You Make It Feel Like Christmas / drarry

Silent Night

19 days until Christmas.

Monday afternoon is passing by slowly, as Draco finds himself staring out of the window again at the birds hopping around in the library courtyard. He's been doing that a lot today. The open pages on his workstation are waiting to be translated and sent to the Ministry, but Draco finds his mind to be... scattered.

Saturday night he wallowed in self-pity, aided by a bottle of red and the chocolates Potter had bought him. They'd been bloody delicious, too, as they disappeared into Draco's belly one after the other. He was troubled to say the least, that he and his former arch nemesis seemed to share an affinity towards caramel in all its forms.

It did a little to ease the conflict that was raging inside him over his call with Aidan—the bleakness of cutting off the only person offering him any sort of intimacy these days, the anxiety about his decision and whether it had been the wrong one despite affording Aidan a dozen chances too many, and the relief of not having to fetch him out of any more gutters, or to act as his emotional punching bag.

Yet, devouring the delectable chocolates, he couldn't ignore the curious flip of his stomach that had occurred when he saw Potter.

Draco didn't know if he'd ever hear from Aidan again, or if he even wanted to. Their relationship—if one could call it that—had been turbulent to say the least, and the more Draco thought of it, the clearer it became that every time Aidan had contacted him, he'd been after something. There was no point in pretending; they'd spent some filthily fun nights together, but that appeared to be the end of what they shared. So why did it feel so bloody awful to have ended it?

And then there was Potter, the bloody valiant wanker. Waltzing into his life without a care in the world, all curly hair and green eyes and broad shoulders, damn the git. It was far too easy to be with him, to talk to him, and he was much too forward for comfort—he stripped Draco of all his chances to be dramatic or mysterious, skills carefully honed by Draco over the years. But every time his stupid emerald eyes met Draco's gaze, it felt like Potter saw right through him. It was downright humiliating how flustered Draco felt in those moments.

Sunday Draco had spent at the bottom of his bed, tired from the day before, napping with Sev, avoiding having to think about anything at all. He didn't touch his mobile, still lying abandoned at the bottom of his coat pocket, and he prayed to Circe it wouldn't ring again. It didn't.

The whole day Draco cycled between wanting to call Aidan and apologise, and never wanting to hear from the tosspot again. On Monday he still hadn't arrived at a decision.

Millie's clearing of the throat pulls Draco back into the library.

"I thought you were in a hurry with that?" she raises an inquisitive eyebrow at him. She's wearing a red sweater dress with leather boots and her rich hair is flowing freely around her shoulders.

Draco nods absentmindedly, staring at the book that rests under the magnifying glass. "I am," he mutters.

"You seem far away. Is everything okay?" Millie's frown is worried as she evaluates Draco over her desk light. Her Christmas tree pendant hangs freely and glints as it turns from side to side.

Draco sighs and rubs his face with both hands. He wasn't planning on discussing the matter with anyone, at least not yet. But the silences Millie expertly creates always draw the truth out of him. Besides, there's no point in lying, Millie knows him too well. It's not like it won't come out at some point, anyway.

"I, er... broke it off with Aidan, I think," he mumbles into the heel of his palm.

"Oh, Draco." Millie's sigh is deep, her chair scrapes against the floor as she strides across the room to take a seat in the chair next to him. "Are you all right?" Her voice is soft and quiet.