Archive of Our Own

The shop’s halfway up the gorge, a fair old walk from the B&B, but Harry doesn’t mind. The drive down to Somerset was a long one, dry and stifling even with the top down, and it always feels good to stretch his legs. The road out of the village is deceptive, though, its gentle, beckoning slope growing rapidly steeper as it winds its way towards the cliffs, and sweat’s already beginning to gather on the back of Harry’s neck above the starched collar of his work shirt. The formal attire was obviously a mistake; he’s already attracting far too many curious glances from passers-by, and so he rolls his sleeves up as he walks, tugging at his Ministry tie until it flops lazily to one side, then undoing the top button beneath.

The next corner brings blissful, shaded relief, with towering limestone overhanging the road on either side. A group of hikers are reclining against the rocks at the cliff base, sharing around flasks and studying maps, and Harry glances down at his stiff, polished work shoes, wondering whether attempting transfiguration would ruin them completely. He has at least one pair of hiking boots at home, bought on a whim when he was working in the Lake District; thinking to pack them, though, would have required some degree of advance planning. Reading the brief, even, maybe.

Merlin, what a horrifying thought.

Spontaneity, after all, is one of the job’s major draws. Harry truly adores jumping in his little car on a Monday morning and disappearing off to explore some remote corner of the British Isles. But to capture his interest, as he’d tried to explain to his disbelieving boss only last week, he needs the element of surprise. If he’d wanted to spend his days reading casenotes, he’d argued, as she’d waved the offending paperwork in his direction, he’d have stayed in the bloody DMLE.

Needless to say, that discussion hadn’t ended well.

So this morning, his first job A.B. (After Bollocking), he’d truly had every intention of reading the damn brief properly. Pickerings Christmas Shop, he’d seen, trying to undo the scroll with his teeth as he stood in the Ministry Munchies queue, and below that: Cheddar, Somerset. Of course, then, old Popplewell had tapped on his shoulder and started gabbling away, and before Harry knew it he was already in the car park, slamming the door against the relentless clamour of the Wizarding World, setting his coffee down in the cupholder and sighing in relief.

A Christmas shop, though – what could there possibly be to know? Too niche to make any decent money, so laundering was unlikely, and surely if you were trying to cover for illegal activity you’d choose something a little more… conventional? No, this one’s got to be some eccentric old biddy’s passion project. In fact, Harry realises, as he rounds the corner and Pickerings comes into view – the white-painted shop front festooned in garlands and ribbons, in case you were in any doubt as to its contents – he doesn’t even know the name of its proprietor. Clearly they’re a bit of an oddball, Harry thinks, peering at the unseeing faces of the tin soldiers guarding the berry-red door, but hopefully they’re harmless enough. Plenty of business owners don’t take too kindly to receiving the Owl advising them of Harry’s imminent visit, and he’s been forced to defend himself on more than one occasion.

There are no obvious Statute breaches on the outside, though, which is a good start, although the same could have been said for the antiques store in Chorley whose cursed hatstand had Transfigured nineteen Muggles into straw boaters, or the second-hand bookshop in Bamburgh that had concealed a Crup-fighting ring down a secret passageway between Western Philosophy and True Crime. Harry’s magic, fidgety and ever-present, tingles in anticipation as he reaches for the door, all instinct, and this – this is why he doesn’t read the brief.

There’s no-one waiting to greet him, although the doorbell announces his arrival with the opening few notes of Ding Dong, Merrily on High, and Harry’s grateful for a moment to himself to gather his bearings, for while the outside of the shop was old-fashioned and innocuous enough, the inside is a complete sensory nightmare. Harry’s magic’s wavering, undecided, as he makes his way across the shop: ducking under mistletoe, sidling past baskets of candy canes and Santa hats, stepping over rogue baubles come loose from their tree. The whole shop’s an assault in green, red and gold, crammed to the brim with festive paraphernalia: baubles and tinsel, presents and stars, topped off with miles and miles of fairy lights, a hundred different things shining and sparkling and spinning whichever way Harry looks. Besides all that, there’s a very real winter chill about the place, and the air smells of pine needles, of cinnamon and peppermint and – Harry’s mouth waters – of freshly baked mince pies, and Harry will be damned if that’s not magic, because how on earth–

“I’ll be right there!” comes a voice from somewhere out the back. It’s a man’s voice, and surprisingly normal sounding given… well, everything.

Harry doesn’t reply, too busy inspecting a toy train which runs around the room on a high shelf, transporting little presents from here to there, chuffing out steam as it goes. He waits for it to complete its circuit, and with a quick glance at the front door he reaches out towards the engine, magic racing into his fingers, detection charms on the tip of his tongue –

“Oh, give it a rest, Potter,” the voice says, closer this time and tinged faintly with amusement. “None of that’s magical, I promise. Unless you count the magic of electricity, I suppose. Who knew?”

Harry starts, guilty, and backs into a basket filled with stuffed gingerbread men. He stoops to grab them, cramming them back into their wicker container (happily, none of them show any signs of sentience despite the rough treatment) and then stands, quickly straightening his tie.

“Good morning,” he begins, voice as official as he can make it. Unfortunately his glasses must have slipped off in the kerfuffle, rendering him almost blind, which doesn’t really help in his attempt to salvage a veneer of professionalism.

“Good morning,” the Christmas coloured blur in front of him replies cheerfully. The voice is nasal and posh and leaves Harry feeling vaguely irritated, and… and hang on, did he just say Potter…?

Wordlessly, Harry summons his glasses – Statute be damned – and shoves them back onto his nose, blinking slowly a couple of times as though that might possibly make a difference to the sight before his eyes, as though the owner of the annoying voice, and presumably this whole bizarre shop, might be anyone, anyone, except…

No, it’s definitely Malfoy.

Malfoy, who’s currently leaning against the counter, arms folded, clad in jeans – jeans! – and a bloody Christmas jumper covered in leaping reindeer. Harry’s staring, he knows he’s staring, and Malfoy’s grinning that awful smug grin, and now Harry’s feeling lightheaded: the shock, probably, or sensory overload, or perhaps this is genuinely what an out-of-body experience feels like.

Whatever the case, the staring doesn’t seem to bother Malfoy one bit. He glances down for a moment, selecting a pair of enormous reindeer antlers from a display beneath the counter, then slotting the headband on over the familiar white-blond hair and tucking it neatly behind his ears.

“Merry Christmas, Potter,” he says, tossing his head back with a wink.

Eight o’clock marks the start of Happy Hour at Mendip House Bed and Breakfast, although when Harry makes it downstairs, having cast a quick breath freshening charm and Vanished the damp patches from his shirt, he’s the only one there. Truth be told, though, that suits him just fine. It’s absolutely roasting in the lobby, and he aches for the sweet relief of a good cooling charm, but chatting to the locals is a vital part of his job, and Rhian – with her strong Valleys accent, her keen blue eyes, and the small grey mongrel which trots along behind her – seems neither surprised nor concerned about the poor turnout.

“Oh no, love,” she says, getting two tumblers out of the sideboard, “most days it’s just me, like. Well, me and Tegan here.” She nods at the pup, who gazes back adoringly. “Now, Harry, wasn’t it?” she asks, pouring them both out generous measures of Penderyn – three fingers at least – then passing Harry the smaller one and settling down in the armchair opposite. “Here on business, you said, Harry?”

“That’s right,” says Harry, tipping his glass to her and taking a sip. The whisky’s bland and tepid, a far cry from the ice-cold Coke he’s craving, but he forces it down all the same.

“It’s just that, well, to tell the truth–” Rhian sits forwards, brow furrowed, “–we don’t get a lot of people coming down here on business, Harry. Climbing and hiking, family holidays…” she says, ticking them off on her fingers, “…romantic breaks, you know…” Her eyes flick down to the tuft of hair that must be peeking out from where Harry’s unbuttoned his shirt.

“Just business for me, I’m afraid,” he cuts in, affably. He indicates his briefcase, whose gold embossed Ministry logo reads HMRC when viewed by Muggles. “I’m a tax officer.”

“Ah, well,” she says, not bothering to hide her disappointment.

“Sorry.”

“Oh no,” she says, drawing the words out, before brightening. “You investigating someone, then?”

“I am,” says Harry, “sort of,”

“Ooh,” she says, lowering her voice. “I reckon I know just the… wait, hang on now, it’s not us, is it? Because I know Stuart can be a bit slapdash with receipts here and there, like, but we’re getting an accountant, and–”

“It’s not you,” says Harry, trying not to grin at the dramatic exhale.

“That’s alright then,” she says, mischievous smile back in a flash. “Cacking myself there, I was, Harry. Now, is it that Sandra up at the Fish Bar? Oh, that woman’s awful, all jaw she is, and the fish – well, I’m not gonna lie to you, Harry, I don’t think it’s fresh at all. They’ve only just got a card machine up there, Harry. At the end of the day, like I said to Stuart, cash only can’t be right, can it?”

“I – uh, no,” says Harry. Lost for words, he swirls his whisky around, glass damp with condensation beneath his fingers. “I suppose it can’t, no. Although it’s actually Pickerings I’m supposed to be looking into – you know, the Christmas shop up on Cliff Road?”

 “Oh yes,” she says and leans in, giving Harry a clear view of the bookshelf behind her. There’s a good few Agatha Christie novels there, he notices. A lot of Dorothy Sayers, too. “Oh yes, I know the Christmas shop. Very strange, all that business, Harry,” she continues, eyes alight once more. “You know–”

“Hullo,” says a stout, red-faced old man brightly, entering the room from behind them. “Checking out early, room six.” He waves his room key in Rhian’s direction, and she sighs, clicking her tongue as she gets to her feet, Tegan following along in her wake.

Harry sits back, frustrated, wiping away the sweat that’s gathered at his temples and closing his eyes to avoid doing something rash and unhelpful like interrupting them to demand that Rhian finish her sentence. Heat or whisky, he’s not sure, but something’s gone straight to his head, his magic quickening with his pulse at that old, familiar idea that he might catch Malfoy up to something. Whatever it is, it can’t be too dangerous – given the proximity to a village probably full of curtain-twitchers like Rhian, crup fighting and manticore breeding are out – but strange is never a good sign, is it?

“So, about Pickerings,” he says, once the front door’s closed with a jingle, “you said you’d noticed something strange?”

“Right I have, Harry,” she says, sliding back into the chair opposite, “right I have. So Bridget and Jerry, yeah, the old owners, they were there forever. They were here when we got here – must have been twenty years, I reckon. Jerry was in the choir with Stuart, up at St Andrew’s, you know, and Bridget did flowers with me, and who even knew that they were thinking of moving? Then one day, poof!” She spreads her fingers, a miniature explosion, and Harry’s magic twitches in response.

“They disappeared?”

“Well – well, no,” she allows, “but they did just bugger off to the south coast.”

“Ah,” Harry says, unsure if he’s relieved or disappointed to discover that Malfoy’s not been Vanishing Muggles. Relieved, he tells himself. He’s relieved.

“I mean, we’re still in touch. Christmas cards and all that, obviously. But it all happened too quick, Harry. Nothing’s like that, not around here. And not being funny, like, but it’s a Christmas shop, you know? A new owner popping up out of nowhere, it don’t make sense. Not much on in Cheddar for a handsome young man like that Draco, if you know what I mean.”

She sits back, satisfied, to observe Harry’s response, running her finger over the lip of her glass, and Harry supposes he should come up with something sympathetic about Bridget and Jerry, but in actual fact all he wants to do is to correct her, to tell her that Malfoy’s not handsome. Because he’s not, is he? What Malfoy is is far too skinny, all angles and jutting bones, like someone’s wrapped an enormous Christmas jumper around a pile of kindling. He’s so pale that he must only leave that fridge of a shop after dark, and he’s still bloody arrogant, all swagger and sarcasm, and he wears an earring shaped like a Christmas pudding, for fuck’s sake. Striking, perhaps, but handsome? No chance.

Of course Harry doesn’t actually say any of that, but he does do up the top button of his shirt in silent protest. “That’s odd,” he replies, finally.

“Oh it is, Harry, it is. And then,” she says, sharp eyes gleaming, “there’s all that business with his mother.”

“His mother?”

“Oh yes,” says Rhian, obviously delighted. “She’s down here too, in the village. Bagged herself a nifty little bungalow at the end of Desborough, didn’t she? Lovely looking lass, though you hardly ever see her out and about. Inky Dave lives up the road, says she never leaves the house without your Draco there. Bit of an odd pair, those two. Just saying, it makes you wonder.”

If true, this is news to Harry. “Right,” he says slowly, rotating the empty glass in his hand so that shards of reflected sunlight play across the patterned wallpaper. Tegan turns to stare at them, fascinated. It’s hard for Harry to wrap his head around the concept of Narcissa Malfoy living in a Muggle bungalow just up from a man called Inky Dave – but then, he supposes, today’s been full of revelations. “Nothing else strange about the shop, though?” he says, feeling even more in need of a lie-down. “No odd rumours, no funny noises, no unusual comings and goings?”

She frowns. “No, not really,” she says, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe her brow. “There were a bit of a to-do when they stopped stocking Donna’s holiday candles, but… now what did you say you were investigating him for exactly? Tax evasion? Money laundering?” She leans in, voice low and confidential. “Fraud?”

“Oh no,” Harry says, setting the empty glass back down on its doily. “Nothing like that. Really more of a routine check. It’s been great to get a bit of background though, Mrs Edwards.”

“Oh,” she says, without bothering to hide her disappointment. She glances over at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Well, I do hope you get the chance to explore the area. Shame not to, when you’ve come all this way. But if anything interesting does come up, you will let me know, won’t you now, Harry love?”

“And you keep it all completely separate?”

“Naturally, Potter,” Malfoy drawls, the words fairly dripping with amused condescension, as though he’s trying to emulate Snape on one of his less sinister and more dramatic days. Harry suspects that Malfoy might not be quite so cheery if he was really practising necromancy out of a cellar concealed beneath a giant Wibbly Santa, so it’s probably a good sign. On the other hand, Malfoy’s still a massive cock, and Harry’s never arrested anyone dressed as a Christmas elf before, so that could be fun too.

Malfoy selects a red and white swirled candy from a glass jar on the counter, popping it into his mouth. He doesn’t offer Harry one. “It’s a Class Three entryway,” he says, lisping around the sweet. “I had the concealment and Muggle-repellent charms done by a Ministry specialist. I’m surprised it’s not in your file. You have read your file, haven’t you, Potter?”

