Harry forces himself up from the step and rubs his face wearily. He drops his hands to his sides and closes his eyes, absently noticing the slide of Frank's coils around his ankles as he takes his leave of Harry's miniature crisis without a word. It takes a moment or two, but eventually, Harry is able to invoke his tried-and-tested 'stop thinking about this ridiculous situation and just get on with it' mantra; it has served him well for as long as he can remember, and now, when he opens his eyes to see the empty hallway, he is resolute.

He's here, there's nothing he can do about it right now, and as for Draco... Harry swallows hard. Never mind about Draco.

"Just get on with it," he mutters to himself, sloping into the kitchen and mechanically running through the process of coffee-making, then leaning back against the counter to wait as the kitchen fills with the bitter, comforting aroma. "Don't think about it—just get on with it."

Unfortunately, as much as Harry trusts in the advice that has seen him through countless surreal experiences at school, at home and at work, sometimes these things are easier said than done. Easier relived than forgotten. On a constant loop. A hot, close, thrilling, constant loop.

Like sex with Draco. With Malfoy.

Harry frowns, gripping his coffee cup hard. Okay, that doesn't help.

He gulps at the hot liquid, scalding his tongue and relishing the sting in his throat as he swallows; it seems to rouse the last sleeping section of his brain and send it into immediate overdrive as the caffeine hits his system in a rush. His darting eyes catch the blue flash of the bread wrapper poking out of the bread bin, no doubt from where he left it the day before. Knowing instinctively that the sight of it will drive Draco crazy, he shuffles across the tiles, cup in hand, to shove it out of view before he returns, and that is all it takes.

This bread is different—Draco usually... they usually have a seedy loaf that Harry's kids would never eat, wholemeal in a green wrapper. This one is plain, wrapped in blue paper, and Al's favourite for making messy jam sandwiches for himself and Rose, usually all of half an hour after they have scarfed down their dinner. Harry chews his lip.

It's the same bread he and Ginny have had delivered from Tansy Talbot's bakery—three loaves, twice a week when the kids are at home—for the last two decades. Harry doesn't know what's more pathetic: how boring he's allowed himself to become, or the fact that he's standing here, breadbin lid balanced on an outstretched finger, mooning over a loaf of sliced white.

Groaning softly, he lets the lid fall with a creak and a bang of wood on wood. It doesn't matter. Either way, he has just slept with another man—and it certainly doesn't help that he enjoyed it—and the crashing realisation that finally slams into his bewildered mind is that he has actually betrayed Ginny; there is no doubt about it now. Or is there? Harry drains his coffee and slumps into a chair at the table, distressed.

He wonders whether having extra-marital sex in an alternate reality counts as cheating? He wonders if it's even extra-marital if the person one is married to in one place is married to someone else in another, and is, in all likelihood, having plenty of—no doubt guilt free—extra-marital marital sex themselves.

Harry's head hurts. He swears and lowers it to the table, pressing his forehead against the cool wood and staring at the grain at close range, trying to concentrate on anything but the feeling of guilt and confusion swirling sickeningly in his gut.

He has never wanted to be one of those people. Loyalty is just what he does; it is as much a part of him as his famous courage, his leap-before-you-look spontaneity, and his hatred of injustice. The rules were always so simple before, but now they've been stolen away and replaced by a tangle of codes and silent complications that he may never understand.

Some things are obvious, though, like the fact that the Ginny he has met here is happier and more alive than he has ever made her, and that their friendship feels natural and easy, almost as though it's the way things were supposed to be. Harry rests his head on his folded arms. He isn't sure if he truly believes in destiny, even after everything, but someone or something that's bigger than him seems to be making an interesting case. The image of his Ginny swims into his head, tired and disillusioned, and his heart contracts painfully.

He loves her.

He loves her, but.

Eyes stinging, Harry drags in a deep breath and allows the feeling to wash over him in agonising waves, fingernails digging into the tabletop and every muscle tensed as he tries, pointlessly, to protect himself.

"Sorry," he whispers finally, scrubbing at his eyes as salty tears collect at the corner of his mouth. "Sorry, Gin."

He wonders how many years she has thrown after loyalty, too. And then stops wondering, because it hurts, and it won't do any good.

Dragging in a shaky breath, he scrapes back his chair and stands, allowing his sore eyes to fix upon the first object they catch. The swan.

Harry smiles tightly and rounds the table, heaving the glass monstrosity into his arms. At least a search for the room of Horrible Things will keep him occupied for a while. In a somewhat ungainly fashion, Harry and the swan make it out into the hallway. He knows he has tried most of the ground floor doors before, but he checks them all anyway, just in case.

When he reaches the last door before the stairs, he sighs, looking sternly at the swan and contemplating the idea of carrying it to the first floor. The swan merely stares back glassily and unmoved. Harry turns the knob and pushes the heavy door open with his hip.

The room is dark, but Harry can see the light attempting to filter through the gaps in the heavy curtains, and he deposits the swan on a little round table and yanks them open, flooding the room with bright morning sunlight. For a second or two he stands, motionless, allowing the warmth to soothe his weary face, watching the thousands of suddenly visible dust motes floating through the air.

When he looks around, he sees that the room is beautifully appointed, decorated in pale green and cream, and filled with elegant mahogany furniture. There are plants on every available surface, giving the impression that the chairs and tables and bookshelves have been set down in the middle of a slightly unruly botanical garden. It's wonderful. He loves it.

On the table nearest the window, Harry finds an empty coffee cup, a biscuit wrapper, and a small sketchbook containing several drawings of an intricately carved chest and a scribbled note reading: 'See about new Celestina record tomorrow, god help me'.

Harry snorts.

"So, this is your morning room," he murmurs, setting down the sketchbook and running his fingers gently through the trailing leaves of a gargantuan potted fern. The soil, when he touches it, is worryingly dry, and he suddenly remembers that the care of these plants is his responsibility.

Hurriedly, he looks around until he finds a metal watering can, fills it with a whispered 'Aguamenti' and sets to work rehydrating each plant in turn. He's never been much of a plant person, really, but there's a tremendous satisfaction to be found in watching the soil greedily absorbing the water and inhaling the fresh scent of damp earth. Soon, he is humming quietly under his breath, reaching up to water the plants in delicate silver baskets suspended from the ceiling, and his previous anguish begins to slip away. The sun warms the back of his neck and he smiles to himself.

It's not about Draco, anyway. Of course it's not.

"Where do you want this?"

Startled, Harry turns from his surreptitious polishing of a large fleshy leaf to see Draco in the doorway, eyes amused and arms full of Veneficus branches.

"Oh, er... I don't know." He shrugs and scratches at his forehead with his watering can-wielding arm. "Just stick them on the kitchen table and I'll take them to work with me tomorrow."

Draco's eyebrows shoot up. "I am not having a pile of dirty great sticks on my kitchen table."

"They're not dirty," Harry protests. "Anyway, you bought them."

"I know," Draco says darkly, and then his expression turns suddenly serene. "It's nice in here, isn't it?"

Harry stares, unable to prevent his stomach tightening at the sight of Draco's half smile.

It's definitely about Draco. At least a little bit.

"Mm," he manages, wiping his dirty hands on his jeans while Draco isn't looking.

"You were going to do the swan without me?" Draco demands, aghast, approaching the table and resting a proprietary hand on the swan's back.

"Of course not," Harry lies, setting down his watering can. "I just moved him in here so he wasn't in the way in the kitchen."

Draco smirks and dumps his armful of branches onto the table beside the swan. He lifts it carefully into his arms and gestures for Harry to follow. "Come on, then."

Grateful that he's been saved the trouble of both locating the Horrible Parlour and heaving the swan up the stairs, Harry traipses obediently out of the morning room and follows Draco up the stairs and along a seldom-used corridor.

Once inside the room, Harry flicks his wand to fling open the curtains and when the darkness is lifted, it is all he can do to suppress a gasp; from every shelf and sill and cabinet stare the sightless, beady eyes of myriad glass and porcelain and wooden creatures. Birds and rabbits and lions jostle for position with nymphs and sprites and, most bizarrely, a two-headed centaur. There's no denying that they are grotesque, but even as an unsettled shiver shoots down his spine, Harry is unaccountably amused by the idea of an entire room devoted to ugliness.

Harry quickly spots the moose, a vast, mottled green and blue thing, with terrifying, slightly crossed eyes and bulbous yellow antlers.

"You were right about the moose," he admits, glancing briefly at Draco. "It's definitely still the worst. I think I forgot how ugly it was."

"You must have," Draco says, and shudders.

Harry doesn't blame him. There's something in the moose's expression that suggests it wishes him ill. It's unnerving.

"Right, well, he needs a name," Draco says, wrestling the swan into a tiny space on an already crowded table. He stands back beside Harry and frowns, pensive.

Harry looks, too. "I don't know."

"It's your turn."

"Erm... Steve?" Harry stabs, attempting to avoid a duplicate name.

"Steve the swan?"

"Yes."

"That's awful," Draco says, mouth twitching. "I love it."

Harry smiles, catching his breath as Draco leans against him for a moment, warm and solid. When he pulls himself upright and heads back down the stairs, muttering about tea, Harry watches from the doorway of the room of Horrible Things, arms folded against his stupid feelings.

Out of the corner of his eye, something brightly coloured glints in the morning sun. He turns. The revolting moose is watching him, maybe even mocking him. He glares back and slams the door shut.

**~*~**

Over the next day or so, Harry wanders around the house, tentatively trying to feel out the post-Christmas routine of Draco and his other self, if any exists. He knows what he'd be doing at home, of course.

Every Boxing Day, Harry and his family have a standing invitation to Ron and Hermione's cottage for an evening of highly competitive Exploding Snap, their annual Gobstones tournament, and several rounds of team-based 'Find that Auror' around the nook-and-cranny-filled cottage and huge garden, with James, Hugo, and Lily playing against Al and Rose, while Ginny stands in the porch and says she's cold, and Hermione keeps score and refuses to help even her own children because 'it's cheating!' Ron always makes his famous Christmas Stew, the only dish he claims he's capable of cooking, full of mysterious secret ingredients, tradition, and dumplings the size of Bludgers.

There's always at least one argument and someone always ends up in tears or in a sulk, but it's always forgotten by the end of the evening, when Ron puts on a Muggle film and they all crowd around Hermione's huge, old, cleverly adapted television set to watch Indiana Jones or James Bond. It has always amused Harry to know that Ron shares his taste in Christmas entertainment with Harry's Uncle Vernon, even though he has never shared this with Ron for fear of mortally offending him.

With all of this in mind, Harry doesn't know quite what to make of the situation in which he now finds himself. Draco, after an extended, languid tea-drinking session, during which he had sprawled on the sofa, feet in Harry's lap and head on the worn leather arm, complaining about nothing much in particular, has now retreated to his armchair near the fire and disappeared under his usual avalanche of notes and documents. His new lamp has been eagerly pressed into service, and Harry feels both pleased and envious of his skilled other self to see it in use.

The soft green light flickers around the living room as darkness falls, and the silence, but for the rustle of parchment, is becoming oppressive. Draco scowls, hair in his eyes and quill behind his ear, and barely seems to notice Harry's restlessness as he buries himself in his work.

So, it's back to business as usual, then, Harry thinks, abandoning the Prophet crossword and getting to his feet for another aimless wander around the house. He's thinking with eagerness of his workshop, of creating something—of trying to create something—and of the challenge of learning something new. Perhaps he can have another go with the glassblowing, he thinks with a surprising little thrill in the pit of his stomach. He can't remember the last time he felt anything approaching excitement about returning to work after a holiday.

He's halfway out into the hallway when Draco calls out to him.

"Are you going into work tomorrow?"

Harry turns, afraid for a split second that Draco can read his mind. "Yeah, why?"

Draco glances up, face and eyes tinted green in the lamplight. "Can you nip into Borteg's and pick up the stuff I ordered for Sunday night? I don't know when I'm going to have time to get out of the house," he sighs, indicating the stacks and rolls of parchment that seem to have multiplied during their absence. "Please remind me of this the next time I say I want to investigate anything to do with the sodding Ministry."

"Yeah," Harry says, stalling for time. The only Borteg's he can think of is a very high-end whisky merchants right at the top of Diagon Alley. He frowns. "What's Sunday night?" he asks eventually.

Draco stares at him for a moment, eyes narrowed. He taps his fingers slowly, one, two, three, four, five times on each of his chair arms. "You know, I'm beginning to think that homemade gin of Blaise's did something to your memory," he muses.

Harry's stomach drops and he curls his fingers painfully around the doorframe. "What?"

"I actually think it has been worse than usual this week," Draco goes on, sweeping his hair out of his eyes and scrutinising Harry carefully. "I could put it down to age, of course..."

"I'm younger than you," Harry points out roughly. He has no idea if Draco is teasing him, criticising him, or genuinely suspicious of his behaviour, and he stares back, fearful and defiant.

"Oh, yes, all those weeks," Draco murmurs, sounding amused for a moment before something like concern flickers in his eyes and he sets down the piece of parchment he has been examining. "Are you sure you're alright? We can always have Blaise killed if need be."

Harry smiles weakly, relief sending adrenaline coursing through his veins. "I don't think that'll be necessary. I'm just a bit tired at the moment... not sleeping well, you know."

"I know that Christmas with my parents is... somewhat of a challenge for you," Draco says quietly, withdrawing the quill from behind his ear and fiddling with it on his lap.

"I've had worse," Harry admits, and means it. "I just..."

"I know you must miss them, Harry."

Harry's chest aches, and it takes a moment for him to realise that Draco is talking about his parents. Somehow, that realisation hurts even more.

"I don't really remember."

"I know. I also know that's not really how it works," Draco says, eyes bright; the tip of his tongue flicks out over his bottom lip in an anxious gesture. "I know you're under pressure, too. You don't complain nearly enough," he adds with a flicker of a smile.

