Fairytale Of New York

FAIRYTALE

OF NEW YORK.

It was

Christmas Eve, babe

In the drunk tank

An old man said to me, “won't see another one”

And then he sang a song

The Rare Old Mountain Dew

I turned my face away

And dreamed about you

Harry paused in front of the shop

window.

He couldn’t believe his eyes.

The specialist music shops that

lined Old Camden Street in Soho were doing a roaring trade as the season

approached.

And there, sitting in the window

of Pink Records, amongst the piles of vinyl sleeves was that

record.  The Holy Grail.

Harry pushed open the door,

causing a little bell to tinkle loudly, and stepped inside.  Greg Lake’s ‘I Believe in Father Christmas’

was playing, and the place appeared deserted.

Harry walked over to the counter,

taking in the shelves, stacked high with CDs and tapes in apparently random

order.  The countertop itself was

plastered with flyers for club nights.  Atomic

Kitten were appearing at G.A.Y.  Harry

hated Atomic Kitten.

“Anybody home?”

“Give me a minute!” someone

shouted.  “Just making a brew!”

Harry rested his elbow on the

counter, removed his glasses, and polished the lenses on the hem of his jumper.

A middle-aged man of about

forty-eight appeared from behind a bead curtain.  He was holding a chipped pink mug, upon which were written ‘Ten

Ways to tell you’re a complete slut.’ 

He wore a metallic silver sleeveless T-shirt and tight vinyl

trousers.  His hair (or what remained of

it) was bleached blond, and there were rings in his eyebrows, nose and tongue.

He stopped as he took in Harry,

and smiled appreciatively.

“How can I help you?” he asked.

“I couldn’t help noticing,” Harry

said, “you have a copy of Hugo Lovepole and The Rabid Disco Bunnies’ 1979

classic ‘Press Your Globes Against Mine’ in the window …”

The man’s face cracked into a

smile.  “Aah … yes,” he said.  “Rabid Disco Bunnies!”  He looked at Harry.  “Probably before your time … but I remember

them well.  There was a seminal

appearance on Top of the Pops.  Hugo

Lovepole was wearing nothing but a pair of gold hot-pants and knee high

matching boots.  Set the old pulse

a-racing, I can tell you.”

“My boyfriend has been after it

for years …” Harry began.

“Well, then you’ve come to the

right place,” the shopkeeper said.  “It

just came in yesterday.  Second or third

hand, but it’s in damn good nick.”

“How much do you want for it?”

*******

London’s

lights arced graceful glitter trails across the Thames and into the frozen

evening air as Harry parked his car outside the apartment block, and retrieved

his shopping from the boot of the Mercedes.

The

flat seemed to be deserted.  Harry stuck

his key in the lock, and silently pushed the door aside.  The lights flickered on as he stepped onto

the threshold, the heavy soles of his boots clumping against the woodblock

floor.  Harry breathed a sigh of

relief.  Draco wasn’t home.

Clutching

the handles of his bags gently, Harry tiptoed through into the bedroom.  He pushed open the door.

“Shit!”

someone shouted.

Harry

nearly dropped Draco’s presents on the floor. 

His boyfriend was standing over by the bed, attired in a pair of green

boxers, holding a glittery gold envelope in one hand.  Harry slipped Draco’s Christmas presents behind his back.

“Um,”

Draco began.

“Um.”

“Quite,”

said Draco.  “You didn’t see me in

here.”

“No,”

said Harry.

“I’m

just going to go … this way … now …”

To

a casual observer, the sight might almost have appeared comical.  Both men sidled gradually round to the other

side of the bed, each trying desperately to conceal whatever it was they were

hiding, both with forced smiles etched across their faces.

Harry

pushed open the wardrobe door, and secreted the bags in the bottom, along with

all his shoes.

“No

peeking,” Draco said.  He had tucked the

envelope into the pocket of his calf-length leather jacket.  Harry could see it peeking out of the top.

“Good

day?” Draco asked, pulling on a pair of jeans and rummaging around in the dirty

laundry basket for a T-shirt that didn’t smell too bad.

“Um

… yeah,” Harry said awkwardly.  “Got

some stuff I wanted.”

“Cool.”

“So,”

said Draco, rubbing his hands together. 

“Are we still on for dinner?”

Harry

nodded.  “We’d better get cooking, I

guess.”

“Oh,

I don’t know,” Draco said, slyly. 

“There’s still plenty of time before our … guests arrive.”

Harry

flushed.

“You

look very fetching when you’re embarrassed,” Draco purred, walking softly round

the bed to where Harry was standing. 

“Why don’t we ditch the dinner and just get takeaway Chinese?”

“I

like Chinese,” Harry whispered.

“Me

too,” said Draco, slipping one hand casually inside Harry’s shirt, feeling for

the buttons and popping them free with the fingers of the other hand, exposing

the line of his chest.

“Shall

we have pancakes?” Harry asked.  Draco

began to stroke his bottom softly.  He

leant forwards, and his breath smelled of mulled wine and cigarettes.

“With

crispy duck,” Draco teased.

“And

hoi sin sauce …”

“Mmm.”

Harry

slipped a hand around Draco’s waist as he felt his shirt being eased gently off

his shoulders.  Draco kissed him at

first softly on the lips, teasing with his mouth and tongue and tracing a

lingering waltz across Harry’s stomach and down to his crotch with his fingers.

The

doorbell rang.

Instantly,

the two of them sprang apart.

“I

bet that’s Sir Weasel the Wanker of Wimbledon,” Draco snarled.  “He always has to spoil our fun.”

Harry

began to button up his shirt.  “I’ll get

it,” he said.

“I’ll

go,” said Draco.  “You just relax,

babe.  It might just be the champers I

ordered for the New Years party.”

He

disappeared out of the room.  Harry,

frustration welling up inside him as his previous excitement dimmed  … he did so hate it when Draco teased

like that … sat down on the bed and sighed.

“Ron!”

he heard Draco exclaim, his voice simply dripping with fake

sincerity.  “How simply lovely to see

you.  You’d better come in.  Hello Hermione … kiss please … Charlie.”

“Hiya,

Draco,” Hermione replied.  “We brought

wine, we weren’t sure how much you’d already have …”

“We

have plenty,” Draco was saying, “but … ooh … this is Châteauneuf-du-Pape …

Hermi, thou hast excelled thyself.”

Hermione

giggled.  Harry could hear the smacking

sound of somebody getting kissed as he sprayed on fresh deodorant, and pulled

on a clean, tight black T-shirt.

“Stop

snogging my wife …” that sounded like Charlie. 

Harry run a comb through his hair.

“Charles

… another devastatingly sexy Weasley for me to ogle!  Where did you get that suit? 

You’d better be careful … you might turn me on!”

“Hello,

Malfoy,” Ron’s voice.  The other man’s

disdain for Harry’s boyfriend was evident, and Harry hung his head

slightly.  He had so hoped they

would at least try to get on.  Draco, to

his credit, was at least prepared to make an effort to be friendly.  Ron, however, remained stubborn to the end,

even though Hermione and Charlie, now happily married with twins on the way,

had accepted Harry and Draco as a couple long ago.

