Archive of Our Own

“Open it, Dad. Come on. Mum and I picked it out, and she says—”

“Fine, Scorpius. Christmas isn’t about me, you know. It’s about you unwrapping loads of impressive gifts before your mother sweeps you away to the Maldives and outdoes all my hard work.”

“Mum says it’s not a contest. That you’re friends. And coparenting, or whatever. Besides, I don’t like the sun. I’ll be reading and practising Charms since it’s legal to do them out of school there. Better than Iceland.”

“That’s my boy. Anything is better than Iceland.” Draco slips on his reading glasses and peers at the tag. “‘To the best worst Dad ever’—thank you Scorpius—‘Mum hates when you fire-call. I say you need WixtaGram.’” Draco sniffs. He doesn’t need WixtaGram. Once he figures out what it is. He’s certain he doesn’t need it.

“I’ll help you set it up.”

He slides his finger beneath the gauche wrapping paper—penguins, for Merlin’s sake—and pulls it apart neatly. It’s a plain white box that suggests Muggle technology. Draco sighs and opens it, and extracts the device. He sees his reflection in the shiny black surface and frowns at it. “I told you I don’t want one of these. They won’t work in the Manor—”

“That one has Charms on it. Rose’s mum helped me with it.”

“Rose’s mum. For Merlin’s sake.” Draco huffs. “You’d think she has better things to do than put Charms on an Eye Phone.”

“It’s an iPhone. You don’t need to say the ‘i’ bit like that. You sound aggressive.”

“Aggressive, he says.” He glances at Scorpius. Tall and gangly, his face so much sharper, so much more adult, than it was just last year. Yet he still consented to matching Christmas pyjamas with Draco and their crup; Slytherin green, with white trees and snowflakes.

“Do you like it?”

“I’ll like it better when you show me how to use it.”

Scorpius smiles and picks up their hapless miniature crup. Her tongue lolls out of her mouth, and her tails twitch when Scorp deposits her on the settee and piles in next to Draco.

“Press that button to turn it on. Then we’ll download all the apps.”

“Apps,” Draco says. “Gracious.”

***

Next year, Astoria will have Scorpius for the weekend before Christmas, and Draco will have to whisk Scorpius away for an even better holiday. South of France, maybe. They’ll sleep til noon every day, stroll through the Musée du Magique in Montpelier, sit on the beach and watch the wintry sky light up pink and gold behind the trees. On Christmas Eve, Draco will make coq au vin.

He’s confident he’ll be in every way more successful than Astoria. She’s taking him to an island, where he could burn. Once, they’d had to take Lucius to St Bilthrup’s in Australia after he sat on a beach for fifteen minutes. It took two full bottles of Blister-Be-Gone tonic to reduce the tomato-like swelling on his face. Malfoys are simply not the beachgoing sort.

Merlin, he hates when Scorpius leaves without him. Their last holiday as a family had been Iceland with the Potters. Al was lovely. Potter, of course, was not. It’s unbearable to think that’s Scorpius’ last memory of Draco on holiday.

Merlin’s fucking balls. Draco will make up for it next year.

“I’ll be fine, Dad.” Scorpius lifts his shrunken trunk onto the bag check desk.

“I’m more worried about me,” Draco says softly. Scorpius is on the verge of too old for it, but he plants a kiss on his temple all the same.

“Use your phone. Make a friend. I believe in you, Dad. No matter how pathetic you think you are.”

Draco snorts. Scorp’s tone is half-mocking, half-loving. Draco taught him well.

The Portkey Authority associate frowns at them. “Is your father not going along with you, young man?”

“I’m meeting my mum in Prague. Then we’re going to the Maldives.” Scorpius smiles brightly. “It’s alright. I’m a child of divorce.”

Draco groans, and the associate’s face goes ashen. It’s simply not a word people say in pureblood circles, especially not as a punchline. But Draco is not his parents, so he squeezes Scorpius’ shoulder. “I thought it was funny.”

“Thanks. I’ll miss you.” Scorpius throws himself onto Draco and holds him so tight he feels like he might burst.

It’s proof, maybe, that he’s done something right, being hugged like that in front of dozens of people. Draco can’t remember hugging Lucius at all.

“Use sun potions. Don’t forget to clean your teeth. You need the extra strength Muggle deodorant, remember. You’re twelve now. You’ll smell like a sewer at the end of the day otherwise.”

“I will. I will. Merlin, stop.” He bats Draco’s hands away and takes the broken vase that will take him away from Draco for Christmas. Draco holds it together until his son whirls away in a pop.

He’s sniffly when he exits the station. In his pocket his iPhone dings. Draco looks at the message through a wavery cloud of tears.

Scorpius:

made it to Prague. mum says hi.

Just before he puts it back in his pocket, his phone dings again.

WixtaGram Messaging:

You have one new follower on Wixtagram.

For Merlin’s sake. Those stupid fucking apps.

Make a friend, he says. Draco is going to make friends with his settee, a packet of crisps, and three fingers of Firewhisky. Merry fucking Christmas to him.

***

“We’re all alone, I’m afraid. You’ll have to make do with me, darling.” Draco scratches behind his sweet crup’s ears. Oh, to be a useless, ancient dog.

Pippin whines softly in the back of her throat and circles Draco as if Scorpius might be hidden in his back pocket. Draco sighs. It sounds abominably loud in the long, empty hallway.

No Scorp, no Astoria. Even his mother is gone, off with Andy and Ted in Paris. He could go and meet them—lord knows they’ve all insisted so many times—but Pippin is old, and Andy is the one who watches her.

Draco takes his copy of the Prophet and plops down on the chair next to the tree. The fabric has been patched so many times that it’s threadbare, exquisitely soft to the touch. This is where his mother sat every Christmas to watch him open gifts.

Draco checks his phone for the fifth time in an hour to see if Scorp made it to his next Portkey jump in Dubai.

“Blasted contraption. This is why I didn’t want one.”

Pippin grumbles in her sleep. Draco’s grumble matches hers, but he’s wide awake. When the clock chimes, he checks his phone again, then types out a text to Scorp.

Draco:

Dear Scorpius,

You should be in Sri Lanka by now and Maldives tomorrow morning. Please report back, or I will bin the iPhone and you’ll never hear from me again.

