On Mid-Winter\'s Day

Author's Notes: Written for Mahaliem for the Winter 2007 HD Holidays gift exchange on LiveJournal. Thanks to my bodacious betas/audiencers BlameBrampton, Calanthe, Frayach, and Ociwen for helping to bring this to fruition. And thanks as well to Winnett for loads of useful information on pagan rites and traditions.

On Mid-Winter's Day

TWENTY-FOUR YEARS LATER

August

I.

This is the last conversation Harry has ever expected to have with his mother-in-law, the very last.

Albus is hooked on Muggle potions! Our Lily's in trouble! James was caught sniffing goats! No matter how ludicrous, he's envisioned each one of these unlikely scenarios over the years, in horrific detail. But never this.

He folds and unfolds his fingers, limp and useless. A childhood rhyme rewinds meaninglessly in his head, over and over. Here is the church, here is the steeple...

"When did you know?"

Open the doors... Molly Weasley’s voice remains soft, but sounds tight with anxiety. She reaches for one of Harry’s hands across the cafe table, and he lets her take it. Her once-solid grip now feels fragile, almost insubstantial. She’s getting old, even for a pureblood, Harry realises, and he tries to breathe normally despite the lump in his throat.

...And see all the people. Harry makes himself take a sip of lukewarm tea, composing himself before he speaks.

"It happened yesterday, on my lunch break," he says. Never has he been more conscious of the fact that the woman sitting across from him is Ginny’s mother. He clears his throat. "I was in Muggle London. Thought I'd buy her a gift, see. We’d both been so busy lately."

"Very sweet of you," Molly interjects.

Harry bites his tongue. Not sweet. More like foolish. But this is time for disclosure, not editorialising.

"Er...so, " he says, "I walked in to this jewellery shop on Tottenham Court Road. That flash one that’s always changing displays in the window. She’s not always so keen on my taste — I wanted to get her something nice this time."

He pauses again. Swallows tightly. "Then I saw — them, right inside. Ginny, and this bloke — his name’s Clive Fleming, I think —"

"I’ve heard of him," Molly says. "Plays for the Cannons, doesn’t he? Chaser?"

"Blimey, you’ve actually been listening to Ron," Harry says with a bitter smile. "Yes, that’s the fellow. Anyhow, I wasn’t concerned at first. See, Ginny told me she'd been trying to get an interview with him for a very long time. And I was happy for her, can you believe that?" he asks, his voice rising. "I was actually happy for her!"

Molly is still holding Harry’s hand. She gives it a quick squeeze. "I’m sorry."

"So am I." Harry stares down at the white tablecloth as he tells Molly the other, more damning details. The familiar way—so wrong!— that Fleming touched Ginny’s bare arm. How Ginny tossed her head and laughed in response, no, she giggled like a schoolgirl, and Fleming leaned over and kissed her, right on the lips, making her drop her packages.

Harry tells Molly about the stifling heat that flared in his chest, how every muscle tightened and he wanted to bloody kill the smug bastard right there in the shop. And not with his wand, either. He’d strangle him, snap his thick neck, smash his bones into powder with his bare fists. And then drop the body at Ginny’s feet. A sacrifice, a gift of love.

But instead, Harry admits, he stumbled out of the shop without confronting them, wrapping his anger around him like a cloak. He's never been one to cause a scene, famous Harry Potter or not.

"Does she know that you know?" Molly asks. The waiter is hovering, their plates long ago cleared and their cups empty, but she waves him away.

"Yes," Harry says. "I talked to her last night, after we’d put the kids to bed. She said it’s been going on for weeks. It’s because— she says— I don’t satisfy her. That I never have."

"Oh, Harry!" Molly exclaims. Her face grows pale with disbelief; and Harry isn't sure which upsets her more, the fact that this happened or the fact that her daughter hasn't confided in her. "I don't know what to say. I’m so sorry. I really didn’t know."

"I know you didn’t," Harry says. He can’t bring himself to look into her warm brown eyes, a mirror of Ginny’s own. "I don't think I can talk about it anymore. Not just now."

"Understood," Molly says, and Harry feels ridiculously thankful for her charity and discretion. "So... have you heard from Dudley lately?"

One thing he loves about his mother-in-law is that she genuinely cares about his Muggle relatives, whom she hardly knows and has little reason to like. Few in his Wizarding family ever mention the Muggles he grew up with, but Molly and Arthur, bless their hearts, always take an interest.

"Not so good, I'm afraid," Harry says, but he smiles nevertheless at the thought of his cousin. Dudley had frustrated his parents' ambitions for bourgeois respectability by moving to Yorkshire, buying a farm, and marrying the former owner's daughter, a sturdy, jolly village girl. He likes to tell Harry that he's found more joy in farming than he ever would have if he'd listened to his father and gone into sales or finance.

Harry pulls the latest post from the linty pocket of his work robes. "Unexpected frost did in the potatoes, apparently. And Prue's pregnant again."

"He'll get by," Molly says firmly. "And so will you."

II.

One constant in Harry’s life is his job. Every weekday morning he looks forward to the moment he Apparates out of the still-dark house into his cosy office, a neutral zone where conflict is everpresent, but rarely personal. His subordinates know better.

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement remains as much a refuge for him today as it has been for the past fourteen years. He imagines that Ginny feels the same way about her own work, though she’s never admitted it to him. Her gig covering Quidditch for the Daily Prophet often requires nights out of town, short trips away from the family that Ginny is all too eager to take.

Harry supposes his marriage is like a lot of others. After a certain point, he and Ginny knew each other so well there was nothing to talk about any more, except their kids. Once the children were at Hogwarts, he and Ginny spoke less and less. And then if they did happen to talk, it would soon turn into a fight. He was almost afraid to start conversations with her; she would needle, needle, needle him, refusing to let the argument end until she deemed his capitulation sufficiently genuine. Ginny was always determined to have the last word, and often as not she did. After three hours of sleep, if that, he'd be miserably exhausted and testy the next day at work, reluctant to come home for yet another rematch.

Maybe lately it isn’t Ginny’s job that keeps her away, Harry muses. It’s true— his wife’s appetite for sex is far greater than his. When Harry crawls into bed each night, he’s usually satisfied with nothing more than a kiss before he succumbs to soft blankets and pillows and sweet oblivion. But Ginny isn't; she's prone to clamber on top of him, attack his mouth, and grind her hips into his groin. Harry either feigns sleep or lets her get on with it; it's more trouble to protest than not.

At forty-three, Harry Potter is a mature, sensible adult, as is the slightly younger woman he married. So after the Big Talk, once he and Ginny stop shouting and flinging hexes at each other, they arrive at a Mutual Plan. Ginny will stay in the house, and keep most of the furniture. Harry will move back to musty old Grimmauld Place, and until they return to Hogwarts in the fall, the children will spend weekends with their father. Not that he expects to see them that much. At eighteen, gawkishly handsome James reserves most of his free time for whichever blonde he might be seeing at the moment. By now, the boy’s saved almost enough money from his clerkship at Gringotts to get his own place. Though by no means a top player, seventeen-year-old Albus is Quidditch-mad and practices daily, even when it's not term time. And there’s nothing that their little sister Lily would rather do than hog the Potters’ Floo network, giggling with her mates over Hogwarts' most fanciable boys.

Without the constant clatter and hum of his family, the silence seems almost too much to bear . Harry can't stand to be at home; Grimmauld Place doesn't feel like home, and he wonders if it ever will. He stays later and later at work, but improbably, he feels less productive than ever. He assigns Aurors to closed cases and sends the wrong owls with the wrong messages to the wrong recipients. He can’t really wake up, and he can’t quite get to sleep. So he’s not terribly surprised the morning he receives an urgent summons to the Office of the Minister of Magic.

It’s early, not yet nine, and Harry yawns as he walks through the chilly hallways, inhaling the faux-lemon freshness of last night’s cleaning charm. Perhaps he’ll be reprimanded, but he can always finesse his way out of it. He has before, and he will again.

"Harry."
Harry nods. "Good morning, Kingsley."

Minister Shacklebolt nods back, almost regally, and gestures to the chair in front of his massive mahogany desk. There's something comfortably solid about his authority— even Muggles can sense it.

"What can I do for you, sir?" Harry says easily, his genial tone belying the heaviness beginning to sink into his stomach. It’s always best to take the initiative in these conversations.

"You’ve never taken a sabbatical, have you?"

Harry shakes his head. "Nah, too much to do."

Kingsley interlaces his well-manicured fingers, rocks in his big leather chair. "Don’t you think," he says pointedly, "it’s high time you took one?"

"No, I don’t," Harry says, not meaning to sound as defensive as he knows he does. "I’d really prefer not to, if it's all the same to you."

"Ronald Weasley seems to be enjoying his. Got an owl from Malta just the other day. He and his family have been spending their days relaxing, sitting in the sun, swimming in lakes, living the good life."

Harry nods again. He knows there are no lakes in Malta. Ron told him.

Kingsley shrugs. "The point is, I’ve seen this happen to too many Aurors in my time. Too much work, no time off, performance suffers. A classic scenario." He leans his robed elbow on his desk, chin in broad palm, studying Harry’s face.

"Perhaps I could take a week. That should be sufficient.” Harry finds himself feeling grateful for Kingsley’s consideration, for his cool, professional discretion. Grateful for the mere fact that his boss hasn’t brought up the subject of Ginny, or the divorce. The Wizarding world remains small and exceptionally gossipy, and even if he hadn’t been Famous Harry Potter, or the Head of Magical Law Enforcement, tongues would have been sure to wag. Maybe it was better to take some time away. He couldn't stand those pitying looks no one thought he could see.

