Log in


[FIC] Harry/Draco "Dear Father Christmas (The Boy Done Wrong Again)" NC-17 [Part I of II]

« previous entry | next entry »
Dec. 18th, 2012 | 12:07 am

Title: Dear Father Christmas (The Boy Done Wrong Again)
Author: thusspakekate
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco, Draco/Astoria, Ron/Hermione, Pansy/OMC
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 22k total (10k in Part I)
Summary: "Dear Father Christmas, It’s strange that I have more cause to believe in you now that I’m in my mid-twenties than I did when I was a child.  I didn’t think magic existed then either, but now I know that it does. I wonder if it’s the same with you There’s nothing that I want for Christmas that could be wrapped in a box and put under a tree. But if you are as magical as they say you are, there is one thing I want that could only be accomplished by a true Christmas miracle.I want Draco Malfoy back."
Warnings: sexytimes, flangst, meddling elves, Draco being an idiot, Ron being perceptive, and a special cameo by a man in a red velvet suit.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. I just like to make them kiss.
Notes: This fic was written in two parts. This is the first. The second is currently in the final stages of revision and should be up within the next few days. I want to thank cannelledusoleil and sonata_de_morte for their encouragement, notes, and edits. I would also like to dedicate this fic to mypetelephant in a humble attempt to repay her for giving me one of the greatest gifts I have ever received: the gift of H/D. She turned this silly old het-shipper onto the boys in August of 2011 and everything I've done in the past year can be blamed on her. 

Somewhere in the Arctic Circle
December, 2005

Dizzy heard his master’s call, not from without, but within. The cheerful voice rang inside his head, summoning Dizzy to his master's side. The elf dropped the wooden train he was painting and disappeared with a crack.

He reappeared in a rustic sitting room. Elaborately embroidered stockings were hung over a hearth, where a blazing fire crackled. Mountains of snow and ice could be seen through the windows, but none of the long winter’s bitter cold encroached upon the warmth of the room. An old man with snowy white hair and a full beard sat at a writing desk. His heavy, red velvet coat hung from the back of the chair, the fluffy white trim on the bottom brushing against the floor.

“Sir?” the elf asked as he bent at the waist and sank into a low bow. “You have orders for Dizzy?”

The man looked at him over the top of his golden spectacles, the bright blue of his eyes twinkling merrily behind the lenses. “Have you ever heard of a wizard called Harry Potter?” he asked in a deep voice that befit a man of his impressive girth.

“Yes, sir. Dizzy has, sir,” said the elf. “Harry Potter is known to elves of all sorts. He is a friend to our kind, a hero to our brethren.”

The man pulled a piece of parchment from the inside pocket of his coat and opened it, glancing over the text with a thoughtful frown. “I have received a most interesting letter from Harry Potter this year. I know it is unorthodox considering his age, but his reputation as a good man precedes him. His words have touched me.”

He held out the letter. Dizzy took it and began to read.

“Make sure Harry Potter gets his Christmas wish this year, would you?”

Dizzy’s large eyes widened to the size of dinner plates and his lower lip began to tremble. “Sir would entrust such an important and difficult undertaking to Dizzy?” he asked, his voice quivering.

“Of course,” said the old man kindly. “You are one of my most trusted elves. While these sorts of wishes aren’t the kind we usually seek to grant, I have full faith in your abilities. See to it that Mr Potter gets his Christmas miracle. But don't let him know that you've been tinkering. An elf's presence must never be known,” he added with a wink.

A wide smile stretched across Dizzy’s grey face. “Yes, sir!” he cried. “It will be Dizzy’s honor, sir!” He slipped the letter into the pocket of his green trousers and disappeared. The man turned to his desk and resumed his work, his well-worn quill scratching out a long list of names.


One Week Earlier

“Do you think he’ll like this?” Teddy asked, holding up a messy drawing of nine brown blobs and large stick figure in a red hat.

Harry looked into the eager face of his godson and felt his heart break slightly for the poor orphaned boy with absolutely no artistic talent or shame about that fact. He ruffled Teddy’s hair and said, “I think he’ll love it, mate. But you forgot Rudolph’s nose.”

Teddy made a hamfisted grab for the red crayon and scrawled a small circle over one of the brown blobs. He slammed the crayon down on the table with a definitive thunk. “All done,” he declared, beaming proudly and holding his drawing up for Harry’s final approval.

Harry pulled his wand from his pocket, and with a quick little charm, Rudolph’s hastily scribbled nose began to glow. “Wicked,” said Teddy, in an impressive impersonation of his Uncle Ron. He studied his drawing for a few seconds more before tossing it over his shoulder and grabbing a fresh sheet of parchment. “It’s time to write our letters to Father Christmas,” he told Harry. “I’m going to ask for a pet dragon. Gran said I can’t have one, but if Father Christmas gives me one, she can’t say no, can she?”

“I reckon not,” Harry agreed. “But you might want to ask for something else, just in case. I don’t think there are a lot of dragons in the North Pole.”

“Father Christmas has a flying sleigh,” Teddy pointed out, as though Harry were the child and Teddy a bored adult tired of explaining the obvious. He rolled his eyes, a gesture Harry didn’t think he’d picked up from Uncle Ron, but more likely Cousin Draco. “He can go wherever he wants,” Teddy explained, “and that includes places with dragons.”

Harry wasn’t about to argue with the logic of a seven year old, so he just hummed a noise of agreement and began to pick up the papers Teddy had left sprawling across the kitchen floor. It was a good thing Draco wasn’t here to see the chaos. As much as he loved having his godson come to visit, the child wreaked havoc upon the flat.

The crayon in Teddy’s hand paused in its movements. “Why aren’t you writing your letter, Uncle Harry?” he asked.

“Grown-ups don’t write letters to Father Christmas.”

“That’s not true!” Teddy protested, looking outraged. “How else will Father Christmas know what to bring you? If you don’t write one, you might not get any presents at all!”

There was real horror in Teddy’s voice and Harry couldn’t help but laugh. He decided to humor the boy, “All right, pass me some parchment.”

Harry accioed a self-inking quill from the junk drawer. He felt silly enough writing a letter to Father Christmas as it were, he wasn’t about to do it in crayon as well. His mind slowly emptied as he watched Teddy write. Teddy’s face was scrunched in childish concentration and the tip of his tongue stuck out from between his teeth.

Teddy obviously had no problems thinking of presents he’d like to receive: a pet dragon, a potions play set, an aviatomobile. It was a bit more difficult for Harry, who had everything he needed and more than enough galleons to spend on anything he might want. But if Father Christmas were real and Harry could actually have anything for Christmas, what would it be?

When Harry set his quill to parchment, the words began to flow.


