Chapter Text
Brooklyn Farmers Market - Pre-Thunderbolts
Snow drifted lazily between vendor tents, muffling the usual chatter of the Brooklyn weekend market. Bucky Barnes paused at the edge of the lane, taking in scents that tugged on memories: pine sap, roasted chestnuts, cheap cocoa packets cracked open by impatient kids.
He wasn’t planning to stop.
Wasn’t planning anything.
But muscle memory and instinct tugged him forward until he stood in front of the one stall he’d never expected to see again.
POTTER’S EVERGREEN HAVEN
Holiday Charm Guaranteed.
The words glowed softly on the wooden sign, gilded with magic. Real magic. Little gold motes hummed lazily between the pines, catching like dust in sunlight.
The crack of a magic ward snapped, sharp as a twig.
“Easy there,” a voice called. “The wards bite when people move too fast in here.”
Bucky turned - and forgot how to breathe for a second.
The woman approaching him had deep red hair braided loose over her shoulder, strands escaping in the wind like copper sparks. Her green eyes were bright and sharp, assessing him with open curiosity. And bundled up in a black pea coat, jeans and boots.
She crossed her arms. Her knitted red and white mittens looking comically large and warm. “You’re not planning to rob me, are you?”
He blinked. “What? No.”
“Good. You don’t look like the tree-stealing type, but I try not to judge based on aesthetics alone.”
A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. “Tree-stealing?”
“You’d be surprised how many New Yorkers have tried. Last week someone attempted to make off with a six-foot spruce by pretending it was a very stiff boyfriend.”
“…How?”
“Badly.”
He shook his head. “I’m just looking.”
“That’s what they all say,” she replied with mock suspicion, then stepped closer, offering a gloved hand. “Harry Potter.”
He took her hand carefully. “Wow, uh nice to meet you. I've heard a lot about you…I’m Bucky Barnes.”
“I know.” She tapped a finger to her temple with her free hand. “Magical intuition.”
He raised a brow.
She grinned. “Kidding. You were on like… forty headlines last year. Hard to miss.”
He snorted. “Right.”
Harry dropped her hand but didn’t step back. “So what brings Brooklyn’s most brooding non-Avenger to my stall?”
“I don’t brood.”
“Mmm.” She pretended to evaluate him. “You brood just a little. Artistically. It’s almost a skill.”
Despite himself, Bucky smiled. “I walked by. Didn’t expect this place to still be here.”
Harry’s expression softened. “It almost wasn’t.”
He watched her brush snow off a branch, the move gentle enough that even the enchanted needles didn’t stir.
“The old owner died during the Blip,” she said quietly. “His grandkids wanted to sell the stall spot to a coffee chain.”
“A coffee chain?” He grimaced. “Here?”
“I know. Horrifying.” Harry gestured at the rows of trees. “This spot’s been part of Brooklyn since the thirties. Felt wrong to let it vanish.”
“Good call,” he murmured.
“Right?” She brightened. “Brooklyn needs more history, less pumpkin-spice capitalism.”
That earned another laugh from him.
Harry tilted her head. “You said you recognized this place?”
“Yeah.” Bucky glanced around, letting his eyes follow lines of tents, remembering. “Me and Steve used to come here. When we were kids. Steve always insisted we get the one with the ‘most personality.’ Which meant the crooked one.”
She smiled warmly. “Sounds charming.”
“It was irritating,” Bucky said. Then, after a beat, softer: “But yeah. Charming.”
Harry didn’t rush to fill the silence. She simply stood beside him, letting him take the moment. That, he appreciated more than he could admit.
Finally she clapped her hands together once.
“Alright, Barnes. Let’s get you a tree. Something sturdy. Classic. Quietly heroic.”
He blinked. “Quietly heroic?”
“Obviously.” She walked ahead, motioning him to follow. “You can’t bring home something that upstages you.”
“I’m not -”
She held up a finger. “If you finish that sentence with ‘a hero,’ I’ll hex your shoelaces tied together for a week.”
He stared at her.
She stared back.
He huffed. “Fine.”
“That’s what I thought.”
She led him between rows of enchanted pines, humming gently with winter magic. Snow caught in her red hair like scattered sparks, and she looked back at him with a small, almost mischievous smile.
“This one,” she said, stopping beside a tall blue spruce shimmering with faint runic frost. “It’s been staring at you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Trees stare?”
“Magic stares. Trees judge. This one does both.”
“…Judge?”
“Oh, absolutely.” She leaned in, whispering loudly. “It’s very opinionated. Made faces at three customers earlier.”
“Trees don’t -”
“Barnes.” She tapped the trunk. The tree gave a soft rustle, almost like a pleased sigh. “Respect the tree.”