Sighing,

Harry got up, and walked out into the living room.  Ron and Cameron were standing awkwardly next to the tree, Ron

clutching a large, plastic Hamley’s bag. 

Charlie was helping Hermione out of her coat.

“Hi,

Harry.”

“Hello.”

Charlie

grinned.  “Hey there, Harry.  Good game last week?”

Harry

nodded.  “I never saw Chudley win so

convincingly.”  Draco rolled his eyes in

despair at his boyfriend, if it wasn’t Arsenal’s fortunes, it was Quidditch with

Harry … but Ron grinned.  He had been

pleasantly surprised as well … they had attended the match together whilst

Draco went Christmas shopping.

Cameron

tore across the room and flung himself around Harry’s waist.  “Uncle Harry!”

“How’re

things with the big, happy Weasley family?” Harry asked.

Hermione

rolled her eyes.  “Ron is still carrying

on with that Maureen creature,” she said, prompting a pained look from

Ron.  “George and Jana seem to be in

some sort of on and off relationship … as usual, and Percy and Oliver have

moved in together …”

“Dad

wasn’t too pleased about that,” said Charlie. 

“They both told me to say thanks for letting them use your villa,” he

added.  Draco, who was uncorking the

bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, looked up.

“Oh,

good,” he said.  “It’s such a lovely

location – it seemed a shame to leave it empty when Harry and I aren’t using

it.”

“They

loved Ezé,” Charlie said.  “Said it was

very artistic, and lovely and warm for December.”

“Did

they get to the casino?” Draco asked.

“Lost

about a hundred galleons,” Charlie grinned. 

“That’s what Oliver claimed, anyway. 

Percy insists it was nearer ten.”

Ron

laughed.  “They only just got back,” he

said.  “Apparently the owls they

enlisted to send their postcards got lost en route.”

“Which

is Percy trying to cover up the fact he didn’t bother to send any,” said

Charlie.  “It’s sweet of him to do that

… we all know the real reason was because they were shagging the living

daylights out of one another … but obviously we want to avoid such scenes in front

of mum and dad.”

“It might just give them a heart attack,” said

Hermione.  “Incidentally, you’re all

invited to the Burrow for New Year’s …”

“Even you, Malfoy,” Ron sniped.

“Ronald!”

Draco

chuckled.  “Do we want a takeaway?” he asked.

Harry

nodded.  “Let’s not bother cooking,” he

said, spotting the bulging bag.  “Ron …

you didn’t need to bring presents …”

Ron

smiled.  “I thought that, with the

holiday and all, you’d want to open them when you got there …” he paused.  “I shouldn’t have told you that … I should not

have told you that.”

“Are

you going on a holiday, Uncle Harry?” Cameron asked.  Harry detached the limpet-child from his groin, and set him down

on one of the sofas.

“I

don’t think so,” Harry said.  He turned

to Draco, who was standing in the kitchen area, holding the telephone.

“Is

there something you aren’t telling me?” Harry asked, eyeing Draco

suspiciously.  Whilst his boyfriend was

creative in many imaginative ways, he was notorious at … well … at not

being especially good at choosing Christmas presents.

Draco

nodded meekly.

“Daddy,

Uncle Harry left his zip open!”

Harry

reddened.

Draco

came back into the lounge.  “Well,” he

said.  “I was planning to

surprise you very, very early tomorrow morning … wake you up with a little

breakfast in bed, some strong black coffee, maybe bagels with cream cheese …

maybe, if you’re especially good, a little sex …”

“…

Uncle Draco said sex, Daddy …”

“…

but,” Draco went on, “after this total and utter cabbage here went and

spoiled it … I guess there’s no harm in you knowing now.”

Harry

was suddenly very excited.  “Is it

something nice?” he asked, bouncing from foot to foot.  “What have you got me?”

“Well,”

Draco said, grinning.  “You know how I’d

arranged for us to go and stay with Charlie and Hermione up in Oxford on Boxing

Day?”

Harry

nodded.

“Well,

that was a lie.  Go into our room and

take the gold envelope out of my jacket pocket.”

Harry

clapped his hands together.  “Ooh … ooh!”

Ron

shook his head and set down the plastic bag at the foot of the Christmas

tree.  Draco watched Harry go with an

indulgent air.

“You

spoil him, you know,” said Ron disapprovingly. 

“It’s not good for him to be running around like an excited schoolboy.”

“Oh,

don’t be such a wet blanket,” Draco scolded. 

“We’ve had a hard year, and the money is there – it seems a shame not to

use it for something fun.”

He

opened one of the kitchen drawers, and took out a folded piece of paper.

“We’re

having Chinese tonight,” he said. 

“Choose what you want from there.”

“Ooh,

cool,” Ron said, taking the menu.  Draco

was well aware that Ron disapproved intensely of his and Harry’s ongoing

relationship … however he also knew (mainly from talking to Hermione,

whom these days he gainfully employed as his fag-hag every now and then) that

Ron was very, very easily distracted … and that the way to distract him was to

offer him food.

Draco

opened the fridge, and took out a couple of bottles of beer.  He didn’t drink beer himself, preferring

sweet mixers, spirits, and if he was in the mood, a glass of one of the

expensive bottles of wine he got sent every quarter by a club.  However, Harry most certainly did –

something about his lover that Draco found so cute it should almost have been

indecent – it made his stomach feel all tight and screwy just to think about

it.

“What

are you boys drinking?” Draco asked, cracking open one of the bottles, already

knowing what the answer would be.

Ron,

who was installed with Cameron on the sofa, looked up.  “Lager please,” he said without

thinking.  “What do you think, Cam?  Dim sum? 

Pancakes?  Chilli beef?”

Draco

poured out the drinks.  As the

effervescent, amber liquid sloshed from the necks of the dull green bottles, he

heard what was unmistakably a yell of joy from the bedroom.  He smiled inwardly as he poured Harry’s

lager for him.

Running

footsteps pounding on the wooden floor heralded Harry’s reappearance from the

bedroom.  He was waving the golden

envelope above his head and shouting.

“Are

you serious, Draco?”

He

paused, leaning on one of the stone-flagged kitchen units for support as he got

his breath back, his mouth and eyes wide open with anticipation.

Draco

nodded.  “Of course.”

“But

I’ve never been on Concorde before!”

Harry

flung his arms around Draco, and kissed him.

“I’m

going to make love to you until the cows come home,” he breathed, flicking a

dangling lock of Draco’s hair out of the way, and pulling back to fix his lover

in the eyes.

“Well,”

said Draco.  “Let’s hope they get kept

late at the office.”

*******

Ron

burped, and surreptitiously slid his bowl away from him.  There was still enough egg fried rice to

feed a small army.  Draco’s heart sank

as he realised that, yet again, he had ordered way too much.  Harry and Charlie, he noticed, seemed to be

having some sort of eating competition … Harry was holding his bowl up to his

mouth, and spooning food in like an automaton.