"Perhaps you need to broaden your horizons a bit." Kingsley opens his desk drawer and pulls out a copy of the Daily Prophet, tossing it towards Harry.

There it is in front of him, in black and white— the classified adverts page. Harry’s jaw drops open.

"You’re— you can't be sacking me."

"No, you’ll always be at the Ministry, at least if I’ve got anything to do with it," Kingsley says with a soft laugh. "Have a look down at the bottom left, if you please."

Harry sees what Kingsley is talking about, and his eyes widen as he focuses on the text. "You’re not suggesting I apply for—" he points at the page, at the unmistakeable curlicued gothic script, "— this vacant Defence Against the Dark Arts position at Hogwarts, are you?"

"Harry," Kingsley says. "I know these past few months haven't been easy. Give yourself a break. The Ministry is empowered to grant sabbaticals-"

"For up to one year, after ten years of service," Harry completes his sentence. "I’ve read the employee handbook, you know."

"Will you at least consider it? Come on. You’ve always said you wanted to give back to Hogwarts; now’s your chance."

There's a noticeable pause before Harry speaks again. "I pay full tuition for three children. I think that’s quite enough."

"Harry."

He looks at Kingsley for a long moment before he sighs and gives his answer.


September

I.

The Headmistress’s office appears much the same as it did in Harry's school days, all dark wood panelling and mysterious fragile-looking instruments. His mind keeps wandering as McGonagall talks, returning to the countless hours he spent here as a student confiding in Dumbledore, to the night he watched Draco Malfoy attempt murder and fail, to the day not long after the War when he finally succeeded in persuading the administration to hang Snape’s portrait...

"Harry? Have you got your lesson plan together, then?”

The crisp snap in McGonagall’s voice brings him back to the present, and Harry sits up straighter in his chair, curving his mouth into a polite smile. "Certainly, Minerva. I've prepared a general outline. Everything’s under control."

McGonagall smiles back and adjusts the faded collar of her robes.

"Good," she says. "Just one more thing. I've been hoping to find a replacement coach for the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Would you mind stepping in? Just in case Madam Johnson is poorly, of course.”

Harry grins. He’s heard of Angelina’s reputation for working up until the very day of delivery, all through each of her four pregnancies. "Absolutely, not a problem. I’ve been looking forward to seeing her again. And Neville."

"That’s right, there’s a few familiar faces you’ll be seeing here; that should make you feel right at home. And one of them is a last-minute addition as well, just like you."

"Who’s that?" Harry asks.

"We needed a temporary replacement for Hodges, our Potions Master — he’s still recovering from the effects of that unfortunate Latvian Lip Locker curse, you know. So his business partner has agreed to step in, at least for the year."

"You mean— Gregory Goyle?" Harry practically feels the cogs spinning crazily in his brain. It has to be Goyle, it has to be, though Harry can't imagine that taciturn lump is actually capable of teaching. It can't be Hodges' other business partner, the last person Harry wants to see right now when he feels so unstable, please don't let it be —
"No. Draco Malfoy."
Harry turns his near-gasp into an impromptu throat clearing. Malfoy couldn’t have mattered less to him, and indeed, he doesn't. "Glad to hear that he's...giving back to Hogwarts. " he says lamely.
"Now the important question," he adds, trying to come up with one. "Is, er, Professor Flitwick still teaching, then?”

II.

"So, are you seeing anyone?" Harry asks. It feels unaccountably odd to be eating at the teachers' table instead of with his fellow Gryffindors. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Lily at the table where he'd sat over twenty years ago, laughing and tossing her red-plaited hair. Albus is there too, chomping away at a chicken leg.

Neville looks surprised. "No, not really," he says. "Are you?"

"No," Harry says glumly. It's been four years since Neville's own divorce, and Harry’s dying to ask him: when does it get better? When do you stop carrying around all the pain and guilt and anger?

"There is a certain someone I wouldn't mind dating, though," Neville says, blushing a little.

"Oh yeah?" Harry asks. Lily is gesturing with her hands, a comically exaggerated expression distorting her pretty features. She must be impersonating a teacher, Harry guesses. Her girlfriends laugh. A few seats down, Albus helps himself to more chips.

"Have you met Felicia Lin yet? She’s the new Muggle Studies professor. From Canada. Muggle-raised, like you. And she’s —" Neville lets out a mournful sigh —"not just pretty for a teacher, but bloody stunning.”

"Wow," Harry says, tonelessly. He wonders when he’ll start finding women bloody stunning again. Neville would know, he’s been there, he’ll know the right things to say —

Neville slaps his own forehead, leaping up rather suddenly. " Oh, sorry, Harry- I’ve got to go... just remembered that I’ve started the Rat-Eating Roses — very fragile! — on regular feedings, and the next one’s due in five minutes.”

"Ah, don’t worry about it." Harry assures him. "We’ll catch up later." He watches Neville as he bustles out of the room, and it reminds him that he hasn’t been that excited about his own job in a long, long time.

Suddenly, he can’t stand to be alone with his half-filled plate of food, in a room full of strange students and mostly doddering professors. He scans the room for familiar faces amid the black robes. Maybe Angelina’s around?

But someone else's eye catches his. A woman in long knitted robes, greying brown hair done up in a loopy bun, huge glasses tilting crazily on her nose. "Why Harry Potter, good to see you back again!" she calls out. "I predict you’re going to have a very successful year.”

Harry waves, greeting his former Divination professor. "Good to see you! Talk later, yeah? Excuse me, I'm looking for a friend..." He lets his voice trail off as he walks away. Tonight, the last thing he wants to know is what Sybil Trelawney's tea leaves have to say about his inevitably gruesome demise.

His eyes scan the room until they focus on an ideal target: the empty chair at the end of the rectangular table in front of his. A single person is sitting on the opposite side, his or her face obscured by a newspaper.

"Mind if I join you?" Harry asks.

Slowly, Draco Malfoy raises his eyes from his paper and looks up at him, creasing his pale forehead. He gives Harry the curtest of nods, then turns back to his reading.

Harry can’t help but wince. He’s heard absolutely nothing from Malfoy since saving his life, twice, when they were both almost barely out of school. And now Malfoy merely nods at him, the same dismissive motion he'd made on that brisk autumn day five years ago when the Potters dropped Albus off at Kings Cross station for the very first time. A businesslike, barely cordial inclination of that pointed chin, as though Harry was a stranger seeking a minor favour for Malfoy to graciously bestow. As if he and Harry hadn't loathed each other intimately, with a fervour barely diminished through six years of school together. As though Malfoy had never clung to Harry as though Harry was his life preserver, his dearest lover, his own last desperate hope, while Harry manoeuvred them both out of the burning Room of Requirement...

Still, Harry slips into the seat across from Malfoy. "I heard you’re teaching Potions this year.”

Malfoy lifts his head again, his thin face solemn and austere. His hairline has receded very slightly, but his white-gold hair is flawlessly arranged. "You heard correctly," he says, not attempting to hide his sneer. "Clearly you’ve got a nose for news. Probably because it’s so often about you."

He folds back his newspaper so Harry can read the bold headline: Potters divorcing, who's at fault? Our money's on the missus.

Harry frowns, and then notices something on the page facing him. "And look who else is in the news," he says evenly. There's a moving photograph of Malfoy's Hogsmeade shopfront; bottles and decanters gleam in the window as Wizarding folks amble by. Over the years, the place has become renowned for its excellent selection of uncommon and expertly mixed potions; or so Harry's heard. He's never been in.

The Prophet has named Hodges, Malfoy & Goyle, Chemists, as Wizard Establishment of the Week. However, this mild honour is tempered by Rita Skeeter's unfortunate sub-headline: With two of three partners gone, business stability questioned.

Malfoy's lip curls. "Goyle's managing just fine, thank you," he snaps.

"This seat isn't taken, is it?" With a quick rustle of robes, somebody sinks down into the chair next to Harry, providing a welcome reprieve.

The voice is female, lilting, clearly not British. Harry glances toward its source and does a double take. The young woman now sitting next to him is astonishingly lovely, especially amid the preponderance of not-so-lovely elderly professors. She's bloody stunning, in fact. Her straight dark hair and small, perfect mouth remind him of his schoolboy crush on Cho Chang. It's been years since he's spoken to Cho; it might have been Hermione who mentioned that she'd married a baron and moved to Switzerland.

He beams up at his charming rescuer. "Of course not, we've been saving it for you," he says gallantly. "Right, Malfoy?"

But Malfoy is already gone.

III.

Harry enjoys teaching far more than he expected. The bright-eyed amazement of the first years, the practiced scepticism of the sixth-years, the rambunctious fourth-years and their challenging, unanswerable questions — all are delightful, each in their own way. In general, these kids are much better behaved than he and his friends were. So far, he's only had to scold Malvinus Simon for transforming Daisy Hurley's pigtails into antlers, and separated the two third-year Hufflepuffs who disturbed his lecture with paper airplane charms.

Even Scorpius Malfoy turns out to be a quiet, rather polite young chap—the anti-Malfoy, Harry calls him privately. Must have been the mother's influence, he thinks, remembering the blonde woman standing next to Malfoy on the platform at Kings Cross, so many autumns ago.