Dear Father Christmas,

This is the first letter I have ever written to you. My Aunt and Uncle, who raised me, never gave me any Christmas presents, never mind letting you take all the credit for something they might have bought. My cousin always got loads from you though, but he was too stupid to notice that “your” handwriting was exactly the same as his mum’s.

It’s strange that I have more cause to believe in you now that I’m in my mid-twenties than I did when I was a child. I didn’t think magic was real then either, but now I know that it is. I wonder if it’s the same with you?

There’s nothing that I want for Christmas that could be wrapped in a box and put under a tree. But if you are as magical as they say you are, there is one thing I want that could only be accomplished by a true Christmas miracle.

I want Draco Malfoy back.

I know I should be trying to move on. It’s been months now, but I still love him. And I think he still loves me too. I’m almost sure of it. Almost. We didn’t break up over some petty argument (although we had more than our fair share of those) or from lack of affection. We broke up because he still feels obligated to fulfill some imaginary duty to his family -- to become the patriarch of another generation of Malfoys, to marry some pretty Pureblood girl and continue his line.

I see pictures of him in the newspaper sometimes. He’s been engaged since they day after we broke up, and his wedding is supposed to be “the” society event of the Spring. He told me that he could learn to be happy with her, but he doesn’t look very happy in the pictures they print. Someone so young shouldn’t have so many frown lines.

I know I don’t technically have the right, since I’m not his boyfriend any longer, but I worry about him.

He’s done so many stupid things to please his father, I don’t think he knows anything else. So if I can’t have him, my secondary Christmas wish would be for him to at least find the peace that has always eluded him. If it can’t be with me, then at least with his future wife.

Harry Potter

PS. I don’t know what happens to these letters. I assume they just get chucked in the bin unopened, but I’ve also heard that some get forwarded to charities that give underprivileged children the toys they want for Christmas. If that is the case and this letter has been read by a disgruntled employee of the Royal Post, I apologize for subjecting you to my bitter whinging. Hope your holidays are looking better than mine! Oh, and ignore what I said about magic being real. I'm probably just some nutter, anyway.


Narcissa Malfoy wasn’t usually an embarrassing mother, but she didn’t usually drink four glasses of high proof Advocaat within an hour either.

“Have I ever told you about the Christmas when we gave Draco his first toy broom?” she asked with a hiccough.

Draco shot Pansy a glare that said in no uncertain terms that she was not to indulge his mother’s behavior. Naturally, Pansy ignored him. “No, what happened?”

Narcissa’s eyes were already shining with unshed tears, her hand clutched her breast as she shook with silent laughter. “He got so excited. He was jumping in place and shouting, absolutely screaming with delight. And then all of sudden he stopped and his little knees tucked in. He grabbed his crotch and cried, ‘Oh, Mummy! I think I did a wee!’

Draco tried to ignore the heat flaming his face. He tried to concentrate on his breathing and to remind himself that he truly loved his mother and that all children had accidents on occasion. Unfortunately, Pansy’s shrill giggle wasn’t allowing him to focus on those calming thoughts. “That’s a very amusing story, Mother,” he said tightly. “But don’t you think it’s about time you excused yourself to bed?”

“Oh, Draco, don’t be rude,” said Pansy. “We haven’t finished trimming the tree.”

“And Pansy hasn’t had a single glass of Advocaat yet!”

Pansy’s cheeks tinged with pink. “Oh, thank you, Mrs Malfoy, but really, I can’t.”

“Uh oh,” said Narcissa, in a sing-song voice, “I know what that means.”

“Oh no, nothing like that!” Pansy said quickly, her faint pink blush deepening to a dark crimson. “I’m just counting my calories. You know what the holidays can do to a witch’s waistline.”

“Bollocks to that!” Narcissa declared, and both Draco and Pansy looked mildly horrified to hear such coarse language come from such a refined woman. Narcissa turned to Pansy, and slurred, “You’ve always had a lovely figure, dear. And a wizard likes a witch with a little meat on her bones, you know.” She gave the other woman a knowing look and tapped the tip of her nose. “Draco’s father did at least,” she continued, ignoring Pansy’s cringe. “Probably why he always spent so much time over at the Bulstrode’s,” she added in a dark undertone.

Pansy stood briskly and smoothed down the front of her robes. “On that note, how about we get the topper on the tree? Then off to bed, all three of us.”

Narcissa didn’t look as though she were fooled by Pansy’s hasty change of subject, but she stood as well, swaying slightly on her unsteady feet. Draco kept a protective hand on the small of her back -- just in case -- as Pansy levitated the sparkling snowflake shaped ornament to the top of the tree.

The three stepped back to admire the Douglas fir that towered above them. Fairy lights bathed the tree in a golden white glow, reflecting off the many gold and silver ornaments that hung from the tree's boughs. Narcissa slipped her hand around Draco’s waist and placed a soft kiss on his cheek. “It’s perfect,” she said.

Pansy stayed behind to clear up the clutter while Draco steered his mother towards her bedroom. He offered to help her into bed, but she shooed him away, “I’m drunk, darling, not disabled.”

He kissed her goodnight and turned to leave, but she caught him by the hand before he could reach the door. “Are you happy?” she asked.

The question took him by surprise and Draco could do nothing but stare at her. The skin beneath her red-rimmed eyes looked paper-thin, and he was surprised to note how much she had aged since his father’s death. She stood, staring back at him with unfocused eyes, awaiting his answer.

“Yes, Mother. Of course I am.”

Narcissa dropped his hand. “Liar,” she said, turning into the empty darkness of her room. “You’re a liar, Draco. Just like your father. You’ve always been just like your father, so good at lying.”

Draco sighed. “Mother...” he said imploringly.

“I just want you to be happy,” she said, her back still turned to him. “Whatever it is that would make you happy, darling. Even if it’s not this life, I want you to do it.”

Draco began to count backwards from ten, reminding himself yet again how much he loved his mother. “I assure you, I am perfectly content.”

Narcissa huffed. He thought he heard her mutter something under her breath, but she said nothing more.

Draco backed out of the room and shut the door.

Pansy was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, her winter cloak already pulled over her robes and his draped over her arm. He took it from her and slid it on. “Sorry about that,” he said. “She’s not use to the spirits.”

Pansy dismissed his concerns with a wave of her hands. “Nonsense, she’s a charming drunk. Better than my own mother at least. When Protea drinks, all she does is pick. Pansy, you’re getting fat. Pansy, you’re going to become an old maid. If only Cedar were still alive, we’d have at least one child we could be proud of.” She snorted, “I’d take a few embarrassing stories from childhood over being constantly reminded that I can never live up to the memory of my dead brother any day.”

Draco winced, remember the night of his engagement party, when he’d overhead Protea Parkinson berating her daughter for not working hard enough to catch his fancy. “Astoria is two years younger than you,” he heard her saying, her critiques slurred and harsh. “You’re running out of time, dear daughter. No one is going to marry a cow whose milk has soured.”