Harry's soft laughter pulls at his chest. Heavy, he itches to cross the floor and throw himself at Draco's feet. He wants to feel careful fingers in his hair, strong hands on his shoulders, a warm mouth easing his restlessness away, but he grips the doorframe hard and sways slightly in place.

"What, so you can call me a drama queen? I don't think so. I think I'll just get an early night."

"You'd better," Draco says darkly, returning to his work. "I don't want you falling asleep on Sunday. On New Year's Eve. At the party we're having. Here in this house, where we live," he adds, sarcasm deepening with each word.

"Good night, Draco," Harry sighs, waiting until he turns away to roll his eyes.

It's good. It's all good. Just another social event at which he can embarrass himself.

"Don't forget to go to Borteg's!"

**~*~**

Harry doesn't forget to go to Borteg's. It would have been difficult, considering that when he wakes up alone in bed on Wednesday morning, he finds that Draco has left him no less than seven sticky notes reminding him to pick up the fucking whisky. There's one on the bedroom mirror, one on his toothbrush, one on the waistband of his favourite 'disgusting' work jeans, one on the kettle, one on his watering can in the morning room, and two on Frank, who slithers off into the airing cupboard in a sulk as soon as Harry has read them. He thinks he has found them all—seven is a good number, from what he remembers—but anything is possible.

If he didn't know better, he'd be insulted at the blatant dig at his memory. Getting old, indeed.

The trip to the whisky merchants is greatly enriched by the presence of Maura, who climbs through the kitchen fireplace at nine-thirty, just as he's putting on his coat and scarf and preparing to leave.

"Sorry about this," she says, nose wrinkled apologetically. "I forgot that you didn't know I was coming today. And probably some other days as well," she adds, blinking up at Harry.

"It's alright," Harry says, fishing her coat out of the hallway cupboard and handing it to her. "Sometimes it's nice to have someone to talk to."

As soon as the words are out, he feels ridiculous, but Maura merely nods seriously and pulls her red hood up over her hair. "It's raining," she explains. "Mummy's team aren't going to be very happy with her. She has all kinds of new tictacs for them to try."

"Tictacs?" Harry repeats, amused.

"Mm." She peers out of the front door reluctantly as Harry opens it. "They're going to get very, very wet."

Harry stands behind her and gazes out at the sheeting grey rain, too. It's not really a day to be outside. "Come on—if we run to those trees really fast, we can Apparate before we get soaked," he says, holding out his hand to Maura and praying to anyone who may be listening to keep him on his feet, at least for the next few minutes. "One, two, three..."

**~*~**

"Well, hello, Mr Potter."

Harry throws his entire weight against the heavy oak door, trying to close it on the ferocious slash of rain and wind that threatens to suck him and Maura back out into the street. The strange, sepulchral voice rings out in the cramped, wood-panelled space of the shop, and as soon as the door clicks shut, he looks around for the source of it.

"Hello," he says uncertainly, gazing at the figure emerging from behind the counter, a man so tall and skeletal that he seems to move jerkily, unfolding himself with each step like a black-clad crane fly. His dark hair is streaked with silver, and hangs in a long, thin plait down his back.

"And how are you, young lady?" the man asks solicitously of Maura, turning large blue eyes down to her. She looks as though she wants to take a step back, maybe hide behind Harry's coat, but to her credit, she stays exactly where she is and slowly draws her hood down from her curly hair.

"I'm alright, thank you, mister," she whispers, and then man's thin mouth creases into a wide smile, making his pale face look somehow even more terrifying.

"Good, that's good," he intones gloomily, still smiling. "Have you come for your order, Mr Potter?" he asks, turning back to Harry and drawing out the word with funereal relish.

"Yes, please." Harry watches the man as he nods quickly and picks his way back behind the counter. He folds down out of view and does not reappear for some time. Harry exchanges a sidelong glance with Maura, who shrugs, wide-eyed, and turns to examine the elaborate labels on some of the nearby bottles. "A lot of the other shops are closed today," Harry says, more to break the silence than anything else.

A soft rattle of laughter issues from behind the counter and then there's the flash of a pointed, crouching knee as the man shifts position. "Good whisky is a three hundred and sixty-five day a year business, Mr Potter. Or three hundred and sixty-six, as the vagaries of our calendar dictate," he booms.

"That's... certainly true," Harry manages, distracted as Maura tugs on his sleeve and indicates a row of unusual, bulbous bottles, each bearing a label with the words:

Borteg's Own

Veneficus-aged Single Malt Firewhisky

And an old-fashioned sepia-tinted picture of that peculiar man, the one who is now emerging, clinking, with a box in his arms, from behind the counter.

"He must be Mr Borteg himself," Harry mumbles, touching the label gently.

Maura nods. "What's a ven... veneffcus?"

"Veneficus," Mr Borteg booms gloomily, clinking and jerking his way over to them with the box. "A very rare plant, young lady. Very rare indeed. Magical properties in the wood," he says, wrapping long, pale fingers around the nearest bottle and gazing rapturously into its depths, "give magical properties to the whisky. This, Mr Potter, is the best whisky money can buy."

If that's true, Harry thinks, he sounds very sad about it. "Sounds good to me. I don't suppose there's any of that in the box there?"

Mr Borteg laughs until his rail-thin body sways alarmingly and his long plait flips over his shoulder and into Harry's box. "Good lord, no. Mr Malfoy asked me for a selection for his New Year's Eve celebration. My selections are high quality, of course, but... appropriate."

"Right, of course," Harry says, hoping he's not making his ignorance too obvious. He knows as much about whisky as he knows about restaurants and carpentry—all subjects in which his other self is apparently expert.

"What sort of magical things does the wood do?" Maura asks Harry as the shop doorbell tinkles and Mr Borteg sets down Harry's box to attend to the new customer.

"I've got some at home," he says quietly. "I'll bring it to the 'shop one day and we can find out."

"You could make your own whisky in it," Maura suggests, peering into the box at the glinting rows of bottles.

"One thing at a time," Harry advises, ruffling her hair and going to pay Mr Borteg.

Pockets stripped of gold, Harry leaves the shop minutes later with the heavy box in his arms and Maura in tow. They walk quickly against the heavy rain until they reach the 'shop, where Harry hurries to activate the protective charms that will allow them to open the door and pile inside. Once they are out of the downpour, the drumming of the rain against the skylights is a comforting sound, which, combined with a couple of Warming Charms and the light from the lamps creates a bright little haven for Harry and Maura.

They sit cross-legged, facing one another, atop the spare workbench, picking through the contents of the box with interest.

"This is the one Daddy likes," Maura says, lifting out a green-tinged bottle with a pen and ink drawing of a goose on the label. "Mummy says it's too expensive."

Harry snorts. "She's right. I don't think I've ever spent so much all in one go."

"Can I come to your party?" Maura doesn't look at him; she concentrates very hard on buckling and unbuckling her shoe.

"I don't know," Harry says. "I didn't even know I was having a party until last night. I don't want to get into trouble with your mum and dad... or Draco, for that matter. Do we have a lot of parties?"

"Quite a lot. You always have one for New Year."

"Do you come to them?"

Maura glances up at him, brown eyes large. "Sometimes. Not the New Year ones. Mummy says I wouldn't like it, anyway. I bet I would."

"Sorry, Maura, but I don't think I can argue with your mum," Harry says apologetically, feeling as though it's far from the first time he has said those words—it's not as though he's ever been a disciplinarian, even in his own family.

Maura pouts and sighs. "Boring. I'll have to go to Grandma's."

"Don't you like it there? I used to love going to the Burrow when I was little."

"Mm," she shrugs. "Maybe Grandma and Grandad will have a party with me. And Hugo," she adds, brightening.

"And Rose," Harry reminds her.

"Rose only likes reading a book," Maura says. "She's boring."

"That's not nice," Harry says, heartsore for poor Rose. "Maybe she's just a bit lonely. I know she's a bit older than you, but she might want to join in if you ask her nicely. She's very clever, you know, why don't you ask her to help you with something? I bet she'd help you plan a party, too."

"She won't want to help us," Maura says, screwing up her nose uncertainly.

Harry exhales slowly, staring at the little girl and feeling a 'parent' moment coming on.

"She might," he says, gently poking Maura's corduroy-clad knee. "It feels really nice to help someone. You like helping me, don't you? Looking after me so I don't make an idiot out of myself? Or... as much of an idiot out of myself as I could make on my own?" he tries, poking her again until she smiles and looks up.

"Yeah," she says quietly.

"There you go, then. Okay. I'm going to give you some advice now, and I hope you'll be better at following it than I am," Harry says, leaning forward.

Maura leans forward, too, eyes wide, and for a moment he forgets that he's talking to a seven-year-old girl. Above them, the rain hammers against the glass and the sawdust-scented air is suddenly heavy with concentration.

"Never forget that there's generosity in receiving," he says gravely.

Maura frowns. "What does that mean?" she whispers.

Harry blinks. Chews his lip gently, shuffling the words around in his head. "It means that... you know how we agreed that it feels good to help someone?" Maura nods. "Well, when you let someone help you, you're letting them have that nice feeling. People always think they have to be the one doing the helping to be kind, but that's not true."

Maura purses her lips and draws her knees up under her chin. "That's clever."

"Thank you." Harry smiles. "Someone very smart told me that a long time ago."

"Who?"

"Your mother," Harry says, enjoying Maura's look of surprise and letting it smooth a balm over the sore memory of Ginny's stern words to him when, weeks after the end of the war, he had been struggling to hold everything together on his own. He had listened then, but not too many times since.

"Do you let people help you, then?" Maura asks, echoing his thoughts.

Harry hesitates, pulling his sleeves down over his fingers. This isn't the first time he's wished he were a better role model, but it is probably the most wistful he's ever been about following his own advice.

"Not really. I should, though," he admits at last.

Maura's smile is bright in the lamplight. "I won't tell anyone." She tips her head back and gazes at the skylight above her head. "It's stopped raining."

Harry looks with her, stretching. "So it has."

"Please can I have an ice cream?"

"In December?"

"Fortescue's is open, I looked on the way here," Maura advises, somewhat missing the point.

Harry smiles and shrugs, sliding off the table and holding out his arms to help Maura down. "Okay, but then I really have to do some work."

He supposes it's the least he can do.

**~*~**

Maura quickly becomes a fixture in the workshop over the next few days, as Ginny's and Blaise's post-Christmas work schedules appear to spiral out of control. It's usually Ginny who appears in the late afternoon to collect her daughter, bringing with her the sharp smell of winter and the familiar earthy scent of muddy grass and wet fabric that yanks Harry back to his schooldays with one whiff.

If the little girl is distressed by her parents' absence during the holidays, she doesn't show it. In fact, she seems more than happy to spend her days in the workshop, in the company of her not-quite Uncle Harry, observing from the relative comfort of the spare workbench, taking money from customers with a bewilderingly accomplished charm that is all her father, or assisting Harry with his increasingly confident glassblowing experiments.

"Do you miss your mum and dad when they're at work?" he asks her one afternoon, taking a piece of red glass from the box she's holding out.

"You've never asked me that before," she says plainly.

"Oh," he says, surprised. "Sorry." Puzzled, he turns his attention back to the sizzling iron dish in front of him, where the red glass is slowly melting into a shimmering blob. "Can you find me another red one, please? Just a small one," he adds, adjusting the flames with his wand.

"Little red one," Maura sings to herself, poking around in the clinking box with her finger. "Here—ow!"

Her sudden hiss of pain prickles at the back of Harry's neck and he turns quickly, just in time to see her set the box down and pull her hand up to her face to examine it, eyebrows drawn down in pain and irritation. She's bleeding.

"Come here," Harry insists, enclosing her slender wrist and inspecting the angry cut that slices right across the tip of her index finger. It's not too deep, but Harry reacts without thinking at the sight of the dark beads of blood welling into the wound, reaching for his wand and whispering an oft-used healing spell until the edges of the cut begin to knit back together, leaving a faint white scar.

"Oh," Maura manages, sounding startled. When Harry releases her hand, she stares at it for such a long time that he wonders if he's done something wrong.

"Are you alright?"

She looks up. "Yep. I cut myself all the time in here," she says casually. "So do you."

Trying to ignore that statement, Harry presses: "What's wrong, then? Does your Uncle Harry use a different healing spell? I know that one's a bit cold, but it's a good one."

Maura gives him an odd little smile. "Normally he just tells me to stick it in my mouth and suck it."

Harry blinks. "Really?"

"Mmhm. Saliva is a natural antiseptic," she says earnestly, and it only takes a split-second for Harry to realise that she is quoting, well, him.

And then his head is full of images, snapshots, of Lily falling out of a tree in the park, of Al's first broomstick crash, of the time a young Teddy tried to 'check' if baby James was magic. How he's always tried to let them make their own mistakes, but is still lurking in the background with a battery of healing spells up his sleeve for when they do. And protecting Maura, now, is as natural to him as breathing—apparently, being a parent really does change everything.

"What's the matter?" she asks suddenly, and Harry realises he's been staring at thin air.

"Nothing, I'm fine," he says, deciding that there are some things in this surreal situation that a seven-year-old, even a very smart one, shouldn't have to deal with. "So, I know about your mum's new tictacs, what's Dad doing that's keeping him so busy?"

"Re-struc-tring," she says carefully, opening her uninjured hand and offering Harry the piece of red glass he had almost forgotten asking for.

"Thanks. And what exactly does that mean?" he asks, genuinely quite clueless, having learned to switch off to business talk many, many years ago. It's a good thing he did, he thinks now, or he could've ended up somewhere really terrifying, like middle management in a drill company.

"It means that Daddy stays late at work a lot," she advises. "And then Uncle Nev comes over for dinner and they write big lists and then rip them up."

Harry laughs. "Sounds like fun. Is that what you want to do when you're older?"