Warmly,

Your Father

The phone dings immediately.

Scorpius:

We’re fine dad. xx

Draco sniffs. He has less than zero interest in Wixtagram, but he taps it with his thumb and scrolls through the few people Scorpius followed for him.

There’s Viktor Krum, giving mind-numbing mini-lectures on his semi-legal bodybuilding potions. Draco adjusts his glasses to get a better look. “He’s aged well. Hasn’t he, Pippin?”

Pippin snores. Draco presses the heart just below the photo. His phone buzzes, and a shower of glitter trickles down the screen.

In the next photo, George Weasley is advertising an itching potion and a detachable cow tail in the same post. Draco would have thought it brilliant when he was a third year, but now it seems like a shop of nightmares and potential lawsuits.

There’s Granger, obviously, since Scorpius idolises her. She does look quite admirable in her Wizengamot robes. And Rose is growing into a lovely young woman, despite being directly related to her father. He can’t blame Scorpius for attaching himself to Rose and Al. It’s just—

“Awkward. That’s what it is, darling.” He scratches Pippin’s ears and taps the heart beneath Granger’s Christmas family photo. “No more family holidays where Harry Potter stares daggers at me for five days straight.”

Draco goes on like this until he’s yawning. There’s a little red dot at the top of his screen that keeps popping up and making his phone buzz in his hand. Resigned, he taps it.

WixtaGram Messaging

You have one new WixtaGram follow request!

“I knew that. You already told me.”

Pippin stretches in her sleep.

“Let’s see.” Draco taps the dot again.

WixtaGram Notifications:

TheChosenBun has requested to follow you.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Draco clicks a little blue button that ‘accepts the request.’ “The Chosen Bun, honestly.”

There’s a very small square with the Chosen Bun logo: a little witch hat and a croissant in place of a moon. Out of curiosity, Draco taps it and is met with—

“Gracious.” Draco pushes his glasses up his nose and sniffs. “You’d think one would wish to wear a shirt while baking. One would be incorrect, I suppose.”

Draco presses the heart on the first picture and watches the glitter explode. The phone buzzes merrily in his hand each time he does it, warm like a little living thing.

“You’ve really ramped up business since the divorce, haven’t you? You absolute tosser.”

Each photograph is more salacious than the last. The shirts start off tight, then slowly disappear altogether. Tighter shirts, then short sleeves, then no sleeves at all, then a crop top. And, finally, bare torso.

“You’re nearly forty. What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

Draco clicks the heart on one of them, followed by another, smiling at the merry waterfall of glitter each time. He keeps pressing the button—it’s just so satisfying—for every half-nude baking photo. It doesn’t matter. Potter won’t know.

He switches to his messaging box and taps out another message.

Draco:

Dear Scorpius,

Did you know that your dear friend’s father bakes pastries in the buff? He followed me on the Wizard Gram.

Love,

Your Father

Scorpius:

you don’t have to write like u do for an owl dad

“Formality isn’t dead, Scorpius. For Merlin’s sake.”

Draco:

Dear Scorpius,

What about Potter?

xx Father

PS is that better?

Scorpius:

those are just thirst traps, ignore, and no

Draco:

Dear Scorpius,

What is a thirst trap?

xx Father

This time, there’s no cheerful ding. Draco can only assume Astoria has whisked Scorp away to a decadent feast or a remote beach. He chooses to believe Scorpius won’t be consumed by a shark.

Pippin rolls over in her sleep and stretches her legs towards the ceiling.

“You’re no help.”

Draco flips back to half-nude Potter. Just out of curiosity. He owes it to his childhood self not to miss any of Potter’s embarrassing photographs. Of course, he looks good. Potter has always looked good; that’s never been up for debate.

A bubble pops up on the screen, and his phone buzzes gently.

WixtaGram Notifications:

TheChosenBun is going live.

Draco clicks it. He jolts when Potter pops up on the screen—shirtless, of course, clad only in a red apron that says “All You Knead is Loaf”—and starts talking like a bloody portrait.

“For Merlin’s sake,” Draco says again.

“Happy Christmas, to all of my followers,” says the small Potter in Draco’s phone. “My, er, social media team told me you like Wixtagram live. New thing, isn’t it?”

Potter runs his fingers through his ragamuffin curls and exposes an armpit. It’s covered in lush, dark hair. There are little muscles beneath, just above his ribs.

Draco’s mouth waters. He’s recently learned just how much he likes the smell of a man. He wonders if Potter sweats when he’s whisking and kneading. If he smells like flour and cream coupled with dark, earthy musk. Draco shifts on the settee.

“The holidays are a little tough after a divorce. I had the kids this morning, and Gin will have them til New Year’s. It’s a bit quiet over here at The Chosen Bun. Here’s Sydney, though. He’s keeping me company.” Potter reaches down and comes back with a kitten, which he puts on his shoulder. The kitten mews and bats at one of Harry’s curls.

“Do you have a pile of kittens next to you? How unsanitary.” Draco Summons a packet of crisps and kicks his socked feet up on the coffee table. He sets up the phone with a hovering Charm and pops one into his mouth.

Potter drones on about chocolate ganache and the key to a good sponge. Every time he says the word ‘moisture,’ a thrill runs up Draco’s spine. Well. Draco is only human.

Another bubble pops up on his screen. It has a green and red bow on top, so it looks like a Christmas gift.

WixtaGram Notifications:

Leave a comment for your favourite creator!

“Bold of you to assume he’s my favourite.” Draco clicks the comment box.

DLM_1980:

What in Circe’s name are you doing, Potter? You look like a bloody tart. Whilst baking tarts.

Draco grins and pops another crisp in his mouth. Oh, this is fun.

DLM_1980:

Do you actually run a bakery or just dance about in your pants?

Potter pauses his mixing to peer directly into Draco’s eyes. “I see your comments, er” —Potter squints— “DLM_1980. What a tremendously creative username.” The kitten paws at Potter’s ear, and he gently scoops it up and deposits it offscreen.

Draco shoves a handful of crisps in his mouth and chews, crumbs littering his shirt. “It’s the same as my email!”

“I could tell you all about The Chosen Bun if you stop by. I’ll provide pastries.” Potter winks, and a flurry of glittering hearts and comment bubbles fly across the screen.

