hi," he says softly, tucking his coat around himself and crouching next to the step.

"Hello, young man," says the man with the beard, and Harry lets go of his bag so he can cover his face and groan out loud.

"Is there any place you aren't?" he mumbles.

The old man laughs. "Oh, yes. And plenty I'd rather be than this, believe me," he says, creaking around in his oilskin coat. "Glamorous job, this."

"And what job is that, exactly?"

"That's beside the point," Boris says. "Where's my soup?"

Harry lifts an eyebrow. "You can't have any. You're not a proper homeless person."

"I'm an old man. I'm willin' to swap it for information," he offers, grinning a hole in his beard.

Harry hesitates, but only for a second or two. "Fine." He rummages in the bag and hands Boris a carton of hot soup. Information, he muses. Information. The trouble is, there's so much he wants to ask and no real clue which answers are important and which aren't. "Why are we here?" he blurts eventually.

"It'll take someone a fair bit more important than me to answer that," Boris advises, slurping his soup.

Harry rolls his eyes. "Here," he emphasises, indicating the downward sweep of Lambert Lane, Draco's silhouette further down the road and the tiny shapes of Ginny and Blaise, carrying Maura on his shoulders, at the bottom of the hill. "Doing this. On Christmas Eve... Draco..." he dries up.

"You do ask some strange questions, lad, I'll give you that," Boris says, reaching into his pocket for his long piece of parchment. "Been doin' it for years, 'cordin' to what I 'ave down 'ere. Your idea, I think... why'd you think that was?" He looks up, milky eyes fixed on Harry with genuine curiosity.

"Because..." Harry frowns and rests one hand on the wall for balance, fingers slipping on the icy bricks. "Because I didn't want my life to be shallow," he says, shaking his head and biting on a smile. Gazing down at the floor and listening to the unexpected but wonderful sound of Draco's laughter in the distance.

"Why are you here?"

"Because I knew you'd be here," Boris says. "And I see you've given up on the red sparks."

"Very funny," Harry mutters, not failing to notice the twitch of his bristly eyebrows. "Everyone's a comedian." He pauses, frowning as strange little connections race across his mind. "My leg is spell-damaged because Draco wasn't at Malfoy Manor that night... right?" Boris doesn't answer, but Harry continues, leaning forward with the chill wind whipping through his hair. "Is Fred Weasley alive because he was somewhere? He was at the battle?"

Boris gazes wistfully into his empty soup carton. "That's a lot of information for a little bit of soup."

"You're not having any more," Harry says. "You can have a sandwich. Or a nice pair of socks."

"Never mind," Boris sighs, leaning forward creakily and meeting Harry's eyes. "The answer to your question is yes, young man, but it'll be the last you'll 'ave from me. I'll get myself in trouble. And besides, I think you'll find out more about your mister Malfoy by bein' with him than by pokin' around in the past, lookin' for answers to questions that don't matter any more."

Harry lets out his breath in a noisy rush. "Okay... okay." He nods. "But... just one more thing—please," he appeals, catching the old man's expression. "You can't surprise me like that again. Did everyone else—is everyone else who died... still dead?" he manages, finding himself uncertain what to hope for.

"Yes, lad," Boris says simply, and Harry closes his eyes.

"Who are you talking to?" Draco calls.

Harry stumbles to his feet and turns. Draco's scarf is almost trailing on the ground at one end and his hair is everywhere. "Just..." he twists to look at Boris, but the doorstep is empty. "No one."

"Uncle Harry!" comes a surprisingly loud voice. "Have you got any boxes left?"

"I think your services are required elsewhere," Draco says, smiling. The streetlights cast peculiar shadows over his pale skin and hair and over the snowflakes clinging to his coat; the effect is so striking that Harry has to drag his eyes away.

"Right." He stares at the slush in the road, feeling like a complete fucking idiot, a feeling that is becoming all too familiar.

"I'm going to find the parents," Draco says, smirking as he sets off down the hill.

"I've given all my boxes away," Maura declares skittering into sight with her fedora tilted at a rakish angle. "And Mummy says to ask you if you've fallen over yet. Have you?"

"No, not yet," Harry says, making a mental note to give Ginny a good Stinging Hex at the next available opportunity, and immediately feeling squirmy at the ease of his feelings toward her. The wriggling thing wriggles violently and he forces himself to ignore it. "You can share my boxes if you like," he offers.

"Daddy says there's always time," Maura says helpfully, taking his hand and starting to drag him along the street.

"That's reassuring," Harry sighs, taking in the gradient of Lambert Lane before him and deciding that right now would be a very good time to remain upright. If possible.

And he's well aware that staying on his feet is far from his biggest current problem. The thing is, had this kind of crisis occurred in his usual environment, in the world he's accustomed to, he would have people to talk to, to bounce ideas off, people to tell him whether or not he was going mad. He'd have a Hermione and a Ron who didn't think it was perfectly normal for him to be practically married to Draco Malfoy. Here, he has a cryptic old man who turns up whenever he bloody well feels like, and a little girl in an Indiana Jones hat.

Harry glances at her. She's skipping along at his side, looking around for people to help with bright eyes and showing no signs of tiredness, even though it's coming up for eleven o'clock.

"Maura?"

"Mm?"

Harry hesitates. Fuck it. "You know how I... well, Uncle Harry, loves Uncle Draco... like your mum loves your dad?"