Maura pulls a face and picks up the box again. "No. I'm going to play Quilditch, and make things out of glass—only red things—and... be Minister for Magic."

Biting down on a smile, Harry nods seriously. "You'll have to work hard at school to do all that."

"That's what Auntie 'Mione always says," Maura sighs, sifting, more carefully now, through the box of glass for red pieces.

Harry supposes it's reassuring to know that some things are always the same, wherever he is.

And even in a strange place like this, it seems that comfortable routines are capable of springing up with relative ease, given the right people and the right confluence of events. Maura, in need of a babysitter-slash-partner-in-crime, is the perfect foil for Harry, who is on an avoidance mission of dramatic proportions. The workshop provides a place where he can hide from Draco, and Maura seems more than happy to assist him in any activity he comes up with that distracts from further attempts at the little table.

The pick-up date may be looming closer and closer, but Harry is determinedly not thinking about it. The same way he is not thinking about the feeling of Draco's skin against his at night, every night, or the warm intensity of his kisses, or the way that, nine times out of ten, he'll have a quill tucked behind his ear before he puts his shirt on in the morning. The same way he squashes the little thrill he feels when he makes tea in the right stripy cup and Draco smiles at him so easily.

They are developing a routine, too. It's inevitable, as much as Harry tries to resist, and as the last days of the year slip away, there's a small, unsettling part of him that feels like he's always been here. He finds himself wandering Diagon Alley when it's his turn to cook dinner, nipping into interesting little delicatessens and grocers and looking for unusual ingredients to play with, secretly hoping to please his receptive dining companion. Draco, for all his faults, will eat pretty much anything as long as it is properly cooked, and this is one quality of his that Harry is content to like.

Maura, on the other hand, who follows him from odd little shop to odder little shop like a talkative shadow, has some of the strangest eating habits Harry has ever experienced.

At lunchtime on Friday, they take advantage of the crisp, sunny weather and decamp to a low stone bench near the workshop, eating and watching the Diagon Alley shoppers, competing to point out the person with the silliest hat.

"There—it's got bells on it," Harry says, nudging Maura and folding the last piece of chicken sandwich into his mouth.

Maura grins, absent-mindedly dipping her sausage roll into her cup of fresh orange juice.

Harry cringes and swallows his mouthful of chicken and bread with some effort. "Are you going to eat that, or are you just playing with it?" he asks, sounding—to his horror—just like Molly Weasley.

"Eat it," Maura says, looking up with surprise. "Do you want some?"

"No, thanks."

"Uncle Harry usually tries things with me," she says, sounding disappointed.

"Really?" Harry chews his lip and gazes into huge, innocent brown eyes. He sighs. It might be okay... after all, he eats pork and apple, why not pork and orange...? Really, he should be encouraging such open-mindedness. "Okay."

Maura holds out the soggy, dripping sausage roll and he takes a large, decisive bite. The acidic taste of the orange hits his tongue first, quickly followed by the salty pork and the squash-slap of soaked puff pastry that slimes over the roof of his mouth and sticks to his teeth. It's disgusting. Truly, absolutely... he looks at Maura, aghast, and her face is expectant. Dragging in a deep breath through his nose, he tries to swallow it, but the sticky mess just does not want to go down. Horrified, he holds out his hand for the juice and gulps at it until he can force a swallow.

Nose wrinkling, he pokes his tongue at the pastry caught in his teeth. "Sorry, Maura, but that's horrible."

"Uncle Harry always says that, too," she says, grinning and reclaiming her juice. "Crocodile hat!" she adds, pointing.

"You're a horror," he mumbles, wondering what it will take to shift the feeling that something has died in his mouth.

When, later that afternoon, a pair of snowy owls swoop into the 'shop with the promised spinach cake from Mr Pepper, Maura is delighted.

"Oh, I love this!" she cries, sniffing at the cake and stroking the head of each owl in turn before they take off and disappear from view.

Harry, however, suddenly has a lead weight in his stomach that has nothing to do with spinach cake. Mr Pepper, who has sent him a disgusting cake with the best of intentions, is expecting a beautifully crafted, one-of-a-kind table in less than a week, and Harry has... nothing. As he stands there, leaning against his workbench with his eyes closed, the guilt of those wasted days slams into him, and he wraps his fingers around the hard, cold edge of the bench, feeling terrible.

Since when did he become such an irresponsible prick? The sort of person who breaks his promises?

You're not, whispers a soft, cultured voice inside his head. Because you're not going to do that.

Trying not to think about that voice or, indeed, how it got there, Harry shakes his head and turns to Maura, who is peeling the brown paper away from the cake.

"Don't eat it all at once, you'll be sick. I'm going to make this table. Right now."

She says nothing, but watches him with wide eyes as he stomps over to the stores and levitates the second to last—second to last? Where does a person get a lump of beech over New Year?—piece of beech over to his workbench.

"D'you want any help?" Maura says softly, creeping around to the opposite side of his bench and leaning around the wood to make contact, large chunk of squashy green cake in her hands.

Harry sighs and gazes at the beech, half-hoping to stare it into submission.

"As dramatic as this sounds, Maura, I don't think anyone can help me," he admits.

She nods and retreats, climbing up onto the other worktable out of the way. "Uncle Harry could," she whispers.

Harry doesn't have a reply for that.

He ties on his apron, Summons as many tools as he can fit into his workspace, and takes a deep breath. He has to do this systematically. Logically. He has now learned plenty of ways not to make a table, so, in theory, he must be closer to the way of doing it properly.

He can deal with the glass... he thinks. It's just, well... everything else.

Feeling slightly sick, Harry grabs his tape measure and his saw, steadying his hands and his nerves as best he can and sets to work.

Sawing carefully, gripping the handle tightly, struggling to keep it straight, wood dust in his nostrils and every splinter and waver mocking him, measuring and re-measuring, rubbing at his damp forehead with the backs of gritty hands, ducking over and over to keep his pieces at eye-level as he fits them together, snatches of the carpentry books from the morning room running through his head like a constant mantra. He sands until his hands are raw and sore, not caring because these things in his hands finally, finally look like spindles, and it's a triumph.

In the background, he can hear the sporadic kicking of Maura's legs as she lounges on the spare bench, and the soft sound of her singing to herself, something that sounds suspiciously like 'A Mermish Melody'. Fucking Celestina.

He barely hears her, though; he's in a blur, caught up in the repetitive movements and delicate adjustments, knowing he's learned something and flying with the knowledge that he's getting it right this time. Just maybe...

The sun has gone down by the time he steps back, sore and cramped, and he looks around, finally realising that he has been working in the dark.

"Sorry, Maura," he says, flicking light into the lamps with his wand. "You should have said something."

"You were concentrating," she says, pulling herself into a seated position and adjusting her pigtails.

Harry smiles wearily. "Well, I think I'm getting somewhere. What do you think?" he asks, turning expectantly to properly view the afternoon's work.

Maura makes an odd little sound but says nothing.

In the lamplight, Harry stares at his table, aghast.

It's as though he's looking at it for the first time. As though he's spent the last few hours working on something completely different... as though his table has been stealthily swapped by unseen hands. With this.

"What?" he manages, voice rough. Stomach dropping, he steps closer, and it's now obvious that what he has produced could scarcely be called a table at all. The spindles are bulky and uneven, the top is lopsided, the joints don't align properly, and the whole thing is covered in splinters which glint mockingly in the light. "I thought I was doing okay," he mumbles, lifting a hot, sore, hand to scrub at his hair.

"It's better than the last one," Maura says quietly, but Harry barely hears her.

The heavy disappointment in his veins is shifting, seething, into liquid fury at his own failure, at this ridiculous situation in which all of his skills are pointless, at Boris and at Draco and at Mr Pepper, who wants a fancy-arse table that Harry cannot give him. He has no idea why he ever even expected to be successful—he knows that everyone else expects him to excel in any situation he is dropped into, but he has always been well aware of his own shortcomings; his survival has often depended on it.

And yet this talent belongs, not to someone else, but to another version of himself. How can it be so fucking hard? Prickling all over, Harry stands motionless for a second or two before he viciously vanishes the mauled chunk of wood and, without really thinking, Summons the last piece of beech with such power that it almost misses the workbench; it skids along the edge and whips a nasty graze across Harry's upper arm as he steadies it, wincing.

"What are you going to do?" Maura asks, voice high-pitched with anxiety.

"I have no idea," Harry admits, feeling around for a large hammer and testing the weight of it in his hands. Through the static blaring in his ears, he hears himself say: "Don't worry," and then he gives in, raising the hammer high and swinging it at the beech with all the frustration he can muster. The blow tingles all the way up his arms and splinters off a satisfyingly large section of wood.

Blood racing, he hacks harder, swapping tools at random and pouring his inadequacy, rage and fear into this huge, pointless act of destruction. Teeth gritted, he carves and hacks and sears, gripping the rough, splintered wood with his bare hands, turning it this way and that and following the path of his fingers with the edge of a chisel, grabbing up his wand and casting blindly, instinctively, creating small explosions and sparks that elicit delighted applause from a no-longer-frightened Maura.

"Put some glass in it," she suggests, bright-eyed and hugging a battered old gimlet to her chest in her excitement.

"Glass?" Harry manages, breathing hard and sweat-sticky as he glances at Maura, and then at the glassblowing tools behind her. "Hm."

Still in a haze, he fires up the makeshift furnaces and sets to work, taking the pieces from Maura as she passes them, trusting her selections. The smell of the glass, now familiar, is comforting, intoxicating, and Harry breathes it in, narrowing his eyes against the heat and the glare as he controls his breath and turns the pipe slowly, blowing a series of odd, nebulous shapes.

As they harden in the green flames, Harry and Maura watch the flickering colours in near silence, sitting side by side on the cold stone floor. When she rests her head against his shoulder, he puts his arm around her and hugs her lightly. She says nothing, but smiles at the flames.

The stars are well and truly out by the time they get to their feet and retrieve the glass bulbs; Harry knows that Ginny will be here before long, but he hopes silently for her to stay away, just for a little longer, just so that the two of them can finish their odd little project.

When Harry's leg gives way without warning, he drops two of the bulbs and they smash on the flags. Still slightly dazed, he sighs, picks himself up, and scoops the pieces into his hands. Maura, now that the flailing and hacking has ceased, climbs onto his workbench and watches him seal, mould, and charm the bulbs and shattered pieces into place.

"That's pretty," she pronounces, watching Harry trail little lights everywhere with his wand, and an odd sort of calm starts to drain through his body. Impulsively, he draws soft blue flames through each of the shimmering glass bulbs, sending gentle shadows flickering over the smooth grain of the wood and Maura's face.

"There," he says eventually, dropping his wand and leaning on the workbench, weight on his hands. His eyes are sore and dry, and he blinks with some effort to regard his creation. He's made a... something. A one of those.

"I like it," Maura says, sitting back on her heels and admiring the smooth curves of the wood, the odd, otherworldly carved lines and the sparkling points of light. It's sort of attractive if he turns his head on one side and squints, which can't be a good thing. And besides, it's completely pointless, and it definitely isn't a little table with tumbling vines and spindles.

"Sorry I'm late!" Ginny calls, seconds before the door flies open.

Harry takes one last look at the thing and throws a Disillusionment Charm over it. When Ginny and Maura have left, he removes the charm, sighs at the waste of perfectly good beech, and heaves it onto a dusty shelf, out of the way.

He'll think of something. He hopes.

**~*~**

"When were you planning on telling me that you're going to distil your own whisky?" Draco asks, apropos of nothing, as he pokes curiously at his dinner the following night.

Harry coughs, spluttering slightly on his tea, and tries to decipher the odd little half-smile that's pulling at Draco's lips. "Why would you think that?" he asks.

"Just a firecall from a little madam," Draco says, glancing up at Harry. "About ten minutes before you got home. It seems she wanted to just check that you hadn't changed your mind about inviting her to your party."

"Ah, that," Harry says, shaking his head. "Sorry."

"What I'd like to know," Draco continues, stabbing at a butterbean on his plate, "is how she got the impression that you are having a party. Tell me, have we ever hosted a gathering during which you have done anything more useful than lounging around looking decorative and making fun of me?"

Secretly rather relieved, Harry shrugs. He can certainly do that. "I didn't tell her anything like that. You know how children are; they come to their own conclusions." He pauses, feeling a spark of wickedness. "Maybe she thinks I'm more fun than you."

Draco arches an eyebrow and says nothing for a moment. "What's this?" he asks eventually, indicating his half-empty plate.

"Cassoulet. Do you like it?"

"No," Draco says, sliding another loaded forkful into his mouth. Harry watches with interest as his licks his bottom lip and decides, with some pleasure, that he's lying.

"Good. And the whisky thing?"

Draco smirks. "Search me. She seems to be under the impression that you're planning to turn your workshop into a distillery."

Amused, Harry attempts to explain about Mr Borteg and the very expensive firewhisky. Draco listens with his strange half-smile in place and carefully mops up the last of his sauce with a piece of crusty bread. When he's finished, he looks up at Harry with such bright, easy warmth that Harry falters mid-sentence, heart kicked into a rapid rhythm.

"... so, yeah, that's... that's it, really," he manages, dropping his eyes to his plate. This is ridiculous. He's a grown man. An old man, sometimes. And Draco, well... what's the use in hiding from him, in avoiding supposedly 'risky' situations, when he can bring Harry to a standstill by looking at him across the fucking dinner table?

Harry sighs. "Did you tell her she could come?"

Draco shakes his head. "While I suspect she would be better behaved than most of our adult guests, I really don't need another person to look after."

Harry, who can't remember the last adults-only party he attended, just nods thoughtfully. "Maybe I'll take the Veneficus in on Monday," he muses. "Try to make up for leaving her out of your boring grown-up party."