Draco intends to put away his mobile after this mortifying exchange, but he finds himself glued to the rest of Potter’s repulsive broadcast. He doesn’t mention Draco again but mixes up a reasonably appealing tart filling, rolls out dough for croissants, and pipes several eclairs full of thick, white cream. He keeps bending over and lifting things, his muscles flexing in high definition. The show goes on for far longer than it ought; Potter even does the washing up on screen.

“This is what you’ve been up to since you almost hit me in Iceland in front of our children. You nutter.”

He was shirtless then, too, Draco’s mind supplies.

Draco’s pulse hasn’t slowed since the moment Potter looked at him through the screen. He feels like a child caught stealing sweets, the shop owner staring him down, looking right into his soul. Except, instead of running, Draco is struck still, mouth covered in icing sugar, tongue stained purple from Violet Taffy.

Potter saunters back towards the camera and starts—oh, gods—removing his apron. He clearly spends many hours a week lifting weights or swimming or— Draco doesn’t know, something athletic. His nipples look like little buds set in a sea of black curls.

“This chef is signing off. Remember my tips for getting the proper amount of moisture into your sponge.” Potter grins at the camera, crooked and devastating. “Happy Christmas. Stop by my shop for more information on baking lessons and catering. We’re all done at the Chosen Bun!”

A flurry of glittering hearts and comments fly across the screen.

Gods, Draco regrets everything. DLM_1980. How horrifying.

“Good night, you arsehole.” Draco vanishes his rubbish, then the crumbs from his shirt. Merlin, Scorpius is gone for less than twenty-four hours, and he’s a fucking nightmare.

He doesn’t even pretend he’s not going to wank when he drags himself to bed. He thickens up in his hand, tugging himself, and works himself to hardness, trying to think of nothing in particular. He fails miserably.

***

“Hey Siri,” Draco shouts into his phone, “Search Harry Potter!”

The phone doesn’t respond.

“Siri, search Harry Potter The Chosen Bun Whimsick Alley.”

I’m not sure I understand.

Draco brings the phone closer to his mouth. “Harry Potter! The Chosen Bun!”

Draco keeps yelling into the phone as he dresses. The screen flips through the half-dozen apps Scorp downloaded. Sodding hunk of metal.

“There you are,” he says finally. The website pops up, Potter’s smiling face along with it. Draco scowls at the screen and announces the address into the hearth.

The Floo spits him out across the street from the bake shop. There’s a light dusting of snow along the street, capping the rooftops in white. The bake shop is done up in Christmas colours: silky gold ribbons and silver bells, shimmering white snowflakes, holly with bright red berries. It’s a far cry from the DMLE, which Draco supposes is the point.

Potter is inside, clad in a tight black shirt. His jeans are almost painted on, the slag. This time, his apron states, “I Always Rise to the Occasion.”

Merlin. Draco ought to turn around while he still can.

But it’s cold outside, and the bakery is inviting and warm, dim gold lighting framing Potter’s figure. Draco can just step inside, observe the garish interior decorating, order a pain au chocolat, and leave. Potter said there would be pastries.

That’s why Draco is here, of course. Pastries. A bell jingles overhead when he goes inside.

The aroma of baked goods hits Draco like the business end of a Beater’s club. Yeasty bread, lavender and cinnamon garnishes, cream-heavy chocolate, and dark coffee steamed with milk. Potter is cleaning one of the steam wands. It hisses as he strokes the machine with a worn white towel.

“Be with you in a minute.” Potter doesn’t look up from his steamer fondling. It’s moderately distracting, the way his forearms move; the taut, round bulges of his shoulders.

Draco doesn’t respond. There’s still time to bolt and Apparate into the night before Potter sees him. That’s the best plan, considering that Potter saw Draco’s comments on his Wizard Gram and responded to them in his ridiculous live video.

This is a preposterous idea. Draco doesn’t even remember the origin of it. Just that he wanted a pastry when he woke up cold and lonely and inconveniently hard. It had seemed the thing to do—after tossing off to Potter’s Witch Weekly photos and showering away the evidence.

Post-orgasmic clarity sets in the longer he stands in the bakery. He should go. Should avoid the impending clusterfuck of conversing with Potter. They bicker at every school event. At the Ministry gala last year, they’d nearly come to blows over The Chudley Cannons, of all things. And Iceland. Merlin help him. Potter’s bare torso all over the hotel, his perpetual scowls. And the fight.

They’ve circled each other like feral dogs for years now. And now, Draco’s here to—he doesn’t know why he’s here.

This isn’t the place for another altercation. Or for Draco’s hopeless horniness. It’s warm and cheerful and full of lovely things—a tree with gifts beneath it for the local charity, mountains of packaged biscuits, handmade hot chocolate mix, and snowmen made of icing sugar, dancing with one another in the red and green glow of the window display.

It’s likely Potter’s sanctuary in the wake of his own divorce.

Outside, the wind picks up. Fat snowflakes float by Potter’s frosted window. The red and white awning flaps dramatically, the sign banging against the door.

Potter is still working behind the counter. He drizzles thick globs of caramel over a sea of twisted dough, humming to himself as he goes. It’s a Muggle Christmas tune Draco can’t quite place.

Draco intends to walk away, back onto the cold street, back to the dirty communal Floo. Back to the Manor, where he can moulder in his solitude and refrain from making a fool out of himself. Instead, he stares at Potter’s hands. He’s deft, as any baker should be, and he incorporates wandless spells here and there. It’s far more mesmerising in person than it was on Draco’s tiny pocket screen. He’s just about to turn and leave when—

“Looking for anything in particular today?” Potter’s grin gives him the impression of a self-satisfied kneazle. His eyes are disturbingly green. It’s worse in this light, how green they are. Like a plastic Christmas garland made with an unbalanced amount of yellow dye.

“No. I. Well—I came for Christmas shopping. Need some chocolates. For the ex-wife.”

“Isn’t she in the Maldives with Scorpius?”

“No.” Draco cringes. “I mean yes. Yes she is. These are for when she gets back.”

“Still friends?”

“More or less. Easier that way. New Year’s gift, then. I’ll have loads of chocolates for Stori and Scorp when they’re home.”

Potter sighs. “Look, if you’re embarrassed, it’s fine.”

