All Life Is Yours To Miss

Chapter 51

That night, he wraps the new cauldron in silver paper and waits until he knows Poppy has gone down to dinner to sneak up to the hospital wing and leave it on an empty bed. The next morning he opens his door to find her standing there, bundled up in coat, scarf and mittens, with a large rucksack strapped to her back and a broomstick under one arm.
"Going somewhere?" he jokes weakly.
"Home," she says, smiling and indicating the broomstick. "My niece's house is just about an hour's ride away and I promised Rosa I'd take her carol singing tonight."
Fighting to hide his surprise at the thought of Poppy on a broomstick, Draco just nods and says, "Give my regards to Rosa, won't you?"
"I think she'd prefer a photo—she's become rather a fan of late," Poppy says, and before he can stop her, she produces a camera from nowhere and snaps a picture of him, in which he imagines he looks extremely startled.
"She must be a girl of very strange tastes," Draco says.
Poppy laughs. "Perhaps. Thank you very much for the cauldron, Draco. It's beautiful."
Draco looks at the floor. "You're welcome."
"You really didn't have to..."
"I wanted to," he insists, meeting her eyes.
"Well, that's fine. I wanted to give you this, though I'm afraid it isn't as fancy as your gift," she says, handing him a soft, loosely-wrapped package.
Astonished, he goes to pull at the ribbon but she stops him. "Save it for tomorrow."
He shrugs and tucks the package under his arm. "Thank you."
Poppy touches him gently on the arm and turns to leave. She hesitates, turning back to him in the middle of the corridor. "Draco?"
"Yes?"
"It'll all work out, you know," she says, and then she's walking rapidly away, shoes squeaking against the stone floor.
Draco stares after her for long seconds and then retreats back into his living room, deciding that whatever she's talking about, he's just not going to think about it.
Unfortunately, putting Poppy's parting words out of his mind proves to be an impossible task, and they dog Draco for the rest of the day, seeming to float around after him in the air, nudging gently at the back of his head every time he succeeds in forgetting them for more than a minute at a time. His dreams are full of knowing words that spill from teacups and cauldrons and out of the pages of books, sharp eyes and kind ones and green ones and the wrinkled hands of the woman in the haberdashery as she folds an ever-expanding quilt and laughs, demanding to know how he thought even for a moment that his feelings for Harry weren't written through every part of him.
He wakes early on Christmas morning, startling Stanley as he throws back his winter quilt and stumbles to the window, yanking it open and gulping at the freezing cold air.
It's just a dream; it's nothing, he tells himself over and over, putting on the kettle and standing under the pounding hot water from the gargoyle until the panic abates and his begins to feel more like his usual idiotic self. When he really thinks about it, he supposes that it's irrelevant what his friends and colleagues and acquaintances think; the only thing that matters is what Harry thinks.
He doesn't want to know what Harry thinks, either, he realises, frowning and deciding to open Poppy's present instead. The paper falls away easily and he laughs.
"Look, Stanley," he says, holding up a brand new dressing gown, but Stanley is chasing his new toy around the floor and isn't in the least bit interested. Draco examines the dressing gown at arm's length, admiring the soft, forest green fabric and the way that the belt does not appear to have been used as a makeshift lead for an excitable beetle. Quietly delighted, he throws off his old robe and puts on the new one, tying the belt securely and settling into his chair, tea in hand, to observe Stanley's attempts to retrieve his colour-changing ball from under the coffee table.
Before lunch, he takes Stanley for a walk around the lake, crunching over frosted grass and nudging the beetle away from the edge of the water with his foot every few strides.
"You can't go in there," he remonstrates, peering into the depths. "The giant squid is hibernating."
On their way back to the castle, they call in at Hagrid's hut and exchange gifts. His mother has come through for him in spectacular style, having decided to have the book carefully cleaned and restored to almost its original glory before sending it back to him with her most reliable owl, and Hagrid is thrilled with it, beaming as he turns the pages with the very tips of his fingers and marvelling at each of the pictures in turn.