Passing the glass-doored Potions laboratory one afternoon, on the way to his last class of the day, Harry peers in. Perhaps he's curious about Malfoy's teaching methods, perhaps he's just bored, but he notices something that stops him mid-step. Amid the narrow, uneven rows of desks, his eyes are irresistibly drawn to two particular heads; one sleek and blond, the other scruffy and dark, both bent together over the same cauldron. His own Albus, partnered with Malfoy's son — and instead of Snape, it's Malfoy who stands before the class in his drab professor's robes, calmly lecturing. It feels like looking through the wrong end of a telescope, and Harry suddenly feels unsteady on his feet.

"Is Professor Malfoy treating you well?" he asks Albus at dinner. They're at a small cafe in Hogsmeade that night, his treat— on the off-chance that Harry might catch up with his son without embarrassing him in front of his friends.

"I'm glad you asked, Dad," Albus says earnestly. "I've been thinking of registering a formal complaint."

Harry swore so quietly his son could only see his lips moving. "Tell me what he did to you. Everything," he says. "He'll have me to answer to first thing tomorrow."

Albus chuckles. "That man," he says, "gives more homework than it's humanly possible to do. I don't know what's wrong with him! In fact, I should be getting back soon so I have a mortal's chance in Hades of finishing my eleven-hundred words on the properties of wormwood elixir."

"He's not mean? Sarcastic? Rude? A complete and utter git?" Harry knows he's being childish, but he can't seem to keep the rancour out of his voice.

"No, he just wants to turn us all into swots with no life outside of his class. God, he bloody loves Rose, of course, you know how keen she is on Potions. Lily said he had her up in front of the class yesterday demonstrating how to make Scintillation Solution."

"Language," Harry chides, but his mind races. Malfoy loves Rose? Could Malfoy actually have it within him to show a speck of courtesy to the daughter of a man he's never liked, and a mere half-blood at that?

"What about Scorpius Malfoy, how do you get on with him?" he asks.

"All right."

"Has he ever given you any trouble?"

Albus shrugs. "Nah, not really."

"Would you say that Scorpius is your— friend?"

Albus quickly finishes chewing and swallowing in order to answer his father’s question, clearly not one he anticipated. "He’s nice enough, I reckon. But my main mates are in Gryffindor. They’re just around the most, you know?"

"Yeah," Harry says. "I know."

"Know who's friends with Scorpius Malfoy?" Albus volunteers. "Hugo.”

"Hugo Weasley?" Harry asks. He’s never heard his nephew even mention Scorpius. Still, both boys are in Ravenclaw — it isn't so far-fetched that they might be friendly, even with a year separating them. Also, Hugo has long stopped telling his family everything. "Do you think Uncle Ron knows?"

Albus shrugs. "No idea." He sips his butterbeer, looks up at his father. "You and Scorpius’ dad — you used to fight at school, is that right?"

"Who told you that?" Harry asks carefully.

"Dunno," Albus says. "Uncle Ron, maybe?" He lifts his last forkful of meat to his mouth. "So you'll have a word with old Malfoy about the work overload, eh? Brilliant!"

October

I.

Lately, Harry has been seeing a lot of Felicia Lin, the bloody stunning Muggle Studies professor. Not dating her, exactly, but he's often in her company. Being Muggle-raised is their big common ground and a source of many a joke between them about the oddities and contradictions of Wizarding culture. How the magical world has embraced radio, but not television or films. How everyone chats by Floo, but telephones are unknown. The way you never really get used to the crushing feeling of Apparition.

Felicia is the only witch Harry's ever met who actually chose not to attend a Wizarding school when she received the invitation, preferring to stay in Muggle school with her friends. However, after taking an enrichment programme as an adult, she's now fascinated with rediscovering her magical heritage. Harry has never had many Muggle-raised friends, and none who've lived in the Muggle world as long as Felicia. He relishes the mildly subversive sensation he gets during their unusual conversations.

He's sitting next to Felicia during what feels like the umpteenth god-awful faculty meeting convened during Harry's brief tenure as a professor, but is really only the fourth. Today's meeting is mandatory, and it looks like there's not a single empty seat.

Two rows in front of him, he spies the unmistakeable back of Draco Malfoy's blond head, and makes a point to glare at it, even though Malfoy never turns around.

As McGonagall bangs her gavel to command the room's attention, Felicia discreetly rolls her eyes, a gesture which doesn't mar her beauty as much as renders it more distinctive. Yet another waste of a perfectly good morning, her expression says to Harry.

Harry discreetly eye-rolls back. And there aren't even cakes and coffee this time.

Felicia looks up at the ceiling in supplication, as if to say You wouldn't believe the bucketload of papers I have to mark this weekend.

Harry shrugs. Try me. But McGonagall's face is sombre and strangely wan, and he feels a pang of guilt. Maybe something important is going on. No deaths, please, he requests silently.

McGonagall clears her throat. "As you know," she said, "Britain is facing a difficult year. The almanacs and auguries have predicted a harsh winter and a dry spring, which affects our food supply as well as that of the Muggles."

Right, Harry thinks, remembering Dudley's last letter. Not exactly recent news.

"Can't we just conjure food?" Felicia whispers to Harry, hand half-covering her mouth.

"Ah, can't live on that. Doesn't have the nutrients of the natural stuff," says Harry, as if he actually knows what he's talking about.

"I foresaw famine!" Sybil Trelawney pronounces loudly, her voice carrying from a few rows behind Harry.

McGonagall coughs, frowning a little. "Er, yes, Sybil, as I was saying. We'll get to your piece forthwith. As many of you know — good gracious, we haven’t done this for more than thirty years!— there's really only one solution to this problem."

"The Mid-Winter Rites!" called out a tall wizard in the back. Several teachers clapped their hands; scattered cheers sounded throughout the room.

"Exactly," McGonagall confirms. "Just as we've done in the past, Hogwarts will hold its own Alban Arthan festival to restore the natural balance of the seasons."

"Alban Arthan?" Harry stage-whispers, regretting that it isn't Hermione who's sitting next to him. Not for the first time, he wishes he'd paid more attention during History of Magic.

Felicia shrugs her slim shoulders. "American Muggle photographer. Mostly black and white. Rocks. Rivers. Trees. That sort of thing."

Hogwarts has never been big on Muggle art appreciation; in fact, Harry can't remember even seeing a single piece of non-Wizarding art in the castle. He assigns a place for Felicia on his running mental list of unreliable witnesses as she snaps open her handbag, releasing a small gold cylinder with wings. The container flies to her face, doffs its cap smartly, and reddens her lips in several quick swipes.

"Why can't I find a magical lipstick that lasts as long as the real kind?" she laments.

Harry gives Felicia's wrist a light pat, hushing her; McGonagall is still talking.

"Consistent with over three hundred years of tradition, the Rites shall take place on Mid-Winter's Day," the Headmistress says.

Felicia waved her hand. "Pardon me — when's that, exactly?"

She bends forward, fumbling in her handbag for her curious little Muggle communication device. More than a few of the pureblooded staff members crane their necks, eager for a glimpse of the foreign witch practising her exotic spellcraft.

McGonagall presses her lips together as though she were suppressing a sigh. "Mid-Winter's Day falls on December 21st this year. It's the solstice — the day wizards celebrate Yule."

Felicia nods briskly, thumb-typing on her plastic contraption. "Lovely, thanks so much." Some of the professors are murmuring in admiration; others argue in hushed tones over whether Felicia's magic is Muggle or Canadian in origin.

"Don't you think we should disclose the prophecy now, Headmistress?" Trelawney asks in a shrill voice.

McGonagall nods briskly. "I was just getting to that," she answers. "As many of you know, we use Divination to determine who will conduct the Rites, and Sybil has kindly taken care of this for us."

Harry turns his head to see Trewlaney grin, displaying suspiciously-stained teeth. Reaching deep into her patchwork bag, she scoops out a transparent globe that resembles the prophecy Harry had seen — his prophecy! — inside the Department of Mysteries so many years ago. When she lifts it aloft, a haze of smoke swirls around the interior.

McGonagall takes the globe and places it on a small table in front of her, steadying it before striking with a tiny mallet. As the glass shatters into thousands of crystal shards, it releases the tinny sound of Trelawney's recorded voice.

"The Holly King, the God of the Old Year, shall be — Draco Malfoy!"

"I accept the challenge," he says, his voice clear and measured. He shakes the hands that are offered to him.

Before Harry can shake his head dismissively, Trelawney's disembodied voice comes from the stage again. "And the Oak King, the Lord of the Greenwood, shall be — Harry Potter!"

Stumbling, Harry rises to his feet. Draco Malfoy turns, and for the first time since they met again at Hogwarts, looks him right in the eye.

For a second, he forgets to breathe; if he didn't know any better, he might think that Malfoy is smiling.

II.

When Harry walks the grounds at night, as he's been doing a lot lately, the wet grass squeaks and whispers beneath his boots. These days, his craving for solitude is almost physical, and it's only at night that he finds it, his private self returned to him after a day of playing teacher. He cherishes these moments; soon, it will be too cold to enjoy his time out here, even with a warming charm in his pocket. Already he can't go out without his winter cloak, and it's only mid-October. He remembers Dudley's earlier letter and sighs to himself; it looks like his cousin, the only Muggle farmer that he knows, was dead right about his weather predictions.