Hermione

leaned across the table.  “There

wouldn’t be anymore of that sweet and sour, would there?”

Draco

checked the bowl.  “No,” he said.  “I’m afraid Pig Boy here has eaten the last

of it …”

“Is

Uncle Harry a pig, Daddy?”

Ron

looked awkwardly at his son.  “No,” he

said.  “Uncle Draco was trying to be

funny …”

“Uncle

Draco would have succeeded admirably, as well,” said Draco underneath his

breath.  Harry scowled at him

ferociously.

“Shall

I change the music?” Draco asked, changing the subject.

“Go

ahead,” Charlie said, finally setting his bowl down.  “I am replete, Hermione … how about pulling

a cracker?”

“By

the looks of you, darling – I think I already have.”

Draco

got up from the table, walked over to the stereo, and selected a new disc.

“What’s

this one?” asked Harry through a mouthful of food.

“Something

Christmassy,” Draco said, pressing the ‘play’ button.  The opening, upbeat bars of ‘Fairytale of New York’ spilled out

of the speakers.

“Oh,

I love this track,” said Hermione. 

“It’s our song, isn’t it?”  She

clasped Charlie’s hand across the table.

“I

thought our song was Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead,” Charlie said, looking

puzzled.

Draco

returned to the table.  “You know,” he

said, as an aside.  “We’ve been together

more than a year now, Harry, and we still don’t have a song …”

“It

could be this one, if you’d like,” said Harry.  “I like this song a lot. 

And you’re a cheap, lousy faggot, so it’s actually quite fitting.”

“No

sex for Harry with that attitude,” Draco scolded, but the wicked grin on his

face told Harry otherwise.

“Oh

puh-lease!” Ron sighed.

“Grow

up, Ron,” Hermione said.  “You’re being

a pillock.”

Ron

scowled.  But Draco was still grinning

like a cat that had had the cream of the milk.

“I

think that settles it,” he said, huskily. 

“This ought really to be our song.”

Harry

smiled.  It is very probable that had

the others not been there, they would have ripped their clothes off and

ravished each other right there and then on the table.

Instead,

Charlie produced his wand, and summoned another bottle of wine.  “Well,” he said.  “The boys are off to the States.”

“I

booked it ages ago,” said Draco. 

“Although Harry wasn’t really meant to have found out about it yet,” he

looked meaningfully at Ron.

“Sour

grapes,” Ron muttered.

Draco,

who had learned over the past eighteen months or so to deal with Ron’s

stubbornness regarding their relationship, continued talking.  “We’ve a big room booked at the Plaza Hotel

on Central Park, which is meant to be really, really nice, or so the travel

agent told me …”

“Did

you use a Muggle one?” asked Charlie.

Draco

shook his head.  “Tandy’s on Diagon

Alley do much better deals,” he said. 

“I thought we’d spend Christmas Eve doing touristy stuff.  I want to take you shopping, Harry, you’ll

love that.  Then we’ve got a restaurant

booked for the evening …”

“What

about Christmas Day?” Harry asked, sipping his wine.

“Extreme

pampering with frequent breaks for bouts of snogging,” Draco said.  “Utter luxury.  We’re going to have brunch, then go to a fabulous place I’ve been

recommended for dinner later on.  It’ll

be great, trust me …”

“I

never doubted it wouldn’t,” said Harry, happily.

“I

should take you to New York,” Charlie said to Hermione.  “It looks like these two are going to have

all the fun.”

“I

thought you wanted to go to the carol service at Magdalene,” Hermione said.

“It

isn’t the same,” said Charlie.  “Oddly

enough.”

“What

are you guys getting up to?” Harry asked.

Hermione

rolled her eyes.  “There’s a big knees

up at the Burrow tomorrow, just like always.”

Harry

smiled.  He had spent just one Christmas

at the Burrow before, during his Fifth Year at Hogwarts.  That house held a lot of very fond memories

for him …

Charlie

and Ron grinned.  Ron said, “There will be

hordes of children rampaging throughout the house opening the wrong presents

because Bill can never get the labels right, which means Dad will get ‘My First

Quidditch’ again, and George’s youngest will get a box of cigars.  Everyone will get plastered on cherry brandy

and stuff themselves with nuts and chocolate so that when lunchtime comes,

nobody will be hungry.  The turkey will

be underdone, the crackers won’t crack, Mum will throw a screaming fit, Fred

and Angelina will have a fight and nobody will talk to poor Maureen.  George’s dog will eat the roast potatoes,

someone will have forgotten to make cranberry sauce, the gravy will be lumpy

and the Christmas pudding will make its appearance four hours after the main

course, and then it won’t light until we douse it with petrol.  Ginny will choke on the Knut.  Conversation will be stilted because nobody

will be trying to out Percy and Oliver to Mum and Dad.  During the afternoon we will play charades,

and Dad will do ‘The Guns of Navarone’ again. 

Angelina will attempt to do some arty-farty book that nobody has ever

heard of, and the kids will get bored. 

Then some bright spark will suggest we go for a walk.  So we will, and it will be freezing and

nobody will really enjoy themselves, and we’ll probably end up fighting the

forces of evil again because that always seems to happen.  There may well be a snowball fight, but it

will be mainly between Fred and George. 

Then we will return home to find Mum has lit a fire in the grate and the

whole house is cosy and spotless again, and then there will be tea and mince

pies with lots of brandy butter and big cups of tea and mulled wine, and maybe

a few more presents, and then the old photo albums will come out, or someone

will tell a story, and everyone will forget what a bloody awful Christmas we

really had.”

“He’s

right,” said Charlie.  “It’ll be

absolutely bloody fantastic.  And we

will miss having you there.  We did want

you to come, as well.”

“Well,

they’re coming to the New Year’s bash,” said Ron.  “That’s always a complete riot.”

“We’ll

definitely be there, won’t we, Draco?” said Harry, happily.

Draco

nodded, but he did not look particularly convinced.

“It’d

make me happy,” said Harry, sensing his unease.

“Then

so be it,” said Draco.  “So be it.”

It

was Christmas Eve, babe

In the drunk tank

An old man said to me, “won't see another one”

And then he sang a song

The Rare Old Mountain Dew

I turned my face away

And dreamed about you

Got on a lucky one

Came in eighteen to one

I've got a feeling

This year's for me and you

So happy Christmas

I love you, baby

I can see a better time

When all our dreams come true

Draco

filled up Harry’s champagne flute for him. 

It was seven o’clock in the morning on Christmas Eve, and Concorde was

chasing the silvery threads of a winter’s dawn westwards across the earth.  The world’s only supersonic commercial air

service didn’t usually fly so early – Draco had booked tickets on a special

Christmas break charter service – which meant that instead of the usual mix of

executives and slightly famous people, the plane was filled with elderly

couples having an ‘experience.’

“You

have to admit it was quite funny,” he said, returning the bottle to its

ice bucket.

Harry

sighed.  “What was?”

“Ron,”

Draco said.  “At the airport.  He just doesn’t get Muggles, does

he?”