"So, 'e's a relative of yours, this Filliminster Malfoy?"
"My father's great uncle, I think," Draco says, watching Fang rise and sniff cautiously at Stanley's shell. "I used to read it as a child and I thought you might like it, what with all the stories about dragons. It's all true, supposedly, though Filliminster did have a reputation for embellishing his tales."
Hagrid laughs. "Yeah, well, I suppose it takes a certain sort, don't it? Look at that," he breathes, gazing at a photograph that must have been very old even at the time of publication. "Welsh Ruby. Beautiful, isn' she? Yeh don't see them any more."
"You like it?" Draco says uncertainly, and Hagrid just laughs louder.
"It's wonderful. Thank you. I'll keep it on an 'igh shelf, well out of the way of Fang's big slobbery mouth," he promises.
"That would probably be a good idea," Draco says, glancing at Fang, who has lost interest in Stanley and is now gnawing on what looks like half a deer carcass. "What's this?" he asks, turning back to Hagrid as something light and delicious-smelling is placed in his arms.
"Sorry it's not wrapped—I only finished it this mornin'," Hagrid says. He pulls at one of the many bands of supple leather and runs his thumb over several neatly carved letters. "It's got 'is name on, see?"
Draco stares, completely staggered by his second gift of the day. Hagrid has made Stanley a new harness. The overall shape is almost identical to the string basket made by Draco, but every section is a strap of pliable, butter-soft brown leather, each about an inch wide and meeting in the centre with a solid brass ring, to which a matching lead has been attached.
Lost for words, Draco drops to the floor and frees Stanley from his string basket. Carefully, he lifts him into the new harness and fastens it.
"How did you get it to fit him so perfectly?" he asks, looking up at Hagrid, who is now beaming.
"I measured 'im one afternoon before class. He behaved so well for 'Arry, I thought it was worth a try."
"Look at him—he loves it," Draco laughs, straightening up and watching Stanley turn in gleeful circles.
"If yeh want to let him off for a bit, yeh don't need to unstrap him," Hagrid explains, buzzing with enthusiasm now. "Just unclip the lead from the ring, and away 'e goes."
Draco looks up at the flushed, bristly face and smiles. "Thank you so much. Stanley is thrilled."
Hagrid ducks his head and scrubs at his scruffy hair. "Well, it's no bother... besides, we better get goin' or we'll be late for lunch."
"We can't have that," Draco says with amusement as Hagrid puts on his coat and tucks the dragon book on top of a high cupboard.
"No, all the best crackers'll be gone," Hagrid says gravely, ushering them out onto the frosty grass and slamming the door of his hut. "It's a very serious business."
Fortunately, there are plenty of crackers left at the table when Draco and Hagrid arrive, and they pull several each before the turkey has even been carved. Draco wins some sparkling balloons from the third-year next to him, which he blows up and gives to Stanley to chase, and a tri-corn hat from Levinson, who is sitting on his other side. He puts it on before his student can say a word and exchanges amused glances with Hagrid, who is sitting opposite him and wearing what looks like a lime green mortarboard.
Draco counts fourteen people around the table, including Hagrid and himself. McGonagall is there, presiding over the meal with impressive gravitas considering that she is wearing a pirate's eye patch, and Sprout, Flitwick and Filch are also in attendance, along with two Slytherin students, three Ravenclaws and a Hufflepuff. As they begin to eat, Draco is very aware of the presence of Mrs Norris and he is initially concerned for Stanley's welfare, until she pelts out from under the table with the beetle in hot pursuit, much to the raucous amusement of Hagrid and the horror of Filch. Draco only waits a moment or two before pulling Stanley back, but Mrs Norris has had enough and refuses to come near the table for the rest of the afternoon.
