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dralentines-day · 8 years ago

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Gift #13, @musings-of-a-retired-unicorn

If you retire from anything, love, I hope for your sake that it isn’t Drarry. @musings-of-a-retired-unicorn , this one is for you!!

Our gifter says:

“I hope you enjoy this complete and utter fluff fest. I hate Valentine's Day as much as Harry and Draco do, but this made it fun. Happy Valentine's Day!”

The Second Mouse Gets the Cheese - Harry and Draco hate Valentine's Day, but Hermione and Ginny goad them into competing in a Valentine's Day contest. Their competitive natures get the better of them, and they end up with a Snake of Inter-House Cooperation, among other things. 17K.

Tags: Harry/Draco, Hermione/Ron, Ginny/Blaise. Established relationship. EWE. Everyone is super well adjusted--ZERO ANGST. Except Ron whining about having to come up with a Valentine's gift.

Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy are slumped against each other on their cushy leather sofa, sharing a smirk, as they do. The smirk, though completely silent, communicates exasperation, amusement, and the anticipation of an argument they’ve had so many times that it is as worn as Harry’s favorite pair of trainers.

Sitting around their large dining room table across the room are their friends, gathered for what is probably the 54th installment of the Potter-Malfoy monthly dinner party. It is January, the fire is roaring, and on the mantle is a shimmering snowman figurine that was forgotten in the post-Christmas clean up. On the table are a dozen dishes emptied of Harry’s beloved lasagna.

Luna grabs a half-spent bottle of elf-made mead from Neville and pours herself another glass. She looks toward the sofa with a curious look in her eye, points a dancing finger at them, and intones, “I don’t understand why you don't like Valentine’s Day when you’re obviously so in love. Most people who hate it are lonely.”

Pansy whips her head out of the door to the kitchen and yells, “She’s right, you know. You two make me want to vomit at least once a week with your eye-sex. And your eye-making-love. And your eye-whatever-else-it-is-you-do.” Her head disappears as she rummages in a drawer only to return a moment later with a devilish smirk on her face, “And I’ve had sex with one of you, and have to say I don’t know what the fuss is, anyway.”

Draco lifts his gaze from his fingers, which are drumming on a martini with several more olives than are strictly necessary. His eyebrow arches in a testament to his Malfoy-Black genes as he drawls, “With you, Pans, there was no fuss.”

“Okay, okay, Merlin, enough,” Ron hollers. “You’re going to need to break out some better Firewhiskey if I have to listen to this.”

Pansy wanders in armed with a box of the French chocolates that Narcissa regularly sends and Pansy regularly locates, no matter what preposterous places Harry and Draco concoct to hide them. She holds them up with a flourish. “Who would like some chocolates?”

Harry says, in a dramatically confidential voice, “Maybe we can magic a secret shelf into the closet, and ward it with a spell that convinces guests that a half-naked Kingsley Shacklebolt is in the room down the hall, thereby superseding all Pansy’s thoughts of chocolate?”

Neville groans. “Oh gods, why do you always have to bring that up? That conversation has haunted my nightmares for years.”

“I am not ashamed. I stand by what I said,” Pansy declares, popping a chocolate-covered cherry in Neville’s mouth. “Kingsley Shacklebolt is a prime specimen of man. Half-naked Shacklebolt might indeed entice me away from my chocolate hunting.”

Hermione starts to giggle uncontrollably in a way that betrays the tension that, no, she is not a prude, and, yes, she has a sparkling sense of humor, but that talking about the Minister for Magic as a half-naked sex object is just not done. “Honestly,” she manages to get out, “we can’t objectify men that way.”

“Rubbish,” Ginny teases from atop Blaise’s lap. “I’ll stop objectifying them when they stop objectifying me.” She leans over to whisper something in Blaise’s ear with a fierce look in her eye that soon has Blaise barking with booming laughter that fills the entire first floor.

“I dunno, Gin,” Harry teases, “I wouldn’t take part in this conversation if I were you. I think you bear at least fifteen percent of the blame for my hatred of Valentine’s Day. His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad—”

About when Harry reaches the word “eyes,” Ron’s eyes light up and he jumps out of his chair, nearly upending Hermione. “His hair is as dark as a blackboard!”

Draco, always eager to participate in poking fun at Harry, in general, and at Harry’s previous relationship calamities, in particular, chimes in with a dramatic arm flourish, “I wish he was mine. He’s really divine!”

“THE HERO THAT CONQUERED THE DARK LORD,” they all finish.

Ginny, several firewhiskeys in and fierce as always, exclaims, “I. WAS. TWELVE!” to general laughter.

“No, no, no, no, you know what?” Ginny continues, looking scheming. She hops off of Blaise’s lap in an impressive way that reveals her Quidditch training, landing next to Hermione and shooting her a sidelong glance before looking back at Harry and Draco. “I don’t think you two actually hate Valentine’s Day. I think,” she pauses for effect, “that you’re incapable of being romantic. I think…you’re scared.”

Hermione cottons on immediately. With a glint of challenge in her eyes she says, “Oh come on, Ginny. Leave them alone. They’re happy, so what does it matter? It’s obvious that they’re incapable of romance because neither of them was shown enough love in childhood.”

Draco is rolling his eyes, but Harry’s heart rate is starting to rise. Draco notices Harry’s sudden shoulder tension and glances over at him. He well knows that Harry used to harbor anxieties about his ability to be an emotionally functional member of a family, and he well knows that Harry puts an incredible amount of effort into his relationships in order to banish all memory of Dursleyish family life through sheer force of will. The monthly dinner that they are enjoying is evidence enough of that. Hermione and Ginny, of course, know this, as well.

Harry lets out a slightly strained bark of laughter. “Come on, you two. I am not going to fall for that. You know that we show love for each other all the time.”

“I just can’t help but notice,” says Ginny in a quiet, sly voice, “that everyone here who is in a relationship who didn’t have a fucked up childhood happens to love Valentine’s Day.”

“Gin!” Harry is getting even more riled now. Ginny loves Harry’s rants and knows just how to provoke them. “We don’t need to celebrate a stupid, invented holiday, the real purpose of which is to throw galleons in the Gringott’s vaults of crap-producers, to show love for each other! Look, we’re showing love for each other right now!” He raises their linked hands off Draco’s lap. “We show love all over the place! We do the love thing all over the wizarding public and on the front page of the Prophet more times than I’d like to remember—”

“Excuse me, Harry,” Blaise interrupts, “You do ‘the love thing’ all over town and on the front of the Prophet? I must have missed that issue. I really would’ve liked to see that. Well not so much that I want to see you two going at it any more than I already do—there was that one unfortunate incident when you forgot to block the Floo—but I would like to imagine the faces of thousands of old witches opening up that morning paper.”

Pansy cackles. “I would’ve framed that. You’ve definitely never had sex on the front page of the Prophet.”

“Not for lack of trying on the part of the Prophet staff, though,” Hermione teases. “Rita would’ve retired on the spot, because how can you top that?”

“‘How can you…top….’” Ginny giggles.

“Oi!” Ron yells, interrupting her.

For a moment, it seems that the teasing has passed. Ginny’s waning fit of laughter is effectively preventing her from continuing her goading. But then Hermione, ever in control of herself, says, “Okay, then. If you two are so into showing your love for each other, you’ll be happy to agree to a friendly contest.”

Draco snorts. “You can’t have a love ‘contest,’ Granger. There’s no way to objectively measure love.”

Hermione smiles. “We can’t judge love, of course, but we can judge the most romantic Valentine’s gift.”

“Oooooh, I like this plan,” Ginny enthuses, drumming her fingers together like a cartoon villain.

“Oh Merlin, no,” Ron gasps, “I don’t want to encourage Ginny and Blaise. Of course she thinks it’s a good idea. I still can’t believe that I had to make personalized fireworks that sang the praises of my sister’s arse last year.”

Blaise, looking regal at the end of the table, retorts, “It’s not my fault you chose to work at Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes, purveyors of the best personalized fireworks in the British Isles. And Ginny loved those fireworks.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” says Hermione. “Harry and Draco won’t agree to the contest. Like you said, Ginny, they’re scared. We shouldn’t pick on them for the legacies of their troubled pasts.”

Harry knows they’re trying to trick him into agreeing to the contest. He knows this rationally. But his rational brain doesn’t seem to be in communication with the rest of his brain. He can feel his heart beating. His neck is prickly. His magic is thrumming around him. Harry, though, is an adult, and he manages to keep all of this to a fairly low level. Hermione and Ginny can’t goad him.

Draco, ever attuned to Harry, feels the magic coming off of him in waves and glances over. Oh, but if Draco isn’t undone by Harry’s power. Of course, Draco loves everything about Harry. Draco loves his sass and his messy hair and his impulsivity and the way he lets his careless affection and enthusiasm bubble into everything and onto everyone he touches. But while all of those parts of Harry make Draco’s chest swell with a feeling of bottomless love and affection and contentment, they don’t light his blood on fire with desire. But when Harry displays the unadulterated power of his magic, or when he walks confidently into an event causing a hundred witches and wizards to instantly hush and turn, wondering what just changed in the room, Draco is lost. Just last week, the Potter-Malfoys had walked into a meeting at the Ministry and immediately dominated the discussion on werewolf rights, which they had been invited to in a merely advisory capacity, but which Harry had taken as an opportunity to offer his opinions with such zeal and authority that even the wizard who had drafted the preliminary legislation had vanished his work in favor of hurriedly jotting down Harry’s extemporaneous words. When they had left the room (effectively having changed the course of legislation on werewolf rights), Harry’s magical aura had been so intense that the lights in the corridor blazed blindingly and then flickered out. Draco had, naturally, pushed him into the restroom, warded the door labelled “Wizards” behind them, and uttered a nonverbal spell to unfasten Harry’s trousers.

So when Draco glances to his right and feels Harry’s magic tingling his skin and sees the power in Harry’s eyes, he puts on his most Malfoyish sneer and says, “Scared, Potter?”

The words aren’t loud or particularly venomous, but every person in the room is instantly silent. Harry whips his head toward Draco and their friends watch intently, thrilled with the entertainment. Blaise mimes eating popcorn to Ginny, but Harry and Draco, having eyes only for each other, miss this entirely. “What did you just say?” Harry enunciates carefully.

“I said, are you scared, Potter?” Draco’s grey eyes are dancing, and the challenge of his words echoes in the room.

Harry is trying so hard to be an adult and not let the others bait him into a stupid contest about a stupid holiday. He hunted down Horcruxes and killed Voldemort and helped rebuild the wizarding world and overcame childhood animosities. Surely he can keep himself under control at a little provocation like this. But, while he is more than capable of keeping himself in control in response to poking from Ginny or Hermione, with Draco he is lost. Those grey eyes are sparkling and those pointy words are poking his very soul. He can’t decide if he wants to hex Draco, dive into a Wronski Feint and beat him to the snitch, or throw him against a wall and ravage him. Really, he wants to do all three. Hermione and Ginny can’t successfully goad him, but Merlin, Draco can.