He shook his head but stepped closer. The enchantment in the branches flickered warmly.
Harry softened. “It likes you.”
He swallowed. “You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true,” she murmured. “The moment you walked in, this one lit up like a Christmas beacon. Nearly blew out my lights. Dramatic little thing.”
Her green eyes met his, gentle and curious.
“Do you believe in signs?”
“Not really,” he said quietly.
She tilted her head. “That’s alright. Sometimes signs believe in you.”
The words hit him deeper than they should’ve.
Harry seemed to realize it, her expression softened, sincerity replacing her playful bravado.
“You don’t have to buy a tree,” she said gently. “You can just… be here.”
His chest tightened.
He didn’t realize how much he’d needed someone to say that.
“…Maybe I want one.”
Her smile brightened, warm as the enchanted lights above them.
“Then let’s get you the perfect tree, Bucky Barnes.”
Harry stepped back from the tall blue spruce, hands on her hips.
“Alright. Decision time.”
Bucky looked up at the six-and-a-half-foot enchantment. “I, uh… don’t think this is gonna fit on my bike.”
Harry snapped her fingers. A burst of golden sparks spiraled around the tree.
Before he could blink, the entire spruce shrank to the size of a knitting needle and landed neatly in her palm.
She held it out. “Problem solved.”
Bucky blinked. “That easy?”
“Yes,” she declared proudly. “Shrinking is one of my talents. Along with dueling, sarcasm, and annoying government officials.”
“…Impressive list.”
“I know,” she said with a smug little nod. Then, more practically, “Come on. I’ll walk you through how to unshrink it so you don’t accidentally blow up your living room.”
She led him to a quiet corner of the stall, tapping the tiny tree in his hand.
“So this one,” she pointed, “you’ll unshrink when you get home. You tap the base three times with any wand-like object. Doesn’t have to be a wand. Toothpick, pencil, chopstick, stick, literally anything.”
“Metal arm work?”
Harry blinked.
Harry stared.
Harry grinned, delighted.
“Oh. Absolutely try that. At least I’ll have a good story to tell if your neighbors call about a magically expanding spruce smashing through your ceiling.”
He snorted. “I’ll use a pencil.”
“Coward,” she teased.
He tucked the tiny tree carefully into his jacket pocket.
Harry dusted snow from her braid. “Now, important question. Do you have a tree stand?”
Bucky froze. “…No.”
“Barnes.”
She sounded personally offended. “You cannot bring home a tree, my tree, and just… lean it against a wall like a sad houseplant.”
“I wasn’t -”
“Oh, you were absolutely going to,” she cut in, grabbing a crate and pulling out random bits of enchanted clutter. “I can see it in your eyes. Tragic bachelor energy radiating off you.”
He bristled. “I’m not -”
“Uh-huh. Do you want a tree stand or not?”
He sighed. “Yeah. I guess I need one.”
“Good answer.”
She pulled out a battered metal pot, eyed it critically, shook her head, and tossed it aside. “Okay. Transfiguration it is.”
He watched, fascinated, as she rolled up her sleeves.
“So, confession,” Harry said, flicking her wand in testing gestures mid-air. “I’m more of a raw-power kind of girl. Lots of boom, lots of sparks. Subtle Transfiguration isn’t usually my thing.”
“That’s… comforting.”
“But!” She beamed. “I’m also a dab hand at enchantments. So if I mangle the shape, at least it’ll work. Probably. Mostly.”
Bucky folded his arms. “You telling me this so I won’t sue if it bites me?”
“Tree stands don’t bite, Bucky.”
“Magic ones might.”
She considered that. “Okay, true. But if it does, I’ll fix it. Or replace it. Or bribe it.”
“Bribe -?”
“Not the point!” she said brightly, and tapped the metal pot.
The pot shuddered.
It wobbled.
It sprouted legs.
It sprouted too many legs.
Bucky took a slow step back. “Is it supposed to do that?”
Harry blew a stubborn strand of red hair from her face. “Not even remotely. Hang on.”
She flicked her wand sharply.
The pot-thing let out a metallic chirp, spun once, then, thankfully, its legs melted back into the metal. The form rippled, stretched, rounded -
And settled into a perfectly shaped, deep green, enchantment-stabilized Christmas tree stand.
Harry stared at it.
Her eyebrows rose.
Her expression softened into surprised pride.
“Oh,” she said quietly. “That’s… actually really good.”
Bucky smiled. “You sound shocked.”
“Transfiguration and I are not friends,” she admitted. She tapped the finished stand with her wand; golden runes lit and faded. “But my father was supposedly good at it.”
He tilted his head. “Supposedly?”