Harry

grinned.  “I suppose not.”

“The

way he was carrying on when that security guard asked to check his bag … you’d

think he was about to be summarily executed or something,” Draco laughed.

“Perhaps

calling out the Rapid Firearms Response Team was a bit heavy handed, though,”

Harry conceded.

“He

could’ve been a terrorist … with that hair you just never know,” Draco

said.  “Stranger things have happened …”

“Well

… God forbid he should ever grow a beard,” Harry said.  He sipped his champagne delicately.  “Anyhow, Draco.  He’s out of the picture now. 

It’s just you and me.”

Draco

paled.  “What a ghastly thought.  Someone let me off this thing!”

Harry

punched him playfully on the upper arm. 

“Quiet, scallywag!”

A

brief silence passed between them.

“How

do you like flying supersonic then?” Draco asked, leaning back in his leather

seat and turning to look at Harry.

Harry

pondered.  “Just like normal, really,”

he said.  “Except you get better food,

and there aren’t any caterwauling babies.”

Draco

smiled.  “I only flew this way once

before,” he said, reminiscing.

“Oh

… yeah, I remember … you did that celebrity cruise thing.”

Draco

nodded.  “Concorde to Miami – then two

weeks bouncing around the Caribbean on one of those god-awful Disney cruise

liners.  Still, I got to interview

Sting, Alanis Morissette, half of U2 and that annoying child out of Mrs

Doubtfire …”

“The

one who went on to play Matilda?” Harry asked.

“No,

Robin Williams.”

Draco

made little retching noises.

“Not

a fan?”

“All

that body hair!” Draco recoiled. 

“Hasn’t anybody told him about Immac?”

One

of the stewardesses leaned over them, bearing platters.

“Ah,”

Draco said.  “Brilliant.  Beluga Caviar, Harry?”

Harry

goggled.  “Um … just a little,” he

said.  Proper plates, quite unlike any

he had had on an airliner before – these ones were Royal Doulton - bore little

BA insignia around the rims, were set down on their tables.

“Can

I get you some more drinks, sirs?” the stewardess asked.

Draco

spooned tiny black fish eggs out of the little bowl.  “We ordered a half bottle of the red to go with our main course,”

he said, passing the spoon on to Harry. 

“But I bet my companion here wouldn’t say no to a small bottle of beer

as well … what do you have?”

The

stewardess reeled off several names that Draco could barely comprehend … but

Harry seemed to know them well.

“It’s

far too early for lager,” Harry scolded. 

“I will have black coffee.”

“Certainly,

sir.  I’ll put your toast here.”

Breakfast

at sixty thousand feet, especially such a luxurious one, prepared by Concorde’s

very own four star chef (naturally) was an experience Harry didn’t think he

could ever forget.  As the phenomenal

thrust of the Rolls Royce jet engines hit Mach 2, the aircraft became a time

machine, and when Harry looked out of the window, he could see the curvature of

the earth stretching away unto infinity. 

Only astronauts … and God himself … could go much higher than this …

They've

got cars big as bars

They've got rivers of gold

But the wind goes right through you

It's no place for the old

When you first took my hand

On a cold Christmas Eve

You promised me

Broadway was waiting for me

It was an hour before they left

London when they touched down in New York. 

Harry sat in the backseat of the courtesy car Draco had ordered as it

sped through the city, furrowing his brow and looking intently at his watch as

if daring it to defy him again.

“Relax,” Draco said.  “It’s Christmas Eve … we’re going to have a

fantastic time and you’re worrying about jetlag?”

“I’ve never had it before,” said

Harry.

Draco leaned across.  “You’re too cute when you’re pretending to

be dim, Harry,” he whispered.

Harry smiled over the tops of his

glasses, his eyes twinkling. 

“Would you like to tell me exactly

how cute?” he asked.

Draco shook his head.  “No, this car doesn’t have a partition.  Maybe when we get to the hotel …”

“When we get to the hotel,” Harry

said, “I will want to go out and do touristy stuff.  What have you got lined up for us?”

“That would be telling,” said

Draco, who had only booked the tickets a week earlier, and had based his

research around a 1986 Triple A guide that was falling to bits, a couple of

websites, and a pamphlet entitled ‘Gay Breaks In NYC.’  Both these resources were currently buried

at the bottom of a small bag that he had not yet realised he had left behind in

London.

“Hope it’s good,” said Harry.  He turned to peer out of the window.  “Where’s this, then?”

“We’re at the junction of 42^nd

and 3^rd,” the chauffeur said.

This meant nothing to Harry.

“Where’s that, then?”

“Just along from the Chrysler

Building,” said Draco.

“In about fifteen blocks we make a

left onto 57^th ,” the chauffeur went on, endeavouring to be helpful

to the bitter end.  “Then we go along to

6^th Avenue …”

“Where’s that, then?”

“Just down from Central Park,”

Draco registered the blank expression on Harry’s face.  “New York, Harry?  You expected the Taj Mahal, perhaps?”

“I kind of wanted to see the Empire

State Building,” said Harry.  “Do we get

to see that?”

Draco put a hand on Harry’s

knee.  “Maybe later,” he said.  “How do you like it so far?”

“It’s incredible,” Harry

said, voicing Draco’s thoughts.  “It’s

kind of … kind of … like being in some sort of movie.  I mean, I’ve seen it a million times on TV and in films and stuff

… and now I’m actually here … and it’s

just … really, really weird.  The cars

all have those silly box number-plates!. 

And look … there’s a policeman doing … stuff.”

“It is, rather,” Draco

replied, scooting a little closer on the seat. 

Harry gave him a very bashful smile and blushed.  “Scared to be seen with me?”

Harry shook his

head.  “I could never be scared to be

seen with you,” he said, softly.

“How do you like it so far?”

the chauffeur asked, as the lights went green, and the car moved off.

Harry turned to stare at

the Chrysler Building.

“It’s a lot bigger than

it looks on telly,” he said.

You were

handsome

You were pretty

Queen of New York City

When the band finished playing

They howled out for more

Sinatra was swinging,

All the drunks they were singing

We kissed on a corner

Then danced through the night

The room was nice … there was no

denying it.  A truly enormous double bed

was flanked on either side by two statues. 

There was a vast wooden cabinet which, when opened, revealed books,

magazines, a fish tank, and the biggest wide-screen TV Harry had ever seen.

“Orgy sized,” remarked Draco,

patting the duvet.  He looked up.  “We’re not here to watch telly, Harry.”

He snatched the tariff card out of

Harry’s hand.

“Can we at least use the

mini-bar?” Harry asked.

Draco unlaced his shoes, and

flopped down on the bed.  Travelling

always took it out of him.  “I guess a

drink wouldn’t hurt either of us …”

Harry clapped his hands in

delight, and disappeared through into the lounge.  Draco sighed, and went to follow him.

The lounge was, if such a thing

was possible, even more lavishly decorated and disgustingly ostentatious than

the bedroom.  There were two very

well-stuffed sofas, a couple of ‘ergonomically designed’ (which Harry assumed

meant they were comfortable) armchairs, and another TV set, even bigger than

the first.  This one had its own DVD

player.