“You wish, Malfoy,” Harry breathes out in a dangerous voice. “I can make the most romantic gift with both hands tied behind my back.”

Pansy shrieks in excitement. “As kinky as that may be, Potter, we need to discuss the terms of the contest. Neville, Luna, and I—as the unattached members of the group—will be the judges. That leaves our participants as the Granger-Weasels, Blaise and his spunky ginger, the Boy Who Lived, and the Boy Who Loved the Boy Who Lived. The object is to make the most romantic gift, though the gift can’t be sex because really I don’t have the stomach for that, at least not with you people as the participants.”

“I will grant bonus points to anyone who manages to incorporate the words ‘fresh pickled toad’ into their romantic gesture,” offers Neville, earning a pillow to the face from Ginny.

“Godric’s pants,” moans Ron, “Can I just forfeit now?”

Hermione swats at him. “When will we judge the gifts?”

Draco smiles. “At next month’s dinner, of course. If you’re lucky, I’ll convince Harry to make something other than treacle tart.”

Everyone begins to bustle around, helping to clean up the mess. Blaise takes his standard place as the king of dishwashing, while Hermione spells clean the dining area. They laugh and trash talk each other’s chances at making a romantic gesture.

“Honestly, Ginny,” jokes Hermione, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do a single romantic thing that doesn’t involve Quidditch. There’s no chance you’re winning.”

Ginny, ignoring the reference to Blaise’s last birthday, on which Ginny had to play a game against the Montrose Magpies and had charmed her hair to say “Happy Birthday, Blaise!” while she shot around the pitch, bites right back, “And Ron has a chance? I was there when he proposed to you, and it was the most pitiful thing I’ve ever witnessed. It’s a miracle Rose even exists, knowing him.”

“Oi!” Ron yells, as Hermione throws her arm around him, blushing, and reassures him that she did, indeed, love his pitiful proposal.

Harry and Draco stand by the cabinets, putting away dishes with magic, while fixing each other with challenging glares. Harry’s magic is thrumming even more than before, and Draco is so distracted that he manages to levitate a stack of plates toward the bin instead of the cabinet. Hermione, amused, flicks her wand and sends the plates where they belong.

Harry and Draco are all over each other before the last of them are through the Floo. They don’t make it to the bedroom, though they do remember—thanks to Blaise’s recollection—to close the Floo.

*********

Despite Draco’s challenge, he and Harry agree about Valentine’s Day. Nine years ago, as they approached their first Valentine’s Day as a couple, they spent weeks trying to figure out how the other felt about the holiday. Any time someone would mention it, or they would see garish pink crap in the market, they would sneak glances at each other. Thinking, does he actually want to celebrate this crap holiday? Because, even though they each hated it, they would’ve put in some minimal effort if it was important to the other. Finally, Harry broke. “Okay this is ridiculous, I can’t just figure this out, are we celebrating Valentine’s Day or not, because this is a stupid holiday but I refuse to be one-upped by you so if you’re getting me something, I need to know, and if you care, I need to know how much effort to put in because even though I don’t give a crap about this dumb holiday, I give a crap about you, you big git, and I don’t want to arse this up.” Draco had watched this explosion with amusement and relief, and answered Harry by grabbing him by the shoulders and kissing him. He backed away slightly to murmur into Harry’s mouth, “I hate Valentine’s Day, too, you prat, let’s just stay home and make fun of mushy Valentine’s couples on that telly of yours.” It was, like most important things in life, a subject on which they were in complete agreement.

Because Draco and Harry, though prickly and argumentative about all manner of little things (“Aren’t you ever going to learn to make a proper cup of tea?” “You can’t possibly believe that jumper belongs in the same hemisphere as those trousers”), are unbelievably compatible. After so many years together, they live in the comfortable expectation of perfect agreement on all matters.

When they first told their friends and relations about their relationship, everyone seemed to think that the couple was blind to an obvious incompatibility.

“But Draco,” Lucius and Narcissa had implored, “You aren’t using your head. Harry Potter was raised by Muggles and doesn’t understand any of the pureblood traditions that have shaped your entire world. He won’t understand even half of your motivations and assumptions.”

“But Harry dear,” Molly had said, “I know you believe in second chances and redemption for the sake of the peace of the wizarding world, and we all respect that, really we do. But he has the Dark Mark, dear. He lived with Voldemort! We really don’t know the long-term effects of what that does to a person. We just want you to be safe.”

Harry and Draco had sat with countless cups of tea in countless drawing rooms with anxious friends and family. They weren’t even ruffled by the anxiety of their families. They said the same thing to all of them: “We appreciate your concern, but we are happy. So keep an open mind or fuck off.” Well, Draco had only used those exact words to his own father; the rest had received less colorful variations thereof.

And quickly—more quickly than Harry or Draco had hoped—all of their friends and relations had realized that the supposed insurmountable incompatibility between the Saviour and the Death Eater was actually nonexistent. If anything, Harry and Draco were so instantly compatible that their friends were left gaping, wondering how they hadn’t realized the glaring obviousness of it years ago. If anything, their relationship left everyone else feeling that they were the ones who could never understand HarryandDraco. It was HarryandDraco interacting with everyone else and against the world, not Harry and Draco against each other.

They bicker and gripe at each other all the time, of course. Their relationship is not made of soft edges and silky words. It is made of strong emotions—honesty, anger, desire, love, annoyance, power. Neither of them feels anything lightly, and together they are what the writers in the Daily Prophet like to call “unstoppable.” They are “Harry, would you listen to what this fucking pillock at the Potions Association owled me in response to my inquiry about permission to experiment on improving Blood-Replenishing Potion using powdered asphodel…” and “I am absolutely not letting you cook with those chilies you brought back from Texas last year! Those are for your potions, not my dinner!” and “Draco, tell me that you did not agree to an appearance at a function without consulting my schedule! You absolute git, I need to mark a Hippogriff-sized stack of papers that weekend and now I am not going to get a wink of sleep!” and “Harry James Potter, for the love of Salazar, there is absolutely no way I am going to dinner with you looking like a pauper—a Muggle pauper, at that.”

And sometimes they make other people uncomfortable with their bickering and their intensity and what Pansy refers to as their “eye sex,” but they never leave anyone with any impression other than that Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy are madly in love. They are, in fact, the gossip column of the Prophet’s preferred standard against which to measure relationship bliss. When Demelza Robins and Orson Scrimgeour’s engagement was front-page news, Rita Skeeter attempted to get Ginny on record with a quote about “how in love Demelza and Orson are, on a scale of 1 to Harry and Draco?” Witch Weekly once ran a quiz called “Is He Draco to Your Harry?” (The framed quiz is featured prominently in Pansy’s exquisitely decorated powder room.)

But their love, though obvious, is not demonstrative. It is strong and sure, but it isn’t Valentinesy.

*********

Harry wakes up slightly hungover and disoriented the following morning. He stretches his head and sees Draco sitting up against the headboard sporting his reading glasses. Draco is studying a book that is so large it has no business being read in a bed.

Harry groans. “How are you so perky? Didn’t you drink three martinis last night? What time is it? Go make me tea if you’re so awake.”

Draco holds up one finger at him, jots down some notes on his bedside parchment, and charms his book to remember his place. “Sorry, I am about six layers deep into my Phineas Bourne.” He looks up. “I had one martini, and three martinis’ worth of olives,” he corrects, silently passing Harry a vial of his personalized (excellent) Hangover Potion from the drawer.

Harry chugs the potion. “Thanks,” he says. “Your Phineas Bourne has no business being read in bed on a Saturday morning. That is clearly a desk book.”

“Any book can be a bed book if you have an attention span longer than a billywig’s.”

Harry groans again. “Give me five minutes for your potion to make me feel human again before I can engage in verbal sparring.” Draco snorts and returns to his Phineas Bourne.

Harry rolls onto his back and stares out the bedroom window. A slushy grey snow covers the ground, but the sky is clear. “Do you have time to go flying this weekend?”

“Maybe, if I can finish these notes. How are you coming on your marking?”

“Er, I have a good bit left. You know, I thought when I started a primary school I would have less marking than I would as a teacher of Hogwarts-aged students, but it never seems to end.”

“I know as well as you do that you started a wizarding primary school to offer quality education to all magical children regardless of their backgrounds, not because you were trying to skive off marking papers.” Draco doesn’t even look up from his book. “So let’s get straight to work after breakfast and maybe we will have time for flying. I could use some motivation here, and nothing better for that than to kick your arse in a seekers’ game.”

“Are we really going to compete to see who can be the most romantic Valentine?” Harry asks, screwing up his face.

Draco looks right into Harry’s bright green eyes. “If you mean, am I going to kick your arse in being romantic even more than I am going to kick your arse in Quidditch, the answer is undoubtedly.”

Harry eyes him carefully, eventually breaking into a cheshire grin. “You wish, Malfoy.”

“As long as we don’t let one of the Granger-Weasleys or Ginny or Blaise win. That would be mortifying.” Draco wrinkles his nose.

************

After breakfast, Draco gathers up his books and notes and ambles to his home lab, somehow managing to look graceful even carrying a teetering stack of ponderous books.

Harry grabs a big mug of tea and bounds up the stairs to his office, throwing open the door. He smiles. He loves his office, and he loves teaching, and he loves his students. And he really does hate marking papers. He puts his tea on the desk, accidentally sloshing the deep amber liquid over the side. “Bollocks,” he murmurs, vanishing the spilled tea. He sits down at his desk and looks around. On the wall to the left he has tacked up dozens of notes and pictures drawn by his students and his nieces and nephews. In the center is a prized drawing of Harry and Draco with Teddy labelled, “I LUV YOU HARY AND DRACO LUV TEDDY.” On the right of his desk is an assortment of objects, some ridiculous and some useful. In front he sees the magical stamp Draco bought him for Christmas. Its purpose is to write denigrating comments on student papers. The first time he tried it (not on an actual student’s paper, of course), it stamped “Try again, you dolt!” in magically changing colors. He looks out the large window. The promise of Quidditch with Draco eventually brings him to his task. He grabs the first paper (Fortescue, Amelia) off the stack and begins.

The world is quiet with the sounds of rustling papers and occasional cursing from Draco’s lab down the hall (“fucking Potions Association” and “Good grief, Wolfsbane can’t be used for that, you great idiot!”). Harry gets through about fifteen papers before his mind starts to wander, which is pretty good for him, attention-wise. He tries to bring his attention back to the paper in front of him (Smith, Alastair) but he can’t stop thinking about how he will win the Big Romance Challenge. It shouldn’t be so hard, he thinks, all he really has to do is be the biggest idiot he can imagine.

Harry groans. But no, that will never work. Hearts and pink and frills are not going to win any contest. Not with Pansy, Luna, and Neville as judges. And he surely will win, because he’s Harry fucking Potter! No, he needs to come up with something that is so thoughtful, so full of love, so perfect for Draco that no one can ever second-guess his ascendancy.