“Embarrassed? Why would I be—” Draco drops off when Potter takes out his phone.

“You know I can see all of this, right?” Potter holds up his damnably tiny screen. Draco steps closer, right into the line of fire, just as he’s always done with Potter. There’s no resisting it, even if he doesn’t want to see what’s on that screen. And Merlin, he doesn’t.

“What are you showing me? I’m not a bloody teenager. I can’t see text that small.” Draco pops on his reading glasses. It takes a moment for it to sink in.

WixtaGram Notifications:

DLM_1980 has liked your post.

DLM_1980 has liked your post.

DLM_1980 has viewed your live.

DLM_1980 has saved your photo.

DLM_1980 has downloaded your video.

The screen shows dozens of notifications, each one of them evidence of Draco’s lonely first evening with his phone.

Draco sniffs. “Wizard Gram clearly malfunctioned. I wouldn’t spend that much time looking at your semi-nude baking photographs. If I want to see a good looking man, I just look in the mirror.”

“Is that so?” Potter’s grin goes lopsided again. He swipes something else on his phone. “I’m guessing this wasn’t you either.”

Potter shows him the screen again. It’s Draco’s profile, but it’s covered in text. Which is very weird because he’s never posted anything on this inane app, and he never will.

When he processes the words, his stomach drops all the way to the floor.

DLM_1980 Status Update:

Harry Potter The Chosen Bun Whimsick Alley

Hey Siri, show me Harry Potter The Chosen Bun website

Hey Siri, search Chosen Bun Harry Potter Witch Weekly man of the year photo shoot

And then, most damning of all:

Siri, search Harry Potter bisexual

“That wasn’t me,” Draco says immediately. “That was Scorpius fucking about with my phone. I’m certain of it.”

“These are all from this morning. And one from last night. There’s another one that says—”

“Potter, stop.”

“—‘Search for Harry Potter nude photographs.’”

“Give me that.” Draco snatches Potter’s phone and scrolls through his page. “I never said anything of the sort, last night or this morning.”

Potter laughs. “That’s an admission of guilt.”

Draco flings the phone across the counter. Potter pockets it, grinning.

“This is customer abuse. I’ll have you sacked!” Draco tries to inject vitriol into his words, but it comes out flat. He can’t focus when Potter is watching him with that smirky expression, all freshly shaven and dimpled.

“You showed up here. Harassed me online.” Potter’s dimples deepen further. “I own this place, by the by. Can’t have me sacked.”

Draco stares, blinking stupidly, blood rushing in his ears. His abdomen tightens with the same anticipatory thrill he gets when he’s about to pick someone up. But it’s Potter, not a random club boy, and Draco has thoroughly humiliated himself.

“Well, I won’t be returning to this establishment. So you needn’t worry about any more harassment.” He whips around and heads for the snowy street.

His heart thuds. The ache of embarrassment—of disappointment—sits like a band around his chest. It would be best if he never saw Potter again, best if he stayed in the empty Manor until after New Year’s. The door protests when Draco pushes it open, the wind pummeling it. A few flakes of snow rush in with the cold air.

“I am, you know,” Potter shouts after him.

Against all better judgment, Draco looks back over his shoulder. “You’re what?”

“Bisexual.” Potter gives him another cheeky fucking grin. “In case you were curious.”

Draco frowns, pushes the door open, and steps onto the wet pavement. The air is even colder now, and he gulps it like it’s a remedy for this miserable morning.

He’s shaking with adrenaline when he steps through the Floo. He flops onto the floor and digs his fingers into the plush wool rug. Pippin jumps from the couch and curls up next to Draco’s arm. She rests her chin on his shoulder.

“I shouldn’t be allowed to have a phone.”

Pippin sighs, and Draco takes that as agreement.

***

Draco stares at his phone. There’s a purple bubble with white text right in the middle of his screen. A second pops into existence beneath it. His throat squeezes.

WixtaGram Messaging:

You have received a message from TheChosenBun.

You have received a message from TheChosenBun.

A third bubble appears beneath it.

WixtaGram Notifications:

TheChosenBun posted a new video.

“Gods help me.” Draco clicks the first notification, and it takes him to his WixtaGram messages. Sure enough, there are two messages from Potter, the wanker.

WixtaGram Messaging:

8:45 Today

You should come by again. You didn’t get your chocolates. I’ll throw in a free eclair and a flat white. I’d say I’m sorry for teasing you yesterday, but I’m not. You blush when you’re flustered. Noticed during that horrible holiday in Iceland with the boys.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Draco says. Potter strolled about the hotel with his bloody shirt off for a week and argued with Draco every night about Quidditch. Of course Draco was blushing.

WixtaGram Messaging:

Watch the video.

That’s all the second message says. He tries to scroll down further, but there’s nothing there. He switches to the video—of course he does; it’s pointless to resist—and presses play.

Potter is wearing a bright red shirt, unbuttoned to just above his navel. The exposed chest hair can’t be sanitary in a place people consume food, but Draco stares, nonetheless.

“We’re closing for Christmas in two days. If you need last-minute gifts, come by while I’m still open for business.” Potter winks, and Draco’s pulse quickens. He goes on about all the pastries on offer, and now, Draco’s mouth is watering. His stomach growls. But no, he’s not going back to the Bake Shop of Abject Humiliation. Potter can stay there all alone and drown in a vat of chocolate, for all Draco cares.

Draco rolls his eyes every time Potter mentions another buttery, cream-filled pastry. How many times can the man say ‘piped full’ in one meandering sentence? Draco is about to close the video—he will not be downloading it this time—when Potter does that thing where he seems to be looking directly into Draco’s eyes.

“This is for someone special.”

“Good grief.” He rolls his eyes and wishes Potter could see his intense, immediate rejection of whatever he’s about to say. More embarrassment; no thank you.

“It’s hard to be alone at Christmas. But I’ll deliver on those freshly piped eclairs. Coffee. Mulled wine if you like. I rarely give private baking lessons, but I’ll set up something just for you if you come by tomorrow night at eight. Let’s make it a date. What do you say?”

Floating hearts and comments in shimmering purple bubbles explode on the screen.

WixtaGram Live Comments::

OML r u seeing someone? i’m going to cry under my pillow.

u have bisexual energy. confirm or deny. the people are waiting

I’m screaming and kicking my feet! Will you go live and kiss your date for us? The WixtaGram girlies are THIRSTY!!1!