She shrugged lightly. “Hard to remember things from when you were a baby. But that’s what people said.” She brushed her thumb over one of the runes. “And wouldn’t you know, he could transform into a stag.”
She looked up at him through her lashes, humor flickering in her eyes.
“A buck.”
Bucky’s lips twitched. “You’re joking.”
“Nope.”
She leaned in slightly.
“Like you, Bucky.”
He felt his ears warm. “It’s not the same animal.”
“Oh, absolutely the same.” She smirked. “Antlers, hooves, brooding forest energy. Practically twins.”
He huffed, shaking his head, but he couldn’t stop the smile tugging at his mouth.
Harry handed him the finished stand.
“Here. On the house. Consider it a legacy of excellent Transfiguration genes and questionable decision-making.”
He accepted it carefully. “Thank you.”
She shrugged, suddenly shy for the first time. “Well. You bought my favorite tree. I had to make sure it has a good home.”
Something warm settled in his chest.
Something he hadn’t felt in years.
He cleared his throat. “So… what do I owe you?”
Her smile returned, bright, teasing, unfairly cute.
Her smile returned, bright, teasing, unfairly cute.
“For the tree?” she said, writing neatly on a small charm-receipt. “Seventy-five cents.”
Bucky blinked. Hard.
“…Harry.”
“Yes?” she asked, voice all innocent trouble.
“You’re charging me seventy-five cents.”
“That is what I said,” she confirmed, nodding sagely.
He pointed at the tree. “This is a six-foot enchanted blue spruce.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “and I will accept exactly seventy-five American cents for it. Preferably not counterfeit. Though if it is, I applaud your dedication.”
“Harry.”
He leaned in. “This is the price of a Christmas tree in 1940.”
Her smile grew smug. “Wow. What are the odds?”
“And the stand?” he asked suspiciously.
“Two dollars.”
“Two.”
“Correct.”
He stared at her. “Harry. Stands were two dollars in the forties.”
She gasped dramatically. “Bucky Barnes, are you accusing me of historically informed pricing?”
“…yes.”
“Good.” She beamed. “I worked very hard on that.”
He sighed, though the corner of his mouth tugged upward. “Why?”
She shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Because I don’t really need money. The stall keeps itself afloat, magic covers my bills, and I eat for free at three vendors because I saved their pets from spontaneous combustion.”
“…should I ask?”
“No,” she advised kindly. “But it was adorable.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “So you just… give people whatever prices you want?”
“Oh no.” She shook her head. “I charge actual prices to government officials and a-holes.”
He paused. “…those categories overlap.”
“Exactly!” she said, delighted he understood. “If someone shows up wearing smugness and a taxpayer-funded coat, they’re paying full price.”
Bucky coughed. “…Harry.”
“Yes?”
“I’m a congressman.”
Harry froze mid-smile.
Slowly.
Painfully.
“Bucky. Bucky, no.”
“It’s true.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered, genuine sympathy blooming on her face. “You got yourself trapped in politics?”
“It’s not, I didn’t, it wasn’t really my idea -”
“Oh, you poor thing.” She stepped closer like she was examining a wounded soldier. “Who talked you into it? Are you safe? Do you need tea?”
“It’s not that bad -”
“It is that bad,” she insisted. “That place is a snake pit built on paperwork and bad decisions.”
He snorted despite himself. “I’m fine.”
“No one in politics is fine,” she said firmly. “Not even the interns. Especially not the interns.”
He shook his head. “So since I’m technically a government official, shouldn’t you charge me full price?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Oh absolutely not. I’m pretty sure you got tricked into that job the same way I once got tricked into fighting a dragon. Which is to say, someone said ‘it’ll be fine,’ and you believed them.”
He opened his mouth to argue, then shut it because…
Okay, that was almost exactly how it happened.
Harry sighed deeply and reached under the counter.
“Here.”
She scribbled something on an enchanted card and shoved it into his hands.
He looked down.
A phone number.
The paper warmed slightly, as if encouraging him to keep it.
“What’s this for?” he asked softly.
“For when you want to strangle them,” she said warmly. “Which will probably be soon.”
He chuckled. “That obvious?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “Exceptionally. And look, one hero to another, if you ever need to vent, yell, hide, or magically booby-trap someone’s office, call me.”
His brows lifted. “…Booby-trap?”
“In mostly legal ways,” she amended. “Mostly.”
Bucky slipped the card carefully into his jacket.
“Thanks, Harry.”
Her smile softened, coloring her cheeks.
“Anytime, Congressman Barnes.”
He winced.
She laughed, delighted.
⸻
The next day was hell.
