wheel of drarry 2025
Here is my (very late!) @drarrymicrofic WOD gift exchange for @dearestfluer! Hopefully you're not tired of Christmas yet because this is very Christmas and fluff-forward! Lovely to write for you 🌹 (thank you @smugrobotics for the wonderful beta!)
Drarry | Rated G | 800 words Prompt: Pine
🌲
He’s working on a Christmas tree farm now.
Because of course he fucking is.
Draco glances from his son’s pleading eyes to the empty space in the middle of the Manor’s entryway.
“Oh, please, dad,” Scorpius says. “You can’t not have a tree. Mum would be so disappointed in you.”
Yes, Draco thinks. Astoria rather would.
He can just picture her now, grinning at him from her wet bar in heaven.
Don’t be a scrooge, you old queen.
Old? Forty is not old, he would scoff.
She’d roll her eyes. Pour him an ever so pondy gin martini.
Oh, stop looking at me like that.
Scorpius waves the page of the Prophet in front of Draco’s face. Harry Potter’s dimply smile finds its way back to Draco’s eyeline.
His stomach does an embarrassing little wobble, like he’s twenty-one again, like he’s gathering the courage to approach said dimply smile in the pub after work.
Buy you a beer?
What?
The music had been so loud that night. Potter’s glasses had been steamy and all Draco wanted to do was clean them, or rather snatch them from the crooked bridge of his beautiful nose.
Nevermind, Draco had said crossly, and damn him for being such a coward, for finding the first excuse to fail. Any excuse to fail, because failing is so much easier than asking for something so humiliating twice.
Over the years to come, there had been other opportunities to test the waters, to find out if Potter was agreeable. Astoria encouraged it, Draco swatted her off, and then she was gone. And so was he.
“Al says—”
“Right,” Draco says, clipped and decisive. “You’d better put your coat back on, then. Don’t forget your gloves, it’s snowing.”
—
Draco silently practices his hellos while Scorpius wipes Floo dust from his cloak.
Hogsmeade’s Floo station is also a post office, a cafe, a corner shop, a rallying point for local gossips.
Afternoon Potter, how long’s it been?
No, no. Far too familiar.
Fancy meeting you here.
Too gauche, too obvious. Draco loves theatre, but he’s never been a great actor.
“Come on, dad!”
The snow is thick. It gathers round their boots, leaving a trail of their journey from the top of the hill all the way to the foot of the village where the trees are arranged in a neat diamond.
Potter has plenty of custom; families of three and four, couples weaving in and out of the maze looking for the perfect sized tree for their homes. Draco can smell hot Butterbeer and malted chocolate. The tiny hut that obviously serves as some sort of office or storage space is awash with Christmas lights and topped with a chimney blowing fat plumes of cheery smoke.
And out walks Potter, red-cheeked, hair flattened by an ugly orange hat with a red pompom and a gold H emblazoned on the front. He’s talking to another man Draco doesn’t immediately recognise: tall, broad-shouldered, hefty-handed like a Beater. Potter points at a waiting couple with their backs turned and the sort-of-familiar man ambles off to them with a wave. And then Potter looks up, and Draco has been caught.
“Professor—I mean, Mr Potter!” Scorpius cries, kicking up snow on his way down.
Potter’s eyes shift from Draco to Scorpius, his mouth tugging up into an easy smile. “Hello, Mr Malfoy!”
Merlin.
“We want a Christmas tree,” Scorpius says, slightly out of breath.
“Well.” Potter’s gaze flits up, catching Draco’s—this time, not bleary at a pub or curious across a ballroom or professional from the other side of a desk at parent-professor evening. Just—open. Alarmingly receptive. “You’ve come to the right place.”
He pats Scorpius on the shoulder and offers Draco a smile over the top of his head. Scorpius is listing off their requirements rapidly: tall, because our foyer is tall. It has to be the first thing people see! Lots and lots of lights/ A fairy on top. A big one.
The tree sap smells sharp, fresh. Draco breathes in deeply, at the same time smelling Potter—earth, chocolate, a slight tang of working sweat.
Draco brushes down the tail of his scarf. Scorpius runs ahead.
Potter turns to Draco and fixes his glasses.
“They’ve gone all steamy,” Draco says.
“Again?” Potter grins his dimply grin and pushes his fingers underneath his glasses like Muggle window wipers. “They’re always giving me away. Hey, I think he’s found a good one.” His muddy boots crunch in the snow as he makes his way towards the end of the maze, where Scorpius is pointing to the tallest—and likely most expensive—tree in the farm.
Draco feels around in his pocket for his Galleon pouch. Pretends that his cheeks are warm from exertion. He inhales once more, and lets himself follow Potter’s lead, just this once.
