A/N:This story is been in development for a lonnng time, ever since reading 'It's Never Too Late to Have a Happy Childhood' by Antigone Q s/1205031/1/It-s-Never-Too-Late-for-a-Happy-Childhood

I've been craving some good ol' Drarry, so enjoy this angsty slow-burn!

1989

He lies curled beneath the covers of his bed, staring blindly out into the darkness at the thin sliver of light beneath his bedroom door. He doesn't dare blink, he doesn't dare breathe, as though if he loses concentration long enough to do either, that'll be it. He doesn't want to be any more frightened than he already is.

It has been hours, it feels like, since he'd been caught on the landing, hours since he'd been dragged back to his room with the promise of, I'll deal with you later. His father's words — hissed and furious — still ring in his ears like they're new, his cheek still aching from the slap that punctuated the promise.

Maybe later meant tomorrow, but Draco cannot be sure. He can never be sure. And, anyway, he doesn't have a hope of sleeping now. He'll be awake until it is done, whether that means tonight or tomorrow.

He'd been stupid to think he could get away with it, he knows that much. After being warned to explicitly to stay in his room, to not be seen. He'd been stupid to think he wouldn't be caught. He'd just thought… he'd just wanted… Don't cry, he tells himself sternly as a sob catches in his throat. If he comes and you're crying, you're dead.

No more risks.

Still, it's hard to breathe. Every breath catches, every breath makes him feel like he's going to be sick.

Just get it over with, he nearly wishes. But that isn't true. It's inevitable, the beating, and the waiting is unbearable but Draco doesn't wish for it, even just to get to the other side. Pain has been a part of his whole life, but he's never got used to it. His father always makes sure of that. Knows exactly how to make it so.

The creak of a footstep outside his door and Draco whimpers, the smallest sound dragged from his lips.

Not for him though. Not Father.

Relief hurts.

More than anything, he wishes he could just stop existing until it's over.

Maybe at all.

A shuddering breath and he curls under the heavy covers.

Christmas tomorrow.

He's already ruined Christmas with his own stupid disobedience.

Deserves everything he gets.

Every stripe of the belt.

The buckles flashes in his mind and he buries his face in his pillow, damp and hot from unwilling tears.

Stop crying. Malfoys don't cry. This is your own fault. Should've known. Did know. Your own fault, you're so stupid.

Maybe—

Maybe because it's Christmas, Father will be in a forgiving mood. Maybe fear is punishment enough. Maybe the slap was the worst of it. Maybe tomorrow all will be forgotten. Maybe—

The door clicks and Draco's breath freezes dry on his tongue.

He should move, stand, face Father and try to be brave.

Can't.

Isn't.

If he doesn't move, there'll be fingers twisting in his hair, dragging him up and shoving him down across the desk.

If he doesn't move, it'll be worse.

Doesn't.

Can't.

Can't breathe.

Can only wait and exist until it's over.

Nothing happens.

Draco waits.

Still nothing.

Risks a look.

And meets shocked green eyes.

Of course, it was just Harry's bad luck to draw Malfoy's name from the hat. He cursed when he read it, begged to pick again. Was very sternly refused and told, in no uncertain terms, that he agreed to play by the rules when he signed up and these, Potter, are the rules. You can only draw again if you pick your own name, and yours has already been picked. And no, you may not switch with anyone else.

So Harry had groaned and sworn and protested, then dragged himself down to Hogsmeade to find anything that a seven-year-old Draco Malfoy might want that he didn't already have. Harry could picture Malfoy as a kid very easily — spoiled, pampered, a brat in smaller form. Basically the less rotund version of Dudley, the very thought of which made Harry wince. What was supposed to be fun, Harry now dreaded with every fiber of his being.

Just get it over with.

He complied with all the rules, setting off for his turn with the Time-Turner with the tiny model dragon stuffed in his pocket at the allocated time, nodded in all the right places and promised to not speak with anyone but the child in question.

"Be very careful, Potter."

"Yes, Professor."

One go of the turner, one Apparition.

He hadn't realised how fucking big Malfoy Manor was. And, of course, they'd be right in the middle of a fucking party at midnight on Christmas Eve.

Don't be seen proved a lot fucking harder than Harry strictly thought was worth it.

Malfoy probably had ten million dragon toys. Probably had a whole fucking wing of them.

Luckily, he'd thought to bring his invisibility cloak.

He'd landed outside the door that was supposed to be Malfoy's bedroom but took a moment to be certain, the sounds of the party filtering up to the landing. It was so fucking ostentatious, like Buckingham Palace itself. It was impossible not to be awed. Even compared to Hogwarts, it was a sight.

Finally, he went back to the first room, took a deep breath, and let himself in.

It is dark, pitch dark, but then again it is midnight.

He pauses to listen for the sounds of a sleeping child.

Nothing.

It's like the air is frozen.

For a moment, Harry thinks about leaving, of trying his luck in a different room — there must be hundred in the Manor — but it doesn't feel empty. Just… frozen.

A flick of his wand light one of the lamps with a soft, orange glow.

It's definitely a bedroom, but nothing like the bedroom he imagined Malfoy to grow up in. There are no toys, no abundance of a spoiled princeling. It's like an adult's room, neat and pragmatic. Ostentatious, certainly, but not a child's room.

There's a lump beneath the bedclothes but still no sound.

For a horrible, peculiar moment, Harry can only think that Malfoy must be dead.

Then the lump shifts and a pair of frightened grey eyes stare out from amongst the covers.

Harry almost laughs until the boy pushes himself up and away, and he can see the bright new bruise on his cheek.

Something heavy and sickening drops into his stomach.