Maybe he should think back to the beginning of their relationship and try to locate something romantic that way. There’s nothing obvious. They don’t have a song, or a dance, or a sappy movie. He thinks back to the first days of their relationship, when things were strangely new but still managed to feel settled. When they were a bit unsure about the feelings of the other, but still totally comfortable, the way one is with someone one has known for a decade. When they would laugh and argue and inevitably end up in a tangle of crashing, sweaty, grasping limbs.

Harry thinks back to the moment their relationship broke in the Prophet, when suddenly the reality of their publicity came crashing home. Harry had seen the paper and almost collapsed in anxiety, looking at the photo strip of the two of them splashed all over the front page: in the top frame, Harry making a face and Draco scowling; in the second frame, looking at each other in obvious adoration; in the third frame, kissing so far down each other’s throats an onlooker might not realize they were looking at two bodies; in the final frame, still kissing, having been knocked off the photo booth seat in their enthusiasm and almost out of the frame entirely. The headline screamed, “FORBIDDEN ROMANCE REVEALED: THE CHOSEN ONE AND THE DEATH EATER.” Harry had dropped his mug of Earl Grey and was scrambling to dress himself when Draco Apparated to the porch of Harry’s flat. Harry had thrown open the door, revealing Draco standing there in a pair of black silk pants and a Puddlemere United shirt, holding a copy of the Prophet, and somehow still managing to look posh. They had looked at each other for a moment, trying to gauge how much the other was freaking out. Then at the same second they both dissolved into laughter, wandered inside to collapse on the sofa, where they proceeded to invent a few dramatic retellings of “The Chosen One and the Death Eater” that would not have been at all appropriate for the stage.

Harry looks up at his wall of photos and drawings and locates the original copy of that photo strip. (They never did find out how the Prophet had managed to snag a copy of it.) Their hair is different now, and they look more adult—the lines of their faces harder, their shoulders broader—but the most striking thing is how little has changed. So much of their lives have been plastered on the front page of the Prophet since that day, but he (and Draco) had always known that would be the way. They had accepted it long ago and developed a mostly congenial relationship with the press, figuring that antagonism would only make matters worse. On the bright side, Harry thinks, they will never forget any of the minutiae of their lives, since the Prophet and Witch Weekly backstories on the Potter-Malfoys could probably fill three or four Phineas Bournes.

Harry lets out a short bark of laughter. He knows how to win the Idiotic Romeo Challenge.

*********

Draco sits in his lab in the enormous, stately chair he stole from the Manor when he moved into 12 Grimmauld Place with Harry nearly eight years ago. His home lab is impressive, filled with carefully labelled ingredients, dozens of cauldrons, walls of books, and back editions of Modern Potioneer. On the wall is a framed copy of the official Potion Association approval of Draco’s first original potion formulation, hard won after months of rigorous testing and bureaucratic nonsense. “Draco Lucius Malfoy,” it reads, “is hereby permitted to sell the product and/or the formula for Non-Habit-Forming Dreamless Sleep, which is hereby deemed safe and effective by the Board of Potioneers.” Unlike Harry’s office, which overflows with photos and crayon drawings and odds and ends, Draco’s office is austere. On his large mahogany desk rests one gilded frame holding four photos: on the left, a photo taken in the Slytherin dungeon of him, Pansy, Blaise, Millie, Vincent, Greg, and Theo; a photo of his parents taken before he started Hogwarts; a photo of him and Severus taken during fourth year; and on the right, a photo of him and Harry with Teddy, three pairs of arms wrapped around one another and three big, foolish, happy smiles.

He gives up taking notes on Phineas Bourne, at least for the moment. He’s attempting to reconcile contradictory information from the Bourne with information from two equally enormous volumes from the 1600s. It is simply not possible that infusion of wormwood can be both the solution to and the cause of his viscosity problem, so Phineas or one of the others must be wrong. But he doesn’t have the energy for it right now.

His mind wanders to the Valentine’s Day contest. Ginny, Blaise, and Hermione are cocky, but there’s no way they will win. The Weasel already knows he doesn't have a chance. Draco knows he will win the contest. The only reason he even goaded Harry into participating (well, let’s be honest, the only reason besides his unquenchable thirst for Harry getting worked up about things) was that he already had the perfect gift. He smirks to himself at his Slytherin cunning.

The problem is that, even though he already has the perfect gift, he knows that if he presents it in a mundane way, the judges will never choose him as the winner. No, he’s dealing with Pansy, Luna, and Longbottom. He, of course, loves Pansy and Luna, and even Longbottom, so he knows his audience. His audience requires flashy dramatics of some kind. But how do you strategize to please one Gryffindor (a snake-head-cutting-off Gryffindor), a Ravenclaw (a lovable but loony Ravenclaw), and a Slytherin (of the most Slytheriniest variety)? They ought to owl Ernie Macmillan so they can add an idiotic Hufflepuff to the mix, too. Wouldn’t that be a nice show of inter-house cooperation. (Harry and Draco, of course, are the poster boys for inter-house cooperation as well as for post-war unity, so the whole thing has become something of a running joke.)

Draco taps his fingers on his impressive desk, and absentmindedly arranges the large stack of papers that need dealing with. He jots down a few notes to get him rolling the next time he sits down with Phineas Bourne, placing the parchment neatly inside the front cover of the book.

No, he won’t be able to calibrate his gift presentation to the whims of Pansy, Luna, and Neville. (He certainly won’t be referencing a fresh-pickled toad, no matter what Longbottom says.) A smirk slowly creeps across Draco’s pale skin, and his grey eyes sparkle. No, he doesn’t need to come up with the perfect presentation for the judges. No. He needs to come up with the perfect, flashy, dramatic presentation for Harry. That is exactly what all three of his judges will eat up.

Only problem is, Harry hates flashy romance as much as Draco does. How do you come up with a flashy presentation for someone who will undoubtedly roll his eyes or snort derisively at anything even remotely Valentinesy? It’s not as if he can charm some tiny cupids that will deliver a message in a cloud of glitter. Anything that Gilderoy Lockhart would approve is off the table.

So, contemplates Draco, it has to be something flashy and dramatic and romantic, to satisfy his judges, but designed only for Harry, to satisfy him. Something no one but Harry would appreciate.

Draco stands up. He’s figured it out. At just that moment, Harry swings into the lab. “What are you so happy about? Did you figure out your viscosity problem?”

“No,” Draco drawls, smirking, “I figured out how I am going to beat your arse at Valentine’s Day.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Fat chance, I’ve figured mine out, too. And you know, I killed Voldemort. When I put my mind to something….”

“Oh, good grief,” Draco moans. “Not that again. Has Sarah Wood figured out her maths?”

“Merlin, no. Anyway, I can’t sit for one more second. If I do, I might not be able to stop myself from using the Dolt Stamp. Are you ready to go fly?”

*************

It’s Tuesday before Harry can find a few minutes to run to the Prophet office in Diagon Alley. He spares himself a moment outside to consider the insanity of the fact that he works incredibly hard on a relationship with a woman he despises so thoroughly. Draco finds the fake (he would call it “diplomatic”) act (he would call it “manners”) with Rita Skeeter much easier than Harry does, but Harry has learned that his trouble is well worth it. He enters the building and as he nears her office, he thinks to himself as he always does, “3…2…1…action!”

“Rita!” he enthuses boisterously, arms wide.

Rita Skeeter whips around, her jeweled spectacles glimmering in the unpleasant light of the office. “Why if it isn’t the Boy Who Lived to Make Rita Money on His Biography!” She bustles over, throwing a kiss toward each cheek. “What can I do for you, Mister Potter? I certainly hope there’s not something wrong that you need to break to your adoring public. Trouble at home? Trouble at work? Health problems?” She peers up at him, her Quick-Quotes Quill hovering over her shoulder.

Harry laughs. “You are terrible!” he teases. He is going to have to be extra sassy to Draco this evening to make up for this. “As a matter of fact, I need a favor from you.” He shoots her his most winning Saviour smile.

“A favor?” she inquires, trying to gauge how much she can hold this over his head at a later date.

“I was hoping that you could spare one of your excellent young interns to get me copies of every article about me and Draco. That is, er, since we’ve been a couple.”

“That,” she grins, “will take quite a bit of time. And we don’t have all that many interns, you know, and I’m just not sure we can spare one for a job of that magnitude.”

“Rita, we’re old friends,” Harry lies expertly. “What can I do to make it worth your while?”

Her eyes are sparkling and her answer immediate. “An exclusive interview plus photo shoot with you, Mr. Malfoy, and Teddy when he comes to your house over Hogwarts summer holiday.” She looks at him imploringly, knowing it’s a big request. Generally Harry (even acting-like-friends Harry) won’t agree to anything involving his godson, to Rita’s continual displeasure. Nothing like a turquoise-haired, war orphan, godson of the Saviour to sell a newspaper. But Harry had known that Rita would fish for access to Teddy and had firecalled his godson the night before. “Brilliant plan, Harry! I don’t mind talking to the Prophet, anyway.” So with his godson’s permission in hand, Harry counters with, “If your intern can get the stories from Witch Weekly, too, agreed.”

She shoots him an oily smile. “That can be arranged.” She sticks out a garishly manicured hand. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Mr. Potter. Expect an owl by the end of the week.”

As Harry leaves the office with a big smile on his face, thinking, “End scene,” he hears Rita yell, “Damaris! Get over here! I have an urgent assignment for you.”

Poor Damaris.

***********

Draco steps out of the Floo at Malfoy Manor with characteristic grace. The house-elf Linky is on him in moments. “Hello, Linky,” Draco says in a way that he knows would please Hermione Granger-Weasley, “How are you?”

“Master Draco!” Linky returns. “Linky is quite well, thank you. It is being a long time since you is here.”

“True enough. I’ve been hard at work on a new potion. I am going to visit with my mother for a bit, and then I would like to take tea in the library while I do some research.”

“Of course, Master Draco! Mistress Narcissa is in the drawing room. I will bring you tea in the library.”

“Thank you, Linky,” Draco says in a kind yet authoritative voice. He walks into the drawing room to find his mother reading a book in her favorite armchair near the fire. She is wearing exquisite robes of navy blue that shimmer in a way that recalls the night sky. She looks up, surprised to see him, and a brilliant smile graces her aristocratic face. She sets her book down and stands up, walking over to her son and wrapping him in a tight hug.

“My darling,” she intones, “I did not know you were coming. You should have owled; I would have had Linky prepare a proper tea. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, as well, mother,” Draco smiles. “I must be honest and tell you that I’m here to use the library, though I am glad to see you first.”

“I thought you liberated all of our potions texts to Grimmauld Place years ago, dear. Is it possible you missed one?”

Draco sits down on a sofa that is more decorative than comfortable. He smiles. “Believe it or not, I am after books that are not about potions. I am buying a snake for Harry for Valentine’s Day, and I need the old serpent magic books.”

Narcissa arches one blonde eyebrow. “You’re buying your husband a…snake…for Valentine’s Day?”