“Yes,” says Harry, although that is, at best, a half truth: he’d dozed off last night in the middle of the millionth news report on the heatwave, and woken up with the file stuck to his cheek. “Of course I have.”

“Well, I can demonstrate if you like. If you wait there–”

Malfoy ducks quickly through the shimmering silver curtain, which disappears completely a second later, a neat display of wreaths lining the now unbroken wall. Harry knocks – it sounds impressively solid – then reaches out and picks a silvery wreath off its hanging, inspecting it.

“Works for me,” he calls, hoping Malfoy can hear him. “Nice bit of magic. And have you had any incidents or problems that we should know about?”

“Just one,” Malfoy says, re-appearing in the entryway, wraithlike, haloed by silvery light. Harry shifts, unsettled, and then the Muggle display fades into nothingness, leaving him blinking to clear the silhouette from his mind’s eye, still with an armful of spruce and pinecones. Malfoy leans in, so close that Harry smells peppermint on his breath, and plucks the wreath quickly from his hands. “It wasn’t a fault with the entryway,” he says, placing it gently on the counter. “Had a Muggle family in here late last year, with a young boy – nine or ten, I suppose? He had no idea that he was magical, naturally, and he ran straight through the wards when he spotted my Hogwarts Express display out the back. His parents had just about smashed a hole in the wall before I even realised what had happened. Your lot sent the Reversal Squad down, and then as I understand it McGonagall took them out to Holly and Hawthorn and gave them the whole spiel. I suppose it’s not quite what you expect from a family day out, but, well–”

Harry shrugs. “Not much you could have done there.”

“Well, quite,” says Malfoy. “No lasting harm, anyway. Few cuts and bruises, had to throw out a couple of garlands, but on the plus side the chap from Reversals turned out to be an excellent shag. Every cloud, and all that. Now, are you coming through, or what?”

The bell at the end of his hat jingles merrily as he turns and strolls back through the veil, leaving Harry staring speechless in his wake.

The first thing he notices, strangely enough, is the change in music. Outside it’s standard Muggle fare: Slade and Wham! and Shakin’ Stevens, Jose Feliciano wishing you a merry Christmas, Joni Mitchell wishing for a river, and Wizzard, ironically, wishing it could be Christmas every day. That, Harry thought, was irritating enough; but this – this shrill, fevered warbling – verges on unbearable. The tune’s familiar, conjuring warm memories of Molly Weasley singing as she washed up, of Ginny covering her ears and making vomiting motions, of the twins Transfiguring their clothes into sparkling dresses and swaying in the background. Take me gently, my curse-breakin’ man, the singer moans, and Harry clears his throat, cheeks heating inexplicably while Malfoy, oblivious, adjusts a couple of ornaments.

“Malfoy?”

“Hmm?”

“Is this… Celestina Warbeck?”

“What?” asks Malfoy, frowning. “Of course it is.”

“Whoa-ohhhhh,” Celestina continues, voice rising both in pitch and volume, “under the planets, aligned in the sky, making sweet, fierce love, you and I…”

Harry raises his eyebrows.

“Potter, Celestina at Christmas is wizarding tradition.” Malfoy says – although there’s a flush blooming over his cheeks now. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand, uncultured as you are.”

“Uncultured,” repeats Harry doubtfully. “Sure.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Forget Celestina, you ill-mannered pillock, what do you think of my shop?”

Does it matter? Harry half wants to snap back. He doesn’t though, because the answer is written plain as day all over Malfoy’s face, even as he feigns disinterest by fiddling with a display of tinsel-covered cauldrons – inexplicably, despite the eye-rolling and all the acerbic little insults, Malfoy actually cares about Harry’s opinion. So Harry bites his tongue and looks around, taking it in properly: the fluttering Snitch-shaped fairy lights, the rows of tiny Christmas outfits (for Crups rather than house elves, Harry rather hopes), the wicker baskets full of Quidditch-themed paper and self-wrapping ribbons. Above their heads, Father Christmas and his elves zoom back and forth on broomsticks, while a tiny Hogwarts Express chugs around the floor, laden with presents.

The wall at the back is covered in Christmas tree decorations, with animals at the top: owls hooting Christmas songs, tiny dragons flapping, toads hopping from side to side. Then there’s the Hogwarts themed baubles – different colours for each house – along with novelty Christmas figurines of famous people, including (to Harry’s horror) a miniature version of himself as a teenager, casting Expelliarmus over and over at an imaginary foe. There are baubles that giggle when you touch them, baubles that jump from branch to branch, and even delicate glass baubles containing what appears to be Pensieve memories.

It’s like stepping into Honeydukes for the first time, Harry thinks, his heart beating faster, or that magical day when the Dursleys went away for the weekend and forgot to lock Dudley’s room. Where the main shop was overwhelming, the back room is – well, still overwhelming, but in a joyful, familiar way. A miniature owl hoots, and now Harry’s eleven again, wide-eyed and starving, following Hagrid down a noisy, crowded Diagon Alley.

“It’s brilliant, Malfoy,” Harry says, and means it.

Malfoy looks pleased. “Thank you,” he says, then turns towards a table in the corner, where mince pies glow temptingly beneath a warming charm. “Eggnog?” he offers, extending a silver tray filled with glasses. “Don’t worry, they’re fresh. Only went under the stasis on Sunday. I warn you, though, it’s got a bit of a kick. Invigoration and hangover cure together, plus a few other bits and bobs. My own invention: perfect for the holidays.”

“You brewed it?” Harry asks, incredulous, selecting a glass. The whole concept of homebrewing potions has always seemed bizarre to him, like those Muggles who bake their own bread, or sew their own clothes. Who wastes time faffing around with cauldrons and Bunsen burners when you can Floo to Slug & Jiggers and back in ten minutes? Harry himself had dropped off his old cauldron at the second hand shop on the very same day he’d turned down his Eighth Year place, and he’d arrived home feeling about a hundred times lighter.

“Of course I brewed it,” says Malfoy, haughty as usual, although he’s definitely relaxed since Harry’s favourable assessment. “I suppose you could call it a hobby, although… well, you’d laugh if you saw the size of my kitchen. I’m hardly looking at mass production, though, and it’s a damn sight cleaner than the school dungeons.” He nods at Harry encouragingly, and Harry takes a sip of his drink. It tastes like eggnog but it burns like vodka, and Harry opens his mouth to say as much but stops as the effects of the potion crash through his skull in a delicious eye-widening, heart-pounding starburst of energy.

“I could never tell,” says Harry, reaching up to touch his scalp, which is tingling, “whether you actually were some, like, Potions prodigy. I think part of me hoped you were actually really shit at it, and Snape was just covering for you. Or maybe that you hated it, and you felt like you had to…” He stops, tongue heavy in his mouth. “I… I dunno,” he says, starting to laugh. “What did you say was in this again?”

Malfoy’s laughing too now, not mocking but low and genuine, and is it the drink, Harry wonders, or have his lips always been that red? Harry tilts his head and leans in, vision blurred at the edges, concluding that yes: they’re very nice lips, rosy and surprisingly full. Given the amount of time he’d spent staring at Malfoy’s face over the years, this really does seem like something Harry should have noticed before.

“I do like Potions,” Malfoy says, apparently – hopefully – oblivious to Harry’s train of thought. “Strange, I suppose, because these days I’d say I’m stronger at Charms. Flitwick was as bad as McGonagall back then though, us Slytherins never stood a–”

The sound of the doorbell makes Harry jump, its jaunty tune amplified ten-fold in the small back room. Malfoy smirks, slipping wordlessly out through the back door, and Harry hears him re-enter the main shop a few seconds later, the sounds of him conversing with customers distant and muffled. Harry takes another sip of his drink: the initial dizzying rush has worn off now, leaving behind a pleasurable little tipsy feeling. He’s glad for the absence of Malfoy’s scrutiny and sarcastic remarks as he wanders over to the party games section, selecting and examining various magical versions of spin-the-bottle, magic thrilling up and down his spine as he reads their labels: Tamper-proof bottle makes cheating a thing of the past! Truth or dare with a twist – magical forfeits for liars! Select from different spin modes: match by sexual compatibility! He runs his thumb over the side of that last one, tapping against the words on the glass. Sexual compatibility seems a bit… nebulous, if you ask him. Changeable. A nifty bit of charmwork, certainly, if its results were reliable: Harry wonders whether Malfoy himself came up with it… and, more to the point, how – or with whom – he’d checked its effectiveness.

He moves on down the shelves, a little twinge in his chest as he spots the magical versions of Monopoly, Cluedo, and Risk, recalls gazing in longing through the keyhole of his cupboard while Dudley cheated and groused and upended the board in fits of rage. There’s a magical version of Twister, whose dots shuffle about at random, encouraging players to contort themselves in even more ridiculous ways than before, and a set of golden coins for playing Catch the Niffler, and expensive looking selection boxes embossed with the concerning phrase Bewitching Bonbons: Open At Your Own Risk.

Naturally, Harry’s elbow deep in a stocking, ostensibly testing out the undetectable extension charm, when Malfoy finally reappears. “Having fun?” he asks dryly.

Harry whirls around, still a little giddy. “You sell Wheezes’ products?” he asks, gesturing at the final shelf of the party games section. It comes out more accusatory than he intends, although the effect is probably dampened somewhat by the patterned sock still halfway up his arm like a gauntlet.

“Of course I do,” Malfoy replies, nonplussed, crunching another sweet between his molars. “The charmwork is wonderful, some of the best in the country. I’d be a fool not to.”

“George never told me,” Harry says, and immediately winces at just how petulant he sounds. He busies himself with tugging the stocking from his arm, straightening it out and hanging it back on its hook. “No, I mean, obviously it’s not my business, but–”

“He probably doesn’t want to advertise that he’s got anything to do with me, Potter,” says Malfoy, sharply, “and for that, well, I can’t exactly blame him.”

“I suppose not,” says Harry, all at once very sober. The last dregs of the potion have left a sour taste on the back of his tongue, and he swallows, wincing. The Weasleys are his friends – his family – and yes, perhaps he’s been a little distant of late, and maybe he hasn’t attended a Sunday lunch for a few weeks, but dammit, he should know these things.

“He came down here last year to see the shop,” Malfoy continues, expression guarded. “He’s a good man, George Weasley, very – very gracious, given everything. Still owls me every couple of weeks; he’s been… helpful.”

“Helpful,” echoes Harry, finding himself fighting down a twinge of jealousy: of what or who exactly, he couldn’t say. “How often do you get Wixen down here, anyway?”

“Oh, rarely,” says Malfoy, brightening up at the change of topic. “I’m trying to get the word out, though. Took out an advert in the Prophet last month to draw in some of the Solstice crowd, and I’m sponsoring a stand at the Falcons. We’re a handy rest stop for people flying down that way, or to Ottery St Catchpole. But on average, at the moment – maybe two or three per month?”

“Per month?” Harry gestures at Malfoy’s beautiful displays, his carefully curated shelves. “Is all this really worth it, then?”

Malfoy frowns, fiddling with his earring. “I suppose that depends on how you judge worth, Potter. Is it profitable? Certainly not. But do I enjoy it – brewing potions in the kitchen, playing about with charmwork, filling owl orders? – absolutely I do, yes. I never intended to turn my back on the Wizarding World. This keeps me in the loop, you know?”

“Sure,” says Harry, who’d be perfectly happy never to be in the loop again. Feeling a bit silly, and for want of something to do with his hands, he grabs a box of Bewitching Bonbons from the top of the pile. “So,” he says, running a casual thumbnail around the edge, “open at your own risk, eh? Are these your own creation?”

Malfoy looks as though he’s trying to suppress a grin. “Those, Potter,” he says, “are very expensive.”

“Oh, I can afford it,” Harry tells him, weighing up the box in his hands, resisting the urge to feel for the intent of the magic within. “Wait,” he says, his brain catching up, “just how expensive are we talking?”

“Go ahead,” Malfoy says, with a long-suffering sigh. “It’s on me. After all, as you so kindly pointed out, it’s not like I’m making a profit anyway.”

“Cheers,” says Harry, opening the box. “I’ll buy you a drink.” Where the hell had that come from?

Inside the box are twenty-four perfectly identical looking chocolate truffles. Harry picks one from the middle, gives it a sniff, and pops it into his mouth. “What do they do, anyway?” he asks, the cocoa powder bitter on his tongue.

“Now you ask me?” says Malfoy, incredulous. “What if I told you it was belladonna, or snakeroot? Bloody fantastic Auror you must have been, Potter, honestly.”

Harry grins, bites down on the chocolate. “I mean, for one, you’d have to explain why you had a dead Ministry worker in your shop,” he says, as raspberry flavour bursts on his tongue. “I’m more worried that it’s Amortentia, to be honest.”

“Could be,” says Malfoy lightly. “How are you feeling? Are you in love with me yet?”

“I don’t… I’m not–” Harry tries to say, but the voice isn’t his own. It’s higher pitched, softer and – is Malfoy getting taller?

“It’s random,” Malfoy says, from somewhere high above. “Truth serums, love potions, befuddlement draught, babbling beverage… or, as you can see, a very nice little shrinking solution.”

Harry jumps backwards, clinging to Malfoy’s shoe, as the Hogwarts Express screams past. “How long’s this last?” he yells up to Malfoy, who’s staring down at him, brow arched. “You think I can catch a ride?”

“Two minutes,” says Malfoy. “By all means, Potter. You enjoy yourself down there.”

But Harry is enjoying himself, is the thing. He really, really is. Ill-advised recreational potions use included, the whole day – the whole place, this bizarre timeless little shop which sits in the middle of an otherworldly landscape, columns of limestone soaring high into the blue – has Harry enthralled. The products are well-made, the divide between magic and Muggle seems clear, and Harry hasn’t seen the faintest hint of unusual behaviour in any of the Muggles around. And then there’s its owner, a mystery in his own right: still arrogant, as ever, still with an answer for absolutely everything, but somehow… completely different.

Between checking out Wizarding Monopoly whenever the shop is empty (with Malfoy’s Thestral token casually amassing a small empire in Hogsmeade while Harry’s Knight Bus token spends half its turns in Azkaban), and sneaking more of Malfoy’s chocolates (containing ageing, invisibility, and hair-raising potions respectively), the rest of the day flies by. Before long, Malfoy’s turning off the lights and setting the (naturally Muggle) alarm, and Harry – well, he’s back at Mendip House, alone and with itchy feet.