The Quidditch pitch looks immense; it must be because it's empty. The moon is full, and bright enough to sustain a game on its glow alone. Harry closes his eyes for a second, and he can almost hear the crowd cheering and booing and stamping their feet, feel the wind flattening his hair, the final moment when the Snitch flutters in his grasp.

There's something else he hears, a quiet, small crackling. Possibly an animal, maybe the wind. He has his wand out before he even contemplates the possibility of danger.

"Huh. Keep it in your trousers, Potter."

The very tips of Harry's fingers tingle with recognition at the sound of that leisurely drawl, and he turns around.

Draco Malfoy is sitting on the grass in full robes. He's slumped against the goalpost, his thin face illuminated by the faint glow of his cigarette. He takes a drag and lazily blows smoke in Harry's direction. "Filthy habit, I know. Spare me the sermon."

"You know we're to do this Mid-Winter Rites thing together," Harry blurts. Somehow, it's the only thing he can think of to say, although What the fuck are you doing out here by yourself in the dead of night? would be a lot more rational.

"Yes, of course," Draco says absently, as though the subject holds as little interest to him as the alternate history of overweight Norwegian Muggles. He takes another drag on his cigarette and looks out over the field. "You and me on the Quidditch pitch, once again. Brings back memories, doesn’t it?"

Harry gives him an arch half-smile. "Memories of kicking Slytherin's arse, if I recall correctly. And yours. When you could be arsed to play, that is."

"I'd take you on for a rematch any time, Potter," Malfoy says, glowering. "Pity my broom's back in my quarters."

"Pity I have the key to the Quidditch shed." From his pocket, Harry pulls out the key that McGonagall had given him. "Unless you're scared."

Malfoy snorts. "These are designer robes, I'll have you know. If I ruin them, you're paying."

The brooms, all fairly new models, are lined up in rows against the walls of the shed, their handles gleaming with fresh polish. A light sweet smell like a pine forest hangs in the air.

Harry longs for his trusty Firebolt, which he's hung onto all these years, despite all the teasing from his kids about its ridiculously antique vintage. The 1980's called — it wants its broom back, Lily jokes. They never should have let her watch Muggle telly.

He decides to go with a bright-painted Lightningstrike; that's James' favourite brand, and he's the most athletic of all Harry's children.

"Ready?" he asks Malfoy, who's chosen a slim–staffed, streamlined Starscraper.

"Ready to bloody slaughter you," Malfoy sniffs, and Harry opens his cupped hands to release the Snitch. He watches as their winged quarry flits away, a glimmer of gold rising and disappearing into the near darkness. Without further preamble, he kicks off into the dark sky, climbing into the chill air until there's nothing, nothing but the night and the moon and the stars, and he's in love with the sport all over again.

Over and over again, he sees the quick flash of light that may be the Snitch, and darts up or down to retrieve it, Malfoy always on his heels. Night Quidditch, he's realising, is not so easy. He's almost ready to call a draw when he sees the Snitch, really sees it, but when he opens his hand to make a wide grab, his fingers close not over the fluttering sphere, but Malfoy's bony fist.

Astonished, Harry lets go and drops from the sky, landing breathlessly. Soon Malfoy joins him, tumbling from his broom onto the grass.

"Good game," Harry says, after his breathing returns to normal.

Malfoy is still panting. "Don't," he gasps, "bloody patronise me." He takes a quick gulp of air. "Potter."

"Fuck you, Malfoy. And you really should quit smoking," Harry says. He gets to his feet, brushing himself off.

Malfoy remains flat on his back. His body shakes when he coughs, and his face is pink and sweaty. It's only at this point that Harry realises how very desperately Malfoy must have wanted to win this match. To be Harry's equal.

"All right there, mate?" he asks lightly.

"Oh, bugger, my back," Malfoy moans.

"No thanks," says Harry. "I've got an early class tomorrow." He laughs at his own joke.

Malfoy shoots him a stony glare in response. "Before you go any further with that pitiful attempt at humour," he wheezes, "I should mention that I happen to be gay."

Harry leans down and peers more closely at Malfoy. He's starting to look a little better now, his colour normalising and his exaggerated grimace softening into his usual sneer. "Er, okay."

"Hey, didn’t you hear me?" Malfoy asks. He rolls onto his side, props his elbow on the ground and rests his pointy chin in his hand. "I’m a poofter. I’m bent. Queer as a three-pound note. All these years, Weasley was right. You should tell him. Bet he’d have a right laugh."

"He wouldn't," Harry insists. He wants to tell Malfoy that Ron hasn't made any pansy jokes for years, not after their beloved headmaster had been posthumously outed in Rita Skeeter's best-selling biography. But he doesn't.

"Hang on, Potter. Aren’t you concerned about being alone with me now?"

Harry hides his nervousness with a chuckle, followed by his best attempt at an incredulous snort. "What sort of person do you think I am, Malfoy? I’m all right with gay people."

"Well, you’ve always been Mr Jolly Happy Hetero, haven’t you, Potter? Snogging the Weasel girl six ways from Sunday, all over Hogwarts—"

Malfoy stops, apparently registering the look on Harry’s face. "Oh, sorry," he mutters.

"That’s okay," Harry says. He manages a tight smile, marvelling a little at the fact that Malfoy has apologized. "I’ll admit I didn’t exactly hide my crushes in school. But really, I have no problem with homosexuality. Look, I even named my son Albus after Dumbledore."

Draco looks deeply bored. "Gold star for you, Potter."

"Why do you have to be such an arse, Malfoy?"

"Just my nature."

"Is that why you left your wife, then? Because you're gay?"

"I didn't leave her, she left me," Draco says. "Or rather, it was a mutual decision. We felt there was no need to keep up the deception."

"Why on earth did you marry, then?"

"You're full of questions today, aren't you, Potter?"

"I'm sorry, is that too personal?"

Draco sighs. "If you really must know, we both wanted a child, and my parents wanted an heir." He makes an impassioned effort to lift his shoulders off the ground, wavers, and flops down again in dramatic defeat.

"It was perfect, for a while," he adds in a chattier tone. "I had my bits on the side, and I suppose she did too, though I never asked. But then she wanted to take formal orders in her religion, and she couldn't do that as a married woman, so we had to divorce. We decided it was best to wait until Scorpius was in school, to make it easier for him."

"Her religion?" Harry racks his mind, trying to remember if he'd ever met any religious people in the magical world. Most everyone he knew celebrated Christmas, but it was more of a historical celebration than a sacred one, commemorating the birth of a legendary wizard.

"She follows the Old Ways. I believe pagan is the Muggle word for it. Though don't quote me on that. Muggle vocabulary isn't exactly my specialty."

"And one child was enough?"

"I didn't say that!" Malfoy sounds peeved. He holds out his arms, and Harry realises Malfoy wants, no, needs, to be helped up.

He thinks briefly of playing stupid, just for the joy of forcing Malfoy to ask him for help, but scolds himself for these uncharitable thoughts. "Perhaps we should stop by the hospital wing, just to get you checked out."

Malfoy rolls his eyes as though that's the most blindly moronic suggestion he's ever heard. "Merlin, why not just kill me now?" he gripes. "No, I'm fine, obviously. I just need to get back to my quarters and lie down."

"You're impossible," Harry says, shaking his head. A strange surge of affection grips him at the sight of Malfoy sprawled on the grass, in obvious physical distress, yet protesting the opposite. Quite a shift from the opportunistic way he used to lay it on whenever he was the slightest bit ill or in pain. His long legs are akimbo, his ice-coloured hair damp and disarrayed; he's a comic figure, vanquished despite his victory.

Harry stifles a mad urge to giggle. He tucks an arm under Malfoy and hoists him to a standing position, letting the man lean into him, his body warm and heavy as they begin their slow stumble back to the castle.

November

I.

It's Felicia who procures it for him; in fact, it's her own idea. Although she doesn't know Draco Malfoy, she expresses concern about him when she hears the news from Harry, and on her next Glasgow weekend, she makes a special purchase at her favourite Muggle chemist.

The foil packet feels strange against the lining of Harry's trouser pocket; it scrapes uncomfortably against his leg when he walks. He doesn't know if Malfoy will accept his gift; he's never been the most gracious of men.

It's half-past four, usual office hours for most professors, and only a few students are roaming the halls. After discreetly employing his Extendable Ears to determine if Malfoy is alone, Harry knocks on his office door.

Malfoy is at his desk, a tall, curling stack of unrolled parchment scrolls arranged in front of him. He peers at Harry through gold half-moon reading glasses that remind Harry of the kind Dumbledore used to wear. Somehow, Malfoy's scholarly eyewear suits him, lending his delicate features an air of gravity.

"What is it, Potter? As you can see, I've far too much on my plate for Quidditch tonight."

Harry swallows his smile; he doubts Malfoy has recovered from their last game. He takes the packet out of his pocket and places it in front of him. "Something I thought you might be able to use."

Without looking at it, Draco flicks it away with his index finger. "Please. I know about safe sex. Why do you breeders always think you have to educate us?" he huffs. "And besides, pureblood wizards are immune to Muggle viruses." Then he smiles suggestively. "Or is this your crude way of making a proposition?"

"Malfoy! That's not what it is," Harry sputters, his cheeks reddening. "This happens to be a nicotine patch. To help you quit smoking."

"Hmm," Draco says. "Muggle-made?"

"Yes. Though what does that matter?"

Draco picks up the foil packet, turns it back and forth between his fingers. When he notices Harry is watching him, he scowls. "All right, Potter. As I said, I've got a lot of work to do."