They walked down the gravel drive to the end of the anti-apparition wards in a companionable silence. “Would you like to come over for a glass of wine?” asked Draco, not quite ready to be alone yet. “I’ve got a meeting with my accountant in the morning, but not until ten.”

Pansy declined, pointing out that some people chose to work for their living. She kissed him on the cheek, turned in place, and disappeared with a crack. Draco stared at the empty space where she’d been, then back to the manor, devoid of any life besides a few old house-elves too stubborn to leave service and his mother, who was likely drooling all over her Egyptian cotton pillowcase by now.

The eerie silence of the still Wiltshire night followed him back to his lonely flat.


Harry carried two cups of tea into the living room. Hermione sat on the settee, rocking an old bassinet. Her daughter’s face, squishy and red, stood out against the light pink blanket in which she was swaddled. Hermione looked tired, but happy, and Harry bent low to press a kiss on the top of her head.

“Where’s Ron?” he asked as he set one of the cups on the coffee table in front of her.

“Diagon Alley. Said he had some last minute Christmas shopping to do. Which means, of course, he’s doing all of his shopping at the last minute.”

“Sounds about right,” Harry laughed. “Have you finished yours yet?”

Hermione groaned. “I bought everything by owl order this year. I didn’t get a chance to go to London and do it myself. It’s all arrived, but I haven’t had time to do the wrapping. Rosie’s been colicky,” she explained. “We’ve tried everything, even those silly old midwives cures that Molly suggested, but nothing’s helped.”

The baby seemed to be sleeping soundly at the moment, but Harry had heard her pained wailing echo through the fireplace during his Floo calls with Ron frequently enough to know that this was a rare spell of a peace for the new parents.

“I’m supposed to be back at work at the beginning of January, but I just don’t know if I can do it,” Hermione continued, looking harassed. “With the baby and the new house, it just seems like too much sometimes.”

Harry laid his hand atop Hermione’s, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb. She had always been an anxious person, but motherhood had sent her into a state of harried panic that was usually reserved for important deadlines at work. “It’ll be fine,” he assured her. “The holidays are always stressful, even without a newborn. And if you have to take more time off, the Ministry will be fine. The government isn’t going collapse if you’re away a few more weeks.”

Hermione gave him a wan, watery smile. “I know that, Harry. But you know me, I like to worry.”

“Well, don’t,” he said. “Not about work, and not about wrapping those presents either. Show me where you’ve hidden them and I’ll do it for you.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that! I’ll find the time, I’m sure. Christmas is still a week away.”

He just looked at her, his face stern and impassive, until she relented with a roll of her eyes. “Give me a second to hide yours first,” she said as she pushed out of her seat.

Harry was surprisingly handy with wrapping charms, although he put more concentration into his work for Hermione than he did on his own presents. She had a finer eye for detail and he knew that she would be too polite to mention any mistakes, even if they bothered her. He could hear her bustling in the kitchen, preparing a quick dinner as he worked.

There was a sharp rap at the window, and then the gentle coo of an owl. “Harry?” Hermione called from the kitchen. “It’s for you!”

Harry jogged into the brightly lit kitchen, just in time to see an unfamiliar barn owl swoop out of the window. A pot of red pasta sauce simmered on the cooker and filled the small room with a wonderful herbal aroma. He grabbed a wooden spoon from the worktop and stole a taste, ignoring Hermione’s chides of disapproval. She tossed the letter on the table and pushed him out of the way with her hips, reclaiming her space by the stove.

The small piece of parchment that lie innocently on the table was nondescript, but Harry paused in his reach for it when he noticed the handwriting, a familiar swirling script that he hadn’t seen in months. A lump formed in his throat. Tentatively, he reached out and flipped the letter over, pulling his hand away quickly as if the paper could burn. The ends were closed with a wax seal; he didn’t have to look closely to know which family crest it would bear.

“It’s from Draco,” he said aloud, whether to himself or Hermione he didn’t know. He heard the clatter of the wooden spoon as it hit the worktop and then Hermione was behind him, standing on tiptoe to peer over his shoulder.

“You should open it,” she said quietly.

Harry nodded and gathered his courage.

He ripped through the seal and read the letter. It was short, concise, and to the point, so very like Draco himself. Hermione was radiating nervous energy behind him, dancing from foot to foot. “Harry, what does it say?” she asked.

His voice sounded distant and detached as he answered, “He wants to meet. Friday night at the Leaky Cauldron. He doesn’t say why.”

When he turned to look at her, Hermione was worrying her lip and tugging on an errant strand of her hair. “Are you going to go?” she asked.

The last time he’d tried to talk to Draco it hadn’t ended well. There had been screaming, accusations, and maybe a tear or two. Harry had stormed off in such a rage that he was worried he’d splinch himself if he attempted to apparate. He remembered arriving home and slamming the door shut so hard that a framed photograph on the wall behind him rattled. It was a picture of Harry and Draco together, taken the night Hermione and Ron announced they were going have a baby. They were happy and laughing, leaning against each other for support after one too many toasts to Hermione’s health.

Harry remembered looking at it that night and not being able to believe how so much could have changed in so little time. The glass shattered under the force of his fist and cut into the skin of knuckles. The frame fell to the floor, as broken as their relationship. It laid there for almost a week before Harry could bring himself to look at it long enough to vanish the broken glass. He’d tucked the photo into an old, leather-bound copy of Quidditch Through the Ages that Draco had forgotten when he’d packed up his things.

Harry had only taken it out twice since that night, both times when he’d had enough alcohol with dinner to allow himself to give into the masochistic urge to mourn what he’d once had.

He couldn’t bear to relive that, but he couldn’t deny the tiny spark of hope that flickered dimly in the deepest recesses of his heart. He knew this meeting wasn’t going to end how he’d like, but he couldn’t refuse the invitation, just in case.

Not trusting himself to speak, Harry only nodded.


A mild atmospheric charm kept the Manor’s conservatory warm, even in the dead of winter. The house-elves had prepared an impressive spread of crustless sandwiches and miniature cakes for afternoon tea. Draco watched with mild revulsion as Astoria spooned a fourth generous portion of sugar into her tea cup, stirring until the granules dissolved into the milky liquid. She placed the spoon daintily on the saucer and brought the drink to her lips. When she lowered the cup, Draco could see the thick, greasy imprint that her lip gloss had left on the china.

“Are you alright, dear?” She asked, her voice as sickly sweet as her tea. “You look as though you might be ill.”

“What?” asked Draco. He’d been so lost in his own thoughts it took a moment for her words to catch up to him. “Oh no, I’m fine,” he said, shaking his head. “Did you bring the seating charts with you?”