"Charming," Draco says, pushing away his empty plate and sighing with satisfaction. "Of course, you're insane to give up your recovery time. Anybody would think you were that child's father," he adds carelessly.

Harry swallows hard, whispers, "Yeah."

**~*~**

As the last sixty minutes before the party tick away, Harry is in the study, surrounded by books on Herbology, carpentry, and everything in between, in an attempt to learn something about Veneficus and enjoy the silence while he can. Irrational though it may be, he's apprehensive about the coming evening, and the last thing he needs is for Draco to notice. Not that there's much chance of that at the moment, as he's been in the bathroom for—Harry glances at the clock—forty minutes now, and the shower is still hissing away.

He's toying with the idea of running upstairs and checking that Draco hasn't drowned or dissolved when he hears the voice. Frowning, he strains his ears, shifting position pointlessly on the hearthrug and leaning toward the door. It's a familiar voice, high-pitched and slightly frazzled, and the increasing volume clearly demands his attention. Curious, he marks his place in 'Working with Weird Woods' and clatters down to the kitchen, following the voice to its source.

"Oh, there you are, Mister Potter!"

"Hello, Senka," Harry says, gazing in puzzlement at the elf's disembodied head in the flames. "What's wrong?"

The huge eyes blink anxiously. "Nothing is wrong, sir, but something will be if Senka doesn't bring the food through right away. Mister Malfoy will be returning from his walk in a very short time, and we's not needing to discuss the unpleasantness that would follow," she says darkly.

None the wiser, Harry nods vaguely and indicates for Senka to come through. Visibly relieved, she withdraws her face from the fireplace and, seconds later, steps into the kitchen, laden with so many great silver platters that Harry is all at once terrified she's going to drop them all and unable to look away.

"Do you need some help?" he asks faintly, still not quite able to believe that Draco borrows—more like poaches, he supposes—his parents' house-elf to cater his New Year's Eve party.

"So kind, sir, but not necessary," Senka says, and then there's a sharp crack and all the platters disappear, reappearing instantly in an orderly circle on the kitchen table.

"Impressive," Harry says, gazing over at the mounds of intricate canapés, cheeses and crackers, tiny pies and cakes. He's suddenly ravenous, salivating at the thought of sampling one of everything before Draco comes downstairs.

Senka laughs. "Sir says that every time. Bilby is sending his regards, Mister Potter, and he says that the lemon tart is even better this year. He says."

"Haven't you tried it?"

"Senka does not mess about with fruit," she says flatly. Harry hides a smile.

"Of course." And of course Draco filches Senka and Bilby's catering services for his own ends—he is a Malfoy, after all. Somehow, Harry had almost forgotten.

She nods solemnly, smoothing her long fingers over her pristine cream pillowcase. "Bilby will return tomorrow for the trays, very quiet, of course." She turns to leave.

"Do I... look alright?" Harry asks impulsively. He feels ridiculous as soon as the words are out of his mouth, but even more so when Senka turns back to him, eyes wide, and obediently looks him up and down.

And, momentary attack of insecurity aside, Harry is feeling pretty pleased with himself. He has dressed without instruction or approval from Draco, and he thinks he's done a fairly good job. He also thinks he may be getting used to all of this strange, fashionable stuff, too, and he's not sure whether or not he should be worried about that. He's never paid attention to his clothes before, but he's finding a new satisfaction in putting things together, experimenting, adding and taking away—it's like a puzzle, and he thinks he likes it. And not only that, putting on something other than old jeans or Auror robes makes him feel, dare he say it, younger.

Senka regards him, head on one side.

"Very smart, but sir's shirt is..." She pauses, holding up her hands illustratively off-balance, "... is not correct."

Frowning, Harry glances down at his finely striped black and grey shirt. She's right. In his eagerness to get dressed and get out of the way, he has managed to completely fuck up the buttons. So much for all that fashion confidence; apparently he can't even dress himself.

As he carelessly unbuttons his shirt to the chest so that he can correct his mistake, Senka turns away and bobs deferentially as she steps back into the fireplace. "Wonderful New Year to sir and Master Malfoy," she says, and disappears in a burst of green flames.

"You too," Harry says to the empty kitchen, fastening the last button and examining himself critically for further idiotic errors.

"Talking to yourself?" Draco inquires, breezing into the kitchen and bringing with him a delicious, warm, freshly-showered scent that makes Harry's skin tingle.

"No. Your ill-gotten food has arrived," Harry says, indicating the table.

Draco snorts. "For fuck's sake. What did she say to you this time?" he asks, stepping closer to the table and leaning over to examine the food with interest, giving Harry an equally interesting view of tight-fitting denim pulling across his arse and a sliver of pale back as his shirt rides up.

"What?"

Draco turns around with a miniature cauldron cake in his hand. "I said, what did she say to you? Senka? She's great but she does have an overdeveloped sense of the dramatic. Do you want one of these? I think they're new."

Startled, Harry accepts the offering. "She said she'd better get back before there was any unpleasantness," he says, deciding that Draco doesn't need to know about anything else the house-elf might have said.

"Fantastic," Draco says, grinning and helping himself to another little cauldron cake. "I can only assume she's still thinking about that time my father caught her making stuff for us and ate the lot by himself out of spite."

Harry laughs, delighted by the image. "I suppose so."

"I didn't bring you up to steal other people's servants, Draco!" he mocks, lowered voice and flashing eyes at complete odds with his lazy, elegant slouch against the kitchen counter. "Think of all that cleaning time lost! That silver doesn't polish itself, you know!"

Harry can't help it; he laughs himself breathless. Draco drops the cool expression and laughs with him, shifting to lean against him, smile pressed into his neck and an arm around his waist. Automatically, Harry rests a hand against his back, steadying him.

"You know," he mumbles into Draco's hair, "I think Arthur once confiscated some self-polishing silver. Candlesticks, if I remember correctly."

For some reason, Draco seems to find this hilarious, and he's still leaning against Harry, incapacitated, when the first guests arrive.

"What's the matter with him?" Ginny asks curiously, following Harry into the kitchen and hanging her coat over a spare chair.

Draco snorts gently and ignores the comment, instead splashing Gargantuan Goose whisky into two heavy glass tumblers and offering them to Ginny and Blaise.

"Something about your dad's self-polishing candlesticks," Harry says absently, and then that's it.

"I think we're going to need more Goose," Blaise declares, grinning broadly and filling the room with a rumble of warm laughter. Suddenly, it feels like a party.

**~*~**

Over the next half an hour, Harry finds himself on door duty. Having had no real idea of the guest list beforehand, he's relieved to open the door to Ron and Hermione, George, and Fred, who has his arm around a pretty blonde woman named Jenny, who, from the look of the sparkling ring on her finger, is his fiancée. Harry's stomach takes some time to stop twisting and flopping at the idea, but Jenny is sweet and kind, Fred is happy, and George, who has turned up alone, seems to be relishing the bachelor life. He can deal with that, he thinks.

The surprise comes a little later, when the nine of them have decamped to the living room and are sitting, in various combinations, on the chairs, sofas, and the floor, cradling heavy glasses of Mr Borteg's fancy whisky, talking and laughing and eating Senka's illicit canapés.

Everyone is dressed up, and Harry finds himself sitting back and enjoying another opportunity to see his friends, especially Ginny and Hermione, sparkling and bright in their smart clothes, clearly revelling in the adult company and the chance to be someone other than a parent for the night.

"Look at us, being all civilised," he says to Ginny.

She leans back next to him on the sofa and sighs contentedly. "Yeah." She tilts her head and looks at him, shiny lips tugged into a smile. "Shame it won't last, eh?"

Harry shrugs, glancing lazily around the room. "I can't see it getting too wild, somehow."

A knock at the door makes everyone look up for a moment, but no one moves, least of all Draco, who is in the middle of a well-worn tirade about the evils of the Ministry. Jenny, who is sitting on an ottoman next to him, is nodding carefully and appears to be listening.

Harry sighs and gets up, taking his glass with him.

"It's probably just Nev," Ginny says, and he brightens, picking up the pace and clicking along the tiles to the front door. He wrenches it open.

"Hi," he says, smiling genuinely at Neville, who attempts a smile back but still looks about as worried as he used to when confronted with Snape.

"Sorry I'm... we're late," he mumbles, and then Harry sees it. It stands up from tying its shoelace and smiles greasily into Harry's face. Immediately, all the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

"Goldstein," he says stiffly. Surely Draco didn't invite him. Surely he didn't.

"Good to see you, Harry," Goldstein says, eyes gleaming. Beside him, Neville's face flushes and he stares down at his shoes. Harry is baffled and all his instincts are telling him not to let that prick into his house, but this isn't really his party and he can't just leave them on the doorstep all night. Especially Neville, who looks all kinds of guilty, just further deepening Harry's intrigue.

"Yeah," he manages, keeping his face neutral. "Come in." He steps back, allowing them to pass, and then slams the door behind him and leans on it. Why the hell would anyone invite him to a party? he thinks mutinously, and then he remembers something. Something about Neville.

'...and as we've managed to pry him away from his experimental greenhouse, or whatever he calls it, for the evening, Blaise and I thought we'd have another go at setting him up...'

Ginny, the interfering bugger, was trying to set him up with someone who was in attendance at the Weasleys' Christmas party. Oh, no. Harry closes his eyes and groans. Neville and Goldstein. No wonder he doesn't look happy.

Harry stalks back along the corridor and into the living room, just in time to see the murderous expression on Draco's face as Neville and Goldstein join the party. Unfortunately, he doesn't think he can do much about that right now. Instead, he catches Ginny's eye and beckons to her. Frowning, she sets down her glass, picks her way across the room, and follows him out into the hallway.

"What?"

"That's who you set Neville up with? Him? Are you mad?"

Ginny's eyes widen as she understands; she twists to look back into the living room and then turns back to Harry with her arms folded. "No!" she hisses. "I was trying to set him up with Derek from the team, and then Derek's mum died, and he didn't feel much like dating, and... well, this happened. Apparently." She sighs. "I had nothing to do with it, I promise."

"Oh," Harry says, the wind somewhat taken from his sails. "Then... what is he doing here?"

"I don't know," Ginny whispers, and then, narrowing her eyes: "Why would I do that to you, you idiot?"

"Sorry," Harry says, realising his mistake. "So..."

"Harry, I'm so sorry," interrupts Neville, scuttling into the hallway. He still has his coat on and looks mortified. "It's my fault. He's with me."

For a second or two, there is silence but for the soft chatter from the living room, and Harry and Ginny exchange startled glances. Then they turn, as one, to Neville, demanding:

"Excuse me?"

"Nev, tell me you're joking."

"Unfortunately not," Neville sighs, meeting Harry's eyes apologetically. "I tried to get rid of him, but... well, it's sort of a long story."

"Good heavens, look at all these Weasleys!" Goldstein declares loudly from the living room, and there's something in his tone that makes Ginny bristle.

Seconds later, Draco appears in the hallway, pulling the door closed behind him and rounding on Ginny. "What is he doing here?" he demands, apparently jumping to the same erroneous conclusion as Harry.

"Nothing to do with me," Ginny says, holding her hands up and doing well, Harry thinks, not to step back from the irate expression on Draco's face.

"I brought him," Neville says miserably, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets. "I tried not to, but he's very persistent."

"That's certainly true," Harry agrees with feeling.

"I'm not following," Draco says, ire fading to exasperation. "All I know is that there is a man nobody likes in my living room, insulting my guests and showing me up by bringing his own whisky. Somebody please explain to me why this is happening before I go back in there and start pelting him with canapés."

"Drama, drama," Ginny murmurs, tucking her hair behind her ear and sharing a look of secret amusement with Harry.

Neville shifts uncomfortably on the spot and sighs. "Okay. About a week ago, just before Christmas, I was leaving work for the night and we literally bumped into each other... I nearly fell over him, actually, it was really embarrassing. But he wasn't annoyed... he asked me for a drink." Neville pauses, leaning against the wall and rubbing at his face, as though he'd rather not say another word.

Harry, however, is intrigued. And surprised, although, having never seen Neville with a partner, or even discussed matters romantic, he doesn't suppose he has any right to be. Still, he's absolutely certain that Nev can do better than Anthony Goldstein.

"And?" Ginny presses, poking Neville lightly with her foot.

"And I feel like a complete idiot about it now," he groans. "But at the time... I don't know, it was Christmas, I was lonely. He said he'd always had a bit of a thing about me at school, and I didn't believe him at first, but then I thought... well, why not? He's a good-looking bloke; he was being really nice to me..." Neville flushes further and looks desperately at Harry, hair ruffled and eyes repentant.

"So you invited him along tonight," Harry says, catching his misery and feeling compelled to lessen it.

Neville nods. "The thing is... after that first day he wouldn't stop talking about you, and I realised that, well, he's just using me. Obviously," he finishes in a hoarse whisper, and Ginny rubs his arm briskly.

"Not 'obviously', Nev. Don't say that. Anthony's a slimy bastard, but there are plenty of non-slimy... er, un-bastards out there who would be lucky to have you," she says stoutly, and Harry nods.

"She's right," Draco says, "but seeing as you have clearly had that moment of realisation, why is he here?"

"He wouldn't take the hint," Nev sighs. He still looks defeated but he manages to find a smile for Ginny.

"Hints don't work with people like that," Harry advises, full of empathy. He can't say he's all that surprised, but he's horrified that anyone would take advantage of Neville's good nature so callously. The Neville he knows is confident and accomplished in his work or within his circle of friends, but when it comes to personal matters, he's shy to the point of fragility, and it seems that this man is very much the same.

Draco sighs. "So, am I right in assuming that a well-placed 'fuck off, Goldstein' wasn't an option?"

Neville shoots him a hunted look. "No, Draco, we're not all you."

Ginny snorts. "That's you told."

"I really am sorry, Harry," Neville says.