Bucky had expected Congress to be annoying. He had not expected:
• three back-to-back committee meetings that could’ve been emails
• a senator arguing that magic should be taxed “per sparkle”
• an aide asking if he could “bring Captain America’s spirit” to a budget hearing
• a photo op where the photographer demanded he “look more 1940s heroic”
And then -
The email.
You are cordially invited (read: required) to attend the White House Christmas Gala as a representative of the enhanced community. Bring a date. :)
He groaned so loudly his intern poked her head in to check if he’d been shot.
He hadn’t been shot.
But he wished he had been.
Because the only reason they wanted him there was the same reason they kept shoving Steve’s name into every conversation:
He was the closest thing they had left.
By the time he collapsed onto his couch that night, even his metal shoulder felt tense.
He stared at the little enchanted business card Harry gave him.
It pulsed once, warm, encouraging.
He didn’t think.
He just texted.
⸻
Bucky:
Hey. It’s Barnes.
I think I need to cash in that favor.
Three dots appeared instantly. She was waiting for him.
Harry:
Tell me you didn’t actually strangle someone.
Because I do NOT have an extradition plan ready today.
Bucky:
Didn’t strangle anyone.
Thought about it though.
Harry:
Perfectly normal. Continue.
He exhaled.
Okay. Just say it.
Bucky:
I have to go to the White House Christmas party.
Work thing.
They’re telling me I need a date.
There was a long pause.
Not a bad one, a thinking one.
Harry:
Ugh, those things.
Fancy outfits, fake smiles, rich people who say “vibe” incorrectly.
Condolences.
A reluctant smile pulled at his lips.
Bucky:
Yeah. Something like that.
Harry:
And let me guess…
They want you there because you’re the Steve Rodgers - Bucky Barnes Special Edition Museum Exhibit™ they can trot out for donors?
He froze.
She had nailed it exactly.
Bucky:
…Yeah.
Her next reply came fast, fierce, protective.
Harry:
That’s messed up. I’m sorry.
You deserve better than being everyone’s nostalgia puppet.
He didn’t realize how badly he needed someone to get it until now.
Bucky:
Thanks.
Anyway.
I don’t want to go alone.
I figured you might…
maybe…
know a spell to fake an illness?
Harry:
Oh honey.
I can do WAY better than fake an illness.
Harry:
Meet me in twenty minutes.
Market square.
Cocoa stand.
Harry:
We’re going to strategize.
Bucky:
About how to skip the party?
Harry:
About how to survive it.
And maybe… if you want…
about dates.
His stomach flipped.
Bucky:
You sure you want to spend your night on this?
Harry:
Bucky.
I like cocoa.
I like Christmas.
And I like you.
So yes.
I’m sure.
He stared at the screen.
Then at the tiny tree in the corner.
Then back at the glowing message.
He grabbed his coat.
⸻
The market was lit up with string lights and glowing spells. Snow drifted softly, like someone had turned the city’s noise knob down a few notches.
Harry spotted him first.
She was leaning against the cocoa stand, red braid escaping her hat, two steaming cups in hand.
She waved one cup overhead.
“To bad days, bureaucratic torment, and men who need rescuing from political parties!”
He huffed a laugh and joined her.
“Rough day?” she asked gently, pressing a cup into his hand.
“You have no idea.”
“Oh, I definitely do. That’s why this one has extra marshmallows.”
He took a sip. It was perfect.
She nudged his arm.
“So. Tell me about this Christmas gala and how you feel about burning it down. Just hypothetically.”
Bucky smiled into his cocoa.
Maybe today wasn’t so bad after all.
The cocoa stand radiated warmth into the cold evening, lights twinkling overhead like shy little stars. People wandered the market, laughing, bundled in scarves, clutching warm drinks.
But Bucky barely noticed any of it.
Harry was sitting across from him on a little bench, cup between her hands, red braid slipping over her shoulder as she leaned in with a conspiratorial grin.
“Okay,” she said, “we need a plan.”
“For…?”
“Your survival. At the Gala of Political Doom.” She wiggled her fingers dramatically. “Ta-da.”
He huffed a laugh. “You really don’t have to -”
“Oh, but I do,” she said, tapping his cup with hers. “I can’t let my favorite congressman suffer alone.”
He froze for half a second. Favorite?
Harry didn’t even seem to realize she’d said it. She was already launching into a list.
“So. Option one: We enchant your shoes to jingle whenever someone lies. Subtle, festive, but potentially chaotic.”
“Harry.”
“Option two,” she continued, undeterred, “I disguise myself as a fancy diplomat and loudly panic whenever someone mentions a trade treaty.”
“That would get us kicked out.”
“Exactly.” She beamed. “See? Already fun.”
He shook his head, amused.