Astoria set her cup back on its saucer gingerly. “Of course. I made a few adjustments since we spoke last, but nothing that I think you’d object to.” She reached into her handbag and pulled out a few pieces of parchment, spreading them across the table in the empty space between them.

Draco craned his neck and pretended to look over them, but he couldn’t say with any real conviction that he gave a damn who sat next to her old Aunt Hilda. Astoria could have invited the Dark Lord’s rotting corpse to the wedding and he wouldn’t have known, considering what little attention he’d been paying to the arrangements. She was the bride and in the end it was her wishes that mattered. The only thing Draco cared about was getting it over with.

He nodded his approval. Astoria reached across the table and took Draco’s hand in hers. “It’s going to be a beautiful ceremony, I promise.”

Draco could feel his palm begin to sweat. He tugged his hand free of her grasp and wiped his slick palm against the leg of his trousers. “I have no doubt,” he said with a tight smile. “You have excellent taste.”

“As do you, my love,” Astoria trilled. “After all, you chose me.”

Draco’s smile was strained, but at least he made the effort.

Astoria didn’t seem to notice his discomfort, which allowed Draco to breath a sigh of relief. He listened dutifully as she continued to discuss the wedding plans, flitting from topic to topic like a hummingbird darting between flowers. In the months they’d spent courting, Draco had learned that it was best to let her prattle on uninterrupted; she usually ran out of steam eventually.

If it weren’t for the gentle tapping of an owl’s beak against the room’s glass door that came ten minutes later, he feared she might never have stopped. Astoria leaped to her feet with childlike enthusiasm, calling out, “I’ll get it,” as she hurried to the door that opened into the gardens. A tawny barn owl hopped into the room, but refused to relinquish the small piece of parchment in its beak to her. Instead, it gave a gentle hoot and took to the air, landing on the table next to Draco and dumping the delivery into his lap.

“I haven’t got any owl treats out here,” he told the bird as he gave it a quick scratch on the top of the head. The owl hooted again, this time with noticeable disdain, and took off, flying out through the open door.

Draco tore into the letter with haste, eager for an excuse to divert his attention away from the endless ramblings of his future bride. Immediately, he wished he hadn’t. He recognized the quick, businesslike quill-strokes immediately and felt as though all the air had been knocked out of his chest. The letter crumpled between his fingers as his hands clenched, curling into fists as he fought the wild sweep of nausea that threatened to overtake him.

“Draco?” he heard Astoria ask, her voice sounding distant and concerned. “Draco, are you alright? You’ve gone quite pale.” He forced himself to look up and into her alarmed face. “Is something the matter? Who is the letter from?”

Another moment passed before Draco could remember how to breath properly, but he found himself regaining control over his body with each forced breath. “It’s nothing,” he lied, hoping his voice sounded confident and steady. “Just a letter from my solicitor. He wants me to come into the office and sign some things tomorrow.”

Astoria sat down with a relieved sigh. “You had me scared half to death. You looked like you were about to have a fit!”

“I’m sorry to have worried you,” Draco said, feeling steadier with each lie. “I just haven’t been feeling at all well today. Would you mind if we cut tea short this afternoon? I think I’d better lay down.”

She looked put out, but nodded. “Of course, darling. We wouldn’t want you taking to the sick bed so close to the wedding, now would we?”

Draco had to bite his tongue to prevent himself pointing out that the wedding was still five months away and precisely what was bound to make him ill, if anything was.

Their walk down the Manor’s drive was long and awkward. The goodbye kiss once they reached the gates was perfunctory and just a bit sticky. Draco apparated first, landing clumsily in the middle of his empty sitting room. He went straight for the liquor cabinet in the corner. If Harry wanted to meet with him on Friday, he needed to drink himself into oblivion tonight.


The Leaky Cauldron was as dim and dingy as ever. Harry usually found the stained table tops comforting in their familiarity, but tonight he couldn’t stop from rubbing at a sticky ring that had been left by a previous patron’s drink. His own pint of liquid courage sat beside him half-empty, drops of condensation dripping down the sweating side of the glass to leave another layer of grime on the table.

His leg bounced uncontrollably. He could barely believe how nervous he was. There was a time, not that long ago, when being with Draco seemed like the most natural thing in the world. Draco’s presence had once had a calming affect, the ability to talk him down from even his most ferocious of rages. But now it felt as though his heart was going to beat out of his chest and into his throat, where he would vomit it onto the table in front of him.

That’s how it felt, that is, until he actually saw Draco walk through the door. When their eyes met across the pub, Harry felt his pounding heart stop, skipping more than one of its furious beats.

Draco moved quickly, with an almost feline grace, towards the booth where Harry was sat. Harry reached for his pint with shaking fingers as Draco slid onto the bench opposite him.

They sat in a tense silence, each staring at the other expectantly, until it seemed that Draco had had too much and snapped, “Well?”

“Well what?” Harry asked, blinking back his surprise at the razor-edged sharpness to Draco’s voice.

“I got your letter,” Draco said. From his pocket he fished a folded piece of parchment, which he tossed onto the table. “What did you want to see me about?”

“What did I -- Draco, you sent me a letter asking to meet you here.” Harry pulled out the letter he’d received from Draco and tossed it onto the table next to the one Draco claimed he’d received. “What did you want to see me about?”

Draco snatched the letter and scowled. “Is this some sort of joke?” he asked as he looked it over. “Although I will say that whoever you got to forge my signature did a damn good job.”

Harry took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, feeling a headache coming on already. Not even an entire minute together and they were going to fight. “I swear this isn’t a joke. At least, not one that I’m in on.”

Draco’s scowl softened to a frown. “Is Granger meddling again?” he asked.

“No,” Harry sighed, “Hermione was there when it came by owl. She was just as surprised as I was, to be honest.”

The fight visibly melted from Draco’s shoulders. He reached out and snatched Harry’s pint, drinking the rest of the warm lager in one steady gulp. “There has obviously been some sort of mistake,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I should go.”

Harry opened his mouth to stop him, but suddenly there was a woman at the edge of their booth, blocking Draco’s exit. She had two glass mugs in her hand, each filled with a thick red liquid that had a mountain of whipped cream and a peppermint stick on top. “For you,” she said brightly, placing the the mugs on the table, “our new Christmas special.”

“We didn’t order these,” Harry said, looking the woman over from head to toe. She had bright, curly blonde hair that seemed to bounce even when she didn’t move. Her face was round, open and friendly, plastered with a blinding smile that looked as though it would be better suited on a Hufflepuff schoolgirl than a barmaid. He didn’t recognize her, but then again, he hadn’t been to the Leaky in weeks and it wasn’t uncommon for the employees of the ancient pub to change without warning.