"It's not your fault. I know what he's like." Harry smiles at his friend and Nev, looking hugely relieved, if still a little guilty, smiles back.

"Well," Draco says, folding his arms. "This is all very heart-warming, but what are we going to do with him now we've got him? Poison him? Feed him to Frank? Tell Hermione this little story and let her at him?"

Ginny rolls her eyes and loops her arm through Neville's. "Come on. Let's go back in."

Just then, the living room door flies open and Blaise strides through it, glass clutched in his massive hand.

"Why is everyone out in the hallway?" he asks, looking with interest between the four of them. "If this is the VIP area, I demand to be allowed in!"

The mock-haughtiness on his handsome face is so convincing that, had Harry not known better, he would have assumed that Blaise really was some kind of horrendous diva. As it is, he just laughs, and the knot of tension created by Goldstein's unwanted arrival loosens almost all the way.

"Urgh, Fred! Put that away!" comes the bellow from the living room, and Harry and Draco exchange glances.

"Don't look at me," Harry mutters, as they return to the party. "My job is to look decorative, remember?"

**~*~**

An hour or so later, Harry isn't feeling particularly decorative. He has eaten far too many of Senka's canapés, including two slices of the lemon tart, and although he has nothing to compare it to, he has to admit that Bilby has outdone himself. Overfull, slightly on edge, and cradling his third drink (a firewhisky called 'Flanagan's Flame', which is delicious, but so hot that the glass is smoking copiously and a sweat has broken out on his forehead), he doesn't feel like doing much except lounging on the sofa between Hermione, who is spluttering gamely on her own glass of Flanagan's, and Ron, who is holding up a miniscule pork pie between his thumb and forefinger and admiring it.

"It's just so small," he says, for at least the fourth time.

The room is full of the sound of warm laughter, clinking glasses, and the semi-frequent calls of:

"Fred, people don't want to hear about that," from an exasperated Jenny,

And:

"Curious minds must know!" from Blaise, as Fred launches into story after story from his long-legged sprawl at his fiancée's feet.

"Can't silence a Weasley, Jennifer," George advises with faux-solemnity.

"Don't I know it," she says wryly, leaning over to ruffle Fred's hair.

"If you don't stop humming that tune, Ginevra, I shall have you removed," Draco says, lowering himself to the floor beside Ginny and Neville, who are picking from a plate of assorted snacks between them, and trying to politely ignore Goldstein, who is perching on the edge of an armchair and gazing at Harry with an intensity that makes his skin crawl.

"I can't help it, it was on the wireless at mum and dad's when we went to drop off Maura," she protests, stealing the last piece of smoked salmon and smirking at Neville. Harry watches her covertly, one ear on Ron's rhapsodizing, which has now moved on to the goldenness of the little pork pie—that's our new head of the Auror Department, he thinks affectionately—and he can't help smiling. She washes the salmon down with a healthy swig of Flanagan's and exhales a plume of aromatic smoke.

"I don't care," Draco says, waving the smoke away from his eyes with a careless hand. "I hear enough of that silly old cow from Harry and my father."

"You are hard done by, Draco," Neville says, looking much brighter now that he's several feet away from Goldstein.

Draco glares, but Harry can see that his heart isn't really in it. "Where Celestina Warbeck is concerned, yes, I am tortured more than most."

"It's not that bad, Draco," Ginny insists. "Take me away from this godforsaken place," she sings, leaning close to Draco and directing the words into his horrified face.

"Stop it."

"Take me away from this godforsaken place!" she bellows, kicking up the volume several notches. Ginny isn't what Harry would call a terrible singer, but enthusiasm and alcohol are playing merry hell with her tuning. Draco grimaces. Harry, however, is transported back to the ballroom at Malfoy Manor with the kick of something hot and wriggly in the pit of his stomach.

"Ginevra."

"I dream each night..." She pauses, thinking. "Of... mm-hmm-mm-hmm-hmm..."

"Of your saving embrace," Harry supplies before he can stop himself.

Ginny laughs delightedly and turns to look at him, flicky hair swishing around her face. "That's it!"

Draco groans and leans back against the sofa, elbows resting on his knees, face a picture of dismal acceptance as Blaise, Fred and George pause in their conversations to watch.

"The Dementors are calling from the sky above," sings Ginny, gesturing for Harry to join her.

Something reckless prods at him; he drains his glass, wipes his heated face with the back of his hand, and nods to her.

"Fly me away on your broomstick of love!"

They finish the chorus together to enthusiastic applause from all corners of the room; even Goldstein, who has managed to turn up his nose at almost everything so far, manages several slow, quiet claps and a glance of smouldering approval in Harry's direction. Harry looks away in disgust, fixing his eyes instead on Draco, whose face is caught intriguingly between dismay and amusement. Unthinking, Harry leans over and slides his fingers into his hair, watching his smile flicker into reluctant life.

There's an odd little sound from Goldstein's chair; out of the corner of his eye, Harry sees him lean back and fold his arms. He's amazed that the unpleasant bastard is still here, really. Draco's duties as a host apparently take precedence over his personal feelings, something that both surprises and impresses Harry. He's been perfectly polite, if somewhat icy, to Goldstein, and everyone else is quietly ignoring him. A small part of Harry thinks that he should feel sorry for him, but it's just not happening. Not after the way he treated Neville.

Even Blaise, whose usual bonhomie allows him to get along with pretty much anyone, starts to give him a wide berth after only a few minutes of conversation, and he has no idea that Goldstein has treated his colleague with such disrespect. Yet.

"Well, thank goodness for that," Harry sighs, feeling the mood in the room lighten as Goldstein excuses himself to use the bathroom. He refills his glass and Hermione's from the nearest bottle and relaxes into the sofa cushions.

"I know. He's like a Dementor, isn't he?" she sighs.

"Yeah." Harry gazes gloomily into his glass. "The crazy thing is, if someone had spoken to me like I spoke to him the other day, I'd want to stay as far away from them as possible."

"And yet he's everywhere. It's as though telling him off has made him try harder. It's creepy."

"Want to know what I think?" Ron offers from his other side.

"All opinions are welcome," Harry sighs.

"You paid attention to him. People like him thrive on attention. Before last week, you hardly noticed him, but now..." Ron shrugs. "He's getting a reaction out of you, mate. That's where you always went wrong with Malfoy, wasn't it?" He pauses, freckled nose wrinkling. "But, er, that obviously had very different results. You know what I'm saying," he mumbles.

"Yeah," Harry says softly. "That actually makes sense."

"It does happen occasionally," Hermione says with a small smile. "Although, from what I remember, Ron, you were the one who usually overreacted to Draco in the past."

Ron scowls. "Don't ruin it. I was being sagelike."

Harry snorts. "Of course you were."

"Anyway," Hermione says, sipping her drink, "I have a bone to pick with you. I had to have a 'talk' with Hugo the other day and it's all your fault."

"My fault? If I recall, it was Rose who really opened the can of worms," Harry protests.

Hermione sighs and plays with her glass. "I know, but you're easier to blame."

"Charming. How was it?"

"Awful," she admits, shuddering lightly. "So many questions. How does the baby get in there, Mummy? Does it hurt? What if the baby doesn't want to come out? Is that how you and Daddy made me?" she mimics with a pained expression, and Harry laughs.

"You got off lightly," Ron says, grimacing. "He came to me afterwards and said, 'Daddy, I don't think my willy wants to do that!'"

Hermione giggles into her hand and Harry now laughs so hard that smoking firewhisky shoots painfully out of his nose.

"That's brilliant," he manages, spluttering slightly. He wants to sympathise, to say that he's heard all of those awkward questions before and then some, but he can't, and the realisation stings.

"Why is it always worst with the youngest?" Hermione muses. "I didn't mind so much with Rose, she's so... scientific, but Hugo... I told myself he'd just stay little forever and I'd never have to do it."

"I don't know," Harry says, and he doesn't. Perhaps it's just the way. He remembers Lily's horror at the realities of pregnancy and the fact that even to this day, she is insisting that there's no way she's doing that.

"Yet another good reason why we only have a part-time child," Draco says, turning around and flashing Harry an electric smile.

"Don't you want children, Harry?" Goldstein puts in.

Harry, who has almost managed to put Goldstein out of his mind, swivels around to look at him, and Ron, Hermione and Draco all follow suit.

"I, erm..." Harry hesitates, having no clue as to the party line on this subject. Fortunately, Hermione leaps in and rescues him, as is her way.

"With all due respect, Anthony, I don't think that's any of your business," she says, and while her tone is pleasant, there's a warning in her eyes.

For a split second, Goldstein's face contorts into a scowl, and then it's gone, and he smiles ingratiatingly at Hermione.

"I didn't mean any harm." He affects a sheepish expression and angles his body toward Harry. "I just find it interesting that you have been in your... ah... relationship for so many years and you remain childless. You always struck me as the paternal type, Harry. I understand. I, too, am enthusiastic about fatherhood. Some people just aren't cut out for family life," he says innocently, and though he doesn't look at Draco, the implication is clear.

With Ron's advice ringing in his ears, Harry bites his tongue as he stares back at Goldstein, waiting for the tide of defensive fury to abate. Don't give him anything.

"I'm very happy as I am, thanks," he says at last, fingers gripping his glass tightly. "We're all different. Let's talk about something else."

"Did you bring those strange cards, Hermione?" Ron says suddenly.

"Ooh." She brightens and shoves her glass at Ron so that she can rifle through her huge leather bag with both hands. "Who wants to play a game?"

**~*~**

"Decisions, decisions," Blaise sighs, examining the sheaf of bright red cards in his hand. All eyes are on him, as the occupants of the room wait for him to make up his mind. The expectant silence is only broken by the occasional slurp of whisky or stifled giggle, and nearly everyone is now sitting on the rug, cross-legged or sprawled out, cards held protectively to their chests. Only Jenny, who is curled on the ottoman with her cards laid out in front of her, and Goldstein, who hasn't moved from his chair, remain off the floor.

Predictably, Goldstein is playing with the utmost reluctance, as though he's far too important to enjoy anything daft, and, equally predictably, he seems to lack a sense of humour of any kind.

"Any time this year, Blaise, which leaves you all of about... thirty-five minutes," Draco says, leaning up from his elegant slouch against Harry's side to cast a demonstrative Tempus.

Blaise makes a face at Draco through the shimmering numbers. "Don't get your knickers in a twist," he rumbles, shuffling the cards in his hands again and draining his smoking glass with a flourish. "Right then. Erotic strawberries... I see what you did there." He sets down a card with some ceremony. "Erotic owl pellets. I worry." And another. "Erotic saucepan, well, whatever does it for you. I have nothing to say about erotic Quidditch...

"I do like erotic Sorting Hat, I have to admit, and erotic Cornelius Fudge, although I can't say I ever personally found him very erotic when he was alive..."

"Right, but six feet under he's total wank material?" George suggests, grinning.

"It's the green bowler hat," Jenny puts in innocently, blinking large blue eyes.

"You see," Fred declares, waving a dramatic hand, "this is why I love you."

Harry joins in with the general cackling that breaks out around the room, simultaneously delighted that Fred, at least somewhere, has found his perfect match, and disappointed that he hasn't won the round. He thought Fudge would be an easy winner, on the disturbing factor alone.

"Now, I liked all of these," Blaise continues, placing them down one at a time on the rug in front of him. "Erotic Azkaban." He shoots a look at Ginny, who shrugs and smiles. "Erotic kittens... really?" Beside Harry, Ron snorts into his glass. "And, considering this evening's entertainment, erotic Celestina Warbeck comes a close second..."

"Oh, Blaise," Draco mutters, scowling lightly. "I really thought you'd go for that."

"I would have, had it not been for the delicious erotic spattergroit," Blaise says with relish, laying down the final card to a whoop of triumph from Neville, who scrambles across the rug to grab the green card and add it to his stack.

"Nev, that's horrible," Hermione says, wrinkling her nose and trying not to join in as everyone else giggles. "Now I keep picturing Filch."

"Is that actually how he died?" Jenny asks, looking up. "I thought it was just a rumour."

"No, it's true," Goldstein says, speaking for the first time in several minutes. "My cousin Serena was a Healer at St Mungo's when he came in. She said it was horrible."

"Can't say I feel too sorry for him," George admits, sharing a nostalgic glance with Fred. "I know we gave him some trouble over the years, but he really was a rotten old bugger."

"Hear, hear," Fred says, clinking glasses clumsily with his brother.

"I always felt a bit sorry for him, you know, being a Squib," Harry says, taking ten red cards and distributing them.

"You're right, Harry," Goldstein says quickly. "It's bad form to make fun of the afflicted, after all."

Draco makes an odd little sound, and from the position of his eyebrows, lost somewhere beneath his hair, Harry surmises that this is somewhat of a departure for Goldstein. He can't say he's surprised.

"Why do you never invite me to your functions?" inquires a soft voice, and Harry follows everyone's startled glances until he sees Frank gliding sinuously around the door. "So many intriguing smells in this room."

"What's he saying?" Hermione asks, tucking her feet up out of the way so that Frank can slide by.

"He's put out because we're having a party without him," Harry says. "I never said you couldn't come. It's not my fault you were grumpy with me this morning."

"That sound is wicked creepy," George sighs enviously. "Wish I could do it."

"I don't really know what it sounds like," Harry says, shrugging. "In my head, it just sounds like me talking."

"My friend Tracy thinks it's sexy," Jenny offers.

Harry, who had chosen that moment to take a drink, splutters on his whisky and stares at her, while Draco pats his back lazily and smirks.

"If it's the same Tracy I'm thinking of, a Parseltongue fetish is the least of your worries," George says mysteriously, and the giggling in the room only increases.

"Is he laughing at me? Cruel, bright-headed human," Frank says, waving back and forth at George's feet. George, who is apparently used to this kind of treatment, just stares back at him with a calculating look on his face.

