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The Burrow’s backyard shimmered with soft, golden light as Fred and George admired their masterpiece. Dozens of enchanted mistletoes glowed in the snowy garden, their twinkling charm casting a romantic spell over the crisp December air.
“I give Potter and Malfoy ten minutes before they’re snogging under one of these beauties,” Fred said confidently, dusting snow off his gloves.
George smirked. “Five minutes. Malfoy’s been pining for years, and Harry’s as oblivious as a flobberworm. The mistletoe’s practically doing them a favor.”
Inside the house, Blaise Zabini leaned against the wall, arms crossed, while Pansy Parkinson fussed with her hair in the reflection of a frosted window.
“You owe me for this,” Blaise said flatly. “Do you have any idea how stubborn Draco can be? Dragging him here was like trying to convince a cat to swim.”
Pansy smirked. “Oh, stop complaining. He’s out there now, isn’t he? That’s what matters.”
“He doesn’t even know Potter’s waiting for him,” Blaise muttered.
“Exactly. If he knew, he would’ve refused to come. This way, it’s a surprise.” Pansy’s grin widened. “And when he finally gets his Christmas kiss, you’ll be the hero.”
Blaise rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. He had a soft spot for Draco, even if he wouldn’t admit it, and part of him secretly hoped this plan would work.
Out in the garden, George was adding a final touch to a particularly large cluster of mistletoe when Blaise strolled up behind him, hands in his coat pockets.
“Well?” George asked without turning around. “Mission accomplished?”
Blaise shrugged. “Draco’s here. He’s grumbling about the cold, but he’s here.”
“Good enough.” George stepped back, inspecting his work. “Now we wait for the magic to happen.”
Blaise tilted his head, an amused smile tugging at his lips. “You’re awfully invested in Potter’s love life for someone who isn’t Potter.”
George chuckled. “Fred and I live for chaos. And this?” He gestured to the garden, the glowing mistletoe, the faint hum of anticipation in the air. “This is top-tier mischief.”
Blaise smirked, his sharp eyes glinting in the soft light. “I can respect that.”
As George turned to face him, his grin faltered slightly. Blaise was standing closer than he expected, his tall frame relaxed but commanding. George was about to make a quip when something above them caught his eye.
“Ah,” George said, looking up.
Blaise followed his gaze. A single sprig of mistletoe hung above their heads, its soft golden glow casting an almost ethereal light around them.
“Well,” Blaise said after a moment, his tone as smooth as ever. “That’s convenient.”
George’s grin returned, but it was softer this time, less mischievous and more curious. “Convenient, huh? You don’t seem the type to believe in coincidence.”
“I don’t,” Blaise replied, stepping a fraction closer.
There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched and thickened, charged with unspoken possibilities. George, always quick with a joke, found himself uncharacteristically speechless under Blaise’s intense gaze.
“So,” Blaise murmured, his voice low and velvety, “are you going to kiss me, or should I take the lead?”
George’s breath hitched, but he recovered quickly, his grin turning playful. “You’re awfully sure of yourself, Zabini.”
“Always.” Blaise’s tilt was maddeningly confident, and before George could think of a clever retort, Blaise leaned in.
The moment Blaise leaned in, George forgot how to breathe. Blaise kissed with a kind of deliberate precision that George had never experienced before—like he’d studied exactly how to turn someone’s knees to jelly and was putting it into practice.
It started slow, Blaise’s lips brushing over George’s, soft and teasing, as if daring him to respond. George’s head was spinning, his usual confidence nowhere to be found. Blaise was all control, all skill, tilting his head just enough to deepen the kiss, pulling George further into a haze of warmth and sensation.
George wanted to move, wanted to do something, but he couldn’t seem to figure out what. His hands hovered awkwardly by his sides, his fingers twitching with the urge to reach out, to hold onto something, anything. Blaise seemed to notice—of course, he noticed—and a low hum of amusement escaped against George’s mouth.
Then Blaise whispered, his voice low and rough, the words vibrating against George’s lips: “Touch me.”
The sound of it sent a shiver down George’s spine, his restraint snapping like a thread. His hands shot up almost without thinking, grabbing fistfuls of Blaise’s coat and pulling him closer. The force of it knocked Blaise off balance for a moment, and George thought he might’ve taken control—until Blaise kissed him harder, with a sudden intensity that made George’s breath catch.
Blaise’s tongue flicked against George’s lips, coaxing them open with maddening patience, and when George let him in, Blaise took full advantage. His tongue slid against George’s, slow and sinful, before he sucked on it, the sensation sending heat coursing through George’s body like fire.
George groaned, his grip on Blaise’s coat tightening as he leaned into the kiss, slipping his hands under the coat and grabbing Blaises’s waist, desperate to keep up. His heart was racing, his thoughts scrambled, every nerve in his body alive with the way Blaise’s mouth moved against his. Blaise was relentless, skilled, like he’d done this a hundred times before and knew exactly how to leave George utterly undone.
The world seemed to narrow to just the two of them. The faint hum of the mistletoe’s magic, the crisp scent of snow, the gentle scrape of Blaise’s teeth against George’s lower lip—it was intoxicating, overwhelming in the best possible way.
When George finally pulled back, his breath hitched, his chest rising and falling as he tried to process what just happened. Blaise looked calm as ever, though there was a slight flush on his usually cool demeanor.
George’s voice came out in a panicked rush before he could stop himself: “You know I like you, right?”
The words hung in the air like frost, sparkling and delicate. George’s eyes widened, and he froze, realizing what he’d just said.
Blaise’s lips twitched, his smirk returning full force. “I had a suspicion.”
“Oh, Merlin,” George muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t—I mean, I didn’t mean—well, I did, but not like—”
Blaise cut him off with a soft chuckle, his hand still lingering near George’s jaw. “Relax, Weasley. You’ve got nothing to panic about.”
George blinked, caught off guard. “I don’t?”
“No,” Blaise said, his voice quieter now, more sincere. “I like you too.”
The words were simple, but they hit George like a Bludger to the chest. He stared at Blaise, his usual wit completely failing him.
“Well,” Blaise continued, his smirk softening into something warmer, “are you going to kiss me again, or do I have to take the lead every time?”
George broke into a grin, his panic melting away as quickly as it had come. “Cheeky, aren’t you?”
“You like it,” Blaise shot back smoothly.
George laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah,” he admitted, pulling Blaise closer. “I really do.”
This time, when their lips met, it wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t about the mistletoe or the holiday tradition—it was just them, the heat of Blaise’s kiss sparking something warm and real in George’s chest.
And for once, George didn’t feel the need to say anything clever.
Above them, the mistletoe shimmered, as if pleased with its handiwork.
Across the garden, Fred leaned against a snow-covered fence, watching the scene unfold with a knowing grin. “Looks like Potter and Malfoy aren’t the only ones under our spell tonight.”
Pansy, standing beside him with a mug of hot cocoa, smirked. “Told you Blaise wouldn’t stick around just to watch.”
Fred chuckled. “Think they’ll thank us later?”
Pansy took a sip of her cocoa, her eyes twinkling. “Not a chance.”