“They’re on the house,” she said with a mysterious smile. There was something strange about her eyes, Harry thought, though he couldn’t quite place it. They seemed too knowing, too old, for a woman of her age and demeanor. “Drink up, lads. It’s time to get into the holiday spirit!”

Draco gave Harry a questioning look. Harry responded with a challenging one of his own. “Having one drink with me won’t kill you,” he said. “We’re both adults, I think we can handle it.”

Draco bit his lip, still on the verge of bolting. He seemed to be having an internal battle of wills, but finally he nodded and sank back into his seat. “One drink,” he agreed. “One calm, reasonable, expletive-free drink.”

“Well, I don’t know about expletive-free,” Harry said as he used the peppermint stick to scoop up a large chunk of whipped cream. “From what I remember, you’ve got quite the dirty mouth.”

Draco’s cheeks turned red. A little thrill shot down Harry’s spine when he realized how Draco had misinterpreted his innocently meant comment. He felt emboldened and wrapped his lips around the stick of peppermint, sucking the whipped cream away with unnecessary obscenity. Draco’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and Harry felt victorious. Even if it meant nothing, even if it was just a little bit cruel to be so teasing, Draco’s reactions meant that there was still something there, even if it was only the basest form of attraction.

“So tell me,” Harry said, pretending not to notice the way the tension between them had mutated and thickened, “what’s new in your life?”

Draco pulled out his wand and vanished the heap of whipped cream from the top of his drink. He glared at it sullenly, then said, “You know what’s new in my life. Don’t play dumb, Harry. It doesn’t suit you.”

With a sigh, Harry followed Draco’s form and banished the rest of his whipped cream as well. He took a tentative sip, pleasantly surprised to find that the odd-looking drink was both rich, hot, and had the faint taste of chocolate and mint. A warmth spread throughout his body, from fingertips to toes.

“Fine,” he said. “I was trying to being polite, but if you’d prefer I was direct: how’s the wedding coming? I assume it’s still on, though I haven’t received my invitation yet.”

Draco snorted and reached for his own mug. “Of course it is, and don’t expect one either. The last thing I need is a scene.”

“You think I’d make a scene?” Harry asked in mock-offense. “When have I ever done something like that?”

Draco’s lip curled in a wry smile. “No. I know you would,” he said. “You always were a drama queen, Potter.”

On an impulse, Harry kicked Draco under the table. Nothing harsh, nothing malicious, just a playful little kick to demonstrate his amused displeasure. “Prat.”

Draco returned the kick, along with a laugh. “Berk.”

The speed of Harry’s beating heart had returned to its racing pace. He felt light and unencumbered. Here he was, sitting in a pub, having a drink and an actual conversation with Draco Malfoy, the man who had ripped out his heart and tap-danced upon it only six months ago, and it was almost alright. They were teasing each other as they once had, laughing and exchanging empty insults, as if everything between them hadn’t gone terribly wrong. They had even mentioned the very thing that had brought about their destruction.

“What about you?” Draco asked after another sip of his drink. “Any grand new adventures in the life of the great boy wonder?”

Harry thought about it. Not much had changed for him in the past half year, besides the monumental shake up that his split with Draco had caused. By comparison, everything else seemed too inconsequential to mention. “Hermione had the baby,” he said, because the thought of his two best friends as parents was still settling.

Draco’s grin faltered for a moment. “I heard,” he said. “I wanted to send my congratulations, but I wasn’t sure it would be welcomed.”

Something inside Harry’s chest cracked, just a little. “I’m sure it would have been,” he said gently. “You broke up with me, not them. Hermione and Ron are your friends too.”

Draco stared at his drink as though it had personally offended him. He grabbed it and took an impressive swig. When he set it down, his expression had cleared. “Yes, well, the three of you are a bit of a package deal,” he tried to joke, a hesitant smile creeping back onto the sharp planes of his face. “Tell them I send my best?”

Harry nodded, “Of course.”

They slipped into an awkward silence. Harry tried to avoid looking at Draco; he didn’t think he could bear to his own miserable expression mirrored on Draco’s face. He concentrated on his drink, letting the ambient noise of the slowly filling pub wash over him as the alcohol settled in his stomach and crept into his bones.

“This is quite strong,” said Draco, breaking the tense moment. He indicated his mug, which was nearly empty. Harry took a large sip of his own drink, trying to match Draco’s pace, although he secretly didn’t want to finish any time soon. As soon as their mugs were empty, this brief truce would be over, and Draco would be out of his life once more. “I think there is some sort of potion in this,” Draco continued, frowning into his drink. “I feel most peculiar.”

“Nah,” said Harry, although now that he thought about it, the tingling sensation he felt his toes wasn’t normal after just one pint and a spirit, “you’re just a light-weight.”

Draco drew up in his seat, his scandalized expression full of righteous indignation. “I am not! I could drink circles around you, Harry, and you know it.”

Harry smirked, raising one eyebrow in an expression he’d stolen shamelessly from the man who sat across from him. “Wanna bet on it, Malfoy?”

Draco’s lips pinched together into a tight line, but Harry could see the edges of the smile Draco was trying to fight. “Trying to get me drunk, are you?” he asked. “Hoping to take advantage?”

Harry forced himself to maintain eye contact. He knew, somewhere in the pit of his stomach, that it was imperative in that moment. “Maybe,” he drawled.

Another charming blush stole across Draco’s features, but his face remained carefully schooled. “That’s too bad,” he said, “because you’re the one who is going to be crawling out of here on his hands and knees.”

“As I remember it, you rather like me on my hands and knees,” Harry said, surprised by his own audacity.

A note of matching surprise registered on Draco’s face for a moment, and Harry thought that he could never get tired of watching Draco’s expressions shift. For someone who was convinced he had an uncrackable poker-face, Draco was incredibly transparent.

“All right then,” Draco said, knocking the rest of his drink back with one final gulp and bringing his empty mug down to the table with a decisive thunk.“Finish up, slow-poke, I’ll go get round two.”

Draco shifted, preparing to push out of the bench and make his way to the bar, but the perky blonde barmaid was back, blocking his exit once again. This time she had two brandy snifters in her hands, filled with a opalescent green liquid that shimmered when it caught the firelight.

“You’ll be wanting another round then,” she said rather than asked, and set the glasses on the table in front of them.

“I don’t drink absinthe,” Draco said, eyeing the green drink with trepidation.

“As you shouldn’t!” she laughed. “This isn’t absinthe though, I promise.”

“Another seasonal special then?” Draco asked, with obvious hesitation still in his voice.

“Aye,” said the barmaid. “Although this one is unique. Father’s secret recipe,” she said with a wink. “Better not drink it too quickly. It packs quite a punch.”