"He's not laughing at you," Harry says wearily. "Behave yourself and I'll find you something to eat."

Frank falls silent, flicking his tongue in the direction of the leftover canapés on Ginny's plate.

"Fifteen minutes to go!" Draco announces, returning from the kitchen with what looks like the fanciest whisky so far, other than Goldstein's bottle of Borteg's Own, which has been ignored on principle. "Time to start thinking of all those promises you're not going to keep."

"Aha, nearly celebration time," Fred declares with a glint in his eye. "Give me your napkin, Jen."

She obliges, and with a wave of his wand, there is a tiny, snake-sized party hat sitting on the palm of his hand. It has multicoloured spots and is covered in glitter. Fred picks it up carefully and attempts to demonstrate it in the direction of Frank; the snake rests on its coils and gazes up at him impassively.

"Fred, you can't do that!" Ginny protests, but there's an obvious note of curiosity in her voice and she doesn't bother to stop her brother as he reaches down and straps Frank into the little hat.

Astonishingly, and perhaps remembering the possible reward of behaving himself, Frank does not resist. When Fred withdraws, he glides across the rug and drapes himself across Draco's lap, eyes firmly fixed upon Harry.

"Bloody snake," Harry mutters, leaning over and grabbing a couple of meat-based treats from Ginny's plate.

"Will he really eat that?" Neville asks.

"Oh, yes," Draco says. "He'll eat anything with bacon in it, the greedy bugger." He pats Frank absently and Harry throws him a bacon-wrapped sausage, which he catches with sharp precision and swallows neatly.

"Have been good. Have been ever so good," he insists, flicking out his tongue.

This, apparently, is too much for Goldstein, and he cringes away, shifting to the very edge of his seat and screwing up his blandly handsome face in disgust.

"What's the matter?" Harry asks him, immediately irritated. Maybe he's afraid, but something tells Harry that's not the case.

Goldstein says nothing, but his lip curls in Draco's direction.

"He won't bite you," Ron says, mumbling, "More's the pity" under his breath.

Goldstein coughs. "I am not afraid, Ron, I just think snakes are revolting. In fact," he continues, glaring daggers at Frank, "I can't believe you'd have one in the house, Draco. I certainly couldn't live with one."

Draco lifts an eyebrow. "Well, it's a good thing you don't live here, isn't it?"

Harry looks at Frank, who has coiled neatly in Draco's lap. He's perfectly still and silent, but his beady black eyes are bright with intelligence and Harry wonders if he can sense the atmosphere that he has inadvertently created. He turns to Goldstein, ready to defend his pet, but once again, Hermione beats him to it.

"They're actually very clean," she ventures. "And they're not at all slimy like you might think they are." She leans forward and strokes Frank's shining scales, to his obvious pleasure.

Goldstein laughs, the sound startling in the near-hush."You haven't changed a bit since school, have you? Little Miss Know-it-All."

Hermione's face crumples slightly and she sits back as though she's been slapped.

"Hey," Ron says with a surprising, calm authority, leaning forward to address Goldstein. "Don't speak to her like that, please."

"I was only teasing," he insists, but no one's laughing.

"Well, I'd rather you didn't," Hermione says quietly, having recovered herself.

"Sorry," Goldstein says without feeling. "Anyway," he continues airily, grimacing at Frank, "they always make me think of You-Know-Who. He had a snake."

"You don't say," Neville says drily, flicking his eyes to Harry in mute apology, and for the first time in several minutes, Harry finds himself wanting to laugh.

"Well," he says, turning to Goldstein. "Frank is my snake, so you should probably direct your complaints at me."

Goldstein goes very quiet and delicately crosses one leg over the other.

"Two minutes, everyone!" Blaise bellows, effectively shattering the tension as everyone turns to look. He stands, drawn up to his imposing full height, glass held aloft and clever dark eyes expectant. "Move your collective arses, before I do it for you!"

Eager to leave the awkwardness behind, Harry grins at Blaise and grabs his glass, using Draco's shoulder to lever himself unsteadily to his feet. Draco sighs, grabs his hand and the bottle of fancy whisky, and joins him. Slowly, the others unwind themselves from their pleasantly hazy sprawls and form a rough circle on the rug for the final moments of the year. Goldstein stands quietly between a resigned Neville and a bristling Ron and says nothing when Draco refills his glass.

"I will come home from work earlier and play with my daughter," Blaise declares.

Ginny smiles at him. "I will start reading again. Books that aren't about Quidditch. While you're home earlier and playing with our daughter," she adds.

"I will finally stop biting my nails," says Jenny, ruefully examining her chewed fingers.

"I will de-gnome Mum and Dad's garden at least once a month," Fred promises solemnly.

"I will organise my broomsticks and keep them like that," Ron says. "Promise, 'Mione."

Hermione rolls her eyes to the ceiling but she smiles, and adds: "I will make time to see my friends more often. Not just on special occasions."

"Sounds good to me, Hermione," says Harry, who has been listening with increasing interest to what appears to be a well-worn end of year ritual. He's never really bothered with resolutions before, but everything is different here, and he might as well go with it. "I will..." I will what? I will make a little table? I will stop being afraid of my feelings? I will... "I will replace my horrible work jeans," he says impulsively.

Hermione laughs and Draco sighs, "I've heard that one before."

"I will find myself a nice woman, who is not mad," George declares, and there are emphatic nods all around the circle. Harry is intrigued.

"I will..." Neville hesitates, and then lifts his chin. "I will believe I'm... worth more," he says with some difficulty, face flushed.

Draco, who is next to him, grips his shoulder solemnly. "Too fucking right. I will swear less. Honestly."

Blaise catches Harry's eye across the circle and flashes him an infectious smirk as Ginny mumbles, "I'll believe that when I see it."

For a long moment there is silence, and then Goldstein coughs lightly and says something that sounds a lot like: "I will not give up on what I want", but nobody really hears him, because Draco flicks his wand and a huge, glimmering clock face appears in the centre of the circle.

"Ten seconds," calls Hermione, who has picked up Frank and looped him around her neck. He is still wearing his party hat. It rather suits him.

"... eight, seven, six..."

Harry startles as Draco links their fingers together at their sides and squeezes. Flicking him a sidelong glance, he struggles to control his daft smile as Draco licks his bottom lip and silently mouths, "Love you."

"... four, three, two..."

"Love you," Harry mouths back, heart pounding. Draco smiles and looks away, just as the clanging of bells fills the room and its occupants erupt into cheering and mingling choruses of "Happy New Year!"

Within seconds, Harry finds himself squashed between Ginny, who is grinning and kissing him on the cheek, and Blaise, who is squashing the air out of him and bellowing whisky-flavoured words of eternal friendship into his ear. They are soon joined by Fred, George, Jenny, and the others, as everyone attempts to meld into a tipsy, enthusiastic hug-ball while Frank, still be-hatted, winds around their feet and efficiently cleans up the remaining canapés.

**~*~**

It's coming up for two in the morning when Harry extracts himself from a spirited and somewhat nonsensical discussion about Hogwarts Quidditch, to which even Neville and Hermione have managed to add their reminiscences, despite never having played for their House team.

"What you're forgetting, Draco Malfoy," Jenny is saying as Harry steps out into the hallway, "is that without decent Chasers, you can still lose the match even if the Seeker does catch the Snitch. Always forgetting that, Seekers," she says severely.

"Let's not get started on Chasers," George groans, to a mixture of giggles and sympathetic noises.

"Hmm," Harry mumbles to himself, leaving them behind and making his way to the kitchen, one hand trailing along the embossed wallpaper of the hallway as he walks. Feeling a little fuzzy around the edges but otherwise okay, he sloshes water into a glass and unlocks the back door with a slash of his wand, then flings it open and leans against it, relishing the cool, damp air on his face.

He gulps at the water and smiles contentedly as the delicious coldness flows through his body and soothes his anxieties, leaving behind only the pleasant buzz of whisky and friendship and the space to be and laugh and mock without worrying about the quality of example he is setting.

"Take that back, Weasel!" cries Draco from the living room.

Harry shakes his head slowly and closes his eyes. Not even Goldstein can ruin his mood now.

"Your good 'ealth, lad."

At the sound of the familiar voice, Harry's eyes fly open and quickly fasten upon Boris, who is standing at the kitchen counter in his oilskin coat and helping himself to a generous measure of whisky. A second glance shows that it is Goldstein's own bottle; Harry deliberately pretends not to notice.

"What do you want?"

Boris creaks closer, beaming at Harry through his tangled beard. "Just wishin' you an 'appy New Year," he says. "You seem to be enjoyin' yourself."

Harry blinks, startled. "Yeah... I suppose I am. Have you been here long?"

"Long enough," Boris says enigmatically. He takes a healthy swig of his drink and then regards his glass with approval. "Good stuff, this. When your woman is frisky, it's because of the whisky," he advises, as though imparting some great wisdom.

Harry frowns, shifting against the door so that it creaks under his weight. "First of all, I don't have a woman any more... I think. And second of all, that's a pretty pessimistic view of ladies'... you know. You know," he repeats, waving his hand vaguely.

"Can't say I do, young man," Boris says, looking completely unconcerned. "My mother did say a lot o' things, though. Strange things. Still, shouldn't speak ill o' the dead, bless her soul."

Harry nods, bemused. "How are my children?" he asks quietly. "My... Ginny?"

"You'll find 'em exactly as you left, 'em, don't worry," Boris says, wiping his heavy sleeve across his mouth. "The point here is learnin'. New experiences..."

"Yeah, you could say that," Harry mutters, feeling himself flush and turning his face into the cool night air.

"Are you talking to yourself?" someone asks, someone with a crisp voice and none of Boris' broad, rolling tones.

Harry snaps into alertness, turning in place and taking in, all at once, the vacant spot where Boris had stood, his empty whisky glass on the counter, and the dark, lean figure of Goldstein in the doorway.

"What do you want?" he says for the second time in minutes, though his tone is sharp rather than exasperated now.

"I was concerned," Goldstein says smoothly. "You just got up and left, and no-one else seemed to even notice. Are you drinking my whisky?"

"Er, no," Harry says, glancing from his empty water glass to the freshly-open bottle of Borteg's Own on the counter. "I just—"

"It's alright, Harry. I brought it for you as well as myself. Like I'm always trying to tell you, I want you to experience the finest things. You deserve them, just as much as I do." He flashes a smile that makes Harry's stomach lurch in disgust, and sidles over to the door, picking up the bottle as he passes. "Allow me."

Harry pulls his glass away from the attempted refill. "I've had enough, thanks."

"Suit yourself," Goldstein murmurs. He leans against the doorframe and fixes Harry with sharp dark eyes; there is no sign of intoxication in his gaze and for some reason this makes Harry slightly nervous.

He wants to continue with his new policy of bland, polite disregard, to set down his glass and walk out of the room with a simple, "Excuse me", but something pins him to the spot.

There's a loud thomp from the room above and then a cascade of raucous laughter. For a moment, both Harry and Goldstein raise their eyes to the ceiling.

"Everyone seems to be having a good time," Goldstein remarks. "Except you."

Harry snorts derisively, unable to help himself. "And you've come to remedy that, have you?"

"Is that what you want, Harry?" Goldstein's eyes glow. He licks his bottom lip and leans closer.

Harry scowls. "What exactly is it that you're trying to do here?" he demands, abandoning his politeness policy. "I'm not a cheat. I've never been one, and I'm not about to start now. I'm with Draco because I want to be with Draco."

Goldstein's lip curls at the mention of Draco's name but Harry presses on, gaining momentum now. He stands firm, every muscle tensed, fingers grasping his glass almost to shattering point.

"And yeah, it hasn't escaped my notice that you've got some kind of problem with him, but you know what? He is ten times the man you are, Goldstein. Ten times," he says roughly, staring into Goldstein's startled face, dragging harsh, cold air into his lungs. "He's clever and interesting and honest and funny and... he actually gives a flying fuck about me and what I want," Harry says, heart shrivelling in embarrassment as he realises he's talking more to himself than to Goldstein. He swallows hard. "Which is more than I can say for you. I don't want to be rude to you, believe it or not, but I'm losing my patience, so for the last time, back off."

Goldstein stares at him for a moment, face inches away, breathless.

"Harry," he whispers, leaning in close and kissing Harry hard.

Appalled, Harry freezes for a moment; Goldstein's lips are rough and sickly-sweet against his, his fingers are hard and grasping at Harry's sides, and every nerve ending in Harry's body is shrieking "Wrong! Wrong!" The water glass slips out of his loosened fingers and smashes on the floor; the sound yanks Harry out of his horrified stupor and he pushes Goldstein away with such force that he bangs his head on the doorframe.

Dazed, he rubs at the sore spot and blinks slowly. Then, recovering his smile, he reaches out once more, trying to grasp Harry's arms. "Look, Harry, I think you should..."

"I think you should leave," says a cold voice from the kitchen doorway.

Harry turns, sickened, to see Draco, illuminated in the light from the kitchen lamps, staring down Goldstein with his arms folded firmly across his chest.

"Draco," Harry rasps, struggling to find his voice. "Draco, it's not... I'm not..."

"I'm sorry it has to be like this, Draco," Goldstein says sadly, and Harry pulls away from him, disgusted, putting as much space between them as possible.

"There is no 'it'!" he shouts, losing the last thread of his temper. "Get it into your head!"

"Harry..."

"Everyone has been more than polite to you," Draco interrupts, and his voice is as cold as Harry has ever heard it. "But I think we've all had a bit too much of your company now. I will show you out."

For a moment, Goldstein looks as though he is going to argue, but finally he nods and follows Draco out of the room without a word. Left alone in the silent kitchen, Harry collapses into a kitchen chair and drops his head into his hands. A wave of cold nausea sweeps through him, his head pounds and his mouth tastes foreign and feels as though it doesn't belong to him. He shudders.