“All right, Harry? Any news for me?” calls Rhian, popping up from behind the reception desk just as Harry bends to lace his running shoes.

Harry yelps, fumbling for the wall in an effort to steady himself, as Tegan bounds over, tail wagging, to greet him. “Sorry?”

“The investigation,” she says, drawing out the word as though she’s talking to a toddler. “Your blond fella up the hill, like. Find anything juicy?”

“Not a lot,” says Harry, tugging up his socks. “He’s very good at bookkeeping, I’m afraid.”

“Well, keep at it, won’t you? There’s something dodgy going on up there, Harry, I’m telling you.”

If only you knew, thinks Harry, gently closing the door behind him. He does a few stretches using the front wall for support, then sets off up towards the cliffs, swiping away the midges as he goes. The faint evening breeze offers little in the way of relief from the fierce, dry heat, and Harry can feel residual warmth radiating from each building he passes. Still, up and up the winding road he goes, over the flint bridge and back past Malfoy’s shop, round the corner and past the tea rooms. He runs his palm along the rough-hewn stone walls, breath coming harder now, all thoughts driven out of his mind by the steady pounding of his feet as the pavement gives way to rough tarmac, the dark shady wilderness of the gorge proper. This is what it’s all about, for Harry: getting out on his own, no press interruptions, no political machinations, no minutes or meetings or rules to follow, no need to play the hero. Out here, alone in the countryside, he’s just plain Harry.

On a whim, he ducks off the main road, following a steep jagged path up the side of the cliff. The ground here is uneven, stones shifting beneath his feet, and he slows down to concentrate on his footing, watching the path all the way, so that he’s taken aback when he finally reaches the top. The sun’s dipped out of view now, its afterglow reflected in the lake behind the village, and beyond that an all-encompassing darkness broken only by the occasional passing car. Beneath the cliffs, the village itself is all warm twinkling lights, romantic in its remoteness, and Harry settles down on a rock to stretch his legs and have a drink. It’s a welcome relief from the heat of the day, restorative, the grass beneath his feet glowing faintly as he allows some of his overeager magic to seep out, and as he glances over in the direction of Pickerings, hidden beneath the rock, it doesn’t take long before his thoughts turn to Malfoy. Malfoy, who’s fun, and funny, relaxed and perfectly comfortable in his skin, proud of his shop and not evasive in the slightest. In fact, the strangest thing of all is how very not-strange Harry’s finding it: the idea that Draco Malfoy, former Pureblood princeling and all around spoiled brat, now works full-time running a part-Muggle shop in rural Somerset. Rhian’s words echo in his head – there’s something dodgy going on up there – and all Harry can think is how much he hopes she’s got it wrong.

He's slow getting back down, trying to avoid casting a Lumos where he might be seen, and it’s at the very last corner before reaching the village that he bumps into Malfoy. It’s almost an actual collision too, except that Malfoy somehow manages to dodge out of Harry’s way at the last minute, pressing himself back against the stone wall, as Harry, embarrassed, mumbles an apology. Malfoy looks different here, removed from his usual surroundings, his clothes smart and his hair smoothed down, face pale and pensive in the light of the moon. He nods at Harry without meeting his eyes, then tucks both hands into his pockets and continues on his way, taking long, purposeful strides up the hill.

Harry stops, turning to watch him until he disappears around the corner.

“Do you really have to check every single bauble?” Malfoy asks, appearing in the door of the stock room. He’s wearing the worst jumper Harry’s ever seen – Fleece Navidad, it says, above a grinning llama face – although when Harry had told him as much earlier, he’d looked truly delighted. “Surely a representative sample would suffice. What’s my supposed motive, anyway, for cursing Muggle tree ornaments?”

“I don’t know, Malfoy,” says Harry, mildly. He’s cross-legged on the floor, with the ornaments in front of him, levitating in a stack as high as the ceiling. He checks every one: charm after charm after charm, each of them glowing in turn; all, thankfully, a nice curse-free blue. “Why was that farmer in Devon conjuring Banshees in his cowshed? People do dangerous shit all the time.”

“I’m not quite sure I buy that,” is Malfoy’s considered reply, a phrase so incongruously Muggle that Harry almost laughs. “I know we have history, Potter, I know how it looks, but you – you were there. You know I’m not… That is to say, you must see that I…” He sighs. “Look, I’ve been open with you from the moment you arrived: I’ve given you access to all my accounts, to every single scrap of business-related paperwork I could get my hands on, and you’ve watched me with Muggles. I know you’ve been speaking to my neighbours too; do you really not…?” Malfoy trails off, his knuckles are white where he grips the doorframe.

“It’s not about trusting you,” Harry says, voice gentle. “For what it’s worth, no, I don’t think you’ve been hexing Muggles. But this–” he indicates the baubles “–is part of my job. It’s routine procedure. I…” I need the routine, he almost says, but stops himself last minute. “I always do it,” he insists instead.

“Alright,” says Malfoy. “If you say so. Here, anyway.” He passes Harry a cup of tea. “You’ve been going for hours, you must have earned a break by now.”

Harry flicks his fingers slightly, sending out a Stasis which settles neatly over the contents of the room. Only then does he allow himself to relax, rolling his shoulders and closing his eyes, a tingling just on the pleasant side of painful in both palms as he holds back the flow of magic.

“Doesn’t all that tire you out?” Malfoy asks, leaning in slightly so that Harry can smell the peppermint on his breath.

“No,” Harry says, blowing on his tea to cool it. “I don’t mind it. It’s… it’s hard to explain.”

“Hard to explain,” Malfoy repeats, carefully, “or something you don’t want to talk about?”

It’s the latter, really: something about spending his adolescence being prodded and peered at like a zoo animal making Harry quite belligerent about privacy these days. On the other hand, Malfoy has made Harry’s job pretty easy so far this week, and he’s not asking for much, is he?

“No, I–”

Malfoy holds up a hand for silence, as Draco? Harry hears, faintly, over the familiar notes of the doorbell. You about, lovey?

“Sorry,” Malfoy murmurs, ducking outside with a wince. Harry drinks his tea, listening closely. New recipe, Malfoy’s saying. I know, I know. A woman’s voice then, soft and rapid, words indiscernible above the hum of the air-conditioning. Noted, Malfoy says, with an easy laugh. Then: yes, she’s well, thank you. Will do.

“Customer?” Harry asks.

“No.” Malfoy comes to sit cross-legged across from him. “That was just Sandra, she runs the chip shop down the road. Pops in from time to time to catch up.” There’s a mint in his palm: he tosses it into the air, catching it easily in his mouth. “You were saying, Potter? Your magic?”

Harry sets the empty mug down, bringing his magic effortlessly back to the tips of his fingers. He holds his hand out, palm up, sends a stream of purple and gold sparks out towards Malfoy, then effortlessly pulls it back in. “It builds up. The longer I have to keep it in check, the more difficult it gets.”

“It wasn’t like that at school.”

“You’re right, it wasn’t.” He sees no reason to go into it any further: the overwhelming frustration at having endured adolescence as the Boy Who Lived only to become the man with too much magic, or the daily rituals he’s developed to help scratch that deep, gnawing itch. Neither does he particularly want to share Hermione’s theories about Dumbledore and the Hallows.

“And this job…”

“Casting like this,” says Harry, indicating the room, “repetitive things, high output, it helps. Saves me, you know, starting a house fire with my Lumos, or trying to cast a Patronus and ending up with bloody Richmond deer park.”

“The papers–”

“I don’t know what they say,” Harry says firmly, “and I don’t care. Let Skeeter and her lot think what they like. Let them say that I’m out of control, that I’m wasting my life, whatever gets them readers. I don’t owe anyone shit. Besides, I like my job. I can cope with my job. I love travelling, too. Never got to do it as a kid. Driving around the countryside, a week here and a week there, and–”

“Driving?” Malfoy looks comically appalled.

“Yeah, I have a little car. Stop making that face, it’s perfectly safe. I used to clean out my uncle’s shitty old Polo every week, hoovering up his moustache hairs and collecting all Dudley’s fast food wrappers, all the time daydreaming about nicking the keys and just… driving. Everywhere. Anywhere far away, you know?”

“Yeah,” says Malfoy, whose face says plainly that his childhood dreams involved neither committing grand theft auto nor escaping his surroundings by any means possible.

“Besides, this job’s not all mince pies and tinsel, you know. What with all the idiots who think of hiding amongst the Muggles to conceal whatever sordid scheme they’re up to. And speaking of mince pies,” says Harry, who’s been looking for any opening, for the right time to ask, for three full days now – “you still haven’t explained all this, you know.”

“All what?” says Malfoy, airily.

“The Christmas thing. Why, of all things, you decided to buy a Christmas shop.”

It’s obviously not the right time to ask. Malfoy laughs a bit, dry and soulless, then gets to his feet. “Why not?” he replies curtly. “Everyone loves Christmas, Potter.”

Harry’s heart sinks. “Don’t–” he begins, hopelessly.

“Anyway,” says Malfoy firmly, cutting him off. His eyes are on the fixed wall somewhere over Harry’s head. “I’d better be getting back out there, hadn’t I? And you…” He shrugs. “Well, you know what they say: 263^rd bauble’s the charm. Or the curse, perhaps. Who knows?”

“We’re closed on Thursdays,” Malfoy tells Harry that evening, holding the door half-shut between them, a barrier against the heat. “I can be about if you need me though, or–”

“No, it should be fine, I’m nearly done. I fancy checking out the area, anyway. Rhian’s been on at me about a cave nearby; god knows she’ll keep on at me until I go. Might as well make a day of it.”

“Well,” Malfoy says, glancing skywards. “I suppose if you fancy a fly–”

“Always,” says Harry, because he does, “but I didn’t bring my broom.” And then, because Malfoy actually looks disappointed, and because the prospect of seeing Malfoy in a car is too good to pass up: “How d’you feel about a drive instead?”

The walk back – all downhill – feels harder work than it should, and Harry’s damp and sticky by the time he arrives back in his little attic room, peeling off his socks one by one and casting a ruthlessly biting Cooling Charm that leaves him with goosebumps all up his arms. He writes Teddy a postcard and makes a cursory start to the mountain of paperwork he’s expected to complete, then quickly gives up entirely and flops down onto the duvet. He’s in a strangely fatalistic mood as he stares up at the Artex ceiling, hand slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers, thoughts drifting back to the little Christmas shop. It’s always bloody Malfoy, isn’t it?

Historically speaking, Harry’s experiences with dark, confined places have ranged from the unbearably lonely to the legitimately life-threatening: consequently, the prospect of visiting an underground cave – even one dressed up as a Muggle tourist attraction, and even without a side-serving of headmaster torture and mortal peril – was never going to fill him with confidence. But he needed something to do out of the heat, and, besides, Rhian had been effusive in her endorsement, chattering away about local legends and breathtaking scenery, even pressing a discount voucher into Harry’s sweaty palm as she’d waved him out the door.

She’s not wrong, either: Wookey Hole caves are quite spectacular, low sloping ceilings of limestone opening out into grand caverns, stalactites and stalagmites and dramatic rock formations all bathed in multicoloured light: its magic a combination of natural splendour and clever artifice. One cave contains a lake, a small rowing boat tethered to the rocky shore, and for a moment Harry’s stuck, unable to look, but then Malfoy makes some cheerfully snide comment about a Muggle child, clearly goading Harry, and in searching for an appropriately mock-outraged response, Harry forgets to be concerned altogether.

Malfoy’s dressed casually today, which still means chinos and a soft linen shirt, and he’s all legs, long and lean, hair still amusingly tousled from the car journey (Harry had the top down, of course, delighted in Malfoy’s horror as he’d pressed the button, the way he’d gripped the edges of his seat as though the next thing Harry pressed might say eject). Here, in this cool dark hidden place, Malfoy sticks close to Harry’s side, pointing out this feature and that, all sharp cheekbones and sharper retorts, still not quite handsome but definitely striking beneath the neon lights.

“What?” demands Malfoy, pausing in his explanation of how a loosely human-shaped rock might actually represent the petrified remains of a tenth-century witch. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Harry swallows, caught out. “Well,” he says, glancing around himself, “just – I’m just…” Malfoy’s eyebrows are raised, bemused and slightly too knowing. No, you’ve got the wrong idea, Harry wants to say, but doesn’t. Instead, “I’m just checking!” he blurts out, the first thing he can think of. “Checking that you’re aware it’s all just Muggle myths. A fairy story.”

“Please.” Malfoy scoffs. “And how can you possibly know that?”

“Oh, come on,” Harry says, derision an easy defence. He gestures around himself. “I dunno what tipped me off – maybe the animatronic witch at the entrance? Or the smoke machine over behind that rock?”

A ghostly-sounding wail echoes off the wall as two young boys run past, shrieking and giggling. Behind them, their backpack-laden father, arms outstretched in classic zombie pose, is lumbering towards them. Harry looks at Malfoy, eyebrows raised.

“They found bones, Potter.” Malfoy tells him, eyes alight with conviction. “Haven’t you been listening to me at all?”

Harry’s fully regained his footing now. “Don’t worry,” he says, smiling beatifically and patting Malfoy on the arm. “It’s still a good day out.”

“Oh, Potter, your lack of imagination makes me sad,” Malfoy pronounces, the sweep of his eyelashes casting shadows across his cheekbones beneath the turquoise glow. “This isn’t Diagon Alley, you know. You can trace the roots of half the wizards in Britain to Somerset and Wiltshire. We were here before this landscape was even formed.” He shrugs. “But I suppose when you’ve got magic coming out of your arsehole you’ve got no reason to actually pick up a book.”

“Malfoy, you work in a Christmas shop.”

“Sod off.” Malfoy’s hissed exasperation resonates off the rocks, and a woman ushering her toddlers away from the water pauses to frown at him.

The light show begins then, a booming voice filling the space, recounting the tale of Malfoy’s stone witch, driven out of her cottage by angry villagers, taking refuge in a long-forgotten cave. As simulated flames flicker across the jagged walls to denote her gruesome end, Harry can’t help prodding Malfoy in the side. “You really believe this rubbish?”

“Well, obviously not everything, Potter. But yes, fundamentally, I know there’s magic within these caves. Can’t you feel it?”

Harry, who’s never been especially perceptive, and whose own magic now certainly overrides anything else he might detect, doesn’t feel anything at all. He looks at Malfoy, who’s still gazing out over the lake, and folds his arms childishly, stubborn as the boulders surrounding them. “Care to make a bet?”