II.

Harry doesn't know for certain if Draco actually wears the patch, but he never sees him smoke again. A few nights after his visit to Malfoy's office, Malfoy sits down next to him in the Great Hall and starts talking to him as if they weren't old enemies, but casual friends who hadn't seen each other for a while. Harry goes along with it; he doesn't need to like Malfoy, but hate always burns a hole in his stomach and he's glad to do without it.

"Have you kept up with Quidditch since school?" he asks Malfoy, choosing a safe topic.

"No, haven't had many chances to play. And Scorpius doesn't care for it. My father always encouraged me to play, but I'd never make Scorpius do something that he doesn't want to do."

"Didn't you want to play, back when you were young?" Even knowing people like Hermione, Harry has always found it difficult to wrap his brain around the possibility that anyone wouldn't love Quidditch; he's never stopped playing with his family and friends. Besides their children, the love of the game is about the only thing he and Ginny have in common anymore.

"Of course I did," Malfoy says. "But I was never given any choice in the matter. My wife and I wanted Scorpius to make his own decision."

Harry finds himself mildly surprised at Malfoy's generosity and empathy for his son. "You know, you're all right."

"Yes, and you're a git, as always," Malfoy says, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

Harry is getting used to Malfoy; Hogwarts is not a large school, relatively speaking, and they've been running into each other regularly at meals and faculty meetings. Neville isn't around so much anymore; Harry supposes he's preparing his final exam. He also doesn't see Felicia as much anymore, which doesn't surprise him; a woman that beautiful would never lack for dates. Since Draco has stopped smoking, he's returned to playing one-on-one night Quidditch with Harry, and they play and play until their limbs are stiff and raw and it's too bitterly cold for even them to continue.

The day that Harry wakes up in a feverish sweat, Draco teaches his afternoon class for him, much to the collective dismay of Harry's students. Once he recovers, Harry repays him by teaching Potions the following Thursday, allowing Draco to catch up on much-needed research. After Harry's rather uneven lecture on Befuddlement Draughts, young Scorpius Malfoy makes a point of stopping his temporary instructor before leaving the room.

"What've you done with my dad, Professor?" he asks Harry. Scorpius is tall like his father, but his face has the softness of his mother's. He doesn't seem like an eerie junior version of Malfoy anymore, but like his own person, an individual.

"Your dad's taken the day off, Mr. Malfoy," Harry says gently. "Remember I told everyone before class?"

"No, I mean, what sort of potion have you given him? He's not coughing any more. And he walks faster."

And he smells better, Harry thinks, but quickly banishes the unimportant thought.


December

I.

After the last of Harry's students puts down his quill and turns in his final exam, Harry puts his head down on his desk for a second, full of uncontainable exhaustion and joy. He wants to celebrate, but there's no one around tonight, most students and professors having left as early as possible. Unlike himself, both Felicia and Neville had been smart enough to schedule their exams in the morning; no doubt they were on holiday now with their respective families.

The door opens, and he jerks up, startled. "Hullo?"

Draco Malfoy coughs. He looks freshly groomed, his hair forming a calm, smooth oval around his face.

"Potter!" he says. "Look alive, we're going to go get completely rat-arsed tonight. I for one need to be tanked to the gills to forget the vile mixture that Prunella Pearce tried to pass off as Pepperup Potion today. And you'll have to tell me about the atrocities your students have committed. Although I have sublime faith that Scorpius was not among that dull and wretched group."

Before Harry has a chance to respond, Malfoy jerks him up by the back of his collar and side-along Apparates him to Hogsmeade, landing them right in front of the new pub that Harry's been looking forward to trying.

Harry's knees buckle; his boots have unexpectedly sunk into ankle-deep snow. "You - you can't Apparate inside the castle grounds!" he gasps.

Malfoy's smile is arch as he steadies Harry. "Don't be ridiculous, Potter. The rules have been relaxed after the war. No more 'Death Eaters,' remember?"

Harry can almost see the quotation marks around the words when Malfoy says them. He isn't quite sure if Malfoy is mocking him; but then again, he rarely is. Malfoy's is an eccentric, subtle sense of humour; one that Harry's just beginning to grasp. "All right," he says, refusing to acknowledge his apparent gaffe, "all right, let's get on with it, shall we?"

Inside , the pub is small, dark, and inviting, with modest leather booths. Harry and Malfoy sit in the back, sharing Malfoy's choice of libation: a smoky bottle of vintage Firewhisky. With each glass, Harry's fatigue lessens, and he falls into a state of relaxed conviviality. He slips up with an exuberant toast or two, addressing Malfoy as "Draco," and then he finds, hilariously, that he's unable to stop.

"Did you ever think you were straight?" he spits out, apropos of nothing. Floating in his alcoholic blur, he's cheerfully amazed by how little he really knows about Draco, and by how much more he wants to know.

Draco raises a slim eyebrow, drops it. "No," he says. "But I’m able to pull it off when I need to. No pun intended."

"You know, I had a moment once when I thought I might be gay," Harry says, in his best you-won't-believe-how-wrong-you-were-about-me voice. Mr Jolly Happy Hetero indeed.

"Really." Draco doesn't sound surprised. Picking up his half-empty tumbler, he takes a leisurely, savouring sip of his Firewhisky, his eyes half-closed as he appreciates the oaky flavour.

"It was a few years ago, when me and Ron and Seamus took our kids camping. You remember Seamus, right? Seamus Finnigan?"

"Do you think I keep track of every last Gryffindor, Harry?"

Harry is momentarily disconcerted by the sound of his own name coming from Malfoy's mouth.

"Mmm, er, not especially," he says eventually. "But let me tell you this. One night, after everyone else had gone to bed, Seamus dared me to take a dip in the lake. We took off our shirts, dove in with our bathing trunks on. And then Seamus popped up next to me, standing up to his hips in the dark water. His chest was white and broad and kind of gleamed in the moonlight. I had the strongest urge to touch him, to skim my hands up and down the smooth sides of his body. Then he splashed at me and said something rude, and the feeling was gone."

Draco takes another deep sip and set his glass down. "Fascinating," he says. "Did you want to kiss him?”

Harry doesn't answer at first; he's entranced by the way that the flickering light from the candle on their table defines and highlights Draco's precise features. Draco's skin appears almost luminous, and the light mass of his hair shimmers around his face like pale fire.

"Er, perhaps I did, I can't really remember," he half-lies. "But only for a moment, really." He feels a bit dizzy. It must be the Firewhisky- he usually sticks to butterbeer.

It's nearly last orders, and the pub is practically empty. Without weighing the consequences, Harry leans across the table and kisses Draco on the lips.

For a moment, Draco relaxes into the kiss, his Firewhiskyed mouth soft and wet and yielding, and Harry nearly swoons with a heady rush of sweetness and wonderful memories; the day before his birthday, the anticipation before sinking his fork into a luscious mousse, the happy endings in the fairy stories he used to tell himself as a child, and it was as though all those brilliant things were happening to him again, all at once.

Until Draco untangles himself from Harry's clinging arms. "Right, so I'll see you next week, Potter," he says hurriedly, "on Mid-Winter's Day." And without waiting for Harry’s response, he pulls his velvet cloak around his shoulders and sweeps away into the night.

Alone with the empty bottle, Harry seethes. How could he have been so unforgivably rude, so presumptuous? A nagging voice which sounds suspiciously like Hermione’s continues to echo in his brain. Just because Malfoy happens to be gay, you shouldn’t assume he’s attracted to you.

"I know, I know!" he mutters to himself, a few glasses past caring who overhears.

Then why’d you do it?

The bottle is empty; Harry drags himself to the bar and orders another shot. There's an hour to kill, at least, before closing time.


II.

He has to talk to Draco. Harry didn't mean it; he was drunk, and alcohol makes many men lose their heads. Most men. Harry is lonely; of course he reached out to the nearest warm body available, male or female. It's all perfectly logical, and hopefully perfectly forgivable. But he can't seem to get Draco alone; he's never in his office any more, and he appears to dine at different times now.

Harry can't shake the feeling that Draco is avoiding him, and it makes him feel dreadfully guilty. He's even taken to walking odd corners of the castle in his old Invisibility Cloak. If Draco's hiding from him, he's determined to confront him and tell him the truth, so everything can be all right again and they can both get on with their lives.

One evening after dinner, he's passing by an alcove near the stairs to the Astronomy Tower when he hears two voices, male, both vaguely familiar.

"Are you sure this is safe, are you sure no one can find us?"

"Shut up and let me kiss you, mmmm...."

Harry tenses, a tight uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. He doesn't want to see Draco with someone else, but he knows it's not fair to feel this way. He has no claim on the man, after all.

Walk away, he tells himself, walk away! But he can't, he has to see for himself, he needs to verify that this is happening, to destroy the last of his ridiculous illusions. To know. Besides, if Draco's shagging a student, even one of legal age, it's against academic policy, and he should warn him before McGonagall finds out...

But when Harry retraces his steps, he doesn't see what he expects, not at all. It's his own nephew Hugo Weasley, he of the dreamy long-lashed eyes and the wavy, Byronic hair, who has Scorpius Malfoy fast in his arms, pushed up against the wall, being snogged and hugged and adored. Scorpius's pale blue eyes are closed, and he lets out quiet little gasps and moans as he kisses Hugo, presses against him, buries his face in his neck and the russet darkness of his hair.