“Oh don’t look at me like that,” Draco says calmly, “He’s wanted a snake for years. In any case, neither of us has any attachment to the holiday.”

She gives her son a look that shows she thinks he is quite mad, but that she will drop the subject because of her terribly excellent manners. She inquires after his work and listens quietly as he relates his viscosity woes and describes the impenetrability of Phineas Bourne.

After chatting for nearly an hour, Draco stands and excuses himself to the library. “Harry and I would like to extend an invitation to you and father to come to dinner at Grimmauld Place Friday next.”

She smiles. “I will check with your father, but I believe we are free. Please give my love to Harry.” She wraps an elegant arm around Draco’s waist and walks him to the door. It is conspicuous as always that her wishes of love come from her alone, and not from Lucius—it is always “give my love,” never “give our love,” and Narcissa always chooses her words carefully—but all told, the Potter-Malfoys are on remarkably good terms with the Malfoys.

When Draco arrives in the library, he casts a locating charm to find volumes on serpents. He meanders to the section that seems to house most of them, and begins to pull down old texts on serpent magic, including the one he had most hoped to find by Salazar himself. He settles himself in a handsome chair next to the tea service Linky prepared, opens the first tome, and relishes the comprehensive Slytherinness of the scene.

************

Late Friday afternoon while Draco is installed in his lab, an enormous crate is delivered to the door of Grimmauld Place. The crate containing every Prophet and Witch Weekly article about Harry and Draco is much too large for owl delivery, and has therefore been delivered by Wizard Express. The courier is standing at the door levitating the crate, and Harry thanks him, expertly levitating the crate up the stairs to his office. He stands in his office and sets as many anti-Draco wards on the door as he can concoct. He thinks to himself idly that Professor Flitwick would be impressed with his charms. Draco could, of course, dismantle the wards, but Harry knows he won’t try.

Harry starts to sift through the clippings in the crate and quickly realizes that there is no way he will be able to use all of them. He’ll have to sort them in piles of increasing importance and then include as many as he can. Damaris has, thankfully, packed the clippings into the crate in chronological order, so the first clipping is the photo strip. Harry smiles and places it in the include pile. He levitates some of the subsequent clippings (including “The Chosen One Refuses to Confirm or Deny Relationship with Malfoy Heir” and “He’s a Catch: Does The Chosen One Only Date Seekers?”) to a lesser pile, and smiles when he comes to the story in which he and Draco had finally allowed Rita her exclusive interview. “Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy Open Up at Last, Are Madly in Love” screams the headline above a photo Rita’s photographer had managed to get of the two of them smiling almost dopily at each other.

Suddenly his attention is drawn away by a muffled “What in the name of Salazar!” coming from the hallway. It appears that Draco has attempted to enter the office and found himself blocked out by the thick layer of magic. “Harry James Potter! Did you ward me out of your office? Are you conducting an illicit affair in there? If so, I make no promises to avoid Dark Magic in the confrontation that is imminent.” After a moment, “And don’t tell me that Dark Magic is unnecessary because you vanquished the Dark Lord with Expelliarmus.”

Harry walks through the magical barrier into the hallway. “Yes, I’m sorry, love,” he deadpans. “I need to come clean. I’m hiding Justin Finch-Fletchey in my office. I tried to stay away from him, but he just has this beautiful, enormous—“

“Ack! Good grief! Enough,” Draco yells to drown out Harry’s sentence, with his hands dramatically over his ears. “Why did you pull a trying-to-get-an-O-on-the-Charms-N.E.W.T to keep me out of your office?”

“It has to do with my kicking your arse at Valentine’s Day, and that is all I am saying.”

“Like you kicked my arse the other day in Quidditch, eh? Glad to know I’ll win,” Draco smirks.

“Not talking about it,” Harry insists, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Fine, Potter. I wanted to talk to you about a trip to Hogsmeade. I have some top-secret Valentine’s business but I thought if you wanted to come, we could meet Teddy for lunch. I checked and the next Hogsmeade weekend is Saturday.”

“Sounds good. I’ll owl him. I have some top-secret Valentine’s business, too. How are we going to keep our secrets from each other if we’re shopping together?”

“We’ll Apparate home separately after we finish, of course. If I decide to come home at all, that is. I am not sure I’m entirely comfortable here knowing that Finch-Fletchey is in your office.” Draco’s eyes narrow dramatically. “Do the wards keep him in, as well as keep me out? Is he tied up in there?”

Harry laughs a bright, clear laugh. “Trust me, if I’m going to keep anyone locked up, it’s you.” Harry looks right in Draco’s eyes. “You big git.”

Draco grabs him by the front of his shirt and they’re kissing, Draco’s hands in Harry’s messy hair and Harry wrapping his arms around Draco’s back and up under his cashmere jumper. Harry starts to pull Draco up the stairs toward the bedroom, as Draco mutters against Harry’s lips, “But what will Finch-Fletchey think?” Harry groans, a combination of exasperation and desire, and tumbles the both of them onto the bed.

**********

On Saturday, Draco and Harry Apparate to the Hogwarts gates and meet Teddy. He’s in his third year, so the privilege of Hogsmeade is novel. His excitement is contagious as they walk down the snowy path, listening to his discussion of school work, upcoming Quidditch matches, and the exploits of his friends. In August, Harry had presented Teddy with the Marauder’s Map and told him all the stories he knew of Remus, James, and Sirius, so they are also treated to tales of Teddy’s map-related mischief. They opt for lunch at the Hog’s Head, enjoying themselves immensely.

After lunch, Harry hugs Teddy, kisses his turquoise head, and heads off in the direction of Scrivenshaft’s. Draco waits until Harry is out of hearing distance and asks Teddy if he wants to help pick out a snake for Harry at the Hogsmeade branch of the Magical Menagerie.

“A snake?” Teddy enthuses. “Absolutely! What kind are we looking for?”

“It doesn’t really matter what kind. I suppose we can just meet them and decide which we like best. Harry has wanted a snake for ages.”

“Why didn’t you get one before?” asks Teddy, his winter robes slightly too long and dragging in the slush.

“I’m not really sure. For some reason we used to bicker about it,” Draco smirks. “I think I may have been worried that it was a bad idea to get a pet that only Harry can talk to.”

Teddy whirls toward him, pointing his finger at Draco. “You’re jealous!”

“I am not!” Draco huffs.

Teddy turns away for a moment, and when he turns back around his hair is platinum blonde and he’s turned his tie Slytherin green. “Harry Potter can talk to snakes and I can’t!” he whinges, stomping his foot.

Draco tries to suppress a smile. “Okay, okay!” he raises his hands in defeat. “I was a little jealous.” Draco shoots Teddy a glare. “Don’t tell Harry, or I’ll hex you.”

Teddy laughs, his hair back to turquoise and his tie back to Hufflepuff yellow.

After they choose a beautiful snake with a red and green pattern all down its back (Draco chose it immediately—inter-house cooperation, and all that) and purchased an armload of snake-related paraphernalia, Draco walks Teddy back to the Hogwarts gates. After hugging Teddy and waving to Hagrid, he Apparates to the gates of the Manor. He doesn’t particularly want to see either of his parents, he just wants to task Linky with caring for the snake, whom he has decided to call Godrazar. He’s not sure how Narcissa and Lucius will react to the Manor being used as a storage facility for the Snake of Inter-House Cooperation, so he’s glad to make it to the kitchen without running into them.

“Master Draco!” Linky squeaks. “You is having many bags!”

“Hi Linky. I need your help on a Valentine’s Day gift for Harry.”

“Of course, Master Draco! Anything for you and Mister Harry Potter, sir!”

Draco takes Godrazar out of his terrarium. “This is Godrazar. He is not venomous. Can you care for him and keep him safe and out of sight here for a couple of weeks?”

Linky looks at the snake and up to Draco with a very serious look on her face. “Of course, Master Draco. Linky is not being afraid of snakes.”

Draco smiles. “Good, I wouldn’t want to frighten you. Everything you need for him is in these bags, and you know how to find me if you need me. I will be coming by a bit each day to, er, commune with Godrazar.”

If Linky finds this strange, she does not let on.

***********

The following Thursday evening finds Harry and Draco at the Granger-Weasley house babysitting Rose. Harry insists it’s his godfatherly duty to make sure that Ron and Hermione do not lose their damn minds in the oppressive crush of work and childcare that is their lives. While Draco is a self-employed potioneer who sets his own schedule and Harry is a teacher who works many hours, but is usually home by half past four, Ron and Hermione both work long hours out of the house—Hermione at the Ministry and Ron at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Draco grumbles about their fortnightly gig “minding the snot-faced ginger,” and Harry counters with, “Well then, don’t come. I can watch Rose by myself.” But Draco always comes. Harry and Draco both love Rosie, who greets them at the door with a mess of curly hair yelling, “UNCLES!”

Rosie drags them to a table set with magical art supplies, where she is engaged in the seasonally appropriate craft of drawing hearts.

“Oh, Rosie!” Draco sighs dramatically, flopping down on the comfortable couch. “Does it have to be hearts? Can’t we draw snakes, or broomsticks, or acromantulas? Or even hippogriffs?”

Harry snickers. He sits down next to Draco and puts his arm around Draco’s strong shoulders. When Draco puts his hand on Harry’s thigh, Harry’s mind starts to wander, until—

“No, uncles! It has to be hearts! It is hearts until I figure out how to make them perfect! They are all messed up!” She grabs a new piece of paper and starts another round, this time with a color-changing crayon.

Hermione bustles in, a flurry of activity, grabbing up cups and dishes and levitating them to the sink as she simultaneously fetches a scarf and shoes.

“You look beautiful, ‘Mione,” Harry says, getting up and stopping her long enough to grab a hug. She smiles at him. “Thank you. You look well rested, comfortable, and happy. In a word, childless.” Harry holds up his arms in a “I didn’t force you to have a baby!” gesture and she laughs.

Ron opens the door only to say hi, plant a kiss on his daughter, grab Hermione, and leave for their dinner reservation.

Rose keeps them constantly busy for an hour, drawing, playing, explaining how brooms work, fetching pumpkin juice, untangling a Bertie Bott’s bean from her hair. When Harry walks into the living room to see Draco with a comb and a tin of Sleekeazy’s patiently picking out bits of what looks to be a carrot-flavored bean, he is overcome with a wave of affection for his partner. Draco would be an amazing father. He will be an amazing father. Maybe he’ll be an amazing father someday. Harry sighs, giving a look that is probably soppy. Draco turns, as Rosie runs off. “What?”

“You look good brushing confections out of a three-year-old’s hair.” Harry smiles.

“I always look good,” Draco smirks. “It’s not my fault you have a childcarer fetish.”

“A what?” Harry laughs, incredulously.

“Oh good grief, I don’t even know.” Harry grabs Draco’s arm and pulls him into a deep kiss. They jump apart a moment later when Rose runs into the room shrieking, completely red from head to foot.