“We need never leave the room,”

Harry warbled.  He handed Draco his

Martini.

“I fully intend to,” said

Draco.  He opened the French windows,

and stepped out onto the balcony.  The

noise of the city filtered up twenty floors and into the room.

“I thought you wanted to stay in

bed and give me a good seeing-to,” Harry moaned, setting his empty glass down

and going to join him outside.

“That was part of the plan, yes,

but there’s a lovely view of Central Park outside … I want you to come look at

it,” Draco said.  Harry stepped out onto

the balcony and put a hand on his shoulder, and Draco kissed it, ever so

lightly.

“Ahem.”

There was beer chilling in an ice

bucket … and a waiter who must have been close on to six foot eight waiting to

serve them.  Flanking a small table

decked with a beautiful white cloth were two flaming chrome torches, evidently

powered by gas or something, Harry wasn’t sure, which were throwing out a

surprising amount of heat, considering how cold the city was that day.

“A light lunch overlooking the

Park, boys?” he said with a smile, gesturing them to a table that had been set

up.

Harry goggled.  “How did you fix this up?” he asked,

astonished.

“It’s amazing what you can do with

money,” said Draco.  “Shall we let the nice

gentleman show us to our table.”

The waiter proceeded to pour the

beer into their glasses and serve them with two very large steaks … “These

can’t possibly be light!” Harry exclaimed … whilst keeping up a running

commentary about the view, pointing out Central Park and the Metropolitan

Museum of Art.

“… and right over there is where

John Lennon was shot.  Now, anything you

boys need, just call on down to room service twenty four seven, our kitchens

never stop.  If you want to avail yourself

personally of my services, then you need to ask for Randy …”

Harry giggled.  Draco kicked him under the table, before

handing the waiter a couple of notes.

“Thank you, sir.  I’ll leave you be, now.”

The boys

of the NYPD choir

Were singing "Galway Bay"

And the bells were ringing out

For Christmas Day

“Draco.”

“Just shut up and follow me.”

“But I think,” Harry flailed his

arms wildly in the air, and grabbed at the wall for support, “I really do think

that there’s something you should be aware of.”

Draco turned round.  To his surprise, Harry had gone very pale indeed.

“You’ve never skated

before?”

Harry shook his head.  There was loud music … Draco couldn’t be

sure but it sounded like the Nutcracker Suite, blaring out of speakers rigged

up overhead, and literally hundreds of people, wrapped up warmly in brightly

coloured woollens, their faces cast in a warm glow.  Overhead the famous Christmas tree glittered and sparkled in the

afternoon light.

“I shall get cross if you don’t

come skating with me.  You can’t not go

skating in New York.  It’s a federal

offence for tourists to come here at Christmas and not have at least ten

minutes at the Rockefeller Centre,” Draco said.  “Look, I’ll even hold your hand if you really want.”

“It looks awfully slippery,” Harry

said, uncertainly.

“It’s not that hard,” said Draco,

remembering with something approaching fondness being taught to skate by his

mother on the lake at Malfoy Park. 

“It’s all a matter of keeping one’s balance.”

“I don’t think I actually have

much balance,” Harry said.  “These skates

are pinching my poor feet.”

“Don’t be such a wuss,” Draco

scolded.  “Anybody would think you were

some kind of faggot.”

Harry smirked.  “I will go on the ice rink,” he said, “only

if you kiss me now.”

Draco looked around.  “I’m all for gay lib and everything,” he

said, “but do you think this is entirely appropriate …”

“Harry wants a kiss, Malfoy.”

“Yes, I was afraid he might do,”

said Draco.  He glanced surreptitiously

at the skating crowd.  The music had

changed.  Bing Crosby was singing ‘White

Christmas.’  Quickly, he lent in, and

pecked Harry on the cheek.

“With tongues,” Harry said.

Draco rolled his eyes.  “You’re really quite militant these days,”

he said.  “I don’t mind, really … but …”

He got no further.  Harry let out an exasperated sigh, seized

Draco by the shoulders, and kissed him passionately.  Draco yelped in surprise. 

A passing mother tried frantically to explain to two bundles of woollens

and coats that might have possibly been children.

Harry drew back from the kiss, a

wicked smile spread across his face. 

Draco could have melted at that moment. 

He could faintly hear Bing crooning in the background, and the swishing

of blades on ice, but the only discernible entity to him in the entire world

was Harry.

“Anybody would think you were in

love,” Harry teased.  He tweaked Draco’s

nose.  “Got your conk!”

Draco gave him a very

condescending look.  “If you would care

to control yourself, Mr Potter,” he said coldly.  “Then perhaps we can skate …”

He offered his hand, and Harry,

laughing so hard he was having difficulty breathing, took it, and allowed

himself to be lead onto the rink.

Draco, having been able to skate

from childhood, was instantly very much at home on the rink.  However, to Harry, it was like stepping onto

a floor that he had somehow offended. 

Immediately, his legs splayed apart, and he pitched forwards, putting

out his hands to break his fall, and wound up spread-eagled on the ice.

Draco surveyed him with

annoyance.  “I hardly think this is the

time or the place for a shag,” he said. 

He helped Harry up.  Harry

clutched pathetically at his waist.

“Don’t let go of me,” he pleaded.

“I’m not entirely sure I could let

go of you even if I wanted to,” said Draco. 

“Come on, Harry.  It isn’t

that difficult …”

“Yes it is.”

“It’s just a case of being able to

keep one’s balance,” said Draco, looking at the other skaters enviously.  “There’s no real trick to it.  You just have to put one foot in front of

the other … and then you sort of glide around … like a hovercraft …”

“Like a hovercraft,” Harry

repeated.  “Okay.”

This time, he got about four feet

before collapsing unceremoniously in Draco’s arms.

“I’m really sorry,” he

burbled.  “I’m embarrassing you, aren’t

I?”

“Not in the least, pumpkin,” Draco

said.

“Perhaps this was a bad idea,”

Harry began.

Draco interrupted.  “No … I actually think it was a very

good idea.  Now, I will get you ice

skating even if I have to put stabilising charms on your blades …”

“In full view of the Muggles?”

Harry asked.

“If need be,” said Draco.  “Look … hold onto the wall here, and I’ll go

and do a couple of circuits of the rink. 

Watch my body, watch my movements …”

“That shouldn’t be too

difficult,” Harry said.

Draco clicked his tongue in

annoyance.  “Stop interrupting me,

precious.  For fuck’s sake, Harry … how

could you ever deny you’re gay? 

You’re a fucking little fraud, so you are.”

Harry shrugged.  “So sue me,” he taunted.  “Go … have fun … I’ll watch …”

“I’m only going round once,” said

Draco.  “Then you’re joining in.”

He turned around, his blades

scraping on the ice, and then skated away. 

Harry clung onto the wall for dear life, and endeavoured to keep an eye

on them.  However, Draco was soon lost

from view in a crowd of courting teenagers. 