Harry turns away, burning red from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. Malfoy needs to know about this, that's for certain. Or should the boys have their privacy? Children – no, young men— are entitled to certain secrets, after all, and there's no possibility of pregnancy with this couple. Nevertheless, as a father, he'd want to know what his son was up to, and why should Malfoy be any different?

Then he remembers something. The Mid-Winter Rites will be held tomorrow, and there's no way Malfoy will be able to avoid him. He'll have an ideal opportunity to apologize to Malfoy, and to let him know about Scorpius. No one's taken the time to explain what he's to do as the Oak King, though, and Harry guesses he should swot up on this, especially if it involves some sort of holiday pantomime in front of an audience. He could always send a quick owl to Hermione, but he doesn't want to disturb her holiday, and he’s in no mood for a long convoluted explanation. And he's reluctant to ask any of the older teachers and look a fool—from their attitude at the meeting, it seems like this is something every wizard should know.

The tall grandfather clock at the end of the hallway tolls the quarter hour, and Harry breaks into a run, knowing the library will only be open for fifteen more minutes. When he finally reaches his destination, the brass-handled doors are still open.

"Sir? We're closing." The plump, unfamiliar woman behind the front desk gives him a frosty look. Pince's successor, Harry supposes; he hasn't ventured in to the library since his return to Hogwarts.

He puts on his most winning smile, still huffing a little from his jog over. Although he doesn't mean to, he can't help but fixate on the absurdly large wart decorating the librarian's chin. "Good evening, Madam. I just need five minutes to find what I'm looking for, and I'll be out of your hair."

"Is there something wrong with your hearing, sir? The library is closed for the evening."

Harry frowns. He loathes playing this particular card, but his deck's tapped out and he hasn't time for any nonsense. Raising his fringe, he pointedly displays his lightning scar. "Madam. You do know who I am, don't you?"

The woman regards him suspiciously. "Certainly I do. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Potter, or should I say Professor Potter? Madam Livia Macauley, Head Librarian."

And I'm the Head of Magical Law Enforcement, you officious library cunt. Harry extends his hand, but she makes no move to take it. "Kindly return on Monday, Professor," she says. "We open at ten a.m. sharp. Good evening."

"Hold it right there." Harry says, putting on his sternest voice, the one he uses on cheeky suspects. "I may be on sabbatical right now, but I'm still an officer in the Ministry of Magic, and as such, I hereby order you to allow me the use of this library. Now."

"If you put it that way." Madame Macauley's smile disappears, and her unpleasant face rearranges itself into a mask of neutral formality. "May I assist you with anything in particular?"

"I need books on Alban Arthan," he says, the non-Latinate words clumsy on his tongue. "The Mid-Winter Rites. As many of them as you have."

Madame Macauley opens a large ledger with marbleized pages, sliding her wand down each page until she finds what she's looking for. Finally, her thin lips crack into a smile again.

"I'm afraid," she says, without a visible ounce of regret, "that every book on this subject has been checked out. Come back on Monday."

Harry pales. "All right then, I need the names of the persons who have them."

The librarian's owlish eyes broaden with outrage. "Professor Potter! I can't do that, it's a breach of privacy!"

"It's of utmost urgency and importance, and I demand you tell me or I'm-—I'm placing you under arrest for not following orders!"

He's startled by the sudden clunk, the sound of a solid object hitting wood, right behind Macauley's counter.

The librarian merely shrugs. "Orders are orders, but it looks like you may be in luck after all, Professor."

She places a thick book on the counter. "This just came in. I suppose it's overdue, as they generally are. Irresponsible students, layabout professors. The usual."

"Fantastic, thank you so much!" Harry says. He grins, not attempting to conceal his relief. "I really do appreciate this."

"You have studied runes, haven't you, Professor?" she says pleasantly. "I'd imagine you couldn't get out of Hogwarts without learning them. This one's in Runic. Marcomannic runes, translated from Anglo-Saxon Futhark, to be exact."

Harry's heart falls. "No," he admits. "Must have missed that during my seventh year, while I was out defeating Voldemort," he adds, with uncharacteristic snideness.

Madame Macauley shows no sign of taking the bait. "You'll need a translation stick, then." She scrabbles about, then hands Harry a flat white rod, smooth as ivory. "Run this over the text, it'll translate to English. Now if you're quite sure you're through threatening me, the library really must close."

Harry tucks the book under his arm and climbs the stairs to his quarters, where he opens the book flat on his unmade bed. He runs the translation stick over the strange characters, watching them twist and tumble into Roman letters before his eyes.

On mid-winter's day, when morning has dawned
The Oak King and the Holly King shall in solemn battle engage

The sun returns not until the Oak King wins the crown of the year;
And the Holly King, in his full splendor, succumbs.

Abruptly, Harry loosens his grip on the translation stick, which falls out of his hand unnoticed. Tomorrow will be no pantomime, no farce. Solemn battle, succumbs— the meaning is inescapable.

For the good of all Britain, or to satisfy some meaningless superstition, he, the Oak King, must fight Draco Malfoy — and kill him.


III.

Harry wakes before dawn, shaking. It's too late to change his mind. He's thought about it all night, and he knows what he's got to do, for better or worse. He cannot back down from what he knows is right.

After lighting a fire in the grate, he dresses quickly, throwing on his warmest robes. He hates getting up when it's still dark. It's been snowing for three days straight, and he can hear the wind gusting and howling outside. He remembers how nice it was to wake up on a night like this when he was with Ginny; to have another living, breathing person by his side.

Hugging his knees, he remembers other sleepless nights, most spent alone. As a child, he was awakened by the scurrying of mice; as a teenager, by nightmares and his burning scar. Camping out with Hermione and Ron during the war, he slept little; at least one of the three would stay awake and on guard, and it was usually him, unwilling to allow his friends to suffer. As an adult, he would wake sick with worry over his children, and over the growing distance between him and his wife. Now at Hogwarts, insomnia has become a friend, more or less; a bit of extra time to grade papers, to read, to lose himself in the vapour of dreams of what could have been and might never be.

"Harry Potter?" A woman's face appears in the fire, flames licking around her graceful features. Harry tries to figure out where he'd met her before; there's something quite recognisable about her that he can't put his finger on. Yet at the same time, she's like no one he's ever met. Perhaps it's the contrast of her soft, rounded face with the spikes of her very short, very blonde hair; she's not attempting to be attractive, yet she clearly, radiantly, is.

She steps out of the fire, dusts the ash off with long fingered hands. "I'm Soror Alcestis — you may call me Alcestis. Come, let's get you ready."

Alcestis is unusually tall for a woman, Harry thinks. There's something he trusts about her frank manner.

"All right." He tosses a handful of Floo powder into the fire, and prepares to step into the violent flash of green flame.


IV.

Harry doesn't recognize his surroundings, a small, unremarkable room without windows. He steps into the bath when Alcestis bids him, even allows her to bathe him without shame. "I must do this as part of the Rites," she says, and he believes her; she's so matter-of-fact about it.

After his bath, Alcestis anoints him with sweet-smelling oils; she traces arcane symbols on his body with a lump of charcoal that she says came from the last Yule log. "I'll throw this into the fire later," she tells him, "so the next log will retain its power."

Harry dresses in light robes of green with gold threads woven in, his feet left bare. He's being girded for battle, he knows, and dread seizes him. Alcestis gives him a hot, sweet drink from a silver chalice; the spicy liquid warms him down to his toes.

"You're ready," she says. "I can sense it."

Harry reaches to pocket his wand. "No," she says. "You won't need it. The Dark King won't have his, either."

She must be talking about Draco, he conjectures, though he hasn't personally thought of Draco as Dark for a very long time. His lack of knowledge is beginning to make him feel a bit abashed. If he'd spent more time with the Runic book last night, he might indeed have learnt the Rites were wandless; but the little he'd read made him too sick to go further.

When Alcestis brings him a tray piled with red apples, Harry shakes his head.

"Really, I'm not hungry," he protests. "I couldn't eat if I tried."

But she just stands there, waiting, so he reaches for the apple that she indicates, not wanting to appear rude. As soon as his fingertips touch it, he finds himself soaring into dark space, Portkeying away to parts unknown.


V.

He realises mid-flight that Alcestis has gripped the stem of the apple so that she can Portkey along with him; she releases it once they reach their destination, leaving Harry to put it down gently. They're inside of what looks like a crude wooden hut, the grass-covered floor unusually warm under Harry's feet. The room is lit by a fire which burns in a primitive-looking fireplace. In the very centre of the room is a broad circle of round white pebbles.

Alcestis follows his glance. "That's where the Rites will take place," she says briskly. "You'll have seventeen minutes to complete them."

She takes the small piece of charcoal from the pocket of her robes. With a soft-spoken incantation, she flings the fragment into the fire, which briefly glows a bit brighter, then fades to a lighter shade.

Harry remains speechless, dazed. It's all beginning to seem so imminent and real, and his heart pounds so loudly he's surprised it hasn't frightened her.

The priestess, as Harry thinks of her, gestures to what looks like a mattress covered in pillows and blankets. "For afterwards," she says.

She points to a small cabinet. "Everything you'll need is in there. Don't worry, it will go splendidly. I know you can do it; if you couldn't, you wouldn't have been chosen."

Before Harry can ask her any of the many questions he's dying to ask, Alcestis waves her wand and disappears.


VI.

For one crazy moment, Harry thinks of making a run for it, even though he has no idea where he is and his bare feet will be frostbitten within minutes of exposure. He tugs at the door, but it won't budge. The room appears to be locked from the outside.