Draco swallows around a knot in his throat. Potter is trying to trick him, but it certainly won’t work. Draco is far too savvy.

“There’s no catch. Gryffindor’s honour. See you tomorrow.” The screen goes blank.

Another message pops up on the screen.

Scorpion.Malboi says:

Mum can’t stop laughing about ur posts from yesterday. You’re so embarrassing. Love u. xx ps pls don’t be a tit when u see al’s dad.

“I’m not seeing him. And that’s final.”

***

“I need assistance, not gossip,” Draco yells into his phone. Pansy and Astoria ignore him.

“Imagine, Pans, Draco finally living out his greatest homosexual fantasy, and I’m not around to instruct him.” Stori’s hair falls over her shoulders in waves. Dappled sunlight dances over her face.

“You are here, thanks to Muggle technology,” Pansy says. On the little screen, she steps onto the balcony of her hotel, somewhere in 7th arrondissement. “I think he ought to wear the black silk boxers so Potter can unwrap him like an expensive gift.”

“Agreed,” Stori says. “The aubergine shirt. Dark trousers. Dragonhide boots. That’s my final thought. There. Is that helpful?”

“Quite. Thank you.” He nods at the phone, holding his face very close to it. “Pans? Any thoughts?”

“Bring a sachet of lube. Lubrication spells just aren’t as good. You need to be prepared for all possibilities.”

“True,” Stori says. “You needn’t be sore at Christmas. We’re only looking out for you.”

“Oh, fuck off. I need to get ready.” He closes the call and lets the dirty bints continue with their holiday chatter. He hopes Scorpius is holed up in the hotel room, avoiding the sun. Stori’s genes might allow for a tan, but Scorpius is firmly a manor-dwelling creature and a Malfoy. He shouldn’t be out for more than fifteen minutes at a time. And he needs a hat.

It takes Draco a good while to get prepared. There’s the shower and the depilatory potions, the deep-conditioning hair treatment and the well-deserved wank while it soaks in. He decides against Pansy’s Charm for fine lines. It always leaves him looking too smooth and faintly surprised. While he dresses, he records a voice note for Pansy.

“I have two aubergine shirts, Pansy. Not just one. I had to make the decision on my own. You and Stori are far too irritating together, so I had to let you go. Do you think it’s strange that I view my ex-wife as both my friend and competition for Scorpius’ affection? He told me she’s getting him a Kneazle for Christmas. Merlin forbid…”

He tucks in the winning shirt and selects a dragonhide belt that matches his boots. His arse looks spectacular, and he takes a moment to appreciate it. He holds the phone very close to his mouth and gives a report on his ensemble and a play-by-play of Potter’s most recent baking video.

“Pans, I’ve tossed off to that video twice. I keep thinking of him bending me over a kitchen counter and fucking me until I feel his cock in my lungs. Merlin knows I oughtn’t bother with this—this pseudo date. He’s probably going to trip me on my way in the door and tell me it was a publicity stunt.”

He fiddles with the phone and tries to figure out how to send it to Pansy—this blasted fucking thing—and slips it in his pocket after his screen goes blank and he can’t figure out how to turn it back on. There’s nothing left to do but walk into the proverbial lion’s den.

Draco’s heart pounds when he stands at his hearth, but he’s long since stopped being a coward, so he throws a pinch of powder into the charred remains of last night’s fire and steps through.

***

The Chosen Bun is even more festive than it was a few days ago. There’s a second Christmas tree in the front window, covered in tinsel and blinking rainbow lights; mountains of biscuits wrapped in shimmering cellophane stacked on tiny round tables; and a life-size, inflatable Santa that waves creepily at Draco when he walks in. Draco careens into a chocolate nativity scene when Potter appears.

He picks up the baby Jesus and places him in his bed of candy floss. He stoops to peer at the manger, trying to ignore the swoop in his gut. “Are these the three wise wizards who came to see the birth?”

Potter snorts, as if Draco has made a joke. “Sure.”

“One of them was a witch. And Mary wasn’t a virgin. She’d been sleeping with a mage. The Muggle story is quite charming, though.”

“I—I don’t know what to say to that.”

Draco clears his throat and stands, straight-backed, chin tilted up. This may or may not be a date, but it never hurts to maintain proper courting posture. Besides, it helps pull his focus away from Potter’s too-tight jeans and his apron that says “Let’s Get Bready to Crumble.”

“This is a conversation, the first civil one in ages. You say, ‘Mary was a clever witch to think of that cover story.’ Does that help? I know you didn’t have lessons in proper conversational technique, but I’m here to assist.”

That crooked smile.

Help, Draco thinks.

“Was that a joke?” Potter lets out a little puff of a laugh. “It’s hard to tell with you.”

“At least half of it was.”

Potter stares at him: at his eyes, his mouth, down the length of his body and back up again. He bites his lower lip, and it pops out, pink and wet.

The horrid knot that’s been sitting in Draco’s stomach since that first WixtaGram live twists and settles painfully beneath his sternum. “What—what are you looking at?”

“Making up for lost time, now that you’re properly divorced.”

Draco swallows. The knot stays put. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“You can’t just go around looking like that.”

“Like what?” He thinks he’s being given a compliment, which isn’t rare when he’s picking up men. But this isn’t men, it’s Harry Potter. “Like what!”

Infuriatingly, Potter just shrugs. “C’mon. Let me show you the back. I’ve mulled some wine.” Potter nods at the kitchen. “I’ve set us up to make cinnamon twists.”

“You’re serious about the baking?” He ambles along behind Potter like Pippin when Draco has a plate full of bacon.

“Deadly.” Potter winks.

Potter’s workspace is an impressive feat of Wixen-Muggle engineering. A chef’s kitchen with huge ovens, enchanted pots and pans hanging from the ceiling, a waft of Potter’s magic—burnt sugar, vanilla—woven through all of it.

An enormous vat of dough sits in the centre of a wide, metal counter. It jiggles sumptuously when Potter pulls the cling film off and vanishes it with a slice of wandless magic.