By the time he reappeared again, up at the far end of the rink, he was

barely identifiable, his silvery blond hair standing out in the sea of more

usual colours.  He skated all the way

down the back straight towards Harry, attracting more than a few female

onlookers as he went, before skidding to a halt in front of Harry.

“I didn’t see any of that,” Harry

said.

Draco scowled … then grabbed Harry

by the shoulders and kissed him so hard that the pressure against his lips

almost hurt.  The female onlookers, annoyed

at the shattering of their dreams, looked away.

“Now,” said Draco, breaking the

kiss.  “Let’s try it again … with

feeling.”

You're a bum

You're a punk

You're an old slut on junk

Lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed

You scumbag, you maggot

You cheap lousy faggot

Happy Christmas your arse

I pray God it's our last

The boys

of the NYPD choir

Still singing "Galway Bay"

And the bells were ringing out

For Christmas Day

They took a break.  Draco followed up a tip from a friend and

led them to a small café in Greenwich Village that apparently did very good

coffee.  On finding that the café had

apparently been closed down and replaced with a very expensive looking shop

with the finest suits Harry had ever seen in the window, Draco insisted they take

a look anyway …

“Perhaps sir would suit the black,

more,” the assistant said, as Harry smoothed down his lapels in the mirror.

“How much is the ensemble?” Draco

asked.

The assistant smiled as he helped

Harry out of the jacket.  “About fifteen

hundred dollars, sir,” he said.

“Ouch,” Harry said.

“Well, then you must treat it as a

little extra Christmas present,” Draco said. 

Harry gave a start, and looked at him, wide-eyed and clearly alarmed,

but said nothing.

The assistant smiled.  “I can’t wait to see what other presents

you’ve got him,” he said without thinking.

“Are you suggesting a threesome?”

Harry asked.

The assistant did not reply, but

he looked uncomfortably at Draco, who didn’t notice.  “I’ll get you your suit, sir,” he mumbled, before disappearing

out of the door.

“Nice view from up here,” Harry

said, walking over to the window. 

Walton’s occupied the top two floors of a three storey warehouse in the

heart of the village.  From the window

Harry could see all the way down the street. 

It was thronged with people, and lights were strung from lamp post to

lamp post, shining in the twilight.

The door to their private room

opened again, and the assistant came back in, accompanied by another man.  He was holding another suit … and this

one, from what Harry could see of it, was truly magnificent.

“This is John, our manager,” the

assistant said.  “I thought his opinion

might come in useful in these circumstances.”

John smiled at Draco.

The suit was nicely wrapped in a transparent

plastic covering, which was duly despatched with.

“Let’s try it, then,” said

Harry.  He pulled off the other trousers

… he was wearing those skin-tight, red boxers that Draco had bought him for his

birthday … John and the assistant looked hurriedly away, and Draco licked his

lips appreciatively.  He was … secretly,

of course … planning something special for later … something that he was rather

hoping would get him a shag … or three.

Harry pulled the other trousers

on.

“They suit you, sir,” John

said.  “Christian … check the length,

will you?”

“They look fine.”

“They feel good,” Harry said.  “We already decided on that shirt?”

“The midnight blue one?” Christian

asked.

“That’s right,” said Harry,

adjusting his trousers.  “These are perfect,

you know …”

“We pride ourselves on our fit,

sir,” John said.  “They do look

very good on you.  May I check your

inside leg?”

“Be my guest,” Harry said.  Draco pretended not to scowl as the manager

went to work with a tape measure, taking an inordinately lengthy amount of time

about it as well.  Harry merely looked

over his shoulder, and flicked his lover a fleeting, cheeky grin.

“Watch it,” Draco warned.

John furled the tape measure

again, and tucked it neatly back into the breast pocket of the suit he was

wearing, where it completely and utterly failed to spoil the cut of the

material whatsoever.  Draco was very

impressed.

“You like it?” John asked, handing

Harry the jacket.  Harry put it on, and

Draco couldn’t help but coo.

“My little baby’s all grown up.”

“Put a sock in it,” said Harry,

without taking his gaze of the mirror image of himself that had apparently

transfixed him.

“I don’t think I have ever wanted

to shag you more than I do now,” said Draco, quietly.  John and Christian cast tender looks at them both.

“Then don’t say shag,” said Harry,

breaking his concentration and turning away from the mirror.  The suit seemed to move with him.  It was absolutely perfect.  It was also more than a thousand dollars …

but that was something to worry about when the next credit card bill came

through … thought Draco.

“What do you want me to say,

then?” he asked.

“Make love sounds nicer,” said

Harry.  He leaned closer and kissed

Draco ever so briefly on the cheek. 

Then he smiled.  “Maybe you can

do that later, if you catch my drift …”

John coughed discreetly.  He looked as if he had just fallen in love.

“If sir is completely satisfied.”

Harry’s head jerked upwards.  “I’m more than completely satisfied,” he

said.  “I’m absolutely bloody bowled

over.  I think it’s brilliant.  I love it.”

“You can wear it to all

your crimes,” Draco teased.  Harry

smiled.  Draco produced his platinum

Gringotts Magical Express Card and handed it over.  “I’m paying.”

John looked at the card appreciatively.

“That’s got to be one unique

card, sir,” he said.  “How does it do

that thing with the colours?”

“Trade secret,” said Draco.

“British, is it?  I don’t know that we accept Gringotts … have

you heard of them, Christian?”

The other man shook his head.  “Not in reality,” he said, giving them a

funny look.

Draco smiled at both of them.  “Trust me,” he said.  “You do.”

“Well, it seems to be in

order.  We’ll be back with you in a

minute, sirs,” John smiled and nodded his head at them, and Christian

half-bowed courteously, before both men ducked out of the door, closing it with

a soft click.

Harry, still holding his jacket,

looked up.

“I’ve never had a thousand dollar

suit before,” he said.

“One thousand, five hundred, to be

precise,” Draco said.  “Doesn’t it feel good

on.”

“Then I don’t want it,” said

Harry.  “Draco … if you’d let me

put it on Visa or something it’d have been fine … but I can’t let you

pay for this.  It’s far too good for me,

and you shouldn’t be buying it.”

Draco ran his hands along the

smooth lapels.  “It’s your Christmas

present,” he said.

“I thought this whole trip was my

present,” Harry blurted out. 

“Seriously, Draco.  It has to

have cost you nearly three thousand pounds as it is.  Let me pay for this … it’s a lovely suit …”

“I said, it’s your Christmas

present,” said Draco.  “Part of it,

anyway.  Now, let’s have none of this

crap.  You deserve every single penny of

it, and I am going to make sure you get exactly what you deserve.”

Harry looked pained, but he nodded

anyway.  “You’re too good to me,” he

said.  “You really are.”

Draco smiled.  “I like being good to you.”

“At least let me buy you

something,” said Harry.  “An extra

Christmas present.  I already got you

loads of stuff in London … I mean … I didn’t expect New York … so none of it’s

… well … none of it’s quite as good as any of all this.  But let me buy you something nice …

something you want.  I’ll pay.  I think I ought to.”