A sharp crack sounds behind Harry, breaking the silence. Draco Malfoy is standing over by the mattress, smirking. His robes are green like Harry's, but gleam with silver threads instead of gold. On his forehead, he bears the charcoal mark of a perfect crescent moon.

Harry blushes, caught in the apparent act of escape. "Just checking out my surroundings. Old Auror habits die hard, you know."

Draco is walking over toward him now, and Harry's whole body stiffens. He puts a hand out in front of him, hoping to halt his advance. "Not yet, I have something to tell you!"
But Draco seems unaware of Harry's apprehension. Cupping Harry's chin in his hands, he tilts it up to kiss his open mouth.

And it's a rush of pure untrammelled pleasure, just as with the first time he kissed Draco. But Harry won't let himself kiss a man who's only prostituting himself to buy time. He shoves Draco, pushing him away so forcefully that he stumbles.

"Don’t think you have to do this to persuade me not to do it," he says quickly, hiding the catch in his throat. "I decided that I’m not going to anyway. Even if it means we all starve."

Draco opens his eyes wide, his irises as clear as spring rain. "Wha- how would that persuade you? And why wouldn’t I want you to? I’m here, aren’t I?"

Harry stares hard at Draco. "You want me to?”

"God, Merlin, and Jupiter, Harry! I’m not going to beg for it. But yes, I do. And from your behaviour last week, I thought that you wanted to as well."

"You don’t understand!" Harry cries. "Don’t you know- what I have to do— what they want me to do..." He couldn't bring himself to say it.

Draco fixes him with a mildly indignant look. "I'm quite familiar with your role, and with mine," he says. "The Rites were discussed at some length during History of Magic. I never thought of class as an opportunity to catch up on sleep, as you apparently did."

"Draco, listen," Harry says, imploringly. "I don’t care what happens to me if I don’t go through with this. I don’t care if half the world starves. I don't care if I'm sent to Azkaban for the rest of my life. For the last time: I am not going to kill you. I refuse to do it."

Unexpectedly, Draco snickers. Moments later, he's laughing harder than Harry has ever seen him do before. His body quakes so ferociously that he soon stops trying to control himself, and finally he's rolling around on the grass in an unsuccessful effort to dampen his mirth.

Clearly, Malfoy has lost his mind. And he doesn't seem at all concerned about damaging his robes, which suggests serious derangement indeed.

"It’s not funny. It’s not funny at all," Harry says stiffly. He can't imagine the appalling lies that Draco must have been told to ensure his voluntary sacrifice.

"But it is," Draco gasps, easing onto his side. "Because — Harry?"

"Yes?"

"You don't have to literally kill me. I thought you knew that. It's more like — oh, what the French call 'the little death.' Bringing me to orgasm."

"You mean?"

"I mean you fell for a bad translation, you bloody schtupid Muggle-bred git," Draco laughs.

Harry stares at him, then his lips twitch, unable to withstand Draco's contagious glee.

"That bloody Macauley and her crap translation stick. I'm really going to kill her!" He laughs and laughs until his stomach muscles beg him to stop, and ends up lying on the ground next to Draco, panting.

"Draco," he says, once their last spasms of laughter have died down, "was it you who borrowed all the Yule books from the Hogwarts library?"

"Quite possibly."

"Hmmph, thought you knew all about the Rites from your impressive scholarship in History of Magic," Harry says.

"Screw you, Potter. I believe in being prepared."

"Well, let's have a few pointers, then. What exactly do we need to do to stave off famine?"

"As I said, you have to bring me off." Draco's smile is bright and seductive.

Harry's pulse quickens in anticipation. His unrestrained erection is nearly poking through the front of his robes, and he gives up trying to conceal it. "I can do that," he manages to choke out.

Draco grins, and reaches to embrace Harry again, but is caught off guard by the white shaft of sunlight that bursts through the skylight in the ceiling, illuminating the white-pebbled circle. "Now," he says. "We have seventeen minutes."

They scramble to their feet and into the circle, standing in the beam of light.

"Hold on," Harry says, breathlessly running to the cabinet. Everything you need is in here. He'd thought it would be stocked with primitive weapons, but instead a variety of little jars and tubes were stacked on its several shelves. Piling a few in his arms, he hastens back to the circle where Draco is waiting.

"How—," he starts to ask, but Draco is kissing him again, his lips and mouth sweet with the taste of the same concoction Harry had drank earlier. Seventeen minutes, no time to delay: they pull off each other's robes and stand naked before one another.

"I want to suck you," Harry whispers, his mouth watering with need. Draco's erect cock is startlingly beautiful, jutting from his groin like the stalk of a tall flower. The tip is slightly tapered as though it's been worn away from too much sucking, the perfect fit for a hungry mouth like Harry's own.

Dropping to his knees, he throws his arms around Draco's waist. Harry bites Draco's thighs up and down before pressing his face into Draco's crotch, where the golden fluff of hair is a shade darker than the hair on his head. He breathes in Draco's scent, nuzzles him, laps at the tight skin over his balls, hugs his trembling legs.

Each impatient little noise that he succeeds in drawing out of Draco fills Harry with a wild excitement, knowing that he's responsible for Draco's loss of control. "Want you," he gasps, and forcibly reminds himself that he cannot come until Draco does.

He loves this confident cock, its suede-soft, whisper-thin skin, the way it leaps in his hand and swells in his mouth until he gags. Sometimes he lets it slide out, but gives it only a few jerks in his fist before he's back to sucking again, making Draco moan and shove his crotch against Harry's mouth. Harry reaches behind Draco, roughly rubbing and squeezing the ripe flesh of his buttocks, and then he sucks him some more.

Draco's breathing accelerates until he's all but panting through his parted lips, and his thrusts into Harry's mouth grow urgent and desperate. Knowing Draco is almost there, Harry pulls his head back, sucking hard all the way up, and then slips Draco's cock out of his mouth, resisting Draco's disappointed groan. He strokes him again, faster and faster, until Draco throws his head back and yells, his seed spurting out over the top of Harry's fist.

Harry unfurls his wet fingers from Draco, who's still hard. He shakes his hand, letting the sticky drops fall on the grassy floor. "That should do it," he says huskily.

"Mmhmm," says Draco, after a pause. He drops down onto his knees next to Harry, still collecting his breath.

A small tremor of delight ripples through Harry's cock, and Harry grasps the base in his hand, wanting to prolong his gratification.

"Turn around," he orders.

Draco gives Harry a questioning look, but he swivels on his knees until his back is to Harry, and he doesn't resist Harry's gentle hand when it urges him on to his palms.

"Oh," Harry breathes, palming Draco's arse with both hands. He bends and licks him right between his cheeks, wetting the fine golden hairs that line Draco's crack. His tongue stiffens and presses inside to taste his sour sweetness; Draco sighs, his body quivering and helpless under Harry's touch.

Seized with an unbearable longing, Harry knee-walks to the periphery of the circle, his erection bobbing in front of him. Finally understanding their purpose, he snatches one of the jars he pulled from the cabinet minutes ago. He smears a dab of oily salve on the head of his throbbing cock and positions himself behind Draco, who remains on his hands and knees. Still kneeling, he prods and bumps the head of his cock against the slight crease of Draco's hole, grunting, yearning for this impossible entry.

"Here," Draco says quietly, and he rolls onto his side, raising himself up to straddle Harry, easing down onto Harry's cock until Harry is nearly halfway inside him. Patiently, he pushes himself up and down in languid increments, letting his bottom slide until his muscles give just enough for him to sink into Harry's lap and swallow every inch of cock in his snug, silky warmth. As the light fades and falls away from the circle, Harry bites hard on his lip and enfolds Draco in his arms, holding tight as he explodes deep inside him.


VII.

The first time Harry wakes up, he's lying on the mattress in the corner, in Draco's arms. Draco is running his fingers through Harry's hair, lightly rubbing his scalp.

"Draco," Harry says, shifting so he can turn over and face him, "why wouldn't you let me kiss you before?"

Draco kisses his forehead. "I didn't want to dissipate the power of the Rites by expending our energies so soon before. Do you really think you would have stopped after one kiss?"

"I wouldn't have," Harry agrees, and he snuggles against Draco's chest. The delicate ridge of a scar presses against his cheek, and he shudders, still horrified by the knowledge that Draco could have bled to death over twenty years ago, all because of him. Although it falls far short of true compensation, Harry raises his head to kiss his scars, licking the length of each jagged, almost transparent stripe.

If Draco senses Harry's remorse, he doesn't mention it. "I feel like we’re the only two people in the world," he whispers, and Harry rests his head on his chest again, falling back into delicious torpor.

Before he wakes for the second time, Harry is dreaming. He and Williamson are investigating a dusty little curio shop suspected of being a front for trafficking pre-war Dark relics. Williamson is discreetly checking out the place while Harry interrogates the owner.

The shopkeeper dodges Harry's questions, and Harry is beginning to stir with impatience when he feels something poke against his spine. He whirls around mid-sentence, only to find nothing there but a cheap-looking chest of drawers, mute and still.

The owner looks puzzled, and Harry continues to question him as if nothing unusual had happened. He's certain he feels something behind him, jabbing him, but he knows there's nothing there. But now he feels the back of his robe being lifted, and then— oh Merlin-— oh, right there, right there—

And he's back in the real world, Draco's smooth, oil-slicked fingers nudging into his anus, one, then two, then three of them, until Harry is practically vibrating with the sheer pleasure of it.