Draco gapes uselessly at the scene, like a guppy who’s jumped from a fish tank, suddenly on a foreign floor, unable to breathe or move its fins. It all seems terribly real now that Draco is staring at the dark hair on Harry’s knuckles and the bulbous, round head of his pastry dough.

“Kneazle got your tongue, Malfoy?”

“I need a drink,” he manages, his voice hoarse. He stares at Potter’s hands and imagines them plunging into the dough, pulling it apart, kneading it with fragrant, slippery oils.

“Mulled the wine this afternoon, thinking about tonight.”

Draco nods mutely. He ought to give some kind of acknowledgement, but he’s lost. Just like the wise wizards on their way to Bethlehem.

Potter hands Draco a glass mug, his thumb brushing the back of Draco’s hand. If Draco had any hair left on his body, it would be standing on end. As it is, he simply shivers and cups the hot mug. It smells of orange and cinnamon and cracked vanilla pods.

“Go on then. I want to watch you drink it.”

“Creepy,” Draco manages hoarsely, “but I expect that from you at this point.”

Potter is alarmingly close to him now, leaning on the countertop, forearms dangerously near. Draco stands ramrod straight—an unbreakable habit—as he sips. He’s never liked warm drinks apart from coffee and tea and the occasional hot chocolate, but this is nothing like he expects.

The first burst of flavor is all red wine, complex and heady with hints of stone fruit and chocolate. Anise and nutmeg and blood orange follow after the second sip. Heady warmth fills him, a sort of contentment he hasn’t felt in ages. Behind it all is a sense of nostalgia: a picture of Christmases past, when his life was far simpler. He closes his eyes and sees his mother and father opening gifts by the hearth. Then Scorpius, young and round-cheeked, red bows tied in his hair, smiling up at Stori.

His eyes are misty when he opens them. “It’s… it’s your magic.”

“A little. A trick I picked up in culinary school. Consider it an early Christmas gift.”

“Merlin, Potter. I didn’t know we’d be exchanging gifts. That’s usually reserved for the second year of courting.” Draco feels languid and loose-limbed as he drinks his wine, like he could float to the ceiling and carry Potter alongside him.

“You should call me Harry.” Potter slips his wand into his hand and casts. A light sprinkling of flour dusts the counter, and the fat ball of dough rises, wobbling in the air before hitting the counter with a wet thwack. An apron flutters through the magic-heavy air and settles in front of Draco.

“Are we really baking? I mean—what are we baking?”

“Cinnamon twists.” Potter—Harry—steps close enough that Draco can feel the heat of his body. “Do you need help with your apron?”

“I—” Draco ought to refuse. It isn’t proper for a first date, being touched like this. But he’s no longer proper, is he? “Yes.”

The apron is deep forest green, with a purple iris on the chest. “Flour child,” it reads. Another stupid pun. Draco can’t help himself, though. He lifts his arms and lets Harry dress him. Draco can hear the rasp of his breath as he ties the bow at the back of his neck. His broad hands graze Draco’s waist as he cinches the apron and ties it tight, the second knot in place just above Draco’s arse.

“You look handsome.” The words are whispered, low and intimate. Harry rests his hand on the small of Draco’s back. The feeling is warm and solid, an anchor to reality as Draco’s nervous system lights up.

“So do—so do you.” Draco clears his throat. “But I always thought so.”

“I know. Or, I didn’t know, not for a long time. You made me angry when you looked at me. At school events. On that horrible holiday in—”

“Fucking Iceland.”

Harry hums and casts again. Two rolling pins lift off and hover above the dough. “Yeah. That’s the first time I thought—maybe he’s not looking at me like that to piss me off. And maybe I’m frustrated, not angry. Maybe I want something I don’t really understand.”

The rolling pins drop and land smack in the centre of the dough.

“Imagine my surprise when I saw you on WixtaGram. When you liked every one of my posts. And harassed me on my live video.”

The rolling pins lazily massage the dough, slowly pressing it into large ovals on the counter.

“All very accidental, I’ll have you know.”

“Of course.” Harry laughs, and the sound expands down the length of Draco’s spine. “You haven’t been pining for me. All happenstance.”

“Entirely. All for your baking lesson I happened to see advertised.” Draco summons more mulled wine into his mug and takes a long sip. The dough is flat now, and Draco feels warm and buzzy with the wine and the smell of cinnamon and butter and the presence of Harry behind him.

Harry skims his thumb along the side of Draco’s waist. “This is a date, though. Just so we’re clear.”

Draco gulps his wine and splutters. “Is that so?”

“Mm-hmm. And a baking lesson.” A vat of melted butter materializes and lands on the counter, wobbling dangerously before it settles. Harry places a soft brush in Draco’s hand. “We’re going to brush the butter on the dough, get it nice and wet.”

“Gracious.” Draco swallows against the thud-thud-thud of his heart in his throat. His cheeks throb. He composes himself, though, and dips his brush in the butter. He mimics Harry’s movements, painting lines of butter so thick they bead up on the dough. Every so often, Harry’s hand glances against his wrist.

“That’s good. Very good.” Harry leans in close. “Now we’ll fold in the cinnamon. I like adding cardamom and just a touch of nutmeg.”

Draco can’t think with Harry naming ingredients in his ear. He feels like he must be hallucinating when Harry conjures a bowl of spiced sugar and guides Draco’s hand inside. They sprinkle the mixture together; cinnamon and sugar fan out over the dough in wide arcs.

“Good,” Harry says again. “You’re a natural. Now, we’ll use a spell to fold the dough over and cut it into strips.”

Draco’s mind turns to static. All he can see are Harry’s flour-covered hands moving through a complex wandless casting. His movements are sure and strong; he smirks through it all. It’s the same expression he wore when faced Draco on the Quidditch pitch at fourteen: cocky, defiant, certain.

“Now we’ll coat it in a bit more butter and twist them up.” Harry moves behind him, his mouth very close to Draco’s ear. His hand moves over Draco’s. “This alright? It requires a steady hand.”

Draco makes a pained noise, but he nods. When Harry hums approvingly and places a clean brush into Draco’s hand, Draco can feel the vibration in the pit of his stomach.

“You’re doing so well at that. Most people don’t catch on so quickly.”

“Hush.”

“I won’t hush. We’ll twist them up next.”