“What happened?” Harry cries. “Where did that red come from?”

Draco is standing stock still with his nose crunched up like a dead animal is nearby.

“I don’t know,” Rose sobs, “I thought it was more crayons but I think it was the magic paint.”

“Oh Merlin, you’re tracking paint on the floor,” Harry sighs. “I’m going to levitate you to the bathroom, ok? Can you just stay still? Uncle Draco can clean up the floor while I give you a bath.”

Rose giggles as Harry starts to levitate her down the hall. “And the walls,” she notes.

“What?” Harry asks.

“The paint is on the walls, too.”

Draco groans.

When Ron and Hermione arrive home two hours later, they find Harry and Draco fast asleep on the couch, sprawled out facing each other. A streak of red is visible on Harry’s cheek.

Draco wakes up first on account of Ron and Hermione’s laughter.

“Rosie wore you two out, mate, eh?” Ron says, smiling.

“That child could wear out the entire Auror department,” Draco replies.

Harry jumps up to a seated position. “I’m up, I’m up!” he insists, to general amusement. “Did you have a nice dinner?”

Ron wanders into the kitchen to retrieve four bottles of butterbeer while Hermione sits down in an armchair. “Oh yes, it was very nice,” she says, then, lowering her voice, “You two have to help me, I have no idea what to do for the Valentine’s contest.”

“Well, well, well,” Draco drawls. “How the tables have turned.”

“‘Mione,” Harry says seriously, “I love you with all of my heart and soul. But there is no way in hell I am helping you, because I am single-mindedly focused on kicking Draco’s arse.”

“What about you, Weasel?” Draco calls. “Have you given up on the Valentine’s contest yet?”

Ron emerges from the kitchen with the butterbeers and says, “I gave up on that the moment it was proposed, mate.”

*************

“Harry, I’m leaving!” Draco calls.

“Hold on,” comes Harry’s muffled voice. Harry runs in a moment later, hair wet, no shirt, with a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth. He grabs his toothbrush with his left hand, runs to hug Draco and says with a mouth full of bubbles, “Tell Luna I said hi, and give her back this book she loaned me, please.”

“I will if you can manage not to get it covered in toothpaste.”

“Have fun!”

Draco walks outside holding Luna’s book and Apparates. When he finds his footing, he sees Luna standing against the wall of a Muggle curry shop. She is wearing a pair of bright purple trousers and an oversized cream colored jumper. Her hair glimmers with strands of blue tinsel mingling among her long blonde curls. She looks up from the book she’s reading (Reflections: My Life as A Catoptromantist) and bounces forward, enfolding Draco in a hug.

“What would you see,” she asks as she pulls away, “If you looked into a mirror revealing your deepest desires?”

Draco has long since stopped being surprised at Luna’s unexpected comments and questions. He thinks for a moment and asks, “My deepest desire for the short- or long-term?”

Luna looks straight into his grey eyes, as if she can read his soul if her gaze is sufficiently intense. Maybe she can. “Short-term.”

“Curry with Luna,” Draco smiles.

She links her arm around his elbow and leads him into the curry shop. “Do you think food could really be a person’s deepest desire?”

“If one suffered from starvation or bore the name Weasley.”

Luna smiles. “I suspect you’re right.”

After the war, Draco had approached Luna to apologize for her time at Malfoy Manor. Luna had never blamed Draco, and beyond offering him mere forgiveness, she helped Draco begin to open up about his trauma. Talking with Luna had been like a soothing balm. Draco’s temperament, particularly his intelligence and ability to ignore conventional mindsets, rendered him a perfect companion for Luna. The two have lunch regularly, and when they are in public and not recognized (usually in Muggle spaces), outsiders assume that the two, with their matching blonde hair, are siblings.

They sit and Luna grabs Draco’s hand on top of the table. Luna looks at him appraisingly. “You look like you’ve recently ingested a lot of new information.”

“Mmm,” Draco agrees, “I’m teaching myself Parseltongue. But you are not at liberty to share that information with anyone, because it’s to do with the contest.”

“Well that’s unexpected. I don’t think any magizoologists have succeeded in doing that. Not that I’m surprised—you’re much smarter.” She tilts her head. “You’re trying to impress Harry.”

Draco scoffs. “Impressing Harry has not been a priority for me since, hmmm, fifth year.” He smiles a bit at the admission.

Luna laughs. “That’s a funny thing to say. You and Harry attempt to impress each other every time I see you together. I wonder if that’s true of all lovers, or just the two of you.”

“I suspect,” Draco sighs, “that may be one of those things that is specific to the Potter-Malfoy household.” Draco looks up. “So tell me. Have you come up with a judging rubric for the contest? I need to butter you up.”

“I imagine Pansy will quite dominate the whole proceeding,” Luna says perceptively. “Tell me everything about learning Parseltongue. Is there such a thing as a magizoological linguist?”

“You can be the first,” Draco says, preparing to launch into an academic discussion about what he’s learned and what he’s still struggling with.

Luna, without any humility or arrogance, agrees. “Yes. We can write a book.”

**************

Late the following week, Draco has made progress on his viscosity problem, having moved on from Phineas Bourne to an even larger book by a seventeenth century potioneer named Boris Hipworth. His daily visits to the Manor to visit Godrazar have been instructive, and Harry doesn’t seem to have noticed his absences.

But though Harry may not be the most observant about Draco’s whereabouts, Draco has been watching Harry. Harry is driving himself to exhaustion, frenetically trying to finish his marking and lesson plans and taking every available second to hide in his office behind that impressive layer of magic. So whatever Harry’s Valentine’s gift is, it is time consuming.

Draco doesn’t mind that Harry is working longer hours than usual. In fact, one of the things that makes their relationship work so well is that they are both respectful of the other’s need to work. If Draco is in the middle of stay-up-all-night, forget-to-eat potions research, Harry just brings him tea. Draco does the same when Harry is swamped with work. But this, he thinks, isn’t work. This is a contest, and he doesn't intend to let Harry win.

He will not, therefore, bring Harry tea and let him alone. But a laissez faire approach won’t help, either. If he does nothing, Harry will forge ahead with his Valentinesing. No, he needs to actively interfere. But Harry is a powerful wizard. Harry is the powerful wizard. Draco can’t just Confund him. Draco could surely dismantle Harry’s magical barrier, but the point of this contest is to be romantic, not to make your partner decidedly hate you.

No, he needs to be a Slytherin about this. What would a Slytherin do? What would Pansy do? Draco lets out a short bark of laughter, picturing Pansy’s ample cleavage. Oh, it’s so deviously simple. What Pansy would do. Indeed.

And thank Merlin for the Saviour’s legendary lack of impulse control.

Harry is in the kitchen marking papers as he distractedly eats a pitiful lunch that appears to consist of boiled eggs, raw carrot, and some stale biscuits. Draco enters and says casually, “Harry, can you help me with this? There is something seriously wrong with my buttons.”

Harry looks up. “You are a wizard. You can’t sort your buttons?”

“I can’t aim my wand properly at my own buttons. Honestly.”

“You are not an average wizard. You invent potions and got Os in five N.E.W.T.s. What happened to the buttons, anyway?”

“I don’t know. Some wayward magic must have hit them in the wash.”

“Some wayward magic?” Harry deadpans.

“Are you going to help me, Potter, or not?”

Harry grumbles, but gets up. He reaches for Draco’s top button, clearly thinking that Draco has lost command of his senses. But the button doesn’t budge. (Harry doesn’t realize that Draco has, in fact, demonstrated his N.E.W.T.-level Charms work in ensuring that the buttons don’t budge.)

Harry grabs his wand, attempting a few spells that Draco ensured will not work. “I’m going to Vanish the shirt. I am too busy for this.”

“No! Don’t you dare! We can’t afford to replace this shirt!”

“Can I try Diffindo? Bombarda?”

“Harry!”

“Okay, okay.” He returns to trying to coax the buttons out manually.

“Maybe if we lubricate the buttons.”

Harry looks up at Draco with his marvelously green eyes and says in a voice that is almost reminiscent of the sneering tones of Severus Snape, “You want me to…lubricate…your buttons?”

Draco, refusing to drop the act, doesn’t crack a smile. He summons a bottle of olive oil from the cupboard. “Here, hold out your hand.” Before Harry realizes what he’s doing, his hand is covered in oil. “Well don’t let it drip all over, come on!” Draco instructs.

Harry carefully touches only the button and reaches under the collar of the shirt to ease the button through. The button slips right through. Harry looks up at Draco, smiling and shaking his head. Draco takes an imperceptible step closer when Harry works his way toward the next button. He gets through two more buttons before Draco says in a low voice, “You’re getting my chest all covered in oil.”

“Well, yes, you did ask me to put oil on your bloody buttons.”

Harry finally finishes the last button. Draco grabs Harry’s oily hand and wipes it on his already oily chest. Harry resists and tries to pull his hand away, though he appears to be on the brink of losing control. “I have to work,” his voice cracks.

Draco says, “Okay,” and grabs Harry’s hand and puts one of the oil-covered fingers in his mouth, sucking gently.

“Oh gods,” Harry moans, rubbing his oily hand over Draco’s chest, all resolve dissolved.

Draco smiles. He’s taking up Harry’s valuable time and Harry’s oily hand is sliding below his waistband. A win if he’s ever had one.

Over the next few days Draco manages to “distract” Harry another four times. But Harry is strengthening his commitment to not allowing Draco to get him off task. If Draco is going to keep this up, he needs to get serious.

The following day is Saturday, and Harry tells Draco he needs to work and ensconces himself in his office. Draco waltzes into his lab, smiling deviously.

Thirty minutes later, there is a loud explosion. Harry bolts out of his office and down the hall, wand drawn, looking every bit like the wizard who vanquished the Dark Lord. He bursts into Draco’s lab just as a second explosion rattles the copper cauldron on the work table. “What happened?” Harry cries, looking at Draco. Both of them are covered in a shimmering, translucent potion.

“I was trying to augment the power of the memory potion I’m working on, and I added pearl dust, but I think maybe—” Draco stops abruptly. He and Harry look at each other for one hot, tense second, and then they are across the floor, hands in hair, tearing off each other’s clothes, falling onto the floor.

“Oh sweet fucking hell,” Harry moans.

Awhile later, when they are done and cleaning charms have been cast, Harry looks over at Draco. “Your experiment covered us in some sort of lust potion.”

“Seems so,” Draco says, cocking a half smile, raking his eyes down Harry’s body.

“Merlin,” Harry sighs. “I think you made magical Viagra. Can you brew an antidote?”

“I’m out of wiggentree twigs,” Draco says honestly, knowing that he vanished them just this morning. “What’s Viogra?” Draco mumbles as he climbs onto Harry’s lap, dragging a moan from Harry’s lips.

“Nevermind,” Harry mumbles unintelligibly against Draco’s lips before they manage to make it to the bedroom for the second round.

Well, Draco thinks smugly, there’s one day wasted.