Draco shook his head.  “Don’t be a ninny,” he said.

“I’m not!” Harry said

forcefully.  “Please let me.”

Draco smiled, and then licked his

lips.  “All right,” he said.  “You know what I fancy?”

He clasped Harry’s hand tightly.

“What?”

“A new suit?”

Harry grinned.  “They will be pleased,” he laughed.

The boys of

the NYPD choir

Were singing "Galway Bay"

And the bells were ringing out

For Christmas Day

“I hope this is worth it,” Draco

mused to himself.

“It had better be,” said

Harry.  “You’ve been on the bloody

waiting list for nearly two months, weren’t you saying?”

Draco nodded, and checked his

watch.  It was 9.30 in the evening, and

both of them were thoroughly worn out, cheeks flushed from the cold air, the

handles of their shopping bags cutting into the bare skin of their fingers.  They were standing downstairs at one of the

most talked about restaurants in the city … surrounding them were banquette

tables, and a centre staircase leading up to a first floor eating area.  There was also a bar, and the whole place

had a very clubby feel.  It was also

packed … to the gunwales.

“You usually have to wait longer,”

Draco said.  “I slipped them a little

money when I rang up.  The city of New

York knows Draco Malfoy is a very generous tipper …”

“I should hope he is,” said

Harry.  “My credit cards are all maxed

out.”

“Then I’ll pay,” said Draco.  He kissed Harry’s hair gently.  “The New York Post called eating here like

having sex with someone new and delicious.”

“Oh, good,” said Harry.  “That should keep you interested in me,

right?  Incidentally, how many times is

it possible to mention New York in one day?”

Draco grinned.  “It also has the most bloody

pretentious menu on the planet.  Listen

to this … warm lamb’s tongue vinaigrette with Chanterelles, Pecorino Toscano

and a three minute egg …”

Harry stifled a giggle.

“A three minute egg?  Bloody ponces,” Draco sniffed, looking

around the restaurant.  “Listen to this

… cool roasted shiitakes with barbecued onions and basil oil.  That means mushrooms with a fried onion and

a spot of vegetable oil … I could get that for fifty pence back home.  They’re charging twelve dollars.”

“I like mushrooms,” Harry said,

dreamily.  “I might have that.  And don’t talk too loudly … someone might

hear you.  Anyway, I’m sure it’ll be

lovely.”

They were approached by one of the

waitresses, who announced herself to be called Stacey, and duly showed them

upstairs and supplied them with menus.

“This looks very special,” Draco

said, determined to enter into the spirit of the thing.  Harry began to scan the list, his brow

furrowing in a vain attempt to make sense of the thing.  “Tell me,” Draco continued, “how is the red

snapper today?”

Stacey hovered over them.  “It’s excellent if you like olives, sir,”

she said.

“Which one’s red snapper?” Harry

asked.

Draco made a little harrumphing

noise.  “I do,” he said.  “But I think tonight something a little

different.  Now, antipasti … erm … this

looks good …”

Stacey’s command of the menu was,

thankfully excellent, and she lead the two of them through a considerable

number of the dishes on offer … “I like the sound of the grilled octopus with

thingies,” Harry said … Draco ordered himself carrot flan with pea vines for

reasons he did not make quite clear.

“Do I know you from somewhere?”

Stacey asked.

“No,” said Draco.

“Probably not,” said Harry.  “Um … for the first course, I think I’d

better go for mint love letters … what are those, exactly?”

“Oh, um … ravioli filled with mint

and pea pesto, it comes served with spicy lamb sausage ragu … can I ask what

that thing is on your forehead?”

Harry brushed his fringe

forwards.  “No,” he said.  “I’ll have that please.  Draco?”

Stacey goggled.

“Gnocchi with braised oxtail,

please.”

“And … for … for … for the second

… um … course …”

“Ooh, we’re moving into twenty dollar

plus territory,” Harry quipped.  “You go

first this time …”

“I haven’t made my mind up,

darling.  You go.”

“Grilled rabbit, please.”

“And for sir?”

“Um, oh shit, give me a

minute.  Let’s have something nice …”

“It all looks nice,” said

Harry.  “I don’t deserve this kind of

treatment, you know, Draco.”

“Oh yes you do.  Now shut up, I’m thinking.  I’ll have the same, I think … always did

like rabbit.”

“Fucking liar …”

“Watch your language, Harry.  This isn’t the Wandsworth Arndale anymore.”

“Sorry,” said Harry, pretending to

look shamefaced.

The food, when it came, was

excellent, and both of them were very hungry indeed.  Washed down with several bottles of exceptionally good wine, each

one allegedly hand-picked … Draco claimed that, “Too many Italian restaurants

simply fob their customers off with a sub-standard Montepulciano,” with which

Harry was forced to agree, mainly because he didn’t have the foggiest idea what

on earth Draco was gabbling about.  The

wine was tasty, and better than the stuff he usually wound up with when Draco

sent him out shopping (lately he had been trying, without success, to wean

Harry off Sainsbury’s and ‘Naked Chef’ ready meals to the rather more upmarket

surroundings of Waitrose).

Afterwards, satiated on fine sorbets

and served with a very substantial glass of cognac by the ever-attentive

Stacey, Harry noticed something odd about his boyfriend.

He appeared to be looking at Harry

with an air of great deviousness about him.

Harry swilled the cognac around in

the bottom of the glass, as he had seen people do in the movies, and Draco

looked at him disapprovingly.

“What’s the matter?” Harry asked.

“I was just thinking,” said Draco

across the table.  It was quite late at

night, now, and the restaurant was slowly but surely beginning to empty.  The happy chatter of satisfied diners filled

the air.  “That come a few more weeks,

it’ll be our second anniversary.”

“Of what?” asked Harry, senses

dulled by food and alcohol.

“Of being … well … us,” said

Draco.

“Oh.  Okay.”

“Doesn’t that make you happy?”

Harry shrugged.  “Two years is pretty good going …”

“Longest fucking relationship I

ever had,” said Draco, conversationally. 

“How about yourself?”

Harry thought about this for a

moment.  Come to think of it … Draco

was right.

“Yeah,” he said, finally.  “I think it must be.”

“No woman would have you,” said

Draco.

“It wasn’t my fault,” said

Harry.  “They weren’t right for me …”

“Harry, every single one of

them dumped you.”

“But it wasn’t my fault,” Harry

reiterated.

“Yes, Harry.  It was the guns and the drugs,” said

Draco.  “And the shooting people with

the guns because of the drugs.  Mainly.  Not that I’m saying you’re a criminal, or

anything …”

Harry gave Draco his best ‘get

serious’ look.

“You’re all mine and I love you

very much.”

Harry smiled and felt his body

filling with a sudden warmth … it was comfort … and belonging … and desire …

“Me too,” he said.

“I think a toast might be in

order,” said Draco.  “To our second

anniversary … when it actually happens …”

“And we all hope it will,” said

Harry.  Their glasses chinked, and they

drank deeply from within them.