“I’m sorry, Potter,” Malfoy says, turning away from the light show at last. “A bet?”

“A bet,” Harry repeats, encouraged by the alarm in Malfoy’s voice. “I’ll cast a revealing spell. If I’m right, you’re paying for the fish and chips, et cetera.”

“You’ll do what?” Malfoy hisses, grabbing his arm. “In front of all these Muggles?”

“Lighten up,” Harry says. “It’s just a little detection charm. And anyway, who’s going to find out – the Ministry?”

The show ends then, the cave plunged into total darkness for a few unnerving seconds. Malfoy’s hand unclamps itself from Harry’s wrist, and when the lights come up again he’s taken a good few steps backwards – as though McGonagall might be watching them, Harry’s brain supplies.

“Shall I?” he asks.

“You’re mental, Potter,” is Malfoy's reply, which – well. It isn’t exactly a no, is it?

Carefully, very carefully, bending down as though to tie his shoelace, Harry presses one hand against the gritty stone floor. He closes his eyes and wills it out, slow as he can, a thin trickle of magic bleeding down into the–

“Oh, Jesus,” comes the cry from beside Harry, as sudden pain lances through his hand. Harry’s eyes fly open, and he hears himself cry out. “Sorry there, mate!” says the man, trying to regain balance with his camera still half pressed against his face. What he actually succeeds in doing is stepping forwards, crushing Harry’s fingers further under the weight of his sandal – and then, all hell breaks loose. Harry yells, the full trigger-happy force of his magic flooding out to fill the vast cavern, illuminating hidden symbols on the walls; even beneath the surface of the water. There’s traces of magic everywhere, threads of it between the rocks, dripping off the stalactites, weaving, net-like, across the roof. On the other side of the lake, the stone witch remains dark – even in the throes of panic, Harry files that one away to remind Malfoy – but that’s the only good news he’s getting. The entire cave is glowing gold and silver like fucking Oxford Street at Christmas.

“Shit,” Harry says softly, shaking his injured hand and getting to his feet. “Shit. Shitting fuck.” The wanker with the camera is already snapping away beside him, completely oblivious to the trouble he’s caused. All around Harry are shouts of surprise, people flooding in from the other caves, reaching into their bags, flipping open their phones.

“Well,” Malfoy says, smugly, cheeks aglow with newly revealed magic, “I hope you’re better at Obliviate than you are at keeping your head down, Potter.”

“Honestly, the shit you get away with,” Malfoy says, slumping down into the booth opposite Harry. “Oh, I like travelling, you should see my car – what total bullshit that was. I should have known that the real reason you went into Statute Enforcement was so you could continue your insane Gryffindor rulebreaking obsession without fear of reprisal. More fool me, honestly.”

Harry snorts at that, considers arguing, but – well, all things considered, it might actually be true. Besides, Malfoy had proven pretty helpful with memory modification earlier on – after he’d stopped laughing, that was – so Harry was feeling generous. “Perhaps you’re right,” he concedes through a mouthful of battered cod. Merlin, using that much magic always leaves him absolutely famished.

A woman Harry’s never seen before approaches their table, wiping her hands on an apron. “You boys alright there? Anything I can get ye both?”

“No, you’re alright thanks, Sandra,” says Malfoy, indicating the little polystyrene tray before him, still untouched, piled high with chips. She’s not looking at him though: instead, her beady little eyes are raking over Harry in a manner both unnerving and strangely familiar.

“And who’s this young man?” she demands. “Been holding out on us, have ye now, Draco?”

“No,” Malfoy says quickly, faint spots of pink rising on his cheeks. “No, this is – er, Harry. We know each other from school. He’s come to, uh–”

“Tax audit,” says Harry, brightly. His hand’s greasy when he moves to extend it, so he makes do with a little wave. “I’m from HMRC.”

“Alright,” says Sandra, apparently unconvinced. “You’re the one down at Mendip House, then? Tell me, is that old bag still trying to force you lot to come down for her Happy Hour? God above, I reckon she’s had that same booze in her cabinet for ten years. Talk about flogging a dead horse. Now anyone would think she were looking for an excuse to get drunk in the day, that they would.” Guilty, Harry tries to conceal his laugh. “Anyway,” she continues, “I’ll best be letting you get on. Course, you’ll let me know if there’s anything I can get ye?”

“Of course,” says Malfoy, and Sandra pats him on the shoulder.

“I owe this one, you know,” she says, addressing Harry. “Always got a mince pie or two ready for me, that’s right, isn’t it, Draco? Best in the county too, I’d wager. I’ve asked him his secret a dozen times or more, mind, but–”

Malfoy clears his throat subtly, and she holds her hands up, backing off with a grin.

“You know I won’t hear the end of this from her,” he tells Harry, stabbing his tiny wooden spork into the polystyrene, “It’ll be Harry this and Harry that from now until the end of time. Might have to Obliviate her just to get her to shut up.”

“Ah, fair enough. What’s one more Obliviate?” says Harry, gratified when Malfoy’s lips part and he smiles that rare, pleased smile.

“You caught me by surprise, you know.” Malfoy says, watching Harry try to wedge three chips onto his fork. “I thought you’d be high up in the DMLE by now, still playing the people’s hero.”

Not for the first time, Harry notices the way Malfoy’s words seem to have lost the biting edge of jealousy they always had at school. He’s fidgeting in his seat, long fingers drumming on the edge of the table, ankle occasionally brushing Harry’s beneath the Formica table. Harry studies his collarbones, visible beneath the thin linen of his shirt, and the jutting bones in his wrist, and the shifting hollows between tendons on the back of his hand. The whole thing elicits this strange protective sensation in Harry, as though he’s suddenly possessed by the spirit of Molly Weasley, and he finds himself fighting back the bizarre and ridiculously inappropriate urge to tell Malfoy to just bloody eat something, won’t you?

“Yeah, well,” Harry says instead, embarrassed at himself. “I think you had something earlier – what did you call it, my rulebreaking obsession?”

“Oh, do tell,” says Malfoy, sitting forwards.

“Take my last job, right? I was up on the Isle of Skye, checking out this woollen mill. Owner was this middle-aged wizard who’d been in Azkaban for a bit, after the war. So I get up there, yeah, and he takes one look at me and just starts sweating. Even goes off on this long song and dance about being reformed.” Harry clasps his hands together, affecting a nervous voice. “Oh no, Mr Potter, I’ve even got Muggles working with me now, you see. I mean that in itself rang alarm bells, because all this guy’s jumpers had charms woven into the wool. How can you have Muggle employees without breaking the Statute?”

“Quite,” Malfoy replies, taking a sip of his lemonade.

“Anyway, very long story short, when I eventually released the Muggles from what turned out to be many, many layers of shoddy Confundus Charms, they told me he was breeding Acromantulas for the silk. One of them had lost an arm, for fuck’s sake. And I should have called the Aurors in then and there, of course I should, but…”

“You wanted to confront him yourself.”

“I wanted to confront him myself. I went to his house, Draco–” The word slips unexpectedly out of Harry’s mouth, and he pauses, watching Malfoy’s eyes widen minutely in response. “So yeah. I was so pissed off in that moment, I didn’t give a shit about the rules. I needed to do it on my own terms – to really use my magic, you know? I wanted to – I don’t know. I wanted him scared.”

“And was he?”

“Enough,” says Harry, darkly. “Scared enough. Perhaps there’s something wrong with me, Malfoy. Or maybe it really is just a massive hero complex.”

“Both, I’m sure,” says Malfoy, but Harry can tell he’s teasing. “I wouldn’t worry about your Acromantula man, though. Sounds like he got exactly what he deserved.”

“He did,” says Harry, although his boss at the Statute office had vehemently disagreed.

“Do you ever find it lonely?” Malfoy asks. “Working without a partner, I mean. I–” His voice falters, and he busies himself with upending the vinegar onto his chips, shaking the bottle until they sit half-submerged in the brown liquid. He picks one up delicately, examining it, then pops it carefully into his mouth.

“I dunno,” says Harry, swiping his knife through brown sauce. “Maybe, sometimes. What about you?”

“Me?” asks Malfoy, and for a second Harry thinks he’s going to laugh it off, but he doesn’t. “I’ve got my mother down in the village, and the shop, and all this lot–” He indicates Sandra, who’s swiping a cloth vaguely over a nearby table, clearly pretending she’s not eavesdropping. “But, yes. I suppose I do get lonely.”

“Yeah,” says Harry, and then, buoyed by Malfoy's admission: “You do know that you still haven’t really explained the whole Christmas thing.”

“I did,” Malfoy protests, dragging his fork through a swamp of mushy peas. “I told you yesterday, Potter: everyone loves Christmas.”

Harry frowns. Clearly this isn’t the full story, but Harry’s unsure where to go next; how to make it past Malfoy's glib response. Besides, he’s not sure it’s even true: does everyone love Christmas? Before Hogwarts, all Christmas had meant was getting up at the crack of dawn to peel potatoes, trying to stay out of the way as Aunt Petunia’s neuroticism reached critical levels, and peeking out of his cupboard to try and catch a glimpse of the Noel’s House Party Christmas Special, half hoping that Dudley might notice and lob a purple Quality Street at his head. He’d only really started to think of Christmas as a joyful occasion once he had people to share it with. Even now, if he’s being honest, he still doesn’t really get the hype.

“But isn’t it all a bit – I don’t know…”

Malfoy raises a sardonic eyebrow. “Don’t you dare say commercialised, Potter. I’m trying to make a living out of bloody commercialising it.”

Harry snorts. “I was going to say Muggle, actually.”

“Why does that matter?”

“I don’t – I don’t know, exactly” Harry admits. “It’s just – well. Don’t you find it a bit odd that you’re selling Nativity scenes?”

“Not really. I mean, I also sell menorahs, and Kwanzaa cups, and little figurines of Dumbledore dressed up as Father Christmas. It doesn’t matter to me, it’s all–” he says, and then sighs, staring down at his plate. He looks tired, Harry thinks, and impossibly young all of a sudden. When he speaks again, there’s a strange melancholy edge to his voice that wasn’t there before. “My mother always loved Christmas,” he begins, and something in Harry’s brain catches at his use of the past tense. “She really loved it. Used to start planning in – well, probably in July, actually. I’d come down on December 1^st every year, and the whole Manor would be transformed. Obviously she must have had the house elves working until dawn, I know that now, but at the time…”

“Of course.”

“And even when things were going south with my father, with… well, you know, Christmas always had to be perfect. It was like time outside of time, I can’t explain it properly. She held so many events: charity balls and dinners, dancing and – and food, and the presents – no, Potter, I’m not going to pretend I wasn’t a spoilt brat, alright? But for me, the only child, to have the house so busy, so full of people… look, I know what you’re thinking, Potter, I know my shop is… unusual. I know it’s cheesy. But for me, Christmas is like–” Malfoy looks up then, finally, locks eyes with Harry, smiles slow and sad. “Well, I suppose it’s like the opposite of loneliness.”

Now that – that, Harry can understand.

Friday lunchtime finds Harry in the stock room once more – only this time, in an unexpected but pleasurable turn of events, Draco’s got him up against the wall between the filing cabinet and a shelving unit and is kissing him, sweet and fierce and messy. He’s got his hands on either side of Harry’s face, Harry’s cheeks warm beneath his fingers, and he’s pressing Harry back as though he’s really concentrating, which makes Harry laugh into the kiss, delirious, chest tight with something as-yet-unnamed. Draco smells of mulled wine, his mouth rich with the chocolate Harry had given him, had unwrapped and held so boldly to Draco’s lips, intent unmistakable. What are we doing? Harry thinks wildly, although he can’t quite summon the will to ask.

“It’s the mince pies,” Draco tells him happily, apparently reading Harry’s thoughts. Draco moves a hand to the nape of Harry’s neck, brushes his lips across Harry’s cheek, his jaw, then pauses to whisper in his ear: “They’re my magical ones. I cast a Cheering Charm over the mincemeat.”

Harry laughs, because it’s absurd, the idea that this could be anything other than what it is. It’s not that kind of magic, and he should probably tell Draco that Cheering Charms never really work on him anyway. He doesn’t, though. “What’s your excuse then?” he says, teasing.

“I don’t need an excuse,” comes Draco’s easy reply. “I’ve fancied you for ages. It’s embarrassing, really, how – oh!” He pulls back, face gone pink and cross-looking, clapping a hand tightly over his mouth.

“Oh, was it a Veritaserum chocolate?” asks Harry, delighted. “So… when you say you’ve fancied me for ages, exactly how long are we– ouch!” Draco’s eyes are alight with indignation as he twists Harry’s nipple sharply through the fabric of his shirt.

“I’ll do worse than that if you ask me another question,” Draco tells him grimly.

“Oh, lighten up,” Harry laughs, still trying to squirm out of reach. “It’s probably only good for another minute anyway. What would you do if you were me?”

“I’d ask you whether there was any truth to the rumours about the size of your– mmmph!” Draco makes a frenzied attempt to cut himself off by launching forward and crushing their mouths together, then bites down sharply on Harry’s lower lip for good measure. Harry laughs, giving back as good as he’s got, his own hands scrabbling at Draco’s waistband now, feeling his way beneath the scratchy fibres of another godawful Christmas jumper.

“Will you kindly stop it!” exclaims Draco, as Harry manages to get his shirt untucked, shoving it up roughly over Draco’s stomach.

“Why?” asks Harry, pausing at Draco’s tone. “Don’t you like this?”

“Of course I bloody do,” Draco snaps, “but a customer could walk in any minute, and I can’t exactly go out there half-dressed and with a sodding hard-on, can I?” He winces when Harry opens his mouth to respond. “No, god, please, Potter – Harry – have mercy! No more questions, for god’s sake.”

“Alright,” says Harry, hand hovering inches away from the aforementioned hard-on, “no more questions… if you’ll let me take you out for dinner tonight.” It’s not a direct question, so Draco’s free to respond as he wishes; still, his expression is surprisingly conflicted.

“What,” he says, “will I be your distraction for the next couple of days?”

“Why?” returns Harry, charmed. “Do you mind?”

“No,” is Draco’s immediate response, followed by a look so absolutely murderous that Harry has to lean in to kiss it off his face.

“I can’t go out tonight, though,” Draco continues, when their lips finally part. “I… I’d like to, you know, but I have to cook for my mother.”