**************

Time passes quickly in a rush of last-minute contest preparations, cursing about Boris Hipworth, and marking papers. The following Friday, Harry and Draco ready their house for the February dinner party while preparing for their gift reveals. Draco took a few minutes in the morning to Floo to the Manor, retrieving Godrazar from Linky, while Harry put the finishing touches on his gift. As Draco tidies the house and Harry prepares delicious-smelling shepherd’s pie, they idly speculate about their friends’ contributions to the contest. They are in complete agreement that they are under no threat from Hermione, Ron, Ginny, or Blaise.

“I bet Blaise spent the most money,” Draco conjectures.

Harry snorts. “I bet Blaise bought a giant diamond necklace and charmed it to pop out of a box filled with confetti.”

Draco counters, “I bet he charms it to pop out of a chocolate soufflé. Covered in oysters.”

“I bet Ginny puts herself in a chocolate soufflé.”

“And pops out naked covered in chocolate, carrying a tray of oysters!”

Harry shudders dramatically. “Chocolate-covered boobs is too far.”

“What?” Draco asks, feigning innocence. “I’m not the one who slept with her.”

Harry pauses his chopping to send a Stinging Hex across the room, but Draco’s shield is too quick. Harry sighs. “We really do not have time to duel right now. Can we pause this and schedule a proper duel for tomorrow?”

Draco smiles. “Let’s do it Sunday at the Burrow. They have more space and the small gingers will love to cheer for me.”

Harry snorts. “You’re on as long as you can keep your mouth shut around Molly. Also, you’re not allowed to Serpensortia me. It scared Rose half to death last time.”

Draco inhales sharply. “But Potter, it’s tradition!”

Harry laughs. “I wish Snape was around to chaperone us dueling now. With his help, you might actually stand a chance at winning.”

“Don’t say that, Harry,” Draco says seriously, “You know that if Snape had been alive when the news of our erotic entanglement broke, it would have killed him. The only justice in that man’s life is that he was dead long before that happened.”

**********

At seven, the group tumbles in through the Floo. Blaise is wearing an exquisite black pinstripe suit with a magenta shirt underneath. Ginny has charmed her hair and face with pink glitter for the occasion, which actually looks fetching on her pale freckly skin.

Harry smiles and hugs her. “You’re looking even more sparkly than usual, Gin!”

“It is the sparkle of someone who is about to win a contest,” she smirks.

Pansy somehow manages to step out of the Floo leg first, showcasing her alarmingly short skirt. She hands a bottle of champagne to Draco and throws an arm around Harry. Hermione and Ron appear to have come straight from work. Ron hands Harry a bottle of elderberry wine, declaring that it “seems like something a romantic sop would drink.” Luna is wearing earrings made of carrots carved into hearts. Neville carries a tray of hors d’oeuvres into the kitchen, enlisting Harry to help.

After everyone has gathered around the living room and Blaise has unveiled a tray of oysters (much to Harry and Draco’s amusement), Pansy declares herself the “Head Judge.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she sings, “I have given the format of the evening quite a bit of thought. We will begin by choosing the order of gift-giving at random.” She casts a charm that randomizes the list in her hand. “The order is as follows: Hermione, Blaise, Ginny, Harry, Draco, Ron.” Hermione and Ron both groan. “We will commence the gifts after our meal.” She flashes a huge smile.

Draco passes around glasses of Ron’s elderberry wine.

“In the interest of full disclosure,” Ron says, “Hermione and I made a bet on the winner tonight.”

“Which is totally admissible since neither of us has a vote,” Hermione clarifies with a raised hand.

“Oooh, what does the winner get?” Ginny asks.

“To sleep in for one week,” Ron says wistfully. “My bet is on Harry.”

Harry whoops, “I knew you were my best mate for a reason.” He pats Ron on the back. Turns accusingly to Hermione, “Wait, Hermione, who did you chose?”

“Draco, of course,” she says serenely, crossing one leg over the other, and looking up directly at Harry.

“‘Mione!” Harry chastises. “You do know I vanquished the Dark Lord?”

“Of course. And if the contest involved a Dark Lord, Harry, I would choose you. As it is, it’s about romance. And, well, I’ve known you since you were eleven years old.”

“But Draco isn’t romantic, either!”

“No, but he is impressively cunning.”

Draco sips his elderberry wine, looking incredibly pleased with himself. “She is the brightest witch in our year, you know.” This time, Draco’s shield isn’t fast enough to block Harry’s Stinging Hex.

After the dinner dishes are cleared and Pansy has located the French chocolates (“It’s going to take more than a magically enlarged shelf disguised with a false wall to stop me, boys”), everyone gathers in the sitting room.

Pansy threatens to Sonorus herself, and everyone immediately quiets. “I would like to begin by saying how honored I am to be here today and to witness the extreme acts of romance that are sure to follow. The winner receives nothing but the honor of beating the rest of your esteemed peers and the years of bragging rights associated therein. First, Hermione Granger-Weasley, Deputy Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Order of Merlin First Class.”

Hermione looks for a moment like she’s about to be ill, but she quickly composes herself. She stands up, hands clasped in front of her paisley jumper and wool trousers. Her cheeks have turned the slightest bit pink. Harry thinks back to the five or so years during which his two best friends pined after each other before finally admitting their feelings. He wonders how two people who took so long to admit their love to each other are going to manage to proclaim it in front of a room full of people.

Hermione turns her body to face Ron, and as she does so the tension from being the first contestant in the stupid contest fades, and she smiles. “Ronald, you have been encouraging and protecting me and making me laugh since I was eleven. You are the best father to Rosie, and the best partner I can imagine. We’ve never been much for public declarations, but any time I’ve needed a supporter, you’ve been there, supporting as loudly or as quietly as the case requires, even if it meant vomiting slugs for an hour. We’ve been so busy lately, I worry that I haven’t returned the favor enough, in metaphorical or literal slugs. I hope this gift rectifies that a bit. Also,” she grins, “I know you always wanted to be a part of the Slug Club.” She hands Ron a wooden box about the size of a tin of tea. On the lid is a beautifully rendered, shimmering slug. When he opens the hinged lid, he is immediately engulfed in a cloud of opalescent magic. The effect is mesmerizing.

“What’s it do?” Ron asks, looking at Hermione like she just single-handedly achieved perpetual world peace.

“It created a binding magical contract, similar to an Unbreakable Vow, but breaking the terms wouldn’t cause death, only discomfort. Look inside the box.”

Ron pulls out a handful of tokens. “Plates, a bed, an alarm clock?”

“They mean I will do the dishes, put Rosie to bed, wake up first on the weekend,” she smiles. “Nothing earth-shattering, but I thought it would be most meaningful to you.”

He holds up a tiny chicken. “And this?”

“That I’ll make your favorite roast chicken.”

Ron sticks his finger in the box and looks inquiringly at his tokens. Suddenly his face flushes and he shuts the lid quickly. He attempts to make it look natural. “Thanks, ‘Mione. I love you, and your magic is brilliant.” He reaches out an arm and pulls her down next to him on the sofa, kissing her cheek and whispering something in her ear that makes her smile.

Across the room, Draco leans over to Harry and whispers, “Glorified IOUs.” Harry snorts and returns, “Bet it’s the best bit of magic any of us used, though.” Harry nudges Draco, drawing his attention to Ginny, who is attempting to peer into the slug box and figure out what token Hermione has included that would turn Ron’s face the color of his hair.

“Gin!” Harry shouts, “Leave your brother alone! Let him enjoy his gift without having to think about you snooping on it.”

Ginny flips around and sticks her tongue out at Harry, who is already laughing. Blaise grabs Ginny’s hand and pulls her over to him.

“Before this beautiful woman completely reverts to childhood sibling pranks, I believe it’s my turn.” Blaise flashes Ginny a blinding smile. “My lovely, hilarious, spunky Ginevra. May we always make each other as happy as we do today.”

Harry leans over imperceptibly toward Draco and mimes vomiting. Draco covers his smirk with his champagne glass.

Blaise gallantly hands Ginny a bright red box wrapped in a sparkly pink bow. “The box is impressive,” she appraises, smiling. She pulls on the ribbon and opens the lid. She raises her eyebrows. “Whoa.” She pulls out a beautiful string of black pearls.

Draco coughs. “Called it on the money thing,” he murmurs.

“Each pearl,” Blaise explains, “is from a magical pearl oyster. And each pearl is sourced from a different place that we’ve visited together. Plage de Saleccia, Anamur, Newquay, Traigh Eais.”

The glimmering of Ginny’s eyes rivals the glimmering of the pearls. She hops up and wraps Blaise in a big hug. She hands Blaise the necklace, turns around and gathers her long, red hair off her shoulders so he can clasp the necklace around her freckled neck. The black pearls look beautiful against her strong shoulders and slender neck.

“I will grant him,” Draco says grudgingly, “that black pearls suit our Ginevra much better than diamonds.” Harry smiles.

“Wicked, Ginny!” Ron enthuses. “You know magical pearls protect against fire and dragons.”

“They also symbolize the moon and help regulate female hormones, which is a good deal more useful than dragon-protection, unless you’re planning to go visit Charlie. Actually I’m not sure you should wear them if you’re ever pregnant,” Hermione supplied thoughtfully.

“Not knocked up!” Ginny laughs.

“You know, Ginevra,” Draco smiles, “I could grind those down and brew enough love and lust potions to stock an entire shop. And earn a vault’s worth of Galleons. I do make quite a remarkable lust potion.” At the mention of lust potion, Harry’s face turns bright red and he fidgets, hoping no one will notice.

Luna looks between the two of them and pipes up, “We should probably change the subject. It seems that Harry is uncomfortable with the topic of pearl-dust-based potions. I imagine that’s an interesting story. Blaise, the pearls are lovely. Ginny, it’s your turn.”

Pansy cackles. Upon hearing Luna’s assessment, Harry splutters, “What! No, no, er…” Blaise fixes Draco with a stare that communicates his insistence on further details of this story at a future date, as if he has somehow intuited that Draco has been engaging in pearl-dust-potion-related intrigue. Hermione has a stern look on her face as she pivots her view between Harry and Draco, and looks like she is about to launch into a monologue about how love and lust potions should be made illegal even between consenting adults.

Ginny interrupts by approaching Blaise with a large box wrapped in shimmering paper covered with dozens of cupids flying around the box shooting arrows. “I will have you know,” she shoots a glare at Hermione, “that it has nothing to do with Quidditch. Blaise, you’re difficult to buy gifts for, because you have everything you need. That includes me.” She strikes a pose. “So, I figure this gift is your greatest desire.”

“It’s a dildo,” Harry says under his breath to Draco.

Draco has his arm on the back of the sofa around Harry’s shoulders, one beautifully trousered leg crossed over the other. “No way,” he breathes, “It’s a Kingsley Shacklebolt costume for bedroom role play.” Harry’s stifled laughter earns a quelling glare from Hermione. He presses his lips together, making a point of his silence. Hermione rolls her eyes. Draco throws Harry a sidelong smirk, wrapping his arm a bit tighter around Harry’s shoulders.