Some hours later, Draco walks a slow, sauntering path back to his rooms, head full of laughter and warm words and limbs pleasantly heavy from three cups of mulled mead, which, he tells Stanley solemnly, is two more than he usually has at Christmas. Too relaxed to attempt anything vaguely strenuous, he unclips Stanley's lead from his new harness and curls contentedly into his chair. Out of the corner of his eyes he can see Harry's gift, just sitting there on the edge of the coffee table, and he supposes he's going to have to open it some time.
Narrowing his eyes, he flicks his wand and the box travels unsteadily through the air before landing heavily in his lap. He pulls the tag from under the ribbon, stomach lurching as he reads Harry's chicken-scratch handwriting.
For keeping track of the stars.
- Harry
Draco holds his breath as he unwraps the box and gently withdraws the contents. It's a telescope, shiny, copper, cold and heavy against his fingers. Harry has bought him a telescope. Overwhelmed, he cradles it against his chest, closes his eyes, and promptly falls asleep.
He wakes suddenly to the sound of knocking and almost drops the telescope on his foot.
"Go away," he mumbles, easing the kinks out of his stiff neck and carefully depositing the telescope on the coffee table. His rooms are completely dark and he has no idea what time it is, but his head is hurting and his mouth is dry and he's absolutely not in the mood for company.
"Draco!" the interloper calls, voice muffled by the heavy wood.
"Someone had better be dying," he tells Stanley, and he crosses the floor and opens the door just as Harry is raising his fist to knock again. Inhaling sharply, Draco gazes at him in disbelief, taking in his weary expression, his cold-pinked skin and the snow in his hair.
"What on earth are you doing here?" he demands.
Harry fixes him with a look of pure exasperation. "Draco, it took me three jumps to get to Hogsmeade; when I got there it was blowing a fucking blizzard, I stepped in god-knows-how-many icy puddles on the way up here, I can't feel my fingers or my nose, and Filch just yelled at me for tracking slush across the Entrance Hall, so could you please just let me in?"
Draco rubs his face and glances at his drawn curtains. "It's snowing?"
"Draco," Harry says rather insistently.
"Sorry." Draco steps back to let him enter, thrilled and confused and terrified to see him all at once.
Stanley comes barrelling over to greet Harry and he smiles wearily, dropping his satchel on a chair and bending down to stroke the beetle, who is still strapped into his new leather harness.
"Don't you look fancy?" he murmurs, holding out frozen fingers for Stanley to inspect.
Draco looks on, heart racing out of control. He doesn't know why Harry is here or what he wants, but he is beginning to hope, and he doesn't think he can stand it if his return means only that he is tired of the Weasleys already.
"Are you staying?" he asks stiffly.
Harry looks up. "I didn't come all this way for a flying visit, if that's what you mean."
"Right. In that case, you need a shower and some dry clothes," Draco says, clinging to practicality in the absence of certainty. He ignores Harry's puzzled expression and stalks into his bedroom, pulling out comfortable trousers, a woollen sweater and a pair of warm socks. Pushing them into Harry's hands, he points in the direction of the bathroom and then stands there expectantly, arms folded.
"I... alright," Harry says, looking suspiciously like he's trying not to smile.
When Draco hears the hiss of the shower, he goes to his cabinet and opens the bottle of Firewhisky sent by his mother. His hands shake as he pours out two measures and he fights to pull his breathing under control, lighting the fire and searching for a comfortable position in his chair.
"Your shower's better than mine," Harry tells him, emerging from the bathroom in a cloud of steam and rubbing at his hair with a towel.
Draco says nothing and holds out a heavy glass to him. Harry accepts it and curls up in the other armchair, tucking his legs around himself and pulling the sleeves of Draco's sweater down over his hands. He looks clean and warm and he has, judging by the smell of the steam, used all of Draco's shower products. Deciding not to think about the shower, Draco sips at his drink.
"Did you have a nice Christmas?" Harry asks politely.
"I did. I think my favourite part was finding out that Mrs Norris is frightened of Stanley," Draco says.
Harry grins for a moment and then his face turns serious. "We should probably talk about why I'm here."