Harry pulled a glass towards him and took a tentative sip. An indescribable burst of flavor exploded on his tongue. It was neither sweet nor savory, but cool and refreshing. There were hints of that same minty flavor they’d found in the first drink, but it was subtle and cooled by the chill of the liquid. Floral notes lingered in the recesses, but never threatened to overpower. It might be difficult to drink this slowly, he thought, as there was no burn or aftertaste, going down smoother than water.

Draco was watching him expectantly. Harry set his glass back on the table and nodded up at the barmaid. “It’s good,” he said. “Really good.”

“Excellent,” she chirped, her blonde ringlets bouncing. “Have a happy Christmas, lads,” she said with a small curtsy.

“Odd bird,” Draco remarked as he watched her disappear into the crowd. He turned back to his drink and raised it to Harry in toast. Harry raised his own glass and together they drank.

“Merciful Merlin,” said Draco, once he’d set his back on the table. “How is her father not a millionaire? That’s divine.”

Harry made a noise of agreement and took another sip of his drink, just so he had something to do. Now that the strange barmaid with the old eyes had left and he was alone with Draco once more, he could think of nothing to say.

That wasn’t quite true, he could think of a hundred things he wanted to say, and they were all burning on the edge of his tongue, but he knew none of those topics would be acceptable.

Draco didn’t seem to have the same problem, because he began to speak rapidly, rattling on in a manner that would seem quite uncharacteristic to people who only knew the stoic front he presented in public. “This rather reminds me of a drink I once had back when we were in school. Pansy stole it from her father’s cellar after her brother’s funeral. It was elf-made, she said. Went down easy, warmed you up from the inside despite the perpetual chill. It was quite curious though, had a bit of Veritaserum in it, I always assumed. Because as soon as we had finished the small bottle, Pansy was spilling all sorts of secrets. Did you know her first kiss was with Millicent Bulstrode?” he asked with a laugh. “They used to practice kissing in their dorm in third year! Can you believe it? I mean, people always joke about the things school children get up to behind closed dorm room doors or in the locker rooms, but I never thought they were true! Imagine how put out I was when I learned, what with all those fantasies I’d had about getting it off with you in the showers after a Quidditch match. If only I knew then that that was something people actually did! I bet Oliver Wood --”

Draco paused quite suddenly, the breakneck pace of his speech stopping so abruptly Harry thought he might have given himself mental whiplash. His lips forming a surprised “o” for a moment before he clamped them together tightly and turned scarlet.

Harry’s stomach flipped happily and the warm tingle in his toes and fingers spread throughout his limbs. “Go on,” he said, well aware that he was grinning stupidly, “I quite like this line of conversation. Nothing I didn’t already know, of course. You’ve always had an inexplicable attraction to me, even in school.” He couldn’t help but add, “I’d venture to say you feel it still, even now.”

Draco’s bottom lip was between his teeth. “Not always,” he said quietly, after a moment. “I really did hate you for most of our sixth year.” A dour look of abject misery painted his face and he sighed, “But yes, yes, of course I still feel it, even now.” He glared at his glass. “There must be Veritaserum in this,” he said, but he picked it up and took another sip. “I’ll have that witch’s job for this, poisoning innocent patrons.”

Harry rolled his eyes, feeling strangely light-hearted. “There’s not any Veritaserum in here,” he said. “I’m not spilling any hidden truths. You’re just a light-weight.”

“I am not! And you’ve no secrets to spill. You’re a disgustingly honest person, Harry. Always have been.”

Harry snorted and reached for his drink. “Now that is a lie. I misrepresent the truth all of the time, even lie bald-facedly on occasion. I lied to you last time we spoke.”

Draco’s face was open in it’s curiosity. “Really? What about?” he asked.

“When I told you I was fine,” Harry said. He dropped Draco’s gaze when he realized what he had said. Maybe Draco was right and there was some sort of compulsive version of Veritaserum in the drink, because he knew he shouldn’t be saying this, but still couldn’t stop himself from continuing, “When I told you that I didn’t love you anymore.”

Harry looked up quickly, just in time to see Draco’s open expression close. “I think this is a very dangerous conversation we’re about to have,” he said quietly.

Harry nodded in agreement, but continued foolheartedly anyway. “I still love you, you know. I want not to, but I don’t think it’s something I can control. I miss you all of the time.” He slid his hand across the table top, well into Draco’s space. He didn’t expect Draco to take it, but it seemed important that he make the gesture.

Draco stared at Harry’s outstretched hand, but stayed unnaturally still. “I miss you too,” he said, so quiet that Harry almost didn’t hear it over the din of the pub. “But, you know that I can’t.”

Harry’s outstretched hand clenched into a little ball. Frustration was warring with his previous feeling of goodwill. He didn’t want to fight with Draco, not now, not again.

But then Draco had to go and ask, to bring up the one thing that was sure to put Harry over the edge. “Have you given any more thought to what I proposed the last time we spoke?”

Harry snatched his hand away, holding it against his chest as though wounded. “You know that I haven’t,” he hissed. “I don’t care what’s understood or what people will turn a blind-eye to. If you go through with this wedding, it’s the end for us. I won’t be someone’s piece on the side.”

The noise Draco made was almost inhuman, something between a desperate whine and a cry of exasperation. “You wouldn’t be 'a piece on the side,'” he said, his lip curling around the epithet with disdain. “There have always been provisions made between Pureblood spouses when the marriage wasn’t a love-match. We’d have to keep our distance until my first son is born for propriety's sake, but after that, there is no reason why couldn’t still be together. I’m sure Astoria would be amenable, she’s well aware of my condition.”

“Your condition?” Harry asked with a bitter bark of laughter, the cheerful mood he felt after his first drink shattered. “Is this what you think this is? Some sort of disease? An affliction that be cured by having the occasional cock up your arse? Is that you talking, Draco, or is it your father?”

Something murderous flashed in Draco’s eyes. “Don’t bring him into this,” he said, his voice low and warning.

“Why not?” Harry asked, a blithe sort of hysteria overcoming him. “This is all about him, isn’t it? You never use to talk like this, never use to say anything about duty or marriage or heirs. None of this bullshit started until after he died.”

“Stop playing stupid, Harry!” Draco screeched. “You knew I was the last of my family, the potential end of my line. You knew this day would come.”

“I damn well did not!” Harry yelled, slamming his hand on the table. The drinks rattled and Draco jumped. “I knew you were an only child, the last Malfoy or whatever you want to call it, but I never once imagined that that would mean more to you than I did. I must have been a spectacular idiot, but I didn’t once expect that you’d throw me over just so you could uphold some inane Pureblood tradition. I don’t know why I didn’t see it coming though; you were a Death Eater, after all.”

Draco’s breath was coming in short, aggrieved gasps. “That has nothing to do with this,” he spit. “You know I’m not that person anymore; you helped me to not be that person.”