Then she brightened suddenly.
“Oh! That reminds me of something. At Hogwarts, my second year, one of my professors introduced a Valentine’s Day delivery service.” She leaned in, voice gleefully horrified. “Run by dwarves.”
Bucky stared. “Dwarves.”
“Winged golden cherub dwarves,” she clarified solemnly. “Arranged by Gilderoy Lockhart, who was, objectively, the worst.”
“And these… dwarves delivered valentines?”
“Chased people,” Harry corrected. “Down the halls. Through the library. Into classrooms.”
He blinked. “Why?”
“Because Lockhart was an idiot with too much confidence. Anyway, one caught me.” She winced. “Cornered me outside Charms and sang. Loudly.”
“Harry.”
“You think I’m joking,” she said, raising a finger. “I am absolutely not. He sang to me, at full volume -”
She cleared her throat, then recited:
“Her eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad,
Her hair is as red as a rose.
I wish she was mine, she’s really divine,
The hero who conquered the Dark Lord.”
Bucky choked on his cocoa.
Actually choked.
Harry thumped his back, laughing so hard she nearly spilled her drink.
“Oh my God,” he wheezed. “Pickled toad?!”
“I know!” she said between giggles. “Who compares a girl’s eyes to a pickled toad? And the worst part? Everyone in the hallway heard it. Including Draco Malfoy. I could never look at him the same again.”
Bucky laughed, really laughed, warm in a way he rarely let himself be.
Harry watched him with soft satisfaction.
“See? You’re already smiling. Dwarves work.”
“No dwarves at the White House,” he said firmly. “Absolutely not.”
“Fine.” She kicked her boot lightly against his. “I’ll save that plan for Congress.”
He groaned.
She grinned.
For a moment, it was easy, just two people sharing cocoa in the glow of enchanted lights.
Beside her, a small fairy peeked from the branches of a tiny potted fir she’d brought with her, one of the decorative mini-trees she tended like they were pets. The fairy had frosty wings and a smug little pout, holding a pine needle like a spear.
“Hi, Twig,” Harry whispered, tapping the branch.
The fairy twirled, scattering glittering frost like confetti.
Bucky watched, fascinated. “Does it… understand you?”
“Oh yes.” She stuck her tongue out at the fairy. “He’s a menace.”
Twig stuck out his tongue right back.
Harry gasped. “See? Rude.”
Bucky couldn’t stop smiling.
Harry squinted at the fairy. “Twig, behave. You’re embarrassing me in front of -”
She cut herself short.
Bucky blinked. “In front of…?”
She sipped her cocoa quickly, cheeks warming in a very not-from-the-cold way.
“Never mind.”
Silence settled, comfortable, warm.
Harry was still absently playing with Twig, coaxing him into pirouettes with miniature sparks of green light.
Bucky watched her.
The red braid brushing her coat.
The snowflakes melting in her hair.
The crinkle of her eyes when she smiled.
The way she made the cold feel… not cold.
And quietly, effortlessly, it hit him.
He wanted her there.
Not because she made parties bearable.
Not because she understood him.
Not because she made him laugh like he hadn’t since Steve.
He wanted to go with her.
To walk into that suffocating White House ballroom not as a symbol or a relic.
But with someone who saw him, just Bucky.
His breath caught.
Harry looked up. “You okay?”
He swallowed.
“Yeah. I… just realized something.”
“Good something?” she asked, turning fully toward him.
He nodded slowly.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Good.”
Her smile warmed the winter air.
Harry was still coaxing Twig into little light trails when she finally looked up again, cheeks pink from laughter and cold.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” she asked, brow creased with gentle concern.
Bucky swallowed, suddenly aware of how loudly his heart was beating.
“Yeah. Just… something I’ve been thinking about.”
She tilted her head, hair sliding over her shoulder in a red cascade. “Thinking is good. Usually. Unless it involves dragons, cursed diaries, or tax legislation.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, mostly because it helped steady him.
“Harry?”
She blinked. “Mm?”
He exhaled.
“Would you… maybe… want to go with me? To the White House Christmas party?”
Harry froze so dramatically that Twig smacked into a branch behind her in surprise.
Her green eyes widened.
“You mean… as your date?”
Bucky rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. I mean, if that’s okay. If you want to. If you don’t have plans. Or if you do have plans, I can pretend I didn’t ask, and this whole thing never happened -”
“Bucky.”
He shut up instantly.
Harry leaned forward, smile blooming, soft and pleased and just a little awed.
“I would love to be your date.”
He blinked. “Really?”
She laughed, bright and unguarded. “Of course! I mean, someone needs to protect you from senators who say ‘abracadabra’ as if it’s a slur.”
