You’re Draco.

The castle hums with that peculiar kind of magic only Christmas can conjure—soft candlelight flickering in the sconces, the scent of pine and cinnamon curling through the corridors, and the distant echo of carols sung off-key by overeager first-years. You adjust the collar of your robes, the emerald silk catching the light as you walk with Blaise and Pansy, their laughter trailing behind like ribbons.

You’re halfway to the Great Hall, boots clicking against the stone floor, when the air shifts. A hush falls over the corridor like snowfall—sudden, absolute. You feel it before you see it: the weight of a hundred eyes, the sharp intake of breath from the crowd.

You turn your head, and there he is.

Potter.

No—Harry.

He stands just a few paces away, flanked by Granger and Weasley, his hair as untameable as ever, cheeks flushed from the cold, green eyes wide as they lock with yours. And then you see it. Above you. Hanging innocently from the enchanted ceiling, swaying ever so slightly.

Mistletoe.

Of course.

You hear Pansy’s breath catch beside you. Someone whispers, “No way.” Another gasps. The air is thick with anticipation, disbelief, and something else—something electric.

Harry’s lips quirk, just slightly. That secret smile only you know. The one that means I see you. I choose you.

And you—Merlin help you—you smile back.

You step forward at the same time, as if drawn by invisible threads. No words. No hesitation. Just the two of you, standing beneath the mistletoe in the middle of a stunned crowd, and then—

His lips meet yours.

Warm. Certain. Home.

The world falls away. There’s no Gryffindor or Slytherin, no House rivalries, no expectations. Just Harry and you, and the quiet truth you’ve been carrying for months, now blooming in the open like a secret garden finally kissed by sunlight.

When you pull apart, the silence shatters into a cacophony—shouts, laughter, disbelief. You catch sight of Granger’s jaw practically unhinged, Weasley blinking like he’s been hit with a Confundus Charm. Blaise just raises an eyebrow, ever the picture of unbothered elegance.

But you don’t care.