“I don’t know what kind of person you are,” Harry said harshly. “But you’re not who I thought you were. You’re not the man I fell in love, and maybe you never were.”

Harry knew then that Draco was wrong, there couldn’t be Veritaserum in their drinks, because he was lying through the skin of his teeth. Harry knew exactly what of person Draco was, and loved him despite it. And yet, Harry felt compelled to say these things, no matter how cruel they may be. They were his darkest thoughts, the ones he thought he could never give voice, the ones that he nursed alone in the dark and felt ashamed of in the light of day, as though just thinking them was a betrayal.

Draco looked stricken, his face contorted into a pained expression that was equal horror and heartbreak. “Don’t say that, Harry. Please, don’t say that.”

“Why not? Wouldn’t that be easier for you?” Harry pushed on. He wished he could stop saying these terrible things, but he couldn’t. “Does it make it easier if I say that I never really loved you?” Harry could see that Draco’s self-control was slipping, fraying like the ends of an overburdened rope. “Easier for you to go home to your wife, to stick your Pureblood cock in her Pureblood cunt, so that you can make more little Pureblood babies?”

“Shut up!” Draco cried, both fists coming down to slam on the tabletop. “Shut the hell up!”

The snifter next to him exploded, the remaining drops of green liquor pooling into a puddle that spread around the shattered pieces of glass. Suddenly, the blonde barmaid was at their side once more. With a snap of her fingers, the mess disappeared and she thrust a small glass of clear liquid at Draco. “Drink this,” she said urgently. “Hurry up, you two are making quite a scene.”

Draco took the glass from her and tossed the entire thing back in one unthinking gulp.

“What was that?” Harry demanded. “What did you give him?” He felt frantic and did not trust this witch, no matter how kind her face seemed on first glance. He was sure there was something in the drinks she gave them, something that made him say those unforgivable things that he couldn’t possibly mean.

She stared at him for a moment, then quickly looked away. “It’s just a calming drought,” she said to Harry, though she watched Draco carefully, “shouldn’t last for more than five minutes. Just enough to soothe the nerves.”

Draco slumped into his seat, his head lolling back to rest against the cushion of the high-backed bench. “Harry always makes a scene,” he said, his words slow and slightly slurred. For the first time since they’d entered the pub, he seemed intoxicated. “Damn drama queen, that Potter. I’ve always said so.”

The barmaid turned to Harry. “I think you’d better take him home. He’s in no state to travel alone.”

Harry waved her away. “Yeah, yeah, I got it,” he grumbled. What a disaster this entire evening had been, and it’d only lasted about twenty minutes. To think, he’d started it with such naive hope in his heart. He slid out of his seat and held his hand out. “Come on, Draco, get up. Let’s get you home.”

Draco took Harry’s outstretched and pulled himself up with visible effort. He stumbled slightly on his feet and leaned against Harry for support. “I knew you’d get me drunk and try to take advantage,” he giggled.

Harry rolled his eyes, but didn’t take the bait. There was no sign of Draco's cloak, so Harry wrapped him in his own and steered Draco towards the door. Before they left, he cast one last look back at the pub, searching for the barmaid, but didn’t see her anywhere. With a heavy sigh, he pushed open the door.

The wind was bitter and cold, but the heat of Draco’s body pressed against him made up for it. “Do you want to go back to the Manor?” Harry asked. “Or are you staying somewhere else?” He swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat when he thought that Draco might be living with Astoria until the wedding.

“I have a flat,” Draco said. His voice was still thick, but lucidity was returning to his eyes. “I don’t want to go there though. It’s very lonely.”

Harry didn't ask whose fault that was, though he desperately wanted to. Instead, he asked, “To the Manor then?”

There was a heartrending plea in Draco’s voice, “Can’t I come back to your place? Our place?”

Harry took an instinctive step backwards. “I don’t think that would be wise,” he said.

Draco took a step forward, and Harry another one back. Harry felt like stalked, although not unnecessarily unwilling, prey. “Please, Harry?” Draco slurred. “Just one night. I miss you.”

Harry’s back hit the brick wall behind him. He closed his eyes, trying to squeeze the haunted image of Draco’s sad, beautiful face from his mind’s eye. “Oh, God,” he said, his voice barely more than a cracking whisper.

Even with his eyes closed, he knew Draco was still advancing. He was trapped between the unyielding brick and the firm line of Draco’s body. Draco’s breath was hot where it ghosted over the skin of his neck, and then up to his ear, where he whispered, “Please?”

Harry let out a pitiful whine. Draco was so close and Harry knew that he meant to kiss him. He wanted Draco to kiss him, he wanted it with a burning desire like he’d never known, but he also knew what a monumental mistake it would be to give into that temptation.

But he was only a man, and the soft press of Draco’s lips against his own was too enticing. Another whine escaped him, but this one was more desperate and needy than mournful, and was immediately swallowed down by the smooth glide of Draco’s lips.

Harry’s mouth opened under Draco’s, an involuntary act of muscle-memory, a thoughtless response to a well-practiced action. Draco’s tongue slid across his, a slow, lazy glide that sent ripples of pleasure coursing through Harry’s body, making the earlier tingling sensation he’d felt from the drink pale in comparison. His hand drifted up to card through Draco’s hair, pulling at him until they were pressed together so tightly that Harry couldn’t tell where he ended and Draco began. He felt drunk, utterly intoxicated, just from the taste of Draco’s tongue in his mouth.

Just one simple kiss, and his mind was shutting down.

Draco began to retreat, his teeth nipping lightly at Harry’s bottom lip, sucking it into his own mouth even as he pulled away. He released Harry’s lip and let his head relax, his forehead resting against Harry’s. Harry’s hands traced the familiar planes of Draco’s body as he brought his hands to Draco’s chest. He could feel Draco’s heartbeat thumping wildly beneath his fingertips.

“Fuck,” Draco said on a shaky exhale.“That was...” trailed off, words seeming to have escaped him. “Fuck,” he said again. He slumped against Harry’s chest, burying his face into the crook of Harry’s neck. “Damn it, I still love you. Why can’t I stop loving you?”

A sharp, stinging sensation was mounting behind Harry’s eyes. He shut them tight to stop the tears from falling. Those were the words he’d wanted so desperately to hear, but they only broke his heart. “I can’t do this,” he said weakly. He struggled to pull air into his aching lungs. “I can’t do this,” he repeated.

He felt, rather than saw, the muscles of Draco’s face move as his expression shifted. He could imagine what Draco looked like, clear as day behind his shuttered eyelids. Draco’s forehead would be wrinkled where his eyebrows knit together, his nostrils would be flared, and his lips set into a pained pout. “Please, Harry, try to understand --”

“No,” Harry said quickly, pushing against Draco’s chest. He couldn’t do this, couldn’t relieve the past six months all over again. He should never have come here, never have let it go this far. “No, Draco, stop. I understand better than you know. But I just...I can’t.