"Oi, who ate the last piece of cake?" someone, either Fred or George, demands from upstairs.

Finally, at the sound of Draco's footsteps on the tile, Harry looks up. His mouth is a thin line, his skin a sickly pallor with flushed streaks across his cheekbones, and his eyes are dangerously bright. He says nothing, but draws his wand and spells away the broken glass.

"Draco, listen..."

He shakes his head stiffly. "We still have guests."

"What do you want to do?" Harry manages, stomach turning over. All he wants is a chance to explain himself, and he's not even getting that.

Draco sighs. "Return to the party." He turns on his heel and stalks out into the hallway. Harry stares into the darkness for a second or two, and then follows.

**~*~**

The party seems to be slowly winding down when they return, but it still feels like an age to Harry until their guests begin to stretch and yawn and make noises about leaving. He sits quietly in Goldstein's vacated armchair, smiling and making conversation when required, but having no real idea what he's talking about or to whom. All of his anger has evaporated, leaving behind only a cold numbness with a clawing undercurrent of desperation.

He needs Draco to know that nothing happened—it means something to him for Draco to know that, and the thing that really slaps Harry in the face is that it's not because he would never do such a thing, and it's not because of his sense of honour. It's because Draco Malfoy's smile hurts his heart perfectly, and because the new coldness in the grey eyes breaks him apart.

Draco's 'everything is fine' front is terrifyingly impressive. He reclines casually on the sofa beside Blaise, joins in with a belated chorus of 'Auld Lang Syne', and allows Frank to take up residence on his lap. As their guests begin to leave in twos and threes, Draco finds discarded coats, scarves and shoes and submits graciously to Ron's shoulder-slap, Blaise's bear hug and Hermione's slightly emotional kisses. He handwaves Neville's repeated apologies and instructs Jenny to make sure that Fred doesn't 'explode' anything when he gets home.

Harry rises from his chair as though lifted by unseen hands and fumbles his way through goodbye hugs and promises to catch up soon, all the while flicking glances at Draco. As he's talking quietly to Ginny, who is being pulled toward the fireplace by an eager Blaise, his eyes meet Harry's for the first time in over an hour, and the heat that Harry finds there shocks his heart. He inhales sharply and Draco looks away.

"Behave yourself, Ginevra," he says faintly.

"Doubtful," she calls back just before she follows her husband into the flames. "Start the year as you mean to go on, and all that!"

At last, the house is quiet. Harry casts his eyes around the disarrayed living room, idly wondering if tidying up some of the detritus would improve Draco's mood. Probably not.

"I'm going to bed. Are you coming?"

Harry nods, chewing his lip and trying to bury his apprehension as he drags himself, heavy-limbed, up to the bedroom. Draco sits on the edge of the bed, and, though he hasn't bothered to light the lamps, his pale hair and sharp profile are easily visible in the moonlight. Behind him, the glowing hands of Harry's clock wave mockingly. It's twenty past three in the morning. Harry sighs and rubs his eyes behind his glasses.

"Fuck," Draco explodes suddenly. His calm exterior falls away in an instant and the air around Harry seems to crackle with static. "Fucking bastard!"

"I know how it looked, Draco, but nothing... well, he just jumped on me," Harry says, staring defiantly at Draco, somehow hoping to physically project his honesty out into the room. "He just doesn't seem to get the fucking message. I don't want... that," he stumbles, throat tight.

Draco laughs shortly. "You are such an idiot sometimes."

"Thanks," Harry mutters, hurt.

"Do you really think I don't know that?" Draco turns, pinning Harry with narrowed silvery eyes. "Do you actually think I believe that you'd let that prick anywhere near you voluntarily? I trust you with my life, you fucking... wanker," he snaps, pale fingers picking fitfully at the sheets.

"Oh," Harry whispers, feeling his knees starting to give way beneath him. He drops heavily onto the bed beside Draco. "Yeah... of course. I just..."

"You're nice to him and he slimes all over you. You're rude to him and he slimes all over you. What the fuck is wrong with him?" Draco demands.

"Maybe you should start the no-swearing thing tomorrow," Harry suggests, wanting the words back when Draco shoots him a sharp look. "What makes you think I was rude to him?"

"I heard you as I was coming down the stairs," Draco snaps. "And I heard what you said about me."

"Oh, well," Harry says, rubbing at the heated skin at the back of his neck and wishing his stomach would stop leaping and rolling, spurred on by a mixture of guilt and anticipation. "You weren't supposed to hear that."

"I know that," Draco says softly, dropping his hands into his lap. "It's not the sort of thing you usually say to my face."

Aching, Harry twists on the bed and reaches out without thinking, tracing his fingertips along Draco's jawline and threading them into his hair, tugging gently and forcing eye contact.

"I should," he says recklessly. "I meant every word."

Draco's eyes widen. The nervous tip of a tongue flicks out. Hot breath soft against Harry's lips.

His mind unhelpfully supplies a repulsive sense-memory of Goldstein's kiss and he shakes it away, closing his eyes and pressing his mouth against Draco's. For a split-second, there's no response, and Harry thinks he has made a horrible mistake, but then there's a warm hand gripping his knee, a caught breath, and Draco is kissing back. His lips are soft, warm, firm; his tongue finds Harry's, and it's right.

Harry is on fire. Blazing with all of it: the heat of Draco's body as they arch closer together on the edge of the bed, the raw taste of whisky and the brackish tang of damp skin, the startling way that Draco's tiny shirt buttons seem to spring undone at his touch, revealing pale, marked skin that appears luminous in the moonlight. Barely breathing, Harry yanks his own shirt over his head, shivering as the delicate fabric skates over his skin. Draco leans close, brushing hot, damp kisses against every sensitive spot on Harry's neck, prickling intensity into forgotten nerve endings until he almost cries out; resisting, he lets his head fall back and holds on to Draco, biting his bottom lip until he tastes blood, coppery-salty on his tongue.

"So easy," Draco whispers, amused, but there's no disguising the rasp of arousal in his voice.

He pulls back just far enough to meet Harry's eyes and the glance they exchange is heavy with meaning. Without another word, they help each other to undress, shedding their remaining clothes into a tangle on the floor and crawling onto the bed, creasing and dragging the sheets beneath them in their impatience to press skin against skin, dig fingernails into flesh and slide their mouths together with such messy, heated neediness that Harry's cock fills and aches against Draco's belly.

Draco, equally hard, moans softly as Harry wraps a hand lazily around his erection, flinging himself on the will of his instincts. No hesitation this time. He knows what to do. He wants to do it. He wants Draco, Draco wants him, and it's as easy as flying.

It seems like no time at all before he's pushing Draco back against the pillows, where he falls without resistance, lounging gracefully and gazing up at Harry, eyes burning. Stretching indolently, he lets his hand drop to his abdomen and pushes his stiff, flushed cock into his fist slowly, allowing his other arm to rest amongst the sheets, exposing the faded Mark and the four inked letters. Harry doesn't know where to look. Gulping against his dry throat, he whispers a hoarse Summoning Charm and holds out his hand, hoping for the best.

His bedside drawer rattles but refuses to open. Frustrated, Harry tries again. Draco leans over with a sigh and pulls the drawer open.

"If you didn't stuff your drawers full of crap, that wouldn't happen," he advises, pitching a small bottle of oil in Harry's direction.

"Fuck off," Harry mutters, but he's smiling breathlessly and so is Draco, who arches his hips and stares right up into Harry's eyes as he strokes himself. Harry doesn't think he has ever seen anything so compelling.

"Harry," Draco says softly, and it's enough; he bends, flicking his tongue over the head of Draco's cock as he slicks his skin with sweet-scented oil and presses inside, first with slippery fingers—unable to suppress a groan at the heat that grasps around him, twisting, searching, stroking, until he makes Draco's eyes close and his cock jump—and then, finally, kneeling and leaning down to connect their mouths, thrilling at the strong legs around his waist, pushing, sinking, gasping inside, not stopping until he's surrounded, all the way, and Draco cries out; it's raw, primal, and the sound of it makes Harry shudder, dangerously close to the edge.

"This is yours," he whispers.

Draco's eyes fly open. He says nothing, but his eyes never leave Harry's as he grips his hips and encourages movement, demands it, lips curved into a faint smile. Harry's heart swells; he smiles back—no fear. He begins to move, finding a rhythm in slow, deep strokes, leaning down to brush his mouth against Draco's, breathing hard against his skin and dragging in the scent of citrus, sweat, alcohol, arousal with each push. Fingers grip his hips, his arse, almost painful, pulling him hot, dirty, close, ruining him; he supports himself on one hand, smearing oil across the sheets, the other stroking frantically over Draco's slippery cock.

"Yes," Draco murmurs, over and over, leaning up to meet Harry, over and over until it's a gasp, a moan, a litany, "Yes-yes-yes-yes-yes..."

And then he's losing it in a barrage of expletives and a low groan, spilling all over Harry's hand and tightening around him so powerfully that he's only a stroke or two behind; he stares down helplessly at the flushed skin in the half-light, at the darkened, pleasure-hazed grey eyes as his release washes over him, taking him in a sharp rush and pulling a raw, uninhibited sound from his throat.

Fuck, I am noisy, he thinks fuzzily, dropping his head to Draco's shoulder and allowing his breathing to fall back under control.

"Alright," Draco sighs, stroking Harry's back absently. "I'll start my resolution tomorrow."

Harry smiles against his skin. "That's probably a good idea." He heaves himself onto his elbows and flops onto his back beside Draco. The cold air from the open window makes his sticky skin tingle, but it's not unpleasant, and besides, he doesn't have the energy to do much about it.

When something brushes against his bare calf, though, he jumps reflexively and squints around in the dark; after a moment, a familiar blunt head comes to rest on his thigh.

"How long has he been in here?" he demands.

Draco smirks. "Who knows? He's such a little pervert."

Harry isn't sure what's more horrifying—the fact that a snake has probably been listening in on him having sex, or the fact that Draco seems more amused than disturbed.

"What are you doing in here?" he asks Frank.

The snake flicks his tongue with relish. "Absorbing the pleasant atmosphere. Enjoying the interesting scents. Nothing unusual."

"Nothing unusual," he mutters to himself, shivering when Draco sends a Cleaning Spell his way.

"I think it went rather well, don't you?" Draco says suddenly.

Harry stares. "What? Oh, you the mean the party?"

"Obviously."

"Yeah, I think it did. Apart from Goldstein, who doesn't seem capable of it, I think everyone had a good time."

"Yes, well," Draco says, scowling. "I'm not really too worried about his feelings, believe it or not."

Harry turns onto his side and brushes Draco's hair out of his eyes. "I know. I think it's pretty amazing how polite you were all evening," he admits.

"Years of training will out," Draco says with a touch of bitterness. "And anyway, I have my ways of coping."

Harry waits, intrigued.

"Every time he really wound me up, I went into the kitchen and reorganised one of the drawers."

Harry snorts; he can't help it. "And how many did you get through?"

"All of them," Draco admits. "By midnight I'd started on a second round. Of course, they were already organised, so I just took everything out, counted it, and put it all back in."

"I'm really sorry about him," Harry says, flooded with guilt as he imagines Draco frantically sorting through kitchen cupboards every time he had disappeared into the kitchen for 'supplies'. "I think telling him to bugger off has made him ten times worse."

Draco yawns. "It's not your fault. It's him. The way he looks at you is disgusting."

Harry grimaces, turning over and relishing the sensation of Draco's warmth pressed immediately along his back. "I wish he'd stopped at looking."

"I know. But I think we got him off you, didn't we?" Draco murmurs sleepily into Harry's neck.

Harry closes his eyes.

**~*~**

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

The sky outside is turning pink, orange, grey.

He rubs his eyes with a too-big stripy sleeve. Yawns.

Harry shifts on the floor opposite him. Sore and stiff-jointed. Resolute. "We need to talk to Dumbledore," he says. It feels as though he's said it many times already.

"Later. I want to sleep, and—can you stop that?"

"What?"

"That." Sharp grey eyes fixed on Harry's fingers, which he's brushing up and down the bedside table. "Stop it. Or at least balance yourself."

"What are you talking about, Malfoy?" Tired, confused, irritable. Curious.

"Balance." Pale fingers reaching to brush the table, hot breath against Harry's cheek as he leans. Face full of concentration—brushing, one, two with the left hand and one, two with the right. "Otherwise, you're all uneven. Obviously."

Harry shivers. "That doesn't make sense. Since when did that make sense?"

"Since I was little. Don't you need to feel balanced?" Eyes huge... he's almost just eyes in the poor light. Shocking vulnerability. Harry thinks.

An admission. "I never really feel very balanced."

"Maybe that's why you're such a pain in the arse."

Harry scowls. "Shut up. Anyway, that's really rich coming from you."

"Yeah, well." Fingers picking at the hem of Harry's cloak. Fingers visible, and then not. Over and again. Five times in and five times out. "You'd be surprised how stuff that doesn't make sense can keep you going."

A long moment and a realisation of similarities, when everything is stripped away. A deep breath, and humility.

"No, I wouldn't."

A twitch of the lips that's almost a smile. A yawn. "Go to sleep, Potter."

**~*~**

Harry blinks stickily awake and looks at the copper clock on his bedside. The face is blurred beyond hope, so he sighs and pats clumsily around for his glasses, jams them onto his nose and sighs at the waving green hands.

"No," he says decisively, and the clock emits a puff of smoke, apparently of its own accord.

His head is surprisingly clear, but he feels as though he's barely slept, and his mouth seems to be full of sand. Unfortunately, he did promise Maura he would take the blasted Veneficus to the workshop today, and there's no way he's going to break a promise to a child because of a mild hangover. Not in this lifetime. Pulling a face at the calmly sleeping Draco, he drags himself out of bed and dashes for the shower, shielding his naked body ineffectually against the biting cold air.