Blaise opens the box and pulls out a complicated looking machine. It is shiny and black, and when he sets it on the table it emits little puffs of steam out of one side. It is immediately clear that no one in the room has any idea what it is for. Blaise looks up at Ginny.

“It’s a coffee maker! The best coffee maker available, actually. It senses wakefulness and brews a pot in the few minutes before you get out of bed. And, the extraction from the beans is supposed to be the best. I had it specially shipped from a magical kitchen emporium in Portland, Oregon. You know those Yankee wizards and their coffee.”

Blaise is ecstatic. He flashes a big smile and summons a mug from the kitchen, immediately fussing with his new toy. Less than a minute later, his hands are wrapped around a steaming mug and he’s breathing in the aroma. He takes a sip and exclaims, “Merlin, the acidity is perfect. This is incredible.” Ginny grabs the mug and insists on trying it, and then she throws her arms around Blaise’s neck and kisses him soundly.

“Salazar,” Draco murmurs, “It’s like they’re not even trying. IOUs, a necklace, and a coffee maker. Thank Merlin we have each other, or no one would ever be able to challenge us.” Harry smiles and squeezes Draco’s knee just hard enough to make him flinch.

“Harry, love, Saviour of the Wizarding World, it’s your turn. Go quickly before Blaise starts to make love to his caffeine,” Pansy declares as Neville helps himself to a mug of coffee.

“Nev, you’re not allowed to let your love of coffee interfere with your impartiality!” Harry chides.

“Of course not,” smiles Neville, summoning milk and sugar from the kitchen.

Harry grabs a box wrapped in simple silver paper and hands it to Draco with a smile.

Draco uncrosses his legs and sits forward. His elegant hand slides under the seam of the paper, revealing a plain box. He lifts off the lid and pulls out a shimmering black book. He opens the book and reads, “A Retrospective, by Harry James Potter.” Draco quirks an eyebrow at Harry in question.

“Keep reading,” smiles Harry.

Draco turns the page. On the verso is the front page of the Prophet screaming “FORBIDDEN ROMANCE REVEALED: THE CHOSEN ONE AND THE DEATH EATER” and the photo strip of their snogging nine-years-younger selves. On the verso is handwritten (in Harry’s awful handwriting):

I will never forget the look on your face when I opened the door to see you standing there in your pants holding this. I think we were both nervous about what the reaction of the public would be, but in all honesty, it was one of the happiest moments of my life. After years of trying to figure out who I was without the identity forced on me by the war, I was finally happy. I had a relationship with someone who completely understood me. And Merlin, look at that second photo in the strip—we look like we’re about to jump off the photo if we can’t get closer to each other. It’s actually making my stomach ache sitting here looking at it right now, nine years later, because the idea that those intense looks could be stuck forever in time without moving forward, closer, doesn’t make sense in human reality. I am going to have to look at the photo below it now to right the world.

Draco flips the page briefly and then looks up at Harry with awe. “You gathered all stories about us in the Prophet and annotated them?”

“And in Witch Weekly. Though, not all of them. Turns out there are way too many for that. The best, though. I hope I didn’t miss any of your favorites.”

“Did you include the one where Rita suggests that your visit to St. Mungo’s when you had Black Cat Flu was due to a sex-acquired injury?”

“Of course.”

Draco is flipping through the book, a huge smile on his face.

“Do you have the Witch Weekly story speculating on our favorite positions that ends with the quiz to determine which of our favorite positions is most appropriate for the reader?”

“Of course,” Harry says seriously. Pansy and Ron are laughing.

Draco opens to a page featuring a photo of Draco, Harry, and Teddy getting ice cream at Fortescue’s.

Luna wanders behind Draco and starts to read Harry’s annotation aloud. “I remember this day—”

“Luna, I’m not sure I really want you to read this out loud. It’s really just for Draco.”

Pansy stands, places one hand on her hip, and challenges, “Well then how can we judge, Harry? Go on, Luna.”

I remember this day so well, because it was the first time we took Teddy out into public together. What was so amazing about it was how normal it seemed. We got a few stares, of course, but mostly we just laughed and enjoyed each other. I remember being completely blown away by your intuition dealing with a five-year-old, how you gently reminded Teddy of good behavior rather than scolded, how you didn’t mind cleaning up the sticky mess on his face. When I look at this photo today, I can see in my face that it was the first time I realized what an amazing parent you will be someday. And I know that’s a big deal to both of us, given our childhoods.

Draco’s pale cheeks, by this point, are completely red. He looks like he is about to cry or yell and can’t decide which reaction is more appropriate. Ron let’s out a long whistle and says quietly, “Daaaamn.” Blaise and Ginny are eagerly looking back and forth between Draco and Harry as if they’re following the ball in a tennis match.

Luna looks at Harry and says, “That must have taken a lot of effort for you to be so open writing down your feelings like that, Harry. We know you and Draco are open to each other, but putting it on paper like that is impressive. I don’t think we should read anymore.”

Draco drops the book on the table and pounces on Harry’s lap, apparently having decided that neither crying nor yelling is an appropriate reaction. He grabs Harry’s face with both hands and kisses him. When he pulls away a few moments later, he says quietly, “I love you, you great big romantic git.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been called romantic before.”

“Yes, and I’m sure it will never happen again,” Draco responds. He returns to his own spot on the sofa, somehow managing to look completely respectable even though he had just jumped his partner in the middle of a dinner party. He picks up the book off the table and holds it protectively on his lap.

“Well, Harry,” Neville says, smiling, “Good show, mate. I don’t think any of us thought you had it in you, at least not any of us who saw you after you made Cho cry by kissing her.” Ron and Hermione burst out laughing, and Hermione adds, “It’s true, Harry, you’ve come a long way since then.” Harry rolls his eyes, but doesn’t quite manage to hide his smile.

Pansy cuts the Gryffindor reminiscences short by announcing loudly, “Draco’s turn!” with a challenging glint in her eye.

Draco stands and retrieves a box that is not wrapped, but has a cloth draped over the top. He hands it gently to Harry and smiles. Harry glances at Draco, then pulls off the cloth. At least half of the people in the room let out a gasp as Godrazar pokes his head into the air. A shimmer of magic keeps him in the box. “Can I get him out?” Harry asks.

“Of course. He’s not venomous.” Harry dissolves the wards and picks him up.

“He’s beautiful. Does he have a name?”

“Yes, he does. His name is a testament to the inter-house cooperation that our lives so beautifully symbolize. This is Godrazar.”

Pansy and Blaise double over with laughter. “Oh, Draco, Salazar is rolling over in his grave.”

“Exactly,” Draco responds with a smirk.

Godrazar curls around Harry’s hand. “Hello there,” Harry says, and he sees Neville cringe across the room. He smiles. “Don’t worry, Nev, I’m not going to set him on Finch-Fletchey.”

“Hello,” hisses the snake.

“I’m sorry you’ve been stuck in that box, you’ve just been given to me as a gift. I’ve wanted a snake for years.”

“The white-haired one told me that I was to be a gift,” returned Godrazar.

“He….told you?” Harry asks, looking up inquiringly at Draco.

“The white-haired one is very clever. He talks with me every day, and asks for my help in learning to speak snake language.”

Harry’s eyebrows are raised, and his expression is one of shock. Hermione asks, “Harry, are you alright?”

Harry doesn’t hear her and turns back to Godrazar. “The white-haired one is named Draco. I am Harry. He is my partner.” Harry looks up to Draco. “Why?” he asks.

Draco smiles and gives a small, enigmatic shrug. “Ask Godrazar,” he suggests.

“Why did Draco go to so much trouble to speak with you?”

“He wants to impress you, of course.” Harry laughs. Everyone in the room is watching Harry interact with the snake in complete silence.

“The white-haired one wants me to tell you a secret.”

Harry looks up at Draco. “Can you understand what he’s saying now?”

Draco gives a small nod and says, “Some. He spoke much more slowly and simply with me than he is now.”

Harry turns back to the snake. “He wants you to tell me a secret? What, then?”

“The white-haired one tells me that you and he would like a young, that you and he are mates but have no young.” Harry’s face goes pale, but he doesn’t speak. “The white-haired one tells me that you each are the last living males of old wizard families. He has corresponded with an American wizard who combines magic with non-magic young-making. This Healer has taken samples of both of your genetic material and created a fertilized egg that is half of each of you.” Harry’s mouth is hanging open. “The egg doesn’t work like snake eggs; I am sorry to say. It’s ready to be put in a human womb and grow until birth.”

A good minute passes with Harry in shock and the rest of the room watching him and the snake.

Godrazar breaks the silence, “You should speak to your mate. He is very eager that you will be excited about this.”

“Harry, are you sure you’re okay?” Hermione asks, but Ron holds her back.

“He looks like he's going to pass out, what the hell did the snake say to him?” asks Ginny.

Harry finally looks up at Draco. “You completely insane, amazing, crazy, clever prat!” he cries. Tears are blinking their way out the corners of Harry’s green eyes, but Draco still looks a bit nervous.

“Say something!” Draco insists.

“All of that is really true?” Harry asks.

“Every bit. Brand new magibiology. Just been approved. In the United States, that is. Please say something. It’s up to you, of course. I mean, timing, and everything. I just thought it was probably the best chance for a surprise you could ever have in your life.”

“Are you kidding?!” Harry cries, hopping up and pulling Draco up with him. Godrazar slithers over to his box and Harry hugs Draco. “You made me cry,” Harry mumbles into Draco’s shoulder. “I can’t believe you.”

“Is someone going to tell us what in the name of Merlin is going on?” asks Ron.

Harry is incapable of speech; he looks, in fact, like he might explode. Draco also feels like he might shatter into a million pieces, but he calls on his pureblood ability to transcend his emotions and engage in a bit of unwanted social interaction. He takes a breath and begins, “There’s a magibiologist in the United States—” Hermione gasps, somehow having caught on with one half-sentence. None of the rest of the group is gasping yet.

“There’s a magibiologist in the United States who has been studying how to combine Muggle fertility medicine with magic,” Draco continues. Everyone’s eyes go wide at “fertility.” “She has managed to combine genetic material from two men or two women to create a fertilized egg. The magical medical board recently approved the procedure. She…we…” Draco is losing his Malfoy calm. “There is a fertilized egg, half Harry, half Draco, er, waiting for a womb.”

“Holy shit,” Pansy whispers. “So you’re saying that there has never been a baby conceived from same-sex genetic material in Britain. And you’re going to be the first.”

“Well, assuming it all goes well. And assuming we can find someone to carry the baby. And assuming Harry is actually okay with this because obviously only if and when he wants. But yes they are elated that we are interested because we have such high visibility. It would be an ideal introduction to wizarding Britain. They also have plans to expand to same-sex Muggles, once they can come up with a way to explain the procedure through some sort of scientific hand-waving that doesn’t let on to the magic.”