Draco nods cautiously. "Alright."
Harry rests his glass on his thigh and picks absently at the stitching of Draco's trousers, as though he has forgotten already that they do not belong to him. "Now I've said that, I feel a bit daft about it. Oh well," he sighs, flashing Draco a small, nervous smile. "It was great at the Burrow, you know. It always is."
"I believe you," Draco says, because he has no idea what else to say.
"The thing is... after we'd all had dinner and all the presents had been opened, everyone was just sitting around and drinking wine and listening to the wireless, and I started wondering what was going on back home," Harry says, frowning at his glass. "It was as if almost everyone I wanted to be with was in that one room, but I couldn't settle because I missed Hogwarts. I missed you."
He looks up, meeting Draco's eyes, and Draco grips his heavy glass tightly as everything inside him seems to rearrange itself. He takes a deep breath, falters, and tries again.
"I missed you, too," he says, and Harry's smile makes his heart skip.
"Well, here I am," Harry says softly, draining his glass and blowing a gentle plume of smoke in the direction of Stanley, who is now sitting on the arm of his chair.
Draco smiles. "I'm glad you're here."
"Good."
"Now what?" Draco asks, thinking out loud and immediately wishing he hadn't when Harry stretches and gazes intensely into him, green eyes glowing, because now he can't breathe and he suspects that moving out of this chair is going to be an issue, too.
"I want to play a game."
Draco lifts an alarmed eyebrow. "Such as?"
Harry laughs and the tension dissolves instantly. "I don't mind, but it's Christmas day and we should be playing a game. Nobody at the Burrow could agree on what to play, so we didn't play anything, and when I was walking through Hogsmeade I looked in people's windows and nearly every one of them had Trivial Pursuit out, or Monopoly, or Gobstones, or..."
"I see," Draco says, unsure whether he's relieved or disappointed. "I'm afraid I don't have any games. Here's a thought, though: there aren't any Gryffindor students staying this year. You could go and raid the games cupboard in their common room."
"Why me?" Harry challenges.
"Because you're a Gryffindor, of course."
"Yeah, and technically, you are still head of Gryffindor," Harry points out.
Draco tries his best but he fails to come up with a decent counter-argument, so, in an attempt at compromise, they both slip out into the dark castle and walk as quietly as they can along the corridors and up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower.
"Shh," Harry whispers as the sound of Filch's voice drifts along the corridor at the top of the steps.
Draco freezes instinctively. "I didn't say anything," he whispers back.
"No, but you were going to," Harry insists, grabbing his wrist and pulling him into an alcove.
"What are we hiding from?" Draco hisses, fingers brushing against Harry's.
"Filch!"
"Why?"
Harry grins, shrugs and glances out into the corridor.
Draco stares at his profile from only inches away, breathing him in with every ragged inhalation.
"I think it's safe now," Harry whispers, and they creep back out into the corridor, jumping over the creaky sections of floor and grinning with the stupid exhilaration of sneaking around the castle in the dark for no good reason.
"Password?" demands the Fat Lady, looking down at them with a slightly wobbly expression.
"I don't know what it is," Harry whispers, eyes wide.
"Why are we still whispering?" Draco asks, also whispering. "It's 'Bowtruckle'."
Harry snorts and heaves himself stiffly through the portrait hole as soon as the Fat Lady allows him. Draco follows, lighting his wand to navigate the darkened common room and then to illuminate the jumble of games they find in the tall cupboard by the fireplace.
"What shall we get?" Harry whispers, eyes bright in the darkness.
"I don't know," Draco says. "Stop whispering."
"I can't," Harry insists, leaning against Draco for a moment and stifling a snort of laughter.
Amused, Draco presses his lips together and gazes into the cupboard, casting his eyes over the brightly coloured boxes and pretending that Harry isn't shaking with silent mirth next to him.
"What do you want, then? Gobstones? Serpents and Broomsticks? Ker-plunk, whatever that is?"