Draco doesn’t respond because his throat is locked tight, and the whole of his concentration is centred on Harry’s hand on his. The motion of the brush, the flick of his wrist as he guides Draco, the slippery butter soaking into the pastry, the little bits of dough rising and twirling in the air before settling down on a baking sheet. The baking sheet rises and pops into the oven.

“We have fifteen minutes, Draco.”

At the club, Draco would sink to his knees immediately, no need for discussion. But it’s Harry, and Harry is different. “Is there a second date on the horizon?”

“I hope so.”

“Even after thoroughly embarrassing myself?”

“It was cute.” Harry’s hand settles again, this time on the side of Draco’s waist. When he gives it a squeeze, Draco lets out another involuntary noise. “It made me really, really want to kiss you. Every time I saw you liking a photo” —Harry brushes his lips against Draco’s ear— “or downloading a video—”

“Salazar.” Shame blooms inside of him, but Harry is licking his earlobe, sucking it, and he can’t think beyond petal-soft lips and the thrill rolling down his spine.

“I thought—maybe you liked me. I think that’s true, you know, since you’re wanking to those videos. Thinking about me bending you over a counter.”

“Shit.” Draco’s stomach drops like he’s stumbling down a flight of stairs. “You—I sent you that?!”

“Don’t take this the wrong way” —Harry pulls the bow at the back of Draco’s neck, and the front of his apron falls forward— “but you’re really shit at using a phone.”

“Oh, fuck.”

Harry takes off his glasses and places them on the counter. With a quick, wandless spell, the bow at Draco’s waist comes undone, and the apron falls to the floor.

“You need to learn how to use it.” Harry deftly undoes Draco’s belt and his flies. “I don’t want anyone else getting those messages from now on. Only me.”

“Not everyone is posting—thirst traps on Wizard—whatever—oh!”

Harry’s thumb grazes the head of Draco’s dick, and Draco loses the ability to speak as blood rushes to his groin. His cock plumps up as Harry presses the silk of his pants to his foreskin and rubs back and forth, back and forth.

“The thirst traps worked, didn’t they?”

Draco gasps. His trousers are bunched around his knees, hands gripping the counter. Harry toys with him, hand moving between his half-hard cock and his balls, tugging, then rubbing silky fabric against the length of the shaft.

“What’s a thirst trap, anyway?” Draco is breathless, cheeks and chest pulsing with heat. “Scorpius didn’t tell me what it meant.”

Harry unbuttons his shirt with a Charm. He flicks his fingers over one nipple, then the other, watching them pebble.

“Horny pictures. Half-nude. Makes you thirsty. And now you’re trapped.” Harry says this as he sneaks his fingers beneath Draco’s waistband and cups him. “I hate them. But it’s good for business. Makes me look slutty.”

“You’re not—oh, gods.”

“I don’t like people enough to be slutty. But you—” Harry shoves Draco’s pants down. “You’re annoying and bossy. A little mean. An arsehole and a know-it-all.”

Harry leans in very close. His breath smells like cinnamon and mint, the buzz of his magic like burnt sugar. He squeezes Draco’s cock, and Draco groans, far too loud and utterly helpless.

“Then why—”

“You’re exactly what I want.”

Harry kisses him. Draco had never thought Harry would be good at kissing. He was too broody, too scowling, all that energy crackling beneath his skin like a barely capped grenade. Draco had thought it would be messy and biting and bitter as unripe fruit. But maybe that was Harry before—before quitting the DMLE, before the bakery, before splitting up with his wife and advertising his muscles on the internet.

This kiss is slow and tender and wholehearted: teeth pulling on Draco’s lower lip, a hand cupping the back of his neck, tongue glancing against his just enough to leave him gasping, wanting more. Harry’s other hand moves lower, thumb tugging the foreskin back and gliding over his slit. Draco shivers and shivers and bucks his hips, moaning into Harry’s mouth and sucking on his tongue. He’s delirious with building need, a ball of tension settling behind his cock.

“Fuck, you’ve got a big cock,” Harry murmurs and spits into his hand. When he wraps his fingers around Draco’s cock again, it’s warm and messy and slick with pre-come. “Do you ever top? I like it both ways.”

Draco cries out and bucks, chest and cheeks blazing, arse flush with the counter. He pants— “Stop, stop—fuck, I’m going to come—”

“Alright,” Harry says gently, and sinks to his knees. “Then you should come in my mouth.”

Draco takes his cock in hand and slaps it against Harry’s check, hard. “Always wanted to do that.”

Harry grins and grabs Draco’s thighs. “Live your dreams, I always say.” Then he sucks Draco down to the root.

It’s gorgeous, better than any other mouth in the known world—hot and silky and so, so wet. Harry seems to be confident in what he’s doing, but it’s an awkward scramble for Draco, who’s used to poorly-lit fumbles and anonymous men coming on his face. But this—this is more, and Draco doesn’t know what to do with his hands or his feet. He ends up with one leg cocked to the side and his fingers half in Harry’s hair and half in his ear. He thrusts hard enough that Harry splutters, spit dribbling down his chin.

It’s this image that sends Draco over the edge—Harry, with his eyes watering, taking Draco’s dick to the back of his throat and coughing because of the girth and length and the messiness of Draco’s thrusts. Draco hangs on for another few seconds, enough time to push his cock to the back of Harry’s throat again. Then he whines and grips his cock as it jerks, coming half in Harry’s mouth and half on his face. White globs drip down his chin and onto his apron.

“Oh my fucking god.” Draco shivers and shivers, pleasure singing through his hips, down his thighs, up the column of his spine. It’s the most intense orgasm he’s had in ages, which is good, he thinks blearily, since he lasted approximately fifteen seconds and Harry will surely kick him out.

But Harry—Harry smiles. He wipes his thumb across his chin and licks it. “That good, hm?” He presses a kiss to the head of Draco’s cock, and Draco feels like he’s going to come all over again.

“Oh, sod off. Don’t go getting a big head about it.” Draco huffs, annoyed at himself for sounding so fond. “I last ages and ages under the right circumstances.”

Harry pulls himself up, stumbling into Draco and kissing him. He tastes musky and salty and sharp, and Draco gets lost in it. His very own pleasure, distilled, presented to him on Harry’s tongue. The filthiness.