His nose scrunched. “They do that.”
“I know,” she said dramatically. “It’s tragic.”
He hesitated before adding, quieter, “I know you were joking about sabotaging the party, but… you don’t have to. Not if it puts you in a weird spot.”
Harry gasped as though insulted. “Bucky Barnes. What kind of date do you take me for?”
He blinked. “…A nice one?”
“I am delightfully chaotic, thank you.” She tapped her chest. “I absolutely plan to sabotage the party.”
“Harry -”
“But!” she added, hurrying forward before he panicked, “only in small, harmless, entertaining ways. Like enchanting the punch bowl to refill itself. Or making the mistletoe slightly aggressive.”
“That doesn’t sound harmless,” he said flatly.
“Think of it as festive.” She wiggled her eyebrows.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, but he was smiling. “I really just want to go with you.”
Her teasing expression softened instantly.
“Oh,” she breathed. “Well, in that case… sabotage optional. I can behave.”
A beat.
“Probably.”
He chuckled. “Harry -”
“I’ll try,” she said, holding up a hand. “No dwarves, no singing valentines, no glitter curses.”
“Thank you.”
She leaned in, lowering her voice.
“But I reserve the right to enchant the Christmas tree if someone annoys you too much.”
He raised a brow. “What would that even do?”
“Depends on the level of annoyance. Worst case, it sprains a senator.”
He snorted. “Please don’t sprain any senators.”
“No promises.”
Twig made an approving chiming sound from her shoulder, as if endorsing violence.
Harry flicked the fairy lightly. “Not helping.”
She turned back to Bucky, smile gentler now. “Really, I’d like to go. With you. Even without sabotage.”
The warmth in her tone seeped right under his ribs.
He reached out, slowly, and brushed a fallen snowflake from her hair.
She went still, breath catching just a bit.
“Thanks,” he murmured.
She swallowed, words wobbling into softness.
“Anytime.”
They stayed like that a moment, snow drifting, cocoa steaming, market lights glowing gold around them.
Together.
Easy.
Warm in a way neither expected.
Finally, Harry hopped to her feet, offering him a gloved hand.
“Come on, Congressman Barnes. We need to plan outfits. And cover stories. And potential escape routes.”
He took her hand and rose, smiling despite himself.
“Escape routes?”
“Oh yes,” she said brightly. “Every successful date needs at least two.”
⸻
The White House glowed under a sweep of golden Christmas lights, every window warm against the December night. Snow drifted lazily through the floodlit lawn, caught in the beams of ornate wreaths and the red carpet walkway laid out for the guests.
Bucky Barnes stood stiffly at the base of the marble steps, hands tucked in his coat pockets, trying not to look like a man who would rather be anywhere else.
He tugged at the collar of his formal coat. Too tight. Too polished. Too… governmental.
People flowed past him in glittering gowns and tailored suits, murmuring greetings and shaking hands.
Senators waved at him.
Donors whispered his name.
He ignored all of it.
Because he was waiting for her.
He checked his phone again, nothing.
Harry had said she’d be “fashionably late,” which he’d discovered meant “chaotically unpredictable.”
Then -
The murmuring changed.
Shifted.
Softened like a tide pulling back.
Heads turned toward the driveway.
A black car door opened.
And Harry stepped out.
Not walked, stepped, with confidence wrapped around her like a second skin.
She wore a deep wine-red gown, rich and elegant, the fabric hugging her shape before falling in a soft, dramatic sweep to the ground. A high slit revealed toned leg with every step. Two long cape-like panels draped from her shoulders, swaying like living magic.
Her hair, red as winter berries and firelight, was swept into a loose, elegant updo, soft tendrils framing her face.
She looked like something that didn’t belong to politics or ballrooms or the world of the ordinary.
She looked like power and danger and beauty wrapped together, like a spell with a heartbeat.
And it hit Bucky so hard he forgot how to inhale.
For a terrifying second, he wondered if his heart had actually stopped.
Harry spotted him at the foot of the steps and her whole face lit up.
Not the polite smile she’d given photographers.
Not the confident smirk she used to deal with annoying people.
A real smile.
Warm. Devastating.
For him.
She lifted her dress slightly to avoid the snow and walked toward him, cape sweeping behind her like wings.
When she stopped in front of him, Bucky still hadn’t unclenched his jaw or remembered how to speak.
“Hi,” she said brightly. “You clean up well. Very statesman-with-a-mysterious-past.”
He stared.
Actually stared.
Her cheeks pinked faintly. “Bucky? You okay?”
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
She blinked. “Are you, did you forget how to function? Did the cold finally get you? Blink twice if you need medical help -”
“You,” he managed, voice rough.