“I have no intention of not

letting it do so,” said Draco.  He

checked his watch.  “Jesus … it’s

getting on for half past eleven.  We’d

better see about getting a taxi home … it’ll be murder otherwise …” he

pronounced it ‘moider.’

“Anything special planned?”

Harry asked.  He sought and found

Draco’s ankle, and, slipping his right foot out of its shoe, began to run his

toes up and down the length of Draco’s legs. 

“Are we going to dance the night away?”

Draco leaned forwards, a truly

wicked gleam in his eye … Harry could read those passions well.

“I thought,” he said.  “We should chill out.  It’s Christmas tomorrow, after all.”

“How astute of you to have

noticed,” Harry teased.

“I ought to warn you,” Draco

lowered his voice to a husky whisper, and Harry felt the answering brush of his

foot on the leg of his trousers, “that with my reputation, I simply cannot

be trusted.”

Harry lowered his voice further

still.  “I already knew that,” he said.

You were

handsome

You were pretty

Queen of New York City

When the band finished playing

They howled out for more

Sinatra was swinging,

All the drunks they were singing

We kissed on a corner

Then danced through the night

The boys

of the NYPD choir

Were singing "Galway Bay"

And the bells were ringing out

For Christmas Day

You're a

bum

You're a punk

You're an old slut on junk

Lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed

You scumbag, you maggot

You cheap lousy faggot

Happy Christmas your arse

I pray God it's our last

The boys

of the NYPD choir

Still singing "Galway Bay"

And the bells were ringing out

For Christmas Day

I could

have been someone

Well so could anyone

You took my dreams from me

When I first found you

I kept them with me, babe

I put them with my own

Can't make it all alone

I've built my dreams around you

Harry

woke up.  His ears were filled with the

delectable sound of nothing, of silence. 

For a moment, he savoured the moment of waking consciousness, when the

world seems to blend into itself, and one is not quite asleep, and not yet

quite awake.  Then, without thinking, he

did as he always did, and rolled over onto Draco’s side of the bed, and

straight into a warm depression in the mattress.

“Ooooh!”

he moaned in disappointment.  He felt

all warm and fulfilled and generally very, very happy indeed.  Draco did not appear to be there to share

the moment with him.  Harry pulled the

duvet up around himself.

There

was a slight thudding sound as someone closed the bedroom door.

“Awake

at last?” a voice said.  “What are you

doing hiding under the covers, Harry?”

Harry

heard Draco’s footsteps padding across the room, and then felt the covers being

pulled rudely away.

“Get

up!  Up!  Get up!” Draco ordered.

“Noooo.”

“It’s

Christmas Day … get the fuck up,” Draco repeated, a little more

insistently, this time around.

“Want

a cuddle,” Harry moaned.

“Oh

for fuck’s sa … all bloody right.”

The

bed shifted a little as Draco climbed on. 

“You do realise that as you’re not wearing any clothes, this could

degenerate?”

A

warm shudder coursed down Harry’s spine. 

He felt hot breath on his cheek as Draco kissed him once, lightly.  Fingers crept delicately and slowly across

his chest, and Draco moved downwards, teasing and nibbling as he went.

“That’s

exactly,” Harry began, “what I need.”

“Mmm.”

“Be

careful,” Harry whispered.

“Being

very careful,” said Draco.  “Do you want

a Christmas present?”

Harry

nodded.

“I

thought you might.  How about this

kind of Christmas present?”  Harry felt

Draco moving slowly around him, his hands dancing smoothly up the side of his

body, and heard the rustling as he shrugged off his remaining clothes.

“That’s

quite alarming,” Harry whispered … he kept his eyes closed as a smile spread

across his face.  “Alarming, but very

nice.”

Draco

mumbled something incoherent.

“You

degenerate, you,” Harry whispered.

A

still, sweet, silence.

“Happy

Christmas, Draco.”

Draco

paused, and looked up.  Harry opened his

eyes suddenly.

“What’s

happened?  Want me to take a shower or

something?”

“Give

me a minute,” Draco said.  He hopped off

the bed, and disappeared through into the other room.  Harry sat up in bed, the covers barely covering the tops of his

thighs, and listened.  He heard the

sound of a bag being unzipped.  A moment

later, Draco came back into the bedroom, his cheeks and chest flushed red.  He was holding something behind his back.

“Get

back into bed.  I want this to be as

perfect as I imagined it,” said Draco.

Harry

raised his left eyebrow.  “I am already

in bed, Draco,” he said.  “You are in

danger of losing my attention.”  He made

the appropriate gestures.

“Shush,

shush a minute,” Draco whispered.  He

climbed back into bed, and drew up the covers around them both.  Then he reached out, picked up his wand and

pointed it at the fireplace, whispering a spell as he did so.  The fire burst into life.

“What

have you been hiding behind your back?” Harry asked.

“You’ll

see,” said Draco.  “Shit, you’re going

to think I’m stupid …”

Harry

wrapped his arms gently around his boyfriend, caressing his muscled back as he

did so.

“I

could never think that,” he said.

“Shut

your eyes,” Draco commanded.  Harry did

so.

“What’s

this all about, exactly?”

“You’ll

see,” said Draco.  Another silence

descended between the two of them. 

Slowly, Draco reached out, and took Harry’s hands in his own, clasping

them tightly.

“I

want to say thank you.”

“What

for?” Harry asked.  He opened his

eyes.  He was staring straight into

Draco’s eyes … shimmering blue before him.

“For

rescuing me,” Draco said simply.

“Don’t

get all sappy.”

“Shut

up, you’re spoiling it,” said Draco. 

“Now listen very carefully, because I’m only going to say this

once.  I’ve been obsessed with you all

of my life, Harry Potter.  At first I

hated you … and then I began to understand that I didn’t.  That hate transcended itself … it became

love.  I don’t think I’ve ever felt this

way about another man before in my whole life, and I’ve slept with a few …”

Harry

blushed.

“All

right … more than a few,” Draco conceded. 

“But that isn’t the point.  We’ve

been together two years now … almost two years.  And every morning I get this totally inexplicable tightness in my

chest.  You’re in my head every minute

of every day, and I just can’t imagine not being with you …”

“Please

stop …”

“Harry

… I want you to listen to me,” Draco looked up.  His eyes were blurry, and Harry suddenly felt an overwhelming

urge to take him in his arms and just simply to caress his hair.  “I want you to be with me.  And I know they can’t recognise this

or anything, and there’s nothing official about it … but I’d be honoured if you

agree to spend the rest of your life with me.”

He

produced the thing he had been hiding behind his back.  It was a small, nondescript box, covered in

black velvet.  Harry bit his bottom lip

as Draco flipped the lid open.

There

was a ring inside.

“Yes.”

I could have been someone

Well so could anyone

You took my dreams from me

When I first found you

I kept them with me, babe

I put them with my own

Can't make it all alone

I've built my dreams around you

The boys of the NYPD choir

Were singing "Galway Bay"

And the bells were ringing out

For Christmas day

THE END.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS, EVERYONE!