Harry pushed Draco away and struggled out of his grip. He stumbled forward a few paces, needing to put some distance between them before his resolve cracked and he made an even worse decision. He wanted to do it, wanted to say fuck it and throw caution to the wind. A part of him thought that exchanging the remnants of his mangled heart for one more night would be worth it, but Harry fought against that impulse. He forced himself to remember the first few nights in the empty flat, to concentrate on the misery he’d felt after Draco first left him, as opposed to the joy he’d had before it all went to hell.

Reaching into the pocket of his trousers, Harry wrapped his fingers around his wand. “I’m sorry, Draco,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

When he appeared in his living room a moment later, Harry fell to his knees and wept.


Continue onto Part II

Link | Leave a comment | Share

Comments {18}

the Welcoming Dork

(no subject)

from: birdsofshore
date: Dec. 18th, 2012 08:25 am (UTC)

Oh noooooo! Harry, Harry! We don't care about the remnants of your mangled heart, we just want to watch you do smexing with Draco! *cough* Oh. Ahem. Sorry. Dear thusspakekate, this is LOVELY. Perfect Christmassy fluff and flangst. Harry writing to Father Christmas is just charming, as are the hopeless, bumbling boys. What was in those norty drinks? And you WILL put them back together for us in time for Christmas, won't you? All good as new? and make them do smexing for us

Reply | Thread

laissez les bon temp roulez!;

(no subject)

from: thusspakekate
date: Dec. 18th, 2012 06:41 pm (UTC)

Aw thank you so much! I'm usually not a big Christmas person but for some reason I'm really feeling it this year and I had to drag the boys along for the ride.

And of course I don't want to give any spoilers, but the fic *is* rated NC-17 and *is* a Christmasy fic. Even I am not so cruel as end the holidays on a sad note.

:D:D:D Thanks for reading! The next part should be up in the next couple days, I think.

Reply | Parent | Thread


(no subject)

from: omi_ohmy
date: Dec. 18th, 2012 10:12 am (UTC)

Oh wow! This is everything wonderful and great. I mean, Father Christmas, in a fic! And elf-made booze! And a pining Harry and deluded/oblivious/proud/misguided Draco. Also, I think flangst is the best possible way to celebrate Christmas.

Also, what birds said about the smexing. :D

Reply | Thread

laissez les bon temp roulez!;

(no subject)

from: thusspakekate
date: Dec. 18th, 2012 06:45 pm (UTC)

Thank you! This whole thing started simply because I wanted to sneak Father Christmas into a holidays fic.

And I think flangst is the best possible way to celebrate *any occasion.* I live a flansgt life, darling.

And don't worry about the smexing. *points to rating* It wouldn't be Christmas without it. ;)

Thank you for reading! <3

Reply | Parent | Thread


(no subject)

from: eidheann_writes
date: Dec. 18th, 2012 11:06 am (UTC)

Good god that hurt so good. The level of heartache was just perfect for both of them. And I love Narcissa. <3

I can't wait for the second part.

Reply | Thread

laissez les bon temp roulez!;

(no subject)

from: thusspakekate
date: Dec. 18th, 2012 06:50 pm (UTC)

Thank you darling! <333

And drunk!Narcissa was so fun to write. I think Narcissa as a closet lush may be my new headcanon. She is a society wife, after all. ;)

Thanks for reading! Part II should be up in the next couple days. <3

Reply | Parent | Thread


(no subject)

from: rhaneofterror
date: Dec. 18th, 2012 01:26 pm (UTC)

I need part 2 like yesterday. Amazing as always Kitty.

Reply | Thread

laissez les bon temp roulez!;

(no subject)

from: thusspakekate
date: Dec. 18th, 2012 06:51 pm (UTC)

Well, you'll have to wait a few days more, now won't you Rhaney? :X

And thank you darling. <33333

Reply | Parent | Thread


(no subject)

from: witchravenfox
date: Dec. 18th, 2012 07:22 pm (UTC)

I just stumbled over this (I should be studying that being said) and not only is it beautiful, but it almost had me choking up somewhat, right at the end especially. So well done, and I'm looking forward to more.

Reply | Thread

laissez les bon temp roulez!;

(no subject)

from: thusspakekate
date: Dec. 18th, 2012 07:41 pm (UTC)

Aw, thank you. I really appreciate your kind comment! And sorry about distracting you from your work! But what better way to procrastinate than with some flansgt?


Reply | Parent | Thread


(no subject)

from: mypetelephant
date: Dec. 19th, 2012 05:33 am (UTC)

I already told you all the things I love about this. And since I should really go to bed, I'm going to summarize with what little brainpower I'm capable of right now: I love this, and my fangirl heart is crying for both of those silly boys.

I remember worrying that my h/d post wasn't going to convince you of the ship, but here you are now, breaking my heart and dangling me along with promises of sex.


Reply | Thread

laissez les bon temp roulez!;

(no subject)

from: thusspakekate
date: Dec. 19th, 2012 04:22 pm (UTC)

It was a perfect storm of feels. The right ship and the right fics, at the right time. You've ruined my life and I can't thank you enough!

Reply | Parent | Thread


(no subject)

from: sksdwrld
date: Dec. 19th, 2012 01:29 pm (UTC)

Lovely! Cant wait for the next installation!

Reply | Thread

laissez les bon temp roulez!;

(no subject)

from: thusspakekate
date: Dec. 19th, 2012 04:23 pm (UTC)

Thank you! It should be up either tonight or tomorrow. <3

Reply | Parent | Thread


(no subject)

from: eva667
date: Dec. 19th, 2012 02:21 pm (UTC)

Love this, the flangst is soooo good :-)

Reply | Thread

laissez les bon temp roulez!;

(no subject)

from: thusspakekate
date: Dec. 19th, 2012 04:31 pm (UTC)

Thank you! <333 As someone mentioned above, flangst is the best way to celebrate christmas!

Reply | Parent | Thread

something clever

(no subject)

from: shantismurf
date: Dec. 19th, 2012 04:55 pm (UTC)

Oh this! I loved...fuck, I loved *everything* about this! Santa and Teddy and simpering Astoria, drunk!Narcissa (so much love) and that brilliant barmaid. But Harry and his pining righteous anger and daring innuendos, such a lovely mix of hurt and pride and need just stole my heart. That kiss was so sensual, so poignant...I can't wait for the second half!

Reply | Thread

laissez les bon temp roulez!;

(no subject)

from: thusspakekate
date: Dec. 20th, 2012 02:25 am (UTC)

Thank you! I'm glad you're enjoying it thus far! Second part should be up tomorrow! <33333

Reply | Parent | Thread