She tilted her head. “Me…?”
“You look…” He swallowed hard. “Harry. You look incredible.”
Color flared instantly across her cheekbones. “Oh. Well. Thank you. I did charm the dress to minimize tripping hazards and maximize dramatic entrance potential.”
“You didn’t need magic for that.”
Her breath hitched just slightly.
And then, because the universe hated him, a senator walking by loudly stage-whispered:
“Is that Barnes’s date? My God. She looks like Aphrodite in a floor-length cape.”
Harry snorted. “Points for accuracy, no points for subtlety.”
Bucky leaned closer. “You really… you knocked me out, you know.”
Her lips parted. “What?”
“I’m pretty sure my heart stopped.”
He said it lightly.
But he meant it.
Harry’s smile trembled into something soft, breathless. “You’re going to make this very difficult for me.”
“Why?”
“Because I had a whole list of sabotage plans,” she whispered conspiratorially. “But now all I want to do is enjoy the night with you.”
His chest tightened.
“You can still sabotage the punch bowl,” he said gently. “If it helps.”
She laughed, quiet, warm, a little flustered.
“Let’s start with surviving the entry photos and then reassess the punching-punch situation.”
She held out her hand.
Bucky took it.
Her fingers fit perfectly in his, warm despite the cold.
“Ready, Congressman Barnes?” she asked, eyes sparkling.
He squeezed her hand once.
“Yeah. Now I am.”
They walked up the steps together, her cape sweeping behind them like the tail of a comet, and Bucky could swear the entire party had gone silent just to watch her.
Just to watch them.
The White House ballroom glittered with chandeliers, towering Christmas trees, and enough holly wreaths to qualify as a fire hazard. Music drifted through the space, soft strings, polite, suffocatingly proper.
Bucky stepped through the doors with Harry on his arm, and for a moment the world… paused.
Conversations dipped.
Whispers rose.
Eyes turned, first at him, then immediately, overwhelmingly, at her.
Of course they did.
Harry looked like she had stepped out of a fairytale and wandered, with dangerous charm, into political territory by accident.
Her wine-red gown shimmered under the lights, the cape cascading behind her like liquid velvet. Subtle magic trailed her movements, a faint shimmer of gold drifting off the fabric like tiny stars losing their footing.
Bucky quietly thanked her enchantments for that.
They made senators keep a respectful distance.
Well.
Most senators.
“Congressman Barnes!” boomed Senator Haskins, nearly tripping over a poinsettia to reach them. “You simply must introduce me to -”
Harry squeezed Bucky’s arm.
A warning, a promise, a lifeline.
He looked at her.
She nodded subtly.
She’s got this.
Harry turned, giving Haskins a dazzling, politely terrifying smile.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said sweetly. “We need to speak to the Press Secretary first. Urgently.”
“Urgently?” Haskins blinked. “What about?”
Harry leaned forward, lowering her voice to a secretive whisper.
“Winter enchantment regulations.”
Haskins paled instantly. “Regu, oh. Oh! Yes, that sounds… serious. Very serious. Best not to keep you.”
“Exactly,” she chirped, tugging Bucky away before he could react.
Only when they were three senators deep into the room did she grin smugly.
“You’re welcome.”
He snorted. “Winter enchantment regulations?”
“It sounded boring. People here avoid boring.”
He huffed out a quiet laugh. “I’m going to owe you for this.”
“You already owe me cocoa.”
He smiled.
She smiled back.
Harry’s eyes were wide, her smile fixed but strained as the magical crowd surged closer, politely, reverently, overwhelmingly.
They meant well.
But they were closing in.
Questions flew like enchanted snowflakes:
“Ms. Potter, one picture?”
“Is it true you defeated him at seventeen?”
“What’s your stance on wand-carry permits in federal buildings?”
The last one made her flinch.
Bucky stepped closer, his hand brushing hers.
“Harry,” he murmured.
She squeezed his sleeve without realizing it. “Mm?”
“You trust me?”
Her eyes flicked up to his, bright, startled, then soft.
“Of course.”
That was all he needed.
He took her hand, warm, small, grounding, and stepped around the closest wizard with smooth, decisive confidence.
“Excuse us,” he said, voice firm but calm.
They blinked at him, confused.
Bucky didn’t give them time to object.
He guided Harry straight toward the center of the ballroom, where a live orchestra was easing into a slow, elegant waltz beneath the chandeliers.
Harry stumbled once, surprised. “Bucky -?”
“Dance floor,” he murmured. “Crowds follow politicians. Not dancers.”
She blinked.
Her lips parted.
Then she smiled, small, grateful, impossibly soft.
“You brilliant man.”