"Please," he hears himself say, his voice on the verge of cracking. "Please."

And then Draco is pushing himself inside; it burns, he feels himself tearing, yet he wants more of Draco, all of him. He wants to be taken, to be possessed; but he's bloody terrified. Not of the pain, he can deal with physical hurts, but he's never felt more vulnerable in his life, more completely open. Harry's never given himself like this to another, surely not to Ginny, and he feels a sudden burst of compassion for his ex-wife, realising how profoundly lonely she must have been to betray him. If only he had listened, instead of shutting her out. If only he could let himself love and be loved...

Calming himself, he begins to open, to let Draco inside. He moves his hips as he joins in this intimate waltz, sometimes leading, sometimes following, until he loses sight of where he ends and where Draco begins. His climax, when it comes, is gentler than the first, but lasts longer, and he drifts away on that peaceful wave, just as he feels the warm pulses of Draco coming inside him.

The third time he wakes, Harry scoots to a sitting position. Draco is still sleeping, and Harry can't resist the curve of his naked foot. He lifts a slender ankle and rubs Draco's high arch with the pads of his thumbs, knowing how good it will feel . It only takes a few seconds before Draco opens his eyes and sighs in drowsy contentment.

"There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you," Harry says, when he sees Draco is awake. "Last week, I saw Scorpius with Hugo Weasley, and –"

"I know."

"You do?"

"For over six months, yes. And thanks to you, I'm now officially a hypocrite if I criticise my son for seeing a half-blood." Draco says, giving him a rueful smile.

Harry chuckles, then his face grows serious. "I haven't told you this, but there was one other time in my life that I thought I might be gay."

"You were all over me back at the pub," Draco says distractedly, lifting his foot to encourage Harry to kiss it.

"No, I mean- earlier. At Hogwarts, during sixth year. It was when I went into the bathroom and found you... right before — you know."

"And you wanted to shag me right then and there," Draco intones drolly.

"It wasn't like that," Harry insists, the register of his voice rising with unfamiliar emotion. "You looked so lost. And for the first time ever, I didn't hate you. I saw you as a person, Draco, filled with doubt and fear and love and hatred, and I saw at once how things could have been different between us. But it was too late."

"It's not too late," Draco protests. He scrambles up and kisses Harry's cheek. "Your timing couldn't have been more perfect."

"Maybe," Harry says. "But you're right, what you said before. I wanted you. You could have thrown yourself in my arms right then and there, and I wouldn't have turned away."

Lifting a lock of Harry's hair with his fingers, Draco puts his mouth to his ear. "I did throw my arms around you, remember, riding on the back of your broom during the siege of Hogwarts," he murmurs, his breath a soft warm breeze tickling Harry's skin. "I pressed my face into your hair so I wouldn't smell everything burning, to take in that...mmmm, that Potter smell."

Harry smiles. "If I hadn't been so intently focussed on saving your life and everyone else's, I would've had a massive hard-on."

Draco laughs again. "And if I hadn't been completely terrorised out of my skull, you would have felt mine too," he sputters.

"And we would have crashed and burned! Good call, Malfoy," Harry says, joining in Draco's laughter. "For once."

Three low bells sound, and Harry and Draco look at each other in shock, not imagining their idyll would come to an end so soon. They scramble into their ceremonial robes, which are still lying crumpled near the circle. No sooner have they pulled them over their bodies than both their attendants appear.

Harry involuntarily sucks in his breath, hardly able to believe his eyes. His shout of recognition almost overlaps Draco's rather indignant cry. "Alcie!"

The two women share a knowing glance, then Luna Lovegood gives a little squeal.

"Harry! I've just been ordained, isn't that exciting? I'm Soror Luna now! And hullo again, Draco! It went splendidly, didn't it? I told you it would!"

Alcestis allows herself a smile. "Draco. Wonderful to see you again, as always, my dear." There is no irony in her serene voice. "Congratulations to both of you for completing the Rites."

Harry stares; again, he can't shake the feeling that there is something so familiar about her. Not a former co-worker, not a one-time suspect, but who is she? He knows he's seen a woman that tall before, a woman with hair of this particular snowy hue... and then he remembers.

"You're Scorpius's mum!" he shouts triumphantly.

"Of course I am. And I hear you're one of his favourite professors."

"Of course I am," Harry says with a chuckle. "Unlike the Homework Fiend over there." He and Alcestis share a laugh while Draco pretends to look annoyed; and then they all fall silent for an awkward moment.

Emboldened by their camaraderie, Harry decides to speak up about something that's been puzzling him much of the day. "Oi, Luna," he says. "May I ask you a question?"

"Certainly, we're here to help!"

"What exactly was in that potion we drank?"

Luna beams. "Soror Alcestis made it," she says, sounding as proud as though she had brewed it herself.

"It wasn't a potion," Alcestis interjects, looking rather affronted. "Just fresh hot wassail punch — pumpkin cider with cinnamon and nutmeg. Thought it would be nice on a cold day like this. Had a glass myself earlier."

Harry looks at Draco in surprise, then at their two attendants. "You mean that it was only juice? Nothing added to enhance — er — performance?" His cheeks grow hot; and the fact that he knows he's blushing makes him blush even more. Draco takes his hand and squeezes it.

The women pretend not to notice his discomfort. "We didn’t want you two to get dehydrated." Luna chimes brightly. "That did the trick, didn't it?

VIII.

Alcestis Apparates Harry back to the same windowless chamber where he bathes again, this time alone. She provides him with new, thicker robes: an elegant swath of silk velvet, in a vivid shade of green."Now for your crowning," she says, and leads him toward the door.

As he'd only Apparated out of the room before, Harry isn't altogether sure where he's going, but he's not surprised when the door opens onto a large, lofty backstage area. Small groups of witches are scurrying about, wearing slate gray robes like Alcestis and Luna. From what Alcestis had told him before the Rites, Harry dimly remembers he's to present himself and make a speech or something; she'd said something about a ceremony, with a banquet and dancing to follow.

The blue-blackness of the sky and its glittering stars astonish Harry when he steps out onto the bright-lit outdoor stage. He hadn't supposed that he and Draco had been inside for that long, but then again, today is the shortest day of the year. It's stopped snowing; the air is frigid and clear. The wind has quieted down, but the distant rattle of bare branches is still audible.

He's looking out over a hushed sea of people, many holding lit white candles; and he holds his breath for a few seconds when he hears steps approaching from the opposite side. Draco emerges like a bright beacon in crimson robes, a thick crown of holly leaves and berries atop his head. In his hand, he holds a wreath woven from what looks like leaves of oak and ivy.
Draco looks astonishingly handsome in red; the colour flatters his pale complexion. Harry wants to run into his arms, but he walks toward him at a normal pace, awed and happy.
Looking into the audience, he spots Felicia and Neville standing near the stage, Neville's arm proudly around Felicia's shoulder, and he realises they've been together all along. Ginny's there too, leaning against Clive Fleming. Catching Harry's eye, Fleming grins and gives Harry the thumbs-up, and Harry decides not to strangle him after all.

Draco holds out the wreath, and Harry understands he should kneel before him. He's the one on his knees, but it's Draco who's submitting, releasing his power as he crowns him King of the New Year. The crowd roars, breaking into applause amid shouts of "Io, Saturnalia!" and other merry cheers.

Harry rises to shakes Draco's hand, and when they embrace, he holds him for a moment longer than necessary, listening to his lover's heart beating under his plush robes. Discreetly, he whispers what he's longed to say into Draco's ear.

At least five agonised seconds pass, and Harry's heart somersaults with apprehension. Perhaps it's the powerful magic of the Rites; perhaps it's merely a beautiful, impossible dream, but he hopes that it's neither that's making him feel this way.

Draco takes a step back. A shy, irresistible smile begins to spread over his narrow face, making the corners of his eyes crinkle. He meets Harry's searching glance, and then he nods. Not brusquely this time, but deliberately, as if he's confirming an Unbreakable Vow; and Harry smiles back, eager to begin the long night of love ahead of them.


EPILOGUE: THE FOLLOWING DAY

Even with the aid of magic, tidying up is always the least pleasant part of the Mid-Winter Rites. Yet today Luna Lovegood is more cheery than ever, whistling as she bustles into the hut's dark corners to cast dusting spells.

"To think that Harry Potter suspected us of slipping a Potency Potion in his wassail cup," Alcestis says to her, tetchily. "Grew up with Muggles, I heard," she adds with a sniff.

Luna lifts a smouldering bundle of sage and waves it in an absent manner, purifying the air. "Ah, those two wouldn’t need anything like that," she says. "They’ve been mad for each other ever since school, even if they never did anything about it. Anyone could tell."

Alcestis looked sharply at Luna. "You didn't— add any ingredients to the brew, did you?"

Luna puts down the sage, blowing on it to extinguish the fragrant smoke. She looks down at her hands. "Some saw palmetto leaves, maybe," she mumbles. "A few drops of Tribulus terrestris for flavour."

Alcestis's eyes grow round as she stares at Luna, realization dawning. "Soror! Do you know what those herbs can do to a wizard?"

Luna looks up at her again with a patient smile, as if her mentor was a small, rather foolish child in need of enlightenment. "Of course I do. I've always made it my business to learn as much as possible," she says. "But didn't you tell me that any child conceived by the Rites would be a double blessing?"

~ End ~