The boy doesn't speak, only stares, trembling. He has Malfoy's bright blond hair and blue-grey eyes, his pyjamas are Slytherin green, and he has the pointed features Harry knows and dislikes so well.

But, still, Harry isn't certain.

"Draco?"

The boy reacts only slightly, a little flick of the eyes, but it's confirmation enough. His name on Harry's tongue does nothing to quell his fear.

"I'm—" Harry struggles, trying to find an introduction and an explanation that will comfort him. This wasn't what he had been expecting. This wasn't what he had prepared for. "I brought you a present," is the best he can manage.

"A present?" the boy — Draco — echos, little more than a whisper.

Harry nods, rummaging through the pocket of his robe for the dragon. The creature sits neatly in his palm as Harry offers it.

Draco doesn't take it, doesn't take his eyes off Harry.

"Are you here for the party?"

"No. I… I came to give you this."

"Why?"

"It's a Christmas present."

"Why?"

It's not the irritating 'Why' of an overtly precocious child, determined to drive their companion past the point of distraction, but the genuine, desperate questioning of someone who's learnt to be distrustful.

And I picked your name out of a hat does not feel like a valid answer.

Still, it's the only one Harry has and he opens his mouth to give it when something makes the boy freeze and his attention fix on a spot behind Harry. On the door.

Then Harry hears it too.

Footsteps.

Their eyes lock in mutual horror.

"You can't be here," Draco whispers. "He'll be angry. Please. Go."

There is nowhere to go, not with so little time and the door now blocked off.

Only the cloak in his hands.

Harry sweeps it over himself and sinks down into a corner just as the door swings open.

Draco slides to his feet and stands to attention, hands locked behind his back, as Lucius Malfoy strides in.

The door slams in his wake and Harry sees the pale marks in Draco's wrist where his nails dig into his skin.

The boy is scared to death.

Maybe it's being crouched low to the ground, maybe it's the fact that he's hiding, but Lucius seems even more imposing than Harry remembers. Maybe it's the fury on the man's face as he stands over his young son.

"What did I tell you this evening, Draco?"

"I…I-I—"

Harry jerks like the slap had been for him.

Draco is still on his feet but only by the hand locked into the front of his pyjama shirt. He hangs from the man's grip like a broken doll.

"I told you to stay in your room," Lucius hisses. "I warned you what would happen if you disobeyed me again."

"I-I'm sorry. I just… I just wanted t-to see—"

"Stop crying."

"F-Father—"

"Stop crying!"

It is the sight of the belt dangling from Lucius Malfoy's fist that finally unlocks something in Harry.

No. Not on his watch. Not even Draco Malfoy.

"Expelliarmus!"

Draco falls, dropped as the belt is whipped from Lucius's other hand, and there are three seconds as Harry darts, grabs the boy, and Disapparates. Long enough for Lucius to stare in shock as Harry appears out in mid-air and steal his son.

1997

Theo Nott looks up from his book as Draco enters the common room and collapses into the armchair opposite him by the fire.

"Well, how was it?"

"Uneventful," Draco returns, pulling his legs up beneath him.

"Did they like your gift?"

"I believe so."

Theo snaps his book shut and glares at his friend. "You're really not going to give me anything, are you?"

A smirk slides across Draco's lips and he closes his eyes. "Rules are rules. It's called secret Santa for a reason."

Theo's glad Draco doesn't see his spectacular eye-roll. He hadn't signed up for Dumbledore's latest and strangest initiative, and had been surprised when Draco revealed he had. "It could be fun," was the best anyone could get out of him when questioned. And, "It's our last Hogwarts Christmas. I want to make the most of it."

'Last Hogwarts Anything' had been Draco's recurring theme for the whole of this school year so far. They are all feeling it, the distinct knowing that this is their last year before adulthood, but it seems to be affecting Draco most of all.

For all his complaining, Theo knows how much Draco loves this castle and what a blow it will be to leave. So much so that he's even refused to return to the Manor for the holidays, preferring to spend it studying in front of the fire in the Slytherin Common Room.

Theo is fairly sure — though he would never say so out loud — that Draco would happily go back and do all his school years over again, just to spend more time here.

Even only life would be so kind.

Speaking of which—

"A letter came whilst you were gone," he says. "I'm pretty sure it was your father's owl."

Draco stiffens, his face a tense mask as he reaches reluctantly to take the crisp envelope from Theo's fingers. He slices it deftly open, gives a cursory glance over the contents, then replaces the letter and tosses it into the fire.

"What did it say?"

"The usual," says Draco curtly. "Wants to know when I'll be returning home and why I'm so determined to upset Mother and why haven't I written this term." He hisses through his teeth, arms tightening around his knees. "He has me for the rest of my damned life after May. I don't understand why he can't just give me these next few months and leave me alone."

"You know why," says Theo gently. "Because he's him, and when has he ever been willing to leave you alone?"

Draco doesn't talk about his father's plans for his future, but Theo knows Lucius Malfoy all too well, and he knows Draco even better. And the less Draco talks, the worse things invariably are. And Theo worries. He, personally, has no plans for post-Hogwarts and his gran's trying to make him anxious about that but Theo much prefers being in this position to Draco's. He wishes they could just piss off to Spain or Italy or somewhere (anywhere) and leave Lucius and Malfoy Manor firmly in the past.

Unfortunately, Draco takes his responsibilities far too seriously.

"Don't worry about it," says Theo quickly before Draco sinks into one of his moods. He nudges his friend. "Come on, it's nearly Christmas and we're here and it's Hogwarts and fuck your father. Want to go steal some eggnog from the kitchens?"

Despite himself, a smile tugs in one corner of Draco's mouth. "Eggnog's disgusting," he says, accepting Theo's hand.