“Fair enough,” Harry says, and then, buoyed by Draco’s enforced honesty, has an idea. “You know,” he says, hands still splayed across Draco’s bare stomach, rising and falling rapidly with his breaths, “I could come along too.”

“What?” asks Draco, frowning. For a moment, Harry’s hands are still. “To my mother’s house?”

“Sure.”

“And why on earth would you want to do that, Potter?” asks Draco, tone sharp and antagonistic, daring Harry to reply. “You haven’t seen her in over a decade.”

“Well,” Harry says slowly, still warm and fond, still caught up in the press of Draco’s taut, wiry body against his own, “I mean, things change. People change. My feelings towards you have changed quite a bit in the last decade, obviously.”

“I’m sorry to tell you this, Potter, but there will be no snogging my mother against a wall,” Draco says acerbically, although the accompanying smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Damn,” laughs Harry. “Well, in that case…”

“Stop it, you prat,” Draco says, although his hand is back on Harry’s neck now, thumb stroking slowly back and forth over the shorn off hairs at his nape. “I’m trying to be serious here. My mother has changed. The war – the Dark magic… she’s not how she was. Not how you remember her. We keep ourselves to ourselves – I don’t–”

“That’s fine,” says Harry. “I just thought–” What did he think? The truth – well, one truth at least, infinitely more palatable than any other – is that Draco’s mother feels like a crucial missing piece in a puzzle that Harry is becoming more and more obsessed with solving. “Well, I’d like to spend more time with you,” he says, which isn’t a lie. “And your mother saved my life back at Hogwarts, I’d like to see her again.”

Draco rubs his cheek against the two-day old stubble on Harry’s chin, still gazing into the distance like he’s waging some kind of internal battle. “Well, I suppose you could come to dinner,” he says eventually, “if you really want to.”

“I do want to,” says Harry firmly, wishing for a second that he was the one who’d taken the Veritaserum, wanting Draco to trust him. “I really do.”

“Fine,” says Draco, “but you can’t come before eight o’clock, okay? I need time to get her house sorted.” He’s got his guard up now, tension clear in the lines of his body, expression wary and vulnerable both at once.

“Draco,” Harry says, gently, sliding his hands around Draco’s back, “you do know I’ve almost finished my work here, right? If I was just looking for a distraction, it’d be much easier to head back to London.”

“Alright,” Draco replies, leaning back stiffly in Harry’s embrace, “but what does that actually mean?”

Harry grins. “Well, I guess it means that I hope you know I don’t usually spend fifteen minutes getting off with my clients in the stock room.”

The bell rings before Draco can respond, and from the shop comes the familiar joyous exclamations of a group of Christmas-loving tourists. Draco jumps away, expression wild and slightly desperate, then swipes the back of his hand over his kiss-swollen lips, pulls his jumper down firmly to cover his rumpled shirt, and heads for the door.

“Oi, Draco,” Harry calls out, still feeling sort of giddy – maybe the Cheering Charm has more effect on him than he realised – “just, uh, while that chocolate’s still working: tell me, if I behave myself at dinner, will you come back to the B&B with me and let me suck you off?”

Draco makes a pained little noise, gesturing in the direction of the shop. “It wore off a few minutes ago, you absolute bastard,” he hisses at Harry.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Harry calls after him. He receives no reply, although, to his satisfaction, Draco’s voice sounds strangely high pitched as he chats to the customers outside.

“Hiya, Harry!” Rhian calls, poking her head out of a cupboard just as Harry reaches the door.

“Jesus, Rhian!” Harry’s already a bit frantic with nerves, and frankly desperate to avoid this conversation. Between Rhian’s uncanny ability to appear unannounced at the worst possible times, and her incredible persuasiveness – well, if Harry didn’t have absolute proof to the contrary, he’d be certain she was a witch. “D’you really have to…?”

She ignores the question. “Now where are you off to at this hour,” she asks in that drawn-out, sing-song accent, “and looking so fetching, eh?”

“Nowhere–” he says, a little defensively, and then, when her eyebrows stay raised “–a walk, that’s all. Just off to enjoy the evening air. Maybe I’ll grab a Magnum from the little Tesco, I’m not sure.”

“Ooh yeah, that sounds proper lush. You fancy bringing back one for me?” For fuck’s sake, thinks Harry, glancing at the little clock on the mantlepiece, which makes her giggle. “It’s alright, I’m only joking. Wouldn’t want to disturb your evening out with a certain handsome young shopkeeper, would I now?”

“What?” Forget an ordinary witch, Harry’s beginning to wonder if she’s actually a Seer. “How did you –?”

“It’s a small village,” Rhian says, expression one of barely-contained glee. “Saw Sandra at the WI, and she told me she had you two in yesterday. A nice cosy lunch, so she said. Playing footsie and everything, apparently.”

“Footsie!” repeats Harry, incredulous, reluctantly taking his hand off the doorknob and turning to face her. “We weren’t playing bloody… anyway, why the hell was she telling you that? I thought you and Sandra hated each other!”

“Oh, pssh,” she says, ruffling the fur behind Tegan's ears. “If that woman’s good for one thing it’s canting; can’t ever keep her bloody mouth shut. Good job too, mind, otherwise I’d never have known about your hot date.”

“And what about Draco? There’s something going on, you told me. What about your friends who used to run the shop?”

“And who cares about that now? A workplace fling between Cheddar’s own fella and the fetching young stranger from London is much better gossip. Sorry, love,” she says, spreading her arms wide, “but there it is. Where’s he taking you, anyway? The Bath Arms? La Rocca?”

There’s no point in lying, Harry thinks: the nosy bugger would only find out anyway, and probably interrogate him over breakfast until he caved. Now he thinks about it, actually, there were an awful lot of Danielle Steel novels on her bookshelf too. “Just dinner at his mother’s house.”

“Met her before, have you then, Harry?” she asks, expression sombre. She doesn’t wait for an answer, which is helpful because Harry’s not entirely sure what he’d say. “No? Ah, it’s a pity. She’s really not all there, I don’t think, the poor dab. But never mind all that, I’ll pop a key in the lockbox outside in case you’re back in the small hours. Just don’t get up to anything I wouldn’t, right?”

Harry doesn’t imagine that precludes a great deal. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replies.

“And if you do,” she says, grinning wickedly, “keep the noise down, yeah? I’ve got other guests here, mind!” Her deranged cackling follows Harry out of the front door, and halfway down the street.

He does stop off at little Tesco on the way, although he forgoes the Magnum in favour of a cheerful bunch of purple chrysanthemums. He stands in front of the flower display for a very long time, sweaty-looking Muggles tutting and reaching around him, as he weighs up what might be an appropriate amount to spend, given the situation. The last time he saw Narcissa Malfoy was across a courtroom; the time before that, on a damp forest floor. She’s really not all there, I don’t think, Rhian had said, eyes wide with pity – but Draco’s so tight-lipped about it, who knows what that means? And then there’s the whole him-and-Draco thing: tentative, as easily shattered as one of Draco’s magical snowglobes. More people in Harry’s life – in Harry’s heart – has always just meant more people to worry about. This whole week has felt like a holiday, he thinks, like an oddly Christmas-themed summer fling. Something outside of normal; almost incompatible with real life. It’s been a very long time since he’s even wanted anyone for more than a quick shag, but an unfamiliar knot makes itself known behind his breastbone each time he remembers that he’s due back in the department on Monday.

But this is like a holiday, Harry thinks, breathing in the Somerset air, gazing up at the cliffs, and he decides to go with the flow for now.

The sun’s drooping low in the sky, a languid Friday evening feeling about the village, when Harry finally arrives at Narcissa Malfoy’s bungalow. Draco’s waiting outside, kneeling by the front step and examining the ground, fists full of weeds from the cracks in the uneven paving. He looks up as Harry approaches, eyes lighting on the cellophane-wrapped flowers Harry’s holding slightly awkwardly in front of himself. He gets to his feet, and Harry thinks about reaching out to kiss him again, but hesitates mid-movement as he spots that hint of wariness back behind Draco’s eyes.

“You look good,” Harry offers instead, scrutinising Draco’s response: the nervous exhale, the jerky nod, the toothed edge of a smile. Then Draco turns away, going to dump the weeds into a half-full bucket. Harry’s eyes light on the little strip of skin where his polo shirt rides up, and he smooths down his own shirt quickly.

“The thing is,” Draco says, raising his voice over the screech of the rusty garden tap as he washes off his hands, “I’m not… I’m not exactly certain that this is a good idea.”

“No?”

“No. I don’t – look, like I said before, we don’t usually have visitors. It’s my mother, she’s –” Draco pauses, turning the tap off and shaking his hands dry. “She’s not been well.”

“I know,” Harry says, “I mean, Rhian said something…”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Obviously.”

“I’d pretty much guessed already, though. Hermione works in Curse Damage; I know what happened to the others. I don’t expect your mum to recognise me, Draco, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“It’s not just that,” Draco says, frowning as he fumbles in his trouser pocket, then finally producing a keyring shaped like a Christmas tree. “I’m–”

“Draco, darling, is that you?” comes a voice from within.

“Yes Mother, it’s still me,” Draco calls in reply, fitting the key into the lock. Just before he pushes it open, he turns back to Harry, expression somewhere between fear, frustration, and warning. In an urgent undertone, he whispers: “Please, Harry. Don’t say – please, just don’t, alright?”

Don’t what? Harry tries to ask, but of course then the door’s open, and Draco’s disappearing inside, and Harry’s vision’s a bit hazy from the bright exterior, so he blinks to clear it, and then again, and then again, for the sight in front of him makes less and less sense the more sharply it comes into focus. He still hasn’t moved, stood in the doorway, and he feels his mouth drop open – who knew that was really a thing? – as the sight of the inside of Narcissa’s bungalow forces every other question straight out of his mind. The whole place is – well, it’s like Draco’s shop, except more: every single inch of the room, from the spruce garlands draped across the ceiling to the reindeer patterned rug beneath the sofa, from the piles of unopened presents beneath the enormous tree to the choral music drifting through the air – every little detail screams Christmas. The shop, overwhelming and out of character as it had seemed at first, did make at least some sense from a business point of view. This, on the other hand…

“I –” says Harry faintly, still stock-still on the threshold, gripping the doorframe, with the fading heat of the day at his back. There’s movement from across the room and he shakes his head in an attempt to regain his senses, belatedly recalling Draco’s words of warning. “I. Hello there?” he tries again.

Draco clears his throat. “I’ve brought you a guest,” he says, the waver in his voice almost imperceptible. “Mother, this is – well, you must remember Harry Potter.”

Harry takes two steps forwards and shuts the door softly, as Narcissa Malfoy rises from her armchair. She’s dressed neatly in a light blue jumper and soft cotton trousers, her hair pulled back into a simple bun on the back of her head: elegant, certainly, but somewhat older than her years. She examines Harry with brow furrowed, clearly trying to place him, as Harry wishes he’d sprung for the mixed oriental lilies: much easier to hide behind.

“Harry Potter,” she says slowly. “Of course I remember. You’re – you’re at school with Draco, aren’t you?” She glances at Draco, waiting for confirmation. “He’s the – the Quidditch player.”

“That’s right, Mother,” says Draco, beaming his encouragement as he bends to kiss her on the cheek.

“Oh,” Narcissa continues, grasping Draco’s forearms, “but you were so very sad when he took up with the Weasley boy instead of you. I’m glad that you two have finally made friends!”

“Yes,” says Draco, tightly. Narcissa’s leaning back to gaze up at him, expression sunny and uncomplicated, but even despite the height difference he seems somehow younger than ever.

Harry steps forward, aiming a brief, supportive smile in Draco’s direction. “It’s lovely to see you again, Mrs Malfoy,” he says, extending the flowers in Narcissa’s direction.

“Oh, please, do call me Cissy,” she says, warmly. “All of Draco’s friends do. And – oh goodness me, what a darling bunch of chrysanthemums! Even Floriblunders struggle with preservation charms at this time of year. Such discreet work – where on earth did you find them?”

“Er,” says Harry, completely stymied. He’s fairly certain that Tesco Express is not going to cut it here, and appeals to Draco – sickly pale in front of an enormous crimson poinsettia – for support.

“Harry’s very good at Herbology, Mother,” Draco says wearily.

“That’s right,” Harry lies quickly, now wishing he’d forgone the flowers altogether. “Your house looks wonderful, Mrs – Cissy. This decoration, it must have taken you ages.”

“That’s ever so kind of you to say. The house-elves have done a fine job, I agree,” she says, eyes alight, then turns to gesture at the walls. “I was so very disappointed that we couldn’t use the real fairy lights this year. A Christmas without fairies, Harry! My mother would turn in her grave.”

“I’ve just been explaining to Mother that it’s illegal to use fairies for decoration,” says Draco, with the put-upon tone of someone who’s had the same discussion countless times.

“Since when?” Narcissa asks, still inspecting the chrysanthemums. “We had them up just last year, Draco.”

“I know,” Draco says, patting her arm. “I know we did. But – oh, do sit down, Harry,” he says, suddenly, “you’re making me nervous. Mother, would you like me to help you find a vase, or–”

“No, no,” Narcissa says. “Please do make yourselves at home, boys, I’ll be back in just a moment. Only – Draco, your father should be home soon, please do remember to leave his armchair free.”

“Of course,” Draco says stiffly, glancing at the large leather wingback with its plumped-up robin redbreast cushion, then taking a wary seat on the sofa. Harry comes to sit beside him, and together they watch as Narcissa makes her way carefully out of the room.

“Right,” Harry says, voice low. “Okay.”

“You don’t have to stay,” says Draco, and he’s wringing his hands, the blinking tree lights reflected in the grey of his eyes. “I can make your excuses. This was such a stupid idea.”

“No, it wasn’t,” says Harry, “Draco, look at me.” He shuffles slightly closer, unsure what exactly Draco needs. I understand now, he wants to say. Thank you for trusting me. He wishes so badly that he could put an arm around Draco, try and settle him somehow. Wishes he had one of those stupid mints for Draco to crunch. Instead, he slides his hand across the fabric of the settee, lets his little finger press against the outside of Draco’s thigh. “Did you know how she’d react?”

“Not exactly,” Draco whispers. “This is good, though. I wasn’t entirely certain that she wouldn’t try to attack you, you know.”

“What?”

“Well, my father might have done. I don’t like to see her getting worked up. You’d have been fine, of course she’s got no wand, so–”

“No wand?”