“It was hot,” Harry murmurs and licks into his mouth. He keeps saying it as he turns Draco around and grabs his arse, as he Summons lube from thin air and smears it over Draco’s hole, toying with it, flicking his fingertips over the rim.

“I’ve never—never—not more than fingers. I just talked about getting fucked in the voice note because” —Draco shivers, and his cock starts plumping up again— “I want it. I think about it all the time. The other way, too—”

“S’alright. I’ll do it tomorrow morning. Open you up here, nice and slow. With my tongue. My fingers. Maybe a little toy.” Harry keeps stroking over his hole, easing the tip of his finger in a little ways. “Right now, I need to come in the next three minutes. Gotta improvise.”

Draco hears Harry’s apron fall, hears his belt buckle and the shck of leather against it. Hears the squelch of lube against his cock. For a moment, he thinks Harry is going to fuck him, with barely any preparation. Draco’s cock fills at the idea. But instead—

Harry squeezes Draco’s arsecheeks together, and slides his cock along the wet channel, panting as he rocks back and forth. Draco makes a startled sound and grips the counter as the head of Harry’s dick grazes his rim. It sends sparks flying up his spine, a hot pulse of blood to his cock.

Draco is going to say something. He tries. But all that comes out is a mangled moan.

“Fuck, your arse is so good. I’ll feed you pastries every day so it never goes away. And I’ll—oh, god—come so deep inside you you’ll feel it in the back of your throat.”

The wet head of Harry’s cock drags against his rim with each sloppy, frantic thrust. Draco’s been touched here, yes, a few times—but only with one finger, and only in the dark of an alleyway after one too many.

Harry’s cock is another matter altogether; bigger and thicker and wetter, its veiny ridges dragging over Draco’s sensitive, puckered skin. So close, so intimate that Draco can imagine its heft, its weight, the feeling of it in his mouth, in his hand.

More than that, this feels better, more right and more real—it’s well-lit and warm and cosy in the kitchen. There’s a dusting of flour on Draco’s cheek where it’s pressed to the cool counter. And he’s surrounded by Harry—wide hands gripping his hips, breath hot against his neck, the drag of his cock proudly stuttering against his slicked-up hole. Harry babbles the whole time.

“Look at you,” Harry says as he forces Draco’s arsecheeks tighter around his cock. “Look how good you are—and oh, fuck, that’s a nice arse—” Harry pants and speeds up, cockhead catching with each thrust. “God, I’m close—I’m, oh fuck—”

Draco’s eyes roll back in his head; he can feel Harry everywhere. He hasn’t even seen it and he can envision his cock perfectly. Shorter than his but just as thick. Hard and curved and purple at the tip. Draco clenches his arsecheeks and Harry groans, sliding a bit deeper, his tip grinding into Draco’s hole.

“Oh, oh—” Harry gasps. “That feels good. Can I—can I—”

Draco’s not sure what Harry is asking, but he knows the answer already— “Yes, yes, please—”

The head of Harry’s dick pushes inside, just past the tight ring of Draco’s hole. The pain is instant, but it gives way almost immediately to a heady, bright, flush of pleasure, his entrance filled and pulsing with the unexpected fullness.

Harry’s fingers slide and dig into Draco’s skin, blunt nails biting his flesh. “Draco, Draco, oh my—fuck—”

Harry’s body seizes up, hips trembling. He’s clearly holding himself back from thrusting all the way inside, whimpering and biting down on Draco’s shoulder. That’s when Draco feels it—hot come pulsing just inside and dribbling out as Harry’s dick jerks and jerks.

“Coming,” Harry says. “You made me—fuck—come so much.”

Draco pants and groans and imagines being fuller than this. He will be. Soon, if his luck keeps up like this.

The timer on the oven dings just as Harry pulls out. “Perfect timing,” he says, and gives Draco’s arse a resounding smack.

Come kisses the inside of Draco’s thigh as Harry zips up his fly and levitates the cinnamon twists right out of the oven.

“Hot chocolate?” Harry grabs Draco’s thigh and squeezes.

“Mmmmm.” Draco nods, cheek still smashed against the counter. He pulls up his pants, his arse still warm and wet with Harry’s come.

He could go again right now. But there’s time for all of that later.

***

The floor of Harry’s office is covered in a plush wool rug. It’s covered in a pattern of bright orange and teal and crimson. Poppies against a clear, open sky. They’re both lying down, sprawled out on the garish poppy rug, staring up at the beams in the ceiling.

Harry points. “Put the beams in myself. Used to be a front for a minor crime lord. Ceiling caved in when his dragon got out.”

“Really?”

“No. James made it up for the website.”

Draco snorts. He summons Harry’s whisky and pours a bit more into his hot chocolate. They’ve been working on getting the proportions right for the past hour, making out lazily in between sips. Harry smells like scotch; he tastes of chocolate and cinnamon.

“I’ll make you breakfast if you come back to mine.”

“Can’t,” Draco says. “I’ve an ancient crup. She needs to be carried from the east study to her bedroom suite every night at midnight.”

Harry hums seriously. “Then I’ll come there instead.”

“Is that so.” Draco rolls onto one elbow and bites his lip, eyes rolling down Harry’s body. He’s so much better in person. “I don’t recall inviting you.”

“Thought I could—you know.” He cups Draco’s arse. “Help you live your dream. And fill your brain with a few more.”

“And then what?”

Harry plucks Draco’s phone from his pocket. “I’ll teach you how to use this. And you introduce me to your crup. Then you can fuck me tomorrow night. I’ll make you Christmas dinner the day after.”

“Moving fast. I haven’t even said yes yet.”

“What? Do you have other plans for Christmas? Another WixtaGram influencer to accidentally seduce?”

Draco bites his lip. It sounds worlds better than being alone in the rambling old manor, carrying Pippin about and talking to himself. Plus, Harry will save him from more iPhone-related humiliation.

“I suppose I’m available.”

Harry leans in and kisses him, soft and sweet. He nibbles Draco’s lip and sighs. Draco startles when Harry holds the phone above them and snaps a picture of them snogging.

“You can’t possibly—” Draco splutters. “Don’t you dare put that on your Wizard Page—if we’re courting, we need a formal announce—”

Harry silences him with another kiss and slides the troublesome invention in Draco’s pocket.

“That one is just for you, darling. Just for you.”