Blaise stands up. “Fucking hell. This is the best thing I’ve heard in ages! This child is going to be the biggest piece of shit I have ever met!” He’s pulling Draco into a hug.

“Harry,” Hermione says, trying to coax a further reaction out of him. “What do you say to all of this?” She’s clearly trying not to show any excitement before she is sure that Harry is ok with it. Ron is sitting behind her bouncing up and down slightly in excitement, but not opening his mouth.

Harry breaks into an enormous smile and says, “We’re going to have a baby!” and grabs Hermione into a hug. Hermione shrieks a bit. Ron gets up and inserts himself into the hug, yelling, “Congrats, mate! This is brilliant!”

Neville is hugging Harry; Pansy is jumping on Draco. Luna pulls Draco into a grounding hug that manages to feel like a tree rooting into the soil. “I have one,” she says.

“Have what?” Draco asks, smiling.

“A womb. If you like.”

The shrieks and hugs and congratulations stop abruptly as everyone in the room turns to look at Luna.

“Luna, that is incredibly generous, but you really can’t make an offer like that without thinking it over for a long time and doing some research and talking to us and your family and…” Harry rambles.

“Well, sure, we can wait a bit if that’s what you want. But you were one of my first friends, Harry. You’re both my family—that’s what people do. I’m not using my womb right now.” She is saying these words as if she’s discussing loaning a scarf, which has the effect of silencing every other person in the room. Harry is opening and closing his mouth like a fish.

Draco recovers first and wraps Luna in a big hug. “You’re the stars and the moon, Luna,” he says in her ear. “I love you. Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”

Luna looks up at him with a big smile on her face. “I love you, too.”

“Rita Skeeter is going to need to a Calming Draught,” Ginny enthuses, rubbing her hands together. Harry glances up at her sharply and she raises her hands in defense, “I’m not going to say anything to her, don’t worry!”

“For the love of Merlin,” Ron groans. “Does my gift really have to follow this?”

The group has forgotten all about the contest. Pansy hastily resumes her role as Head Judge, clapping her hands together and saying, “Right, it is now Ron’s turn, everyone stop talking about the Boys Who Lived To Procreate.” Everyone complies, and Harry inserts himself under Draco’s arm and stands with him against the wall, all smiles.

Ron casts a Finite on a large flat package that he had managed to get into the house under a Disillusionment Charm. It’s wrapped in shimmering purple WWW paper.

“‘Mione, I’ve loved you since I was…twelve, I think. You’re incredible. The worst times of my life have been the times when you were not around.” Harry’s memory conjures up an image of Ron holding Hermione’s petrified hand in the hospital wing.

Ron hands Hermione the package. She stands up and presses a kiss to his lips and then sets about unwrapping the huge gift. It’s a large, handsome frame, but the contents of the frame are hidden from the rest of the room. She lets out a small gasp and falls to her knees to get a closer look.

“How did you—? Oh!”

“Well, turn it around!” encourages Neville. She does, revealing a beautiful, intricate family tree. It shows two roots (Granger and Weasley) joining into one, symbolizing their marriage, and two main branches come out of the trunk. One is labeled “Rose” and the other is labeled “Hugo.”

Pansy notices first. “Are you two hiding a second child from us? Did I somehow miss that?”

Hermione blushes and smiles. “I’m two months pregnant. We didn’t want to say anything too early. I transfigured this to juice,” she says, holding up her champagne glass. She turns to Ron, “Does this mean you’re officially agreeing to the name Hugo?”

“Yes,” he says, grabbing her into a hug. He leans forward and speaks toward her navel like Arthur Weasley using a telephone. “Do you hear that, son? YOUR NAME IS HUGO.” Hermione laughs.

Ginny grabs Blaise and starts dancing across the room singing, “I’m going to be an aunt again!”

“And the best part,” Ron says, “Is that the family tree will magically update over the years, and there’s room for a few more generations.”

“Did you charm all of this yourself?” Draco asks, kneeling in front of the frame. “It’s really impressive.”

“Yes. I am extremely clever, you know.” Ron puffs out his chest. “Well, either that, or I do things like this all the time at work.”

As soon as Harry was sure that he wasn’t intruding, he ran over and wrapped one arm around each of them. He had passed his threshold for comprehensible discourse some time ago, and just smiled and hugged and looked altogether like he might collapse from his joy. “Harry, are you alright?” Hermione asks solicitously.

“I just,” he starts. “I can’t believe,” he stammers. “They can be best friends,” he finishes. Hermione’s eyes are glistening and Ron is patting Harry on the back like some sort of man-back-patting machine stuck in the “on” position.

“Oh dear, I can’t watch this Gryffindor fest,” Pansy sneers without malice. “Judges, come to the kitchen with me, we need to have a discussion.”

Harry thinks of something and looks up at Draco. “Do they know if our egg will become a girl or boy baby?”

Draco shakes his head. “No, they've done a fancy bit of magic that randomizes sex and a number of other factors. They didn’t want to it to be like genetic engineering for certain traits.”

Harry’s smile looks like it’s about to break his face clear off. “That’s incredible. Of course I don’t care either way, just wondering.”

“That’s an interesting way around a fairly big ethical issue. I wonder how much they can extend that theory to other genetic factors,” Hermione says thoughtfully.

Harry sits down and takes Godrazar out of his box, trying to calm himself down a bit. Draco sits next to him and puts his feet up on the ottoman, wrapping one arm around Harry.

“So, good surprise?” Draco asks.

“Best surprise.”

Pansy, Neville, and Luna return from the kitchen with a pot of tea and mugs. “We’ve decided,” says Pansy, “that this is a contest about gifts and that fertility or lack thereof does not constitute a gift under the terms of the contest. Therefore, Draco’s gift is the snake, and Ron’s gift is the family tree.”

Draco looks affronted.

Pansy continues, “We are under unanimous agreement that the winner is Ron.”

Ron whoops.

“What?” cry Harry and Draco together. Ginny dissolves into laughter watching Harry’s and Draco’s reactions.

“It was a really good effort all around, though, mates,” says Neville.

“Yes,” offers Luna, “We didn’t think Harry or Draco would come up with anything at all. I was fairly sure you would decide to cancel the contest altogether. Consider it a win.”

Harry and Draco turn toward each other. “Consider it a win?” Draco sneers in a whisper. Harry snorts.

*************

That night in bed, Harry quickly abandons the pretense of reading a book and curls onto Draco’s chest. Draco is sitting up against the headboard, reading glasses on, perusing Harry’s book of annotated newspaper clippings.

“Oh Merlin,” says Draco. “This photo from when I finished my potions apprenticeship. I was so mad at Rita.”

Harry laughs, but doesn’t pick up his head. “That’s why I included it; you ranted about it for three weeks.” He pauses. “I can’t believe Ron won that bloody contest. Ron.”

“I will bear this shame for the rest of my days.”

“A charmed, magically expanding family tree my arse.” They are quiet for a minute.

Draco flips the page and flicks Harry on the head. “Look at this Witch Weekly interview with the Mindhealer speculating on our post-war mental health. Look at this photo they ran with it!”

Harry laughs. “I know; I look like I just escaped from Azkaban. Where did they even get that shot?”

“They probably waited outside a bakery and bribed the worker to tell you they were out of treacle tart, then snapped the photo.”

“Very funny,” Harry says. Then, “So a baby. Really and truly.”

“Really and truly.”

“And Luna volunteers her womb like, of course, because it’s got a vacancy sign hanging on it.”

“Yeah we are going to have to figure out a way to make sure she realizes all that this will entail.”

“I have a feeling she does, though. Know what it entails.”

Draco sets the book aside and looks down at Harry. “I agree. She’s probably the only person in the world who could make a decision about something so serious so quickly and never second guess her choice.”

“Her mind may be mysterious, but she is usually ten steps ahead of everyone else.”

“Ten or a hundred steps ahead.” Draco is quiet for a minute. “If it’s a boy, we’re definitely naming him Septimus.”

“James Potter vetoes from the grave.”

Draco turns off the light and tries to squirm into a comfortable position. “Potter, you’re suffocating me.”

“Whatever.”

“Good grief, just, move your—there.” Draco curls onto his side beside Harry and buries his head in the messy hair. “You smell like shepherd’s pie.”

“Mmmm.”

“Harry,” Draco murmurs. “We’ll be good parents, right?”

Harry cranes his neck to look back at Draco. “I dunno. We can just try to act like Arthur and Molly, I guess.”

“But we’re not like Arthur and Molly.”

“So we’ll just act like Harry and Draco.”

Draco lets out a big sigh. “You’re right. I know you’re right.” After a few breaths he declares, “My mother is going to go ballistic with excitement.”

Harry laughs. “Oh, Merlin. Yes. What do you think Lucius will say?”

“Harry, stop talking about that immediately or I’m going to have nightmares.”

Harry jolts as he remembers something. “How in the Fiendfyre did you teach yourself Parseltongue?”

“Had some books at the Manor,” Draco mumbles sleepily.

“Had some books at the Manor,” Harry deadpans. “That is not an answer. I thought no one could learn it. I thought it was some sort of miracle that I could still speak it after the war. I thought that when you dragged me to Madam Pomfrey to make sure that I didn’t still have dark magic in me and she gave us a lecture about how the brain doesn’t unlearn things once synapses are formed or some healer babble like that, that you would not be running out to become to first wizard to ever teach it to yourself. I thought that your years of nightmares about Nagini eating people and Voldemort hissing at her to eat you would guarantee that.”

“Might’ve had a book by Salazar Slytherin about serpent magic and rudimentary Parseltongue. Convinced Godrazar to help. Shut up, Potter, this is me confronting my fears.”

Harry squeezes Draco’s hand and chuckles. Draco continues, “Luna says we’re going to write a book on magizoological linguistics.”

“Sounds like a plan, though I think you should be in charge of outlining the plan for the book or it might be ten thousand pages long.” Harry pauses for a moment and then says, “For all that is good in this world, please tell me that Slytherin book didn’t have margin notes by Voldemort.”

Draco snorts. “No. Though I suppose it’s possible he read it when he was there.”

Harry shivers. “I’m going to pretend I never heard that answer.”

“It’s okay, Harry, now we can both talk to the inter-house snake. Let’s go to sleep.” Draco tries to push Harry’s hair away from his eyes and nose.

“I might need some of Draco’s Dreamless Sleep after that discussion,” Harry jokes.

They lie quietly for a few moments, moving slightly to get comfortable. Harry grabs Draco’s hand that is thrown over his torso and threads his fingers through Draco’s. “Leo,” he says.

“Hmm?”

“If it’s a boy. Leo. After the constellation, for your family, and after a lion, for mine.”

Draco picks his head up to look down at Harry. “Leo Potter-Malfoy. Well damn. We just picked our kid’s name in all of thirty seconds.” He sets his head back down and smiles.

After a moment Harry says, “Draco?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you like Valentine’s Day now?”

“No,” Draco yawns and wraps his arm tighter around Harry, pressing Harry’s back firmly against his chest. “Do you?”

“Nope.”

FIN.

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