“Obviously no wand, Potter,” Draco says, sending Harry a pitying look. “She’d only try to conjure a glass of water before bed, get side-tracked in the middle, and end up flooding the entire street. No, I had it stored in our vault years ago. Of course I let her think she’s just misplaced it; kinder that way, really.”

“But…” Harry says, still perplexed, “what about the house-elves?”

“House-elves?” Draco gives a disbelieving snort of laughter. “I wish there were house-elves.”

“So all this – you…”

“The whole house lovingly festooned by yours truly, yes, I’m afraid so. The worst–”

“Champagne?” Narcissa interrupts gaily, silver tray clasped in her trembling hands, Harry’s chrysanthemums nowhere to be seen. He graciously accepts the offered glass, sensing the extra weight of a shatterproof charm, and finds the champagne to be excellent – which must be Draco’s doing as well, he realises, head spinning.

Dinner is actually a pleasant and surprisingly relaxed affair, with Draco laying on a delicious smoked salmon salad, followed by a selection of cold meats, cheeses and chutneys substantial enough to rival any house-elf’s best efforts. Narcissa’s virtues as a host are clearly deeply ingrained, and with Celestina warbling away in the background, she delights in regaling Harry with anecdote after anecdote about Draco’s early childhood, Draco’s expression turning steadily more mortified behind his wine glass. Harry plays along easily, as though Draco and he were old friends – rather than quite new ones, really – and when he voices his agreement about Draco’s talent for Potions, he’s delighted to find that Draco’s blush spreads all the way down past his collar.

It's only when they’ve all helped clear away dessert, and Narcissa’s fussing around in the kitchen, humming along blithely to A Mermish Melody, that Harry finally dares to turn to Draco.

“So,” he says, trying to keep the grin off his face, “you couldn’t stop talking about me, eh?”

“Talking about what a prat you were, maybe,” Draco snaps back, but he’s more relaxed now, one long leg draped over the other as he leans back into the sofa cushions, sherry glass balanced delicately between finger and thumb.

“Hmm, that’s not how your mother made it sound. Harry Potter this and Harry Potter that, all summer long, wasn’t it?”

“Well,” Draco says curtly, “you know, her memory’s not exactly…” He trails off, the corner of his mouth twisting into the wry approximation of a smile.

Harry returns it, settling back down next to Draco with a long sigh. “And there you were,” he says, nudging Draco’s knee with his own, “worried that it would be awkward.”

“It’s awkward for me, you arse.”

“Oh come on,” says Harry, resting a hand on Draco’s leg in a sudden fit of daring. “Has it really been that bad?”

“No,” says Draco with a sigh, “it hasn’t. You know it hasn’t.”

“Music?” Narcissa asks cheerfully, reappearing just as Harry snatches his hand back into his own lap. “Anyone fancy a spot of dancing?”

“Oh, dear god,” Draco breathes.

“What?!” Harry asks, finding his palms suddenly sweaty as Narcissa frowns over in his direction. “Er, I mean pardon?” he tries, wiping his hands surreptitiously on his trousers.

“Mother,” Draco says slowly, “not tonight, please.”

“Whatever do you mean, darling? It’s Christmas Eve! Your father will be back from work soon, and–” The background music stops abruptly as she slides the record off its spindle, then turns to flick through a well-worn pile beside it.

“Look, I can’t,” Harry tells Draco, quite sincerely. He doesn’t know what Draco will say, whether he’ll protest, but Draco just shakes his head, apparently similarly horrified at the prospect.

“No, of course. I’m sorry, she doesn’t always want to…”

“It’s fine. You’re fine. Dancing, I’m just–”

“No, I know. You should go,” Draco tells him, voice strained again, like progress unmade.

There’s a loud crackle as Narcissa sets the needle on the record. “Darling?” she calls to Draco, extending her hand as a familiar high-tempo waltz starts up.

“I’m so sorry,” Harry says, edging towards the door. “Mrs Malfoy. Cissy. I have to get home, I–”

Her brow furrows, puzzled and unhappy at the rebuff, and there’s a wretched sort of helplessness behind Draco’s eyes as he nods his goodbye, and suddenly Harry finds he can’t bear to leave like this, with Draco’s hand firm on the small of Narcissa’s back, guiding her through steps clumsy and out-of-sync, the two of them moving to a beat far slower than the music.

A sudden idea strikes him. “Look!” he exclaims, throwing open the front door: and with a few flicks of his wrist, magic surging out into the darkness like a long-held exhalation, it’s snowing.

“Oh!” Narcissa exclaims, dropping Draco’s hand and moving, fast as Harry’s seen her yet, across the room. She pauses on the threshold just beside Harry, face like the open night sky, watching the snowflakes fall fast beneath the honey-warm streetlamp glow. Draco helps to guide her down the steps, their feet crunching through the fresh white: it’s settling quickly now: covering the lawn, the bird bath, Draco’s bucket of weeds. Draco heads back inside, watches with Harry from the window as Narcissa runs her hands lightly over the bushes, knocking snow to the ground.

He links his little finger through Harry’s beneath the windowsill. “They really made a tremendous mistake giving you this job, didn’t they?”

“Ah,” says Harry, shrugging, “I added a Notice-Me-Not. You won’t get any stories in the Cheddar Post about freak July snow falls, I promise. Anyway, I got you out of dancing, didn’t I?”

“You did. God, I forgot you were like this,” Draco says quietly, shaking his head. There’s mistletoe above them, Harry notices: emboldened, he tugs on Draco’s hand, kissing him so quickly that his lips barely connect with the side of Draco’s mouth. Draco’s eyes widen in surprise, and he glances automatically at Narcissa, who’s holding her hands out now, face upturned to the sky.

They’re still very close, arms touching, and that knot’s back in Harry’s chest again, like something taking root, terrifying and wonderful both at once. “Sorry,” he says, and Draco laughs, bright and merry and just a little bit desperate.

It’s much easier, now, to bid them farewell, but as Harry trudges through the thick snow covering the path, brushing the few final flakes from his shirt, he doesn’t turn to look back at the bungalow. Emotional situations set his magic on edge, and he can still feel it, the craving, crawling beneath his skin, despite the enjoyably reckless weather magic. He heads back towards Rhian’s at first, intending to call it a night, but then his eyes light on the bridge to the cliff road, and in another burst of spontaneity he turns off and away from the village, heading up the winding path.

He lies down on top of the wall outside Draco’s shop, closing his eyes against the twinkling lights, picturing Narcissa’s bony hands as she fumbled through the record collection, her carefully concealed clumsiness, the uncertainty behind her eyes even as she laughed along with his jokes. Then he imagines Draco, in that house: Draco, hanging ornaments on the tree, dancing with his mother beneath a dusty garland, poking his fork disconsolately at yet another cold meat platter, Draco, explaining away his father’s absence, explaining why they couldn’t have fairies, explaining why he had to leave, night after night after night.

“You see,” comes Draco’s voice from close by, “everything is just too complicated.”

“I don’t think it’s complicated,” Harry replies, sitting forwards and swinging his legs round to face the shop. In the winter wonderland of the front window, a tiny couple skate in endless circles around a pond. “I think it’s actually very simple.”

The noise Draco makes could be either a laugh or a sob. He comes to sit beside Harry on the wall. “Well, what does it matter anyway? You’re leaving on Sunday.”

“Sunday’s still two days away,” Harry reminds him, though he can feel Draco’s glare on the side of his face.

“How do you bloody do that?” Draco demands. “Make everything seem just so – so–”

“So?”

“Oh, you know! You made it snow, for fuck’s sake. You made it snow for my mother, and how am I supposed to–”

“I’m sorry,” says Harry, grinning. “I just get carried away. See?” He waves his hand carelessly in the direction of the shop, and the door unlocks with a click, swinging open in welcome. A wiggle of Harry’s index finger stops the alarm beeping; another turns all the lights on.

“You’re completely incorrigible,” says Draco, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. “I should tell your boss.”

“I know,” says Harry, impatient, pulling him inside, the door slamming behind them before the first bar of Jingle Bells is done. “Now kiss me again.”

Draco makes a small irritated noise but complies without hesitation, throwing a covetous arm around Harry’s waist that sets him off-balance, the two of them stumbling further into the shop. Draco’s a riot of contradictions at the best of times – hot-headed yet fastidiously careful in his work, generous but flint-edged in self-preservation – and he kisses Harry like he’s angry, like he can’t help himself. He needs the control: Harry knows this much, and relinquishes it gladly, gasping as Draco bites down on his lower lip in barely-repressed frustration, pressing closer so that Draco can get his hands right up under the back of Harry’s shirt, bitten-short nails raking over Harry’s skin all the way up to his shoulderblades. Harry’s magic’s clawing at him too, desperate for an out, and it’s exhausting, sometimes, and Draco’s palms are warm against Harry’s back, and no-one’s here to see, are they?  So Harry lets his shield drop, the shop around them turning suddenly warm, the familiar faintly electrical scent of untempered magic filling Harry’s nostrils as over by the window, a cacophony of tinny music-box tunes start up unannounced. Somewhere in Harry’s periphery there are Christmas tree lights flashing at random, the air filled at once with toys and baubles and all the cast of the Nativity, the beating of reindeer hooves on the carpet like Draco’s pulse under Harry’s hands. Draco’s lips part on a gasp, and he pulls back to look first at Harry, eyes sparkling red to green to red again, then at the shop. “You’re such a dick,” he murmurs, voice unsteady, cheek soft against Harry’s as around them everything settles gently back down onto the carpet.

“That’s not what you were saying on the Veritaserum though, is it?” Harry asks, teasing, flicking lightly at the faint peak of Draco’s nipple through the fabric of his shirt. “Come on, now,” he says, taking Draco’s hand and tugging him through into the stock room. To his back are the stairs that he knows must lead up to Draco’s flat, but Draco doesn’t mention that, and Harry can’t presume, can he? so he makes do with crowding Draco back against the wall, Draco’s lip curling up slightly as he takes in the exact reversal of their earlier position.

“I can get you another chocolate if you want,” Harry tells him, kicking off his shoes, enjoying the way the shelves rattle beside them as he leans in to run his tongue up the curve of Draco’s neck. “Veritaserum again; worked a treat last time. Or one of those Tongue-Loosening tonics – I reckon that would really get you going.”

“Well, you definitely don’t need one of those,” Draco says indignantly, “not when you already blurt out every single damn thought that pops into your skull. I’m telling you, it’s so bloody–”

“Hot?”

“Annoying. Discomfiting.”

“Discomfiting? Well, you’re much too coherent,” Harry tells him, embarrassingly breathless, and he’s got one hand up in Draco’s hair now, the other hovering somewhere lower, a finger dipping beneath Draco’s waistband, between his shirt buttons, not quite making his mind up, wanting to touch – god, wanting to touch everywhere, but for once not quite sure where to start.

“Is this – this is something you want, right?” he asks, because Draco runs hot and cold faster than Rhian’s dodgy plumbing, flirting shamelessly one minute and pulling away the next, and it’s Friday, isn’t it, and Harry’s supposed to leave–

“What do you,” Draco replies, sounding frustrated, and then, “of course it is.”

“Good. Okay,” Harry says, full of relief.

“D’you really think I would have let all – all this…” Draco stumbles over the words, eyes the distant dull grey of a winter sky, and an image of Narcissa standing at her record player springs unbidden into Harry’s mind. Harry forces it aside, and – part daring, part desperation – tugs at Draco’s shirt, finally getting his hands up underneath it the way he’d wanted to earlier, all the time waiting for a protest that never comes. No, Draco lets him undo it, just fucking watching him as he fiddles with button after button, glasses slipping down his nose, until the shirt hangs open from Draco’s bony shoulders, revealing there’s a surprisingly thick patch of chest hair that Harry wants to bury his face in. He restrains himself somehow though, mindful of the task in hand, and instead moves on to Draco’s trousers, metal slipping beneath his sweaty fingers again and again until finally it gives, and then… Well, then it’s as though some kind of switch goes off in Draco’s head, and suddenly he’s everywhere: tongue in Harry’s mouth, hands tugging Harry’s belt from its loops, then shoving at Harry’s trousers with wild, impatient hands, as though Harry had been the one hesitating all along.

Now Harry hadn’t been joking earlier: he had really intended to give Draco a blowjob. It’s something he does quite a lot, the one thing he’s certain he’s good at. He’s always preferred to give than receive: the less complicated option, to his mind, although Draco would no doubt put it down to Gryffindor selflessness. It’s anything but selfless, though: Harry wants him wrecked, wants him desperate and shuddering and completely unable to think of anything but Harry. Yes, a blowjob was what Harry had intended… but then Draco had gone all pushy again: had gotten a hand inside Harry’s underwear and then around his cock without pause, all the while kissing Harry, fierce and proprietary, until Harry was quite lightheaded, just barely able to shove his hand down the front of Draco’s trousers and reciprocate.

It lacked finesse, certainly: two sets of breaths coming ragged in the now-silent room, Harry leaning too hard against Draco, swaying forward and bracing himself against Draco’s ribcage. He looks down between them – and oh god this is mental, they haven’t even got their pants off properly for goodness’ sake – and watches Draco, watches the movement of those lovely, fine-boned fingers, the slight upwards twist of his wrist as he works his hand over Harry’s shaft. This is how Draco wanks himself, Harry realises suddenly, and that thought, along with the obscene little slapping noises filling the air, brings Harry to the edge much faster than he’d like. He redoubles his efforts: quick, firm strokes that have Draco gasping – would you, just, and faster, please, if you – a litany of half-formed thoughts tripping off that sharp tongue, and Harry all the while committing to memory the exact way Draco likes to be touched. And then it’s upon him, unstoppable, and he grabs at Draco as he comes, fingernails digging into those too-bony hips, and Draco makes a small, surprised noise and arches forwards too, banging his forehead against Harry’s, sighing his release against Harry’s lips.

When Harry comes back to himself he realises that he’s still leaning against Draco: and not just leaning but squashing, and of course there’s come everywhere: their pants, Draco’s stomach, dripping down onto the cheap stockroom carpet from Harry’s still-curled fist. He grabs the shelf and tries to take a step back, but finds that his jeans are still pooled around his ankles, so he stumbles sideways instead, heel coming down hard onto a rogue pine cone. The pain is sudden and excruciating, and he cries out, hopping around on one leg with his spent cock still hanging free, cursing jeans and pine cones and everything else he can see.

