Draco didn’t do Christmas. He’d told you that every year with the same bored, aristocratic eye roll- like the very concept of joy was personally offensive to him. Yet here he was, lounging on your sofa at Hogwarts, pretending not to listen while you paced the room, talking a mile a minute about lights, gifts, snow, and how unbelievably excited you were for Christmas morning.

He scoffed every five minutes, but it was that soft, resigned kind of scoff. The one that meant he actually didn’t mind hearing you ramble.

“You’re impossible,”

He muttered at one point, flipping a page of his book.

“No one should be this… festive. It’s disturbing.”

You only grinned, plopping down beside him. “You’ll give in someday. I’ll convert you.” with a quick “Not bloody likely.” in response. But he stayed. He listened. And he didn’t once tell you to stop.

That night, long after you’d fallen asleep mid-sentence, Draco found himself standing outside your door in the quiet halls of the castle- pale hair mussed from the winter wind, cheeks faintly pink from the cold, a small wrapped box clutched in one gloved hand.

He knocked. Once. You opened the door, bleary eyed, confused. “Draco? It’s- what? two in the morning? What are you-” He shoved the gift into your hands immediately, refusing to meet your eyes. No explanation. No snark. Just a quiet, rushed.

“Don’t make this a thing.”