Harry thinks for a moment and then reaches for a carved wooden box. "Chess," he says triumphantly.
"Chess? You have all of these games to choose from and you want to play chess?" Draco demands.
"Why not? It's a man's game," Harry says, deepening his voice and drawing down his eyebrows.
Draco laughs. "If you say so."
"I do. I'm not very good, but I'm sure you can teach me," Harry appeals.
"Harry, I am terrible at chess. You must know that."
"Are you sure?" Harry whispers.
"Yes," Draco whispers back. "I must have told you that before."
"Nope. It must be one of the very few things you haven't told me," Harry says, grinning and dashing for the portrait hole with the box under his arm.
"Don't be rude!" Draco calls, scrambling after him.
Harry turns, pressing one finger to his lips. "Shh."
**~*~**
Once safely back in Draco's rooms, they set up the board on the coffee table and pull their armchairs close to play. It quickly becomes apparent that Harry's aptitude for the game is as limited as Draco's but that doesn't seem to restrict his enthusiasm for smashing Draco's pieces or trying to sneak in illegal moves while Draco is fetching drinks or paying attention to Stanley.
"Put my knight back immediately," Draco demands, leaning over and tapping Harry's hand, in which he can see his little black mounted figure struggling to be released.
"I'm just borrowing him," Harry says, wiping biscuit crumbs from his mouth with the other hand.
"Harry, I can see that you're trying to convince my king to forfeit, and I won't stand for it. This is terribly un-Gryffindor of you," Draco points out.
Harry's eyes sparkle. "I'm having a night off. It's Christmas."
"Not any more it's not," Draco says, glancing at the clock on the mantel.
Harry looks, too. With a weary sigh, he releases Draco's knight and rubs at his eyes beneath his glasses. The knight looks up at him indignantly and urges his tiny horse back onto the board.
"I didn't realise it was so late. No wonder I'm exhausted."
Draco lifts an eyebrow. "So, it has nothing to do with all that long-distance Apparating and stomping up here from Hogsmeade through a blizzard?"
Harry yawns. "Shut up. I'm going to get some sleep," he says, standing up and stretching. "I left my quilt at the Burrow—didn't want it to get damaged. It's brilliant, though, thank you."
"Never mind that," Draco says, frowning. "You can't go back to your rooms."
Harry shoots him a lazy smile. "Oh? Why not?"
Something flickers in the pit of Draco's stomach but he ignores it. "The house-elves thought you'd be gone until the start of term, that's why. Your bed will be stripped, there won't be a fire, and the whole place will be freezing," he says, getting to his feet and levelling a challenging stare at Harry. "We could ask them to sort it out now, I suppose, but it is Christmas and it is two o'clock in the morning..."
"Okay, okay," Harry agrees, lifting his hands in surrender. "Where do you want me to sleep?"
"In the bed," Draco says with some effort.
"And where will you sleep?"
Draco groans inwardly. "Here," he says, indicating his corduroy armchair.
"You can't sleep in a chair," Harry insists, folding his arms.
"This chair and I have a very special relationship," Draco says firmly. "I'll be fine."
Before Harry has a chance to argue any more, he stalks into the bedroom, pulls out a pair of pyjamas for Harry to borrow, collects the bits and pieces he needs, and makes himself a rather comfortable temporary bed from his armchair, two pillows, a blanket and a sleepy Stanley.
Harry leaves the door open a crack and Draco finds himself comforted by the sounds of rustling and steady breathing as he settles down to sleep.
"Harry?" he calls after a minute or two.
"Mm?"
"I called my mother. She's coming to visit."
There's a pause and a rustle and then: "Now?"
Draco smiles against his pillow. "No, not now."
"Okay."
"Thank you for my telescope."
"Good," Harry mumbles sleepily. "It'll be useful for looking at... things."
"Things," Draco repeats, allowing his breathing to fall into rhythm with the restful vibration of Stanley's abdomen, letting his thoughts drop away one by one until nothing remains but Harry.