Draco just watches him, silently, head back against the wall. “Well,” he drawls, expression unreadable, once Harry’s finally exhausted his stream of Christmas-themed insults.

“That’s all I get?” Harry demands, foot still throbbing. “Well?”

Draco tears open a nearby box, grabbing a couple of reindeer-covered tea towels. “Well, I suppose,” he says, “in the spirit of honesty, well is in lieu of what the bloody hell do we do now?”

“Well,” Harry says, accepting his tea towel with good grace, “I suppose the natural next step would be to invite me upstairs – unless, of course, that’s where you’ve hidden all your cursed advent calendars and suchlike.” He pauses, but Draco doesn’t react. “Alternatively,” he continues, “we can part ways now. It’s been a brilliant week, and I’ve got enough for a report, and – well, no hard feelings.”

“No hard feelings,” Draco repeats slowly.

“I like you, Draco,” Harry says, because – because maybe that’s what Draco needs to hear? “I’d like to stay. I’m not trying to – you know, complicate your life.”

“Oh please,” says Draco, straightening up and tossing the dirty towel aside, raising his eyebrows at Harry. “When has knowing you ever not complicated my life?”

Upstairs is not what Harry’s expecting, and he tells Draco as much as he noses around the place, prodding at carefully arranged cushions and an oversized monstera, snooping through cupboards and idly spinning the spice rack. It’s a studio flat, all neutrals: off-white walls, warm grey furnishings, cream marble worktops bare and sparkling clean, and the soft shimmer of an extension charm on the wardrobe is the only indication Harry can detect of its occupant’s magic. Well, that, and the pair of goggles hanging from a handle in the kitchen: not the silly school safety glasses either but proper potioneer stuff, all leather straps and fire repellent charms. Harry doesn’t know whether to blame the champagne or the weather; the recent sex, perhaps, or just the endless exposure to Christmas music driving him ever closer to madness, but picturing Draco in those goggles makes him feel slightly feral.

“What do you mean, not what you expected?” Draco demands, coming up behind Harry and placing a careful hand on his waist as he fiddles with the remote on the little television in the corner. “No ritualistic remains? No house elf heads or ancestral portraits?”

Harry laughs, leaning into him. “More like no stockings, or fairy lights, or – I don’t know, do I? It’s classy, that’s all. Nice. No giant dildos shaped like candy canes.”

“Ah,” says Draco, “but you haven’t checked the bedside cupboard, have you?”

Draco is, unsurprisingly, a restless sleeper, all angular limbs and discontented sighs, and clearly unused to sharing a bed. Harry lies beside him for a good long while, counting Hippogriffs to calm his racing thoughts and trying his best not to fidget. It doesn’t work, and in the end he gives it up for a bad job, borrowing a too-tight t-shirt from Draco’s wardrobe and heading out onto the balcony, where he magics little runnels of condensation back and forth across the glass table-top until Draco, hair sleep-tousled and eyes half-closed, shuffles out to join him, one hand on the rail. The balcony’s tight to the cliff; damp, moss-covered rock overhangs them on one side, but from the right angle a gap between stone and brick gives a postcard-perfect view of the whole village, the slumbering mishmash of buildings, the church spire climbing out of their midst to pierce the faint violet glow that’s all that remains of the day.

“This place is quite something, isn’t it?” Harry says, getting to his feet. Draco’s facing away from him, gazing out into the distance, but Harry can sense his smile. “How far’s the coast?” he asks, because he loves the coast, has always loved the coast, where Muggle and wixen alike stand as specks of sand before the tide’s eternal rhythm.

“Mmm,” says Draco, voice scratchy with sleep, “only about a fifteen minute flight to the Bristol Channel. But if you’re thinking proper beaches then you really want Devon or Dorset, and that’s more like an hour on a decent broom. Or in that car of yours, what with the speed you drive.”

“Yeah?” says Harry, and then, slow and deliberate, “because the weather next Sunday’s supposed to be quite good, I heard. Bit more of a breeze. Not bad for flying.” Draco’s gaze lights on the side of his face for a long moment. Then from somewhere below comes the rustle of bracken, the shrill, panicked bark of a deer ringing out across the valley, and Draco turns around so he’s leaning against the railings, the sharp edge of metal biting into his bare back, face upturned towards the cliff edge.

“Are you coming back to bed, then?” he asks, and five minutes later, mumbled into his pillow somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, “I thought you might have left.”

Harry doesn’t leave, and he doesn’t get up again. He’s awake for long hours though, until the dawn chorus starts up from the nests on the ridge, while beside him Draco mutters and twitches and one time grabs out at Harry’s forearm as though he’d otherwise fall.

Sleep must claim Harry eventually, though, because when he opens his eyes it’s to fierce sunlight and the insistent noise of engines revving up the hill outside. There are lips against his shoulder and fingers sliding up beneath his t-shirt, the delicious pressure of a long, lithe body against his back as he stretches, half dreaming still, glorying in in the firm pressure of Draco’s prick against his thigh.

“Morning,” he murmurs, casting a quick breath-freshening charm and then rolling over with what he very much hopes is a seductive grin. “That for me, is it?”

Draco doesn’t return his smile. “I was actually just thinking,” he says, the words clear and considered and a little too loud considering their proximity, “that you should fuck me.”

Draco’s little more than an outline, hazy and haloed, to Harry’s blinking, glassesless gaze, but Harry knows that look: his pinkened cheeks, the stubborn, unapologetic set of his chin. “I’d like to,” Harry says, an honest man in the stark light of the morning, and then, even worse, “I’ll do whatever you like, Draco.”

“Good,” Draco says, reaching down, “because that’s what I’d like. Are you going to –”

“Fuck,” says Harry, wide awake at the first brush of Draco’s hand against his groin. He sits up, tearing his t-shirt over his head and tossing it to the floor. There’s a short pause, and then Draco’s sheets follow. “Fuck, yes, okay,” Harry says, mostly to himself, while Draco rolls onto his front, still watching Harry over his shoulder, expression feline and self-satisfied. “Okay then.”

It’s warm, the cooling charms overpowered by the open window, and Harry’s sticky with it, damp at the back of his neck and beneath his arms, and the knobs of Draco’s spine glisten in the sunlight. He licks his way down them, a desperate, salt-stained path. “Are you, do you have–” he babbles, then casts without waiting for an answer, fumbling the spell in his haste, overdoing it, Draco shivering as the conjured lube splatters cold and watery against his creamy white skin.

Draco lifts his head from the pillow in displeasure. “Pull yourself together, Potter,” he says, grimacing as it drips down his thighs. “These sheets are expensive, you know.”

“Shut up,” Harry says, feeling his cheeks heat.

“Your sex god reputation lies in tatters, you know.”

“Shut up,” he says again, nipping at the curve of Draco’s arse, then using two fingers to scoop up some lube from where it’s pooled, thick and shiny, in the small of Draco’s back.

“I’ll have to write to the Proph – ah!”

“Yeah?” says Harry, trying to sound disinterested, although the nuance is probably lost on Draco by now, judging by the way his hips are coming up off the mattress as he tries to push back further onto Harry’s fingers, and the way he’s crying out, wanton and unrestrained and so very lovely. Perhaps, Harry thinks – caught up in a fleeting madcap fantasy – perhaps the flat has no privacy charms, and perhaps the sound might float out through the balcony doors and be carried on the summer breeze down to the sleepy Somerset village, that all his neighbours might be shocked awake by the sound of Draco, hands twisted in the bedsheets, begging to be fucked.

He'd like to take his time with this – would like to see Draco spread apart, unmoving, out on the balcony, or to have him over the kitchen counter, ridiculous goggles on, fucking him so maddeningly slowly he forgets his own name. He’d love nothing more than to spend a long, lazy afternoon with Draco, tangled up together in this neat little flat above the mad Christmas shop, somewhere close to the top of the world – but not today. Right now, Harry knows, is not the time for slow. They’re still working each other out – he’s still working Draco out; Draco, who’s moved to the middle of nowhere to protect his ailing mother, Draco who says that his life is too complicated when he actually means something else entirely, Draco, who wears sarcasm and cool assurance the same way he wears those novelty Christmas jumpers: a clever distraction, so no-one thinks to look beneath. Draco, who doesn’t really want very much at all, but who does want Harry to fuck him – I was actually just thinking, he’d said, hadn’t he – so what else is there for Harry to do?

“I’m going to –” he tells Draco, although it’s probably pretty obvious from their positions, the way he’s rubbing the swollen head of his cock in eager little circles against Draco’s entrance. He waits, though, despite the jumble of static and sensation that is his lust-drunk brain, for some signal – the thought having crossed his mind that perhaps, for all Draco’s firm insistence, he may not actually do this very often.

Draco just glares at Harry over his shoulder. “Any time,” he grits out.

“What, before Christmas?” Harry retorts, and Draco groans oh god at the ridiculous choice of words, and then Harry’s pressing in before Draco can change his mind, groaning himself at the feel of it, the tight heat that is, impossibly, Draco’s body, both unbearably intimate and completely overwhelming.

“Wait, I – fucking fuck,” Draco says, unbelieving, on a shaky exhale. “Fuck, you’re inside me.”

I am, thinks Harry, grateful for the pause, needing those few deep breaths just to regain control. Dazed, looking down at Draco, flushed almost halfway down his back, hair damp and just-fucked wild, Harry tries to picture other times he’s had sex, to recall any one of the nameless, faceless men he’s shagged over the years. Has it ever felt like this – like falling from his broom, like lying on the grass, gasping and lightheaded, all the air knocked out of his lungs? He doesn’t reckon it has, but he does know how summer heat can do stupid things to a person.

Draco turns towards him and jerks his head in readiness, and they fuck like that for a while – Draco with a hand beneath himself, stifling his moans in the pillow – until the thought occurs that if there’s any possibility that they’re only doing this the once, he’s damn well going to look his fill. Draco’s keen to ride him when he asks, and yes, it’s a glorious sight: Harry’s hands strong and sure on Draco’s narrow waist, Draco’s thighs clamped firm against Harry’s sides, the way his hair flashes silver in the sun with each thrust of his hips. In for a knut, Harry thinks: “God, you’re incredible,” he tells Draco, “I can’t – I –”

Draco closes his eyes on a moan, head falling back, and Harry leans forwards to suck on the puffy pink peaks of his nipples. “I was imagining this the other evening, you know,” he says, partly to get Draco going, but mostly just because he wants Draco to know.

“Yeah?” says Draco, breathless, his fist around his own cock, moving fast and with purpose now “You mean –?”

“Yeah when I – when I got back to the hotel. I couldn’t help it, Draco, I was lying in bed, and I couldn’t help thinking of you. God, Draco,” he says, eyes on Draco’s hand, “just watching you – how you touch yourself, seeing how you – uh – how you like to be touched, it’s – fuck,” Harry says, earnestly, as above him, Draco begins to shudder, thighs tensing even harder around Harry, closing his eyes and crying out as he comes, messy, all over Harry’s stomach. Draco leans forward to steady himself against the headboard, his sweat dripping down onto Harry’s forehead, his come drying cool on Harry’s torso. It’s over in a few fierce, mindless thrusts after that, Harry gripping Draco’s hips tightly, then reaching his arm around Draco to pull him down into a kiss as he follows him, breathless and grinning, over the edge.

“That was fucking amazing,” he tells Draco, in case he’s still in any doubt. “Idea, execution, the lot. O-grade stuff, really.”

“Oh god, please,” comes Draco’s embarrassed response. They’re plastered together by some unholy mix of lube and come, and Draco’s sweat-damp hair is stuck to Harry’s cheek, his knees poking uncomfortably into the meat of Harry’s thighs; even so, Harry finds he can’t wipe the smile off his face. Faintly, he becomes aware of an intermittent buzzing sound, and turns his head to locate its source.

“My alarm,” Draco informs Harry, rolling off him with a wince and heading for the bathroom. “Thirty minutes until I have to open up, so.”

“Urgh, really?” Harry says, curling onto his side and burrowing his head between the pillows, as the sound of the shower starts up from within. “Can’t you, I dunno, call in sick or something?”

“Not really, no,” Draco calls, voice echoing through the door he’s left open, “considering it’s my business and all that.”

When he emerges, it’s with a white towel wrapped around his waist. Harry still hasn’t moved. “I can make a little note for the door, you know,” he offers, curling his toes into the mattress. “Or what about a Notice-Me-Not? We could stay up here all day.”

Draco pulls on his underwear, shaking his head in disbelief. “You really are the worst influence, did you know that? Also,” he says, indicating Harry’s stomach, “you’re absolutely disgusting right now, so I’m not sure I’d want to take you up on your offer anyway–”

“Give over,” sighs Harry, Vanishing the mess with a languid wave of his hand. “You’re not going to give me even ten minutes to enjoy this?”

“Oh no, you can have as long as you like,” Draco says, frowning in thought as he selects something neon green from an Extended drawer stuffed full of novelty jumpers. “Stay here all day, I don’t mind. I’d like that. But I can’t just–”

“I know,” Harry tells him, a little rueful. “I do. I’m joking, really.”

“I wish the shop – I wish – but look, Saturday’s my busiest day, and–”

“Alright then,” says Harry, sitting up in the bed with a bounce. “I’ll help out.”

Draco pauses, one leg still bare, trousers halfway up the other. “Are you mad?” he asks, bemused.

“Probably,” Harry says, cheerfully, shuffling to the edge of the bed. “But it’d be fun, right? Maybe you’d be able to finish up quicker–”

“–well, that’s not how it works–”

“I can go get us some lunch from Sandra’s–”

“–fish and chip grease all over my stock, Potter, really?”

“And look, I’ll even let you choose one of those stupid outfits for me, how’s that sound?”

Draco glances back at his drawer. “Well,” he says, thoughtful. “You do make a compelling case. And I’m sure you’d look very fetching dressed as Mrs Claus.”

“Obviously,” Harry says, taking a few steps towards him. Draco holds up a hand.

“And you’ll take it seriously?”

“Draco, of course I will. I told you, I don’t normally–”

“Alright,” says Draco, “fine. You can help.” He turns away then, to finish getting dressed. “You drive me crazy,” he mumbles, voice small, like a confession. “Did you know that?”

It’s not clear from his tone, Harry thinks, whether it’s meant as a compliment.

“Here,” Harry says, sliding a sweet into Draco’s waiting mouth, then following it up with a kiss. It’s meant to be chaste, brief and playful, but naturally he ends up lingering just a little longer than intended, relishing the feel of Draco’s mint-flavoured breath coming uneven against his cheek, the whisper of wool against wool. Draco leans into it too at first, unthinking, then pulls back, glancing nervously towards the door.

