𝐁𝐎𝐗𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐀𝐘

Single Chapter

Title: Boxing Day
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Summary: After the war is won and the world is made anew, Harry Potter finds he doesn't understand this one nearly as well as the old.

The shell split open against Draco Malfoy's knife, cracking off and dropping onto the dusky floor of the hold. He leaned back against an unmarked crate, popping the nut into his mouth.

With a low sound, Draco savored the buttery taste of the chestnut flesh, molars crushing it into a fine paste. He swallowed, then licked his lips to capture the last bits, greedy. The hold smelled of chestnuts now; he breathed out his nose, as if catching the scent and pulling it inside, too.

Yawning, he let his hand slid back down into the paper bag, retrieving another nut, feeling the smooth shape in his palm, peeling it in turn. He stretched his legs out as the ship pitched, knife embedded in the crate to one side. Licking the fronts of his teeth, Draco allowed himself a smile.

"Oi!" Lugger shambled down the steps.

Draco raised his free hand, showing two lazy fingers.

"We're cutting the engine, you little son of a bitch," the grizzled man spat, his purpled lips pulled back in a sneer. "All clear up and down."

Standing, Draco shoved his bag of chestnuts into a pocket. "Are you certain?" he drawled. "I don't want a repeat of last month."

"Your people best be waiting, then." Lugger's good eye glared at him. "If I see one sign of a patrol -- "

"You won't." Draco pushed past him, climbing up the ladder. On the deck, the wind had more room to spread -- it pushed against Draco instead of whistling in through the stacked crates of the hold. Striding aft, he whispered a charm to cut through the fog that hugged the shore, carving out a block of clear air like a hole into the center of the earth.

The black curve of land swam up to meet Draco's gaze halfway across the darkness.

--

At least, thought Harry Potter, the goose was good. The last time he'd gone to one of these parties was Bonfire Night, at which the overall culinary conceit, he'd gathered, had been to char everything so that when Harry came home, his robes smelled of ash.

He slid back against his seat at the dais, wine glass in hand, watching as the other esteemed guests enjoyed themselves -- and one another, he thought, as one fleshy hand wiped itself clean of apricot chutney and slid under the table. He looked away.

That week at lunch, Hermione had promised to come with Ron, but Harry had watched the way her white hands trembled when she reached for her water glass. There was the Slug Club list, he knew, and while he'd promised her -- as strands of hair broke loose from her tight bun, as she struggled to catch the pieces of broken glass until he'd caught her wrist, mumbling, "Hermione," and cast a reparo charm -- that nothing would come of the talk, he knew there was also the baby.

He skewered a bit more goose's flesh, took another sip of wine, and wallowed. Wonder what they'll name it, he thought as the orchestra started. Flushed couples began to totter towards the dance floor. Too many names, really -- plenty of people to remember. Or not, as the case might be.

Tilting his glasses back up his nose, Harry gave a wave to Councilor Umbridge as she waddled past, her purple Defendress of the State sash cinching over her ample flesh and giving her the appearance of a lumpy pillow. He was sure to use his right hand, though the scars on the back of his palm had long since faded. Someone, he supposed, ought to be keeping score.

It was when Harry turned back to his plate that he saw it: a small square of black paper, resting against his fork. He bit his bottom lip, eyeing either side of the dais, and swept the note into his cuff. Sliding his hands into his lap, he unfolded it.