She frowns, thoughtful. "Yes."

"You see, where I come from... I've only been in love with a lady. And, well, it isn't that I don't like him, but it's all a bit strange," he mumbles, suddenly feeling very silly again.

Maura sighs. "I can't help you."

"Sorry," Harry says, squeezing her hand. "It's not your problem. I just don't really have anyone to talk to."

"It's not that," she says, looking up at him and wrinkling her freckled nose. "It's just... I think boys are yucky." She shrugs. "No offence."

Harry laughs. "None taken. I suppose I'm on my own, then."

He can't say that he finds much encouragement in those words, but for now he supposes he'll just have to get on with it—there's soup to distribute.

**~*~**

The next hour whips by in a frenzy of activity and Harry barely notices how cold he is, even after the inevitable fall, a nicely-timed confluence of temperamental leg and black ice which causes Ginny to laugh herself hoarse for as long as it takes Harry to draw his wand and drop her onto the ice beside him.

Maura, determinedly alert at her father's side, gasps dramatically, but Blaise hoots with laughter for a good minute before he pulls Ginny to her feet with an effortless jerk of his arms and hugs her roughly.

"I love you, I really do, but you thoroughly deserved that," he says, and she pretends to pout, shaking snow from her coat.

"Come on then, hop-along," Draco sighs, holding out his hand to Harry, who is still sitting on the cold ground, watching his not-wife and her family. He allows Draco to grip his hand tightly and haul him back to his feet and is instantly rewarded with a small, secret smile that cuts right through all of that weary exasperation. Harry smiles back, and the wriggling thing flails in approval.

Finally, they make their way back to the square to receive, each in turn, fierce hugs from the slug-hatted Julia, and to make promises for next year, and maybe sooner, before dispersing into the night—Ginny, Blaise and Maura heading in one direction, he and Draco heading in another. As they cross the square he sees Seela, standing at a bus stop and blowing on her fingers for warmth; she looks just how Harry feels, sad and humbled and lifted all at once. He waves at her and she smiles, waves back.

The snow is falling thickly now, and despite his fatigue and the iciness now creeping into his bones, Harry savours it, tipping back his head and catching snowflakes on his tongue. Beside him, Draco walks slowly along the kerb, nose pushed into the folds of his scarf and arms held out to the sides like an overdressed tightrope walker. Harry captures the image in his head, keeps it there, afraid that if he speaks to Draco, he will become aware of himself again.

In the end, Draco breaks the silence. "You know, the first time you made me do this, I thought you were insane. But there's something to be said for all this do-gooding, warm glow stuff," he says without looking at Harry. "It means I can do all the evil I want for the rest of the year."

Harry says nothing, glancing sidelong at him but the refined face is inscrutable. Or, at least, it is until one corner of the mouth quirks upward, and Harry snorts, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets to stop himself from reaching out and pushing Draco into the empty, slushy road.

"I'm not really sure what to do with you sometimes," Harry admits, shivering and picking up the pace as they at last turn into Grimmauld Place.

Draco laughs. "Impressive after all these years, isn't it?"

Harry supposes it is. He lets another snowflake dissolve on his tongue and inhales the tangy winter air, allowing it to chill his nose and throat, and catching on it the ring of distant church bells.

"Listen," he murmurs, slowing to a standstill. "Midnight."

Draco stops, too, turning in the middle of the deserted, sparkling street to face Harry. "So it is. We must have been very efficient tonight."

"We had extra help," Harry says, the words slipping out of his mouth without much thought because all he can think about is the warmth in Draco's eyes, the snowflakes clinging to the ends of his pale hair, the cold flush to his skin, and just how close they are standing. The last of the chimes linger in the air and then fade, and Harry is flooded with memories that ache and spread and wrap around him, pinning him into the moment and making him breathless for this man who is so much more than he ever expected.

"I know what you're thinking," Draco murmurs, somehow now close enough to warm Harry's lips with his breath, and close enough that Harry can pick out each thread of the perfect snowflake balanced on his left eyebrow.

"I highly doubt that," Harry says, tempted to laugh in spite of everything.

"I know you far too well, I'm afraid. You have that festive, sentimental, nostalgic look on your face," Draco sighs. "Come on," he says, stepping back, "let's go and get warm."

Harry swallows, feeling caught. Whatever this is and whatever it means, it has him, and he has to... do something. He has to take the unknown road now.

"Draco," he whispers, and then abandons the rest of the sentence as he reaches out, threads both hands into Draco's hair and kisses him, hard, before he can think of a reason why he shouldn't. As their cold-numbed lips slide together, Draco's surprise melts into amusement, and his smile curves warmly against Harry's mouth, muffling a soft sigh and grasping Harry's hips, pulling them tightly together as the snow continues to ruffle against their skin.

Harry is in freefall, just hanging on and slipping his tongue against Draco's, impossibly hot and somehow taking him apart from the inside in a terrifyingly new way. The only word he can remember is yes, and it echoes around and around in his head as he kisses Draco until the biting cold is a distant memory.

"Well, I'll admit that I didn't know you were going to do that," Draco murmurs, pulling back at last and reinstating the cold with a nudge of his chilled nose against Harry's neck. "Was it the new coat? Does the snow suit me? Or does all that altruism make you hot?"

Harry grins, regaining a little of his equilibrium. Not much, but enough to keep him upright for a few more minutes.

"Shut up, Draco. And Merry Christmas."