“I know I can’t expect you to care,” he says, long-suffering, “but it would cause a real scandal around here if I got caught giving you a handjob behind the Christmas trees. People would probably boycott the place. I’d never be welcome back at St Andrew’s again, that’s for sure, and I’ve got a stall at their fete for the bank holiday weekend, so–”

“You see,” says Harry, turning back to the till, “you play all innocent and put-upon, and then you go saying things like that. I’ve been working non-stop out here, don’t you know.”

The glance Draco casts him is full of fond amusement. “Whatever, Potter. Just make sure you’re filing those card receipts like I showed you, alright? Don’t want any trouble from the tax man, after all.”

“Yes boss,” Harry says with a mocking little salute. Draco gives him the finger and then slips out the back just as the doorbell chimes its festive welcome to yet another customer. “Welcome to Pickerings,” Harry says, just as instructed, giving them a warm smile. He’s never worked in a shop before, much one supplying niche Muggle items to a mixed crowd of curious, thick-accented locals and excitable tourists in baseball caps. But then, to be fair, Harry can’t recall ever wearing a novelty Christmas jumper before either, especially in July, so it’s really a day of firsts.

Fortunately, Draco’s very nature means that everything is sorted and labelled to the point of obsession, so all that’s left for Harry to do is input the number on the label and press the button for either cash or card on the ancient-looking Muggle till. Unfortunately, it turns out that Saturdays actually are very busy, which leaves no time at all for the kind of ‘work’ that Harry had been hoping for when he’d suggested helping out: i.e. getting off with Draco in the stock room. In fact, Draco’s been almost entirely in the Wizarding section, putting the final few touches to a charmed Arctic display which, he tells Harry, he certainly would have finished last night if you hadn’t proved such a bloody distraction. Although Harry’s hardly clapped eyes on Draco since the shop opened, he can hear him through the little grate behind the till, humming contentedly to himself as he tinkers away – snatches of old Celestina tunes emerging alongside the aroma of mince pies – and Harry finds himself smiling dopily more than once.

“So that’s… onetwothreefourfive six baubles,” mutters Harry under his breath, once again regretting Hogwarts’ complete lack of anything resembling a maths curriculum, “and two medium doggy bow ties. So that’ll come to–”

“Well, if it isn’t the tax officer,” comes a loud voice from the door. Harry’s head snaps up from where he’s packaging the baubles, rolling each one delicately up in layers of tissue paper just the way Draco’s shown him.

“Morning, Rhian,” Harry says, smiling blithely down at his wrapping. He hands the customer their bag, then turns to face the music.

Rhian’s standing by the door, hand on hip, cheeks flushed from the walk. She raises one pencil-drawn eyebrow pointedly at the sight of him in his Christmas get-up. “Alright or what, Harry, eh?” she says, by way of greeting. “Missed you at breakfast this morning.”

“Did you?” he replies innocently. Over by the stockings, a middle-aged couple in matching cargo shorts have gone worryingly quiet, and Draco’s scandal warning is still ringing in his ears.

“Oh yes,” Rhian says, with relish. “You must have left very early. Sleep well, did you?”

“I did, thank you.”

“’Cause I’m just saying, you look a little–”

“–Good morning, Rhian!” Draco says pleasantly, wiping his hands on his jeans as he emerges from the stock room. “What brings you up the hill so early, then?”

“Oh, not much, not much. I was just coming to ask Harry here if he were still planning on checking out today, or whether he wanted to book in for another night. Of course, if he’s found somewhere else to–”

“No, no,” Harry says, all too aware of Draco’s eyes boring a hole into the side of his head. “Tomorrow’s fine, please. If that’s alright.” Rhian’s eyes flick across to Draco, then back to Harry. “I’ll be back down later on,” he says, weakly, mentally imploring her to leave.

“Right, good,” she says, shifting aside reluctantly to make room for some more customers. “Anyway, glad to see you enjoying yourself, boys. Made up for you both, really. Cracking outfit there, lovie,” she adds, nodding at Draco.

“Harry picked it out,” Draco lies, clearly enjoying himself. I’m The Gift, it reads, and he takes a few steps towards Rhian, pulling off some imaginary lint and displaying it proudly. Harry rolls his eyes: clearly, the line between tantalising rumour and irredeemable scandal is significantly thinner than he’d previously realised.

“Harry? Is that–?!” The stranger’s exhilaration is palpable, his voice practically overflowing with some horribly familiar mix of awe and veneration. He’s also extremely loud, and right by Rhian’s ear. She jumps back, startled, as Harry’s stomach drops through the floor.

“It can’t be.”

“The scar, though, I – Harry? Harry Potter?”

All of them – Harry, Draco, Rhian, the nosy couple in the corner – turn, as one, towards the oddly-dressed family huddled in the tableware section, who, in turn, are all staring expectantly at Harry.

“Yes?” Harry says, warily. Beside him, Draco’s stopped preening, and is, in fact, beating a hasty retreat back behind his counter. Harry sort of wants to laugh, or possibly be sick.

“Don’t you remember me?” says the man – and bloody hell, thinks Harry, he really could have done a better job at Transfiguring his robes, couldn’t he? “Glenn Gudgeon. Met you at the Lovegood wedding, a few years back.”

“Mr Gudgeon, of course,” Harry says, smiling blandly.

“What a surprise, boys, eh?” he says, undeterred, as most people are, by Harry’s obvious lack of enthusiasm. “We’d heard about this place in the Prophet, thought we’d check it out on our way down to the Hollow, but you don’t exactly expect to see a celebrity up here, do you?”

Celebrity? Rhian mouths, eyes wide.

“We thought you were working at the Ministry,” adds the woman beside him, who looks rather like an oversized bat in what appears to be a full-length woollen poncho.

“The Ministry?” Rhian cuts in, equally fascinated. “You mean Revenue and Customs?”

“Sorry?” Glenn asks, blinking in confusion, as though he’s only just noticed her existence.

Their youngest boy, quite obviously bored with the conversation, presses a nearby button. Have a holly jolly Christmas! sings Santa loudly, beginning to jiggle back and forth on his plinth, as Harry takes grateful advantage of the distraction. “Oh, I get around,” he tells them, ushering the whole family over towards the back of the store. “Nice to get out of the office, you know how it is. Anyway, Draco’s got some stuff your boys would love to see, if you’d just head on through here. Do mind the mistletoe –it’s the sticking variety…”

I’ll explain later, he mouths to Rhian, feeling queasy at the very thought.

“Well, that went better than expected,” says Draco, twenty minutes later, emerging from the stock room. The Gudgeons had shaken Harry’s hand most effusively on their way out, each of them clutching bags stuffed full of merchandise, promising to stop off on their way home. “Apparently you’re good for business. Suppose I might have to keep you around, then.”

“Might you,” says Harry wryly, selecting another mint from the jar.

The weather’s turning.

Harry watches the clouds gather, low and heavy; patches of shade appearing one by one, then merging and spreading across the Somerset landscape like spilled ink before his feet. All the little sailboats are fleeing the lake, tiny white triangles heading for the shore, and the air’s ripe with the scent of ozone, close and sticky and charged, like something vital’s hanging in the balance. Harry feels the gravity of it all pressing down and down on his ribcage, and he shuffles a little closer to the edge, magic at the tips of his fingers, heart beating a little faster in response.

The pop of Apparition, when it comes, almost sends him tumbling straight off the cliff. He stumbles back, gasping.

“It’s not that bad, surely,” comes Draco’s drawl from somewhere behind him.

“Jesus, Draco, I wasn’t going to… anyway, what the hell? You’re just randomly appearing smack bang in the middle of Muggle areas now?”

Draco’s laugh is almost a scoff as he settles down on the rock, crossing one long leg over the other. “Oh, you’re getting high and mighty about the Statute all of a sudden?”

“No, I – fuck. You startled me, that’s all. Are you even supposed to Apparate in this weather? What if you’d been struck by lightning, or–”

“Here,” says Draco, patting the rock beside him. He holds out Harry’s water bottle, filched from Draco’s kitchen, which shines with sweat from the run. “Calm down. Have a drink, won’t you?”

Harry sits, feet scraping against the dusty ground as he stretches out his legs, and takes a swig. Draco sits quietly beside him, uncharacteristically austere in a plain grey t-shirt and shorts, eyes on the birds, dipping low in the sunless sky. “So,” he says.

“So?”

“So, you never actually told me if I passed the inspection.”

Harry laughs, nudging Draco’s arm with his own. “Well, I’ve been waiting to see if you’d own up to drugging the locals.”

Draco pales, pulling away. “I – I don’t know what you’re – what d’you mean?”

“Mince pies?” Harry prompts, raising an eyebrow.

“No, look,” Draco says, folding his arms in front of him, “it’s just a silly thing, alright? I’m not – it’s not malicious or anything, I swear – please don’t–” He sighs. “When I first took over the shop, everything was dreadful. Getting all my permits from the Ministry was a nightmare, not to mention all the Muggle paperwork, and Mother was so unsettled by the move. I’d never really been around Muggles before, and I kept worrying I’d accidentally get my wand out and be thrown in Azkaban for hate crimes or something, and – well, it was just so bloody lonely.”

“Right,” says Harry. There’s a breeze now, just started up, cutting fresh and cool through the muggy air. It plucks at the hem of Draco’s t-shirt, ruffles the back of his hair.

“Worst of all, it turned out everyone adored the old couple who used to run the place; god, you’d think I’d bloody murdered them or something, the way the locals looked at me. And then one day I mixed up the mince pie batches – put Cheering Charms on the Muggle ones, left the magical ones plain. It was an honest mistake, I swear. By the time I realised, Sandra had brought half the village back to try them, and everyone was being so friendly, and they kept on coming back, and–”

“It’s alright,” Harry says. “I get it. I’m not going to tell.” Beside him, Draco relaxes a fraction. “I mean, professionally I’m advising you to stop, but – hey, what actually did happen to the previous owners?”

“Bridget and Jerry?” asks Draco, frowning. “Nothing, why? I saw the shop just after we’d put the deposit down on the bungalow, and we got chatting. Their daughter lived in Weymouth, and she was having a baby, and they wanted to move closer to her. I made them a very generous offer, naturally, and that was that: suddenly I owned a Christmas shop, and – what?”

“Oh, nothing,” Harry says, trying to hide his no doubt embarrassingly affectionate smile behind his water bottle.

“No, really, what’s that look for?” Draco demands. “Did you think I’d bumped them off too?”

“No,” says Harry, rolling his eyes, “obviously I didn’t think you’d bumped them off.”

“Good.”

“Obliviated them, maybe,” Harry concedes, with an apologetic shrug, “but–”

“For fuck’s sake.” Draco shakes his head, looking appalled. He’s still wearing that stupid fucking earring, Harry notices. “Look, mince pies are one thing, Potter.”

“Oh, I’m back to Potter now, am I?”

Lightning flashes in the distance, catching Harry’s eye. It’s still several seconds before the answering roll of thunder echoes across the valley, but Harry throws up a quick shield charm around the pair of them, just in case. On the cliff opposite, a group of climbers are packing up their gear, hanging around the edge nervously as the last of them scrambles as fast as he can up the rock face.

“Hey, d’you reckon I could do that?” Harry asks.

“Could, or should?” returns Draco, raising his voice over the accelerando pit pat of raindrops, which land heavy against the shield charm and then slide down slowly to the ground. Across the gorge, the climber hauls himself up and over the edge, lifting his t-shirt to wipe the sweat and rain off his face as his friends dart in behind him to gather up the rope. Draco’s nose is wrinkled in obvious distaste just watching them, and Harry wants to kiss it: even leans in, slightly, before thinking twice and pulling away. He's leaving today after all; that much is not in question. It’s what drove him out of Draco’s bed this morning, what drove him to Transfigure his awful fucking work shoes into a pair of equally uncomfortable running shoes, and what, eventually, drove him here: to the edge of a gorge on the edge of a storm, taunting the elements with his pathetic shield charm.

The rain stars up in earnest, then, whipping sideways, forcing aside the whole week’s stale air. A few drops make it through the magic; beside him, Draco suppresses a shiver.

“I don’t do this a lot,” Draco says. His eyes are dark, reflecting stormclouds, and there’s a thin edge of vulnerability to his voice that Harry knows he must resent.

“No?” Harry replies, playing it down. “Well, if it helps, I’d never have guessed. Not many eligible candidates in the thriving social hotspot that is North Somerset, then?”

“I don’t mean that,” says Draco, colour rising in his cheeks. “I mean – well. I suppose it depends what you–” 

“Listen, I’ve been thinking,” Harry interrupts, taking pity on him, “I might stop by next weekend, if you’re free.”

“Oh,” Draco says, thoughtful. He looks down at his hands, pink and angry with the cold, then back up at Harry. “Why. When I – with my mother – why?”

Harry fights the urge to roll his eyes. “Well, I suppose I can pretend it’s on my way somewhere, or that I find myself in desperate need of a set of Christmas mugs. Why d’you think, idiot? Or, what, d’you think I’d drive two hours down the M4 out of pity?”

“I don’t know,” says Draco, his voice wavering. “You seem to like driving.”

“The thing is, you see,” Harry says carefully, “my life is very simple. I used to keep it that way, but lately, I’ve been thinking that it could use a bit of… complicating.” The storm’s close now, forked lightning over the village, a charge in the air that’s playing havoc with Harry’s magic – but on the horizon, behind the rolling hills, the sky’s getting light again. He squeezes Draco’s hand, cupping it between his own for warmth. “What are you afraid of?”

“I don’t know,” Draco replies, and then – “you’ll get bored of me soon. Of all this, probably.” His eyes flick down towards the village, and he shrugs minutely, and that’s when Harry knows he’s won. It’s reflected in his expression, he’s sure, in the smile so wide it makes his cold cheeks ache. “No, I mean it,” Draco tells him, crossly. “And I can’t leave her, Harry. If you want to go away somewhere, if you want me to come up to London–”

“Draco–” Harry tries, one hand cupping the sharp line of Draco’s jaw.

“–and besides, you don’t even really like Christmas,” Draco says, a final, half-hearted protest, even as his eyes fall closed.

Harry leans in. “You know, I never thought I did,” he concedes, the words whispered against Draco’s lips, “but recently, I've found, it's really starting to grow on me.”