He emerges from the house a short while later, clean, dressed, and with a bellyful of hot tea and toast. Wrapped up in his long wool coat with the Veneficus stuffed into a bag slung across his shoulders, he Apparates into Ottery St Catchpole and walks the rest of the way to the Burrow to collect Maura. The winding lane is once again sparkling with frost and the chill breeze is bracing enough to blow away the remnants of the night before.

Maura hugs Molly at the door and happily accepts an intriguing paper bag, which she clutches in her scarlet gloved hand as she skips along beside Harry.

"What've you got?" he asks.

"Lunch," Maura replies, swinging the bag at her side. "Grandma made me a marmalade sandwich."

"That sounds... alright, actually," Harry says, surprised.

Maura grins. "It has cucumber on it, too."

"You'll be eating that on your own, then."

"Grandma made one for you as well. I think it's roast pork." She wrinkles her nose. "Boring."

Harry smiles. He thinks he can cope with being boring in this case.

"Did you have a nice party?"

"Yeah," Harry says after a moment, tangling with a confusing mixture of emotions. "We did, thank you. How about you?"

Maura skips ahead, turning around to face Harry and bouncing along in front of him, practically bubbling over with excitement. "Brilliant. Rose taught me to play chess, and then me and Hugo and Rose made up a dance routine to Grandma's silly music, and then Grandad told us stories about when you and Uncle Ron and Uncle Fred and Uncle George and Aunt Hermione—" She pauses for breath and then rushes on, "were at Hogwarts, and then we roasted marshmallows on sticks and I stayed up until ten past eleven!"

"Wow," Harry says, catching her enthusiasm and reflecting her smile back to her. "That sounds great. I told you it'd be alright, didn't I?"

Maura rolls her eyes and spins around in the lane. "Grown-ups always say that."

**~*~**

The morning slips away quite without permission. Harry and Maura spend a pleasurable few hours examining the Veneficus, reading sections from 'Working with Weird Woods', and experimenting with small pieces which Harry has carefully sliced from the end of one of the branches. He's very aware that this stuff is valuable and that he shouldn't waste it, but really, someone as unskilled as himself probably shouldn't be touching it in the first place, and a little bit can't hurt. Besides, he's always felt that the best way to learn is to throw caution to the wind and have a go.

"Here," Harry says, sitting on the workbench and propping open 'Working with Weird Woods' on his lap. He passes Maura another tiny slice. "Try putting one in water."

Maura kneels up and carefully, precisely drops the wood into the large glass of water Harry has placed in the middle of the workbench. Nearby are the results of their earlier experiments: the charred piece that Harry has burned with his wand to produce extraordinary multicoloured smoke and the piece that Maura has applied to her marmalade and cucumber sandwich, which, to her delight (and Harry's chagrin—"Surely the world only needs one of those?) has provided her with two identical marmalade and cucumber sandwiches.

"Ooh, it's doing something," she exclaims.

Harry looks. It is indeed doing something. The bark is dissolving rapidly, sending up a slender stream of bubbles, and the water, now a clear, pale blue, is giving off white smoke that smells like cinnamon.

"What is it?" she asks, freckled nose twitching.

Harry consults the book. "Okay. Veneficus, when added to plain water, has the potential to create one of two useful solutions. If the liquid turns opaque, dark purple and intensely cold, you have Confortego, a Soothing Solution which can be used for treating allergies, skin problems, and the symptoms of diseases such as Kneazlepox and Newt Rash." He and Maura gaze at each other through the aromatic smoke. "I don't think it's that one."

"Me neither," Maura says. "What's Newt Rash?"

"No idea," Harry admits. "Right... if the liquid turns a transparent light blue with a pungent, spicy aroma and white smoke... that sounds more like it... then you have created Artifex, the artist's potion. Depending on the strength and quality of your Veneficus, this potion will enhance the creative skills of the drinker to a varying degree for approximately one hour at a time, assuming that the usual rules of volume/drinker are followed. Quality is dependent on crop, variety, and growing conditions... blah, blah, blah," Harry finishes, an odd little spark of hope igniting inside him.

There is a silence, and then Maura whispers, "Are you going to drink it?"

"I don't know. Do you think it'll help me make the table?"

Maura shrugs. "I thought you didn't have any wood left," she points out.

Harry sighs. "I don't. And anyway," he says, gazing morosely at the potion, "it says enhance the drinker's creative skills. I doubt that'll help me."

"What's enhance?"

"It means to improve. To make something better. So, if I don't have any skill to start with, drinking this isn't going to make me an artist," Harry says.

"Oh, well. It smells nice," Maura says brightly. Her smile is deeply sympathetic for a seven-year-old.

"There is that," Harry agrees, closing the book and picking up the sandwich Molly has made him. Unsurprisingly, it's delicious, which is more than he can say for the last piece of spinach cake that Maura is now devouring with enthusiasm. Mrs Pepper's spinach cake.

He finishes his sandwich in a thoughtful silence, and then turns to Maura, wiping his fingers on the tatty jeans he has yet to throw away, whatever he might have said last night.

"I can't make this table. I just can't do it."

Maura sucks green icing from her little finger. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. What do you think?"

"I think you should tell him," Maura says plainly, dark eyes serious.

Harry's stomach twists. "I think you're right," he sighs.

Reluctantly, he jumps down from the workbench and goes in search of a quill and parchment. When he locates his writing equipment amid the chaos, he returns to the bench and quickly decants the blue potion into a bottle, corks it, and stacks it on a nearby shelf. Maura leans over and watches him as he takes a deep breath and starts to write.

Dear Mr Pepper,

I regret to inform you that...

Harry stops. Frowns. He's not the sort of person who delivers bad news in a letter.

He scrunches up the piece of parchment and smoothes out a fresh one.

Dear Mr Pepper,

I would be grateful if you would come to my workshop at your earliest convenience; I would like to discuss your order. I will be here during my usual working hours.

Please also thank your wife for the spinach cake. My niece, in particular, - "That's me!" Maura cries in surprise – enjoyed it very much.

Yours Sincerely,

Harry Potter.

"What will you say to him?" Maura asks, as she and Harry walk up to the Post Office and choose a suitable owl to deliver the letter.

"I don't know. I'll think of something."

"I have to go back to school tomorrow," Maura says, scowling deeply, though she brightens a little when Harry buys her a sparkling red hair-band from a witch with a cart on the side of the street.

"I think I'd rather go to school than sort this out," Harry admits. "Don't tell anyone I said that."

"Said what?" Maura asks vaguely, admiring her sparkly reflection in the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies.

Harry nudges her away from the window and back toward the workshop. "Nothing."

**~*~**

On Tuesday morning, Harry walks into his workshop alone. It's a strange feeling; he's grown accustomed to Maura's presence and the place feels far too quiet without her. Not only does he miss her company and her interesting suggestions, but she has warned him that he's in for a flood of customers now that all the Christmas and New Year celebrations are out of the way. Fortunately, Harry has a plan. It's very much a temporary, makeshift sort of plan, but it will do for now.

Grimly, he locks the door behind him and casts a strong Silencing Charm so that even those customers determined enough to press their ears to the door will not hear a thing. All going to plan, Harry thinks, they will assume he is taking some time off, and bugger off again. Fighting down the swipe of guilt that accompanies these actions, knowing he could be damaging the business of his other self, he sighs and spells the door transparent from the inside. In theory, if Mr Pepper comes, Harry will see him in time.

He will come; all of Harry's instincts are telling him so. And even if he's incandescent with rage, it will surely be better than this gnawing anxiety and self-reproach.

As he waits, he flits around the workshop, picking things up and putting them down, pacing and playing all of his records, even the Celestina ones, in turn. Eventually, he takes a leaf out of Draco's book and slips into organisation mode. Starting at one end of the 'shop, he works methodically, sorting through the contents of his drawers and shelves, stacking everything neatly and wiping down the dusty surfaces with a nearly-clean rag.

By the time he's sweeping the floor clean of sawdust, he's filthy; despite his apron, his shirt sleeves are tinged grey with grime, and his fingernails are rough and blackened. He pauses to rub at his hot forehead with his wrist, glances at the door, and there he is—Mr Cyril Pepper is approaching the workshop at impressive speed for a little old man with a walking stick.

Hurriedly, Harry discards his broom, draws his wand and removes the enchantments just in time for Mr Pepper to knock smartly on the door and let himself in. Beaming at Harry, he closes the door behind himself and removes a plum-coloured bowler hat.

"Good afternoon, Mr Potter," he says, making speedy if unsteady progress toward Harry's workbench.

"Hello, Mr Pepper," Harry says weakly, suddenly feeling sick. "How are you?"

"Ah," Mr Pepper sighs, eyes crinkling warmly. "Not bad, Mr Potter, not bad at all. A little slow, of course, after the compulsory over-indulgence of the holidays, but I can't complain. Still alive, still in possession of all my own limbs!"

Harry smiles and grips the workbench with sore fingers. If he doesn't do it now, he isn't going to do it at all. He exhales slowly. "I'm really sorry about this, sir, but there's been a problem and... I'm afraid I haven't been able to complete your order."

The old man's face falls. "Oh... oh dear. Oh. What a shame," he murmurs, sounding so disappointed that Harry wants to take the words back, for all the good it would do.

"I'm so sorry," he repeats desperately. "I'm not going to make excuses, and can only apologise for letting you down at such short notice. I want to compensate you, of course... for your wasted time, apart from anything else." Harry reaches for the moneybag he has stashed on one of the lower shelves and pushes it across the rough surface. "Here's twice what you paid. I realise that's not going to get you a replacement for your daughter at such short notice, but if you like, I can get you a table from another supplier..." he trails off at Mr Pepper's raised hand.

"Please. There's no need. I will accept a refund, of course, but no more than I originally paid." He looks up at Harry, lined face radiating kindness. "Goodness, young man, you look as though you're going to cry. It isn't a matter of life and death, I assure you."

"But..." Harry swallows hard, still feeling terrible.

"I shan't pry, Mr Potter, but I know very well that you aren't the type of man to back out of an agreement without good reason," the old man says softly. "I hope that everything is alright with you and yours, and that, if there is anything I can do, you will not hesitate to ask."

Speechless, Harry rubs at his face, temporarily forgetting how filthy he is. "We're... thank you. We're going to be okay," he says at last, briefly wishing he could just confess everything to Mr Pepper and have done with it.

"I'm relieved to hear it." Mr Pepper hooks his cane over the edge of the workbench and looks around with interest. "It's a shame, though... she's such a fan of your work, Genevieve. It was going to be a surprise, you know. I suspect she'd love anything you had made."

"I really am sorry," Harry repeats, unable to think of anything else to say.

"Is that for sale?" Mr Pepper says suddenly, eyes fixed on something behind Harry.

He turns, puzzled. His record player? His teapot and spare mugs? Or...

"The thing? Er, the... er... sculpture?" Harry asks, glancing at Mr Pepper in disbelief.

"This, here, with all the lights," he says, nodding and gesturing at the thing with a wrinkled hand.

Moving as though on invisible castors, Harry goes to the shelf, picks up the thing and takes it over to the far workbench. Mind racing, he grabs the cleanest rag he can find and polishes up the glass bulbs and fragments until they glow and sparkle around the tiny, dancing flames. He runs his fingers over the curves of the beech, checking for rough patches, and, when he's satisfied, he upends the whole thing and impulsively scratches his initials into the base. He is still more than half convinced that Mr Pepper is playing a cruel joke on him as he places the thing in front of him and holds his breath. If he is, Harry supposes, there's every chance that he deserves it.

"Wonderful. How much?"

"Er..." Harry hesitates, attempting to work out the rough cost of the materials and finally forcing himself to say, uncertainly, "Fifty Galleons?"

Mr Pepper looks horrified. "Mr Potter, that's daylight robbery!" he cries.

"Sorry," Harry says quickly. "Thirty-five?"

"No, no..." Mr Pepper laughs now. "I meant that I'd be robbing you! I insist on eighty for your time alone, but I'm quite prepared to pay more. Who can put a price on art, after all?"

"Art?" Harry repeats faintly, staring at the thing with new eyes.

"Well, of course. Genevieve will be thrilled, I'm sure." Mr Pepper tears his eyes away from the solid, glimmering manifestation of Harry's frustration and peers up at him expectantly. "Does it have a name?"

**~*~**

Five minutes after Mr Pepper's departure, Harry is hurrying through the streets of Ottery St Catchpole, adrenaline and astonishment only fuelling his impulsiveness as he sprints through the park and emerges on the other side to the sound of children yelling and laughing in the schoolyard opposite. He slows, catching his breath, and approaches the playground at a more civilised pace. He doesn't care if looks daft (although he has, at least, remembered to remove his apron) because he has to tell someone, and no one but Maura will understand.

"Maura!" he calls, hanging onto the cold railings. "Maura Fedora!"

At the sound of his voice, five or six little knots of children turn to stare at him. He smiles nervously, trying to look like a person who is not mad, and eventually, they return to their games of hopscotch, pretending to be ponies, and zooming around the playground wearing their coats as capes. Maura breaks away from what looks to be a very serious discussion with Hugo Weasley and a little girl in a bright green hat. She dashes over to the railings and gazes up at Harry, wide-eyed.

"Hello," she says, breath wisping in the cold air.

"I just sold a piece of art! My first piece of art!" he tells her, grinning.

She frowns, puzzled. "Which art?"

"I sold the thing! The weird thing we made with the glass in it! For a hundred Galleons!"

Maura's mouth drops open and she blinks repeatedly, as though unable to comprehend such a huge amount of money. "Wow!"

"I know!" Harry agrees, practically effervescing with delight at having a success to share, and having someone to share it with.

"How did you—"

"Who is this, Maura?" demands a dinner lady, bustling over in a blue apron and a heavy coat.

"Just my Uncle Harry," she says, beaming up at Harry and the dinner lady in turn. "He's an artist."