They stepped into the warm circle of light as the music swelled.
Bucky turned toward her, offering his hand properly now.
“May I?”
Harry slipped her hand into his without hesitation.
“You’d better.”
He pulled her gently into the waltz.
She fit against him perfectly, one hand resting lightly on his shoulder, the other clasped in his. Her red gown brushed around them in a whisper of fabric and enchantment.
The ballroom lights caught the faint sparks of magic trailing from her dress, casting tiny golden constellations across the floor.
Around them, senators and donors gave them space, some watching with surprise, others pretending not to stare.
The magical crowd stood at the edge of the dance circle, held back by the unspoken rule of ballroom etiquette.
Harry exhaled, tension melting from her shoulders as she fell into the steps with ease.
“Thank you,” she murmured, barely audible over the music.
“You saved me earlier,” Bucky replied quietly. “Figured it’s my turn.”
She laughed softly, looking up at him through thick lashes. “Well, if this is the rescue package, I approve wholeheartedly.”
“Good.” He twirled her gently, cape sweeping like velvet wings. “Because I wasn’t sure if you’d trip me for grabbing your hand.”
“Oh, I still might,” she teased. “But only if you step on my dress.”
“I’d never.”
“Mm. We’ll see.”
They glided across the floor in a smooth arc. Harry was light in his hands, buoyed by magic or talent or both. Her fingers tightened on his shoulder during a slow turn, her smile touching something deep and aching in him.
“You dance well,” she said, surprised and impressed.
“Brooklyn boys had to learn,” he murmured. “I couldn’t let Steve embarrass us both at community halls.”
She laughed, bright and warm.
Then her expression softened.
“I really do feel safe with you,” she whispered.
His breath caught.
“Good,” he said, voice low. “You should.”
A few beats of silence passed, comfortable, glowing, filled with all the words neither of them had said yet.
Harry tilted her head. “You know… I almost feel bad for avoiding all those people.”
“You don’t owe them anything tonight.”
She looked up at him, eyes bright. “And what do I owe you?”
Bucky hesitated.
Then, quietly:
“Just this dance.”
Her smile turned tender, like a candle lighting from the inside.
“Then I’ll give you as many as you want.”
The song shifted, flowing into the next, and Harry stepped closer, her head brushing just beneath his chin, her fingers curling softly into the fabric of his coat.
They kept dancing.
Just the two of them in a room full of people.
Saving each other.
⸻
The orchestra slid into another waltz, but the edges of the room were already growing noisy again, senators re-forming into clusters, magical guests sneaking glances at Harry, staffers hovering with lists and schedules.
Harry’s fingers flexed against his shoulder.
“Before someone realizes we’ve escaped,” she murmured, “want to make a run for it?”
“From the party?” he asked.
“From the attention,” she corrected. “I’m not emotionally prepared to hear the phrase ‘policy synergy’ while I’m in a cape.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Where do you want to run to?”
Her eyes flicked toward a set of French doors half-hidden behind one of the glittering trees. Beyond them, he could see a sliver of night and the suggestion of snow.
“There,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to see what kind of trouble the Rose Garden gets up to after dark.”
“You and trouble,” he muttered affectionately. “Alright. Let’s go.”
He let the dance spin them one last time, then guided her off the floor just as the music swelled. A couple of people tried to intercept, someone called his name, another reached toward Harry with a hopeful, “Ms. Potter, just one -”
“Winter enchantment regulations,” Harry said gravely, not even slowing.
“Yes,” Bucky added, deadpan. “Classified.”
They slipped through the French doors.
⸻
The noise of the ballroom cut off like a spell.
Outside, the world was quieter, snow soft on the ground, the air cold and clean. Strings of white lights traced the railings and outlined bare branches, reflecting off the thin layer of frost. The Rose Garden stretched out before them, transformed into something out of a storybook: white, silver, and the deep, rich green of winter shrubs dusted with snow.
They stepped onto the terrace.
Harry inhaled deeply. “Oh, that’s better. Less perfume. More actual oxygen.”
Bucky watched her as she moved to the edge of the stone balustrade, cape trailing behind her, breath puffing in little white clouds.
“You okay?” he asked.
She glanced back, smile soft. “Yeah. I just needed a minute where no one’s expecting me to sign something or flash a heroic smile.”
He understood that a little too well.
He joined her at the railing, shoulder brushing hers. Below, the lawn glowed under the lights, snow drifting lazily down, catching on her hair and lashes.
“Feels weird,” she said quietly, “doesn’t it? Being in there.”
“In the White House?”
“In a room where half the people see you and immediately start thinking about headlines and polling numbers,” she said. “Or war stories. Or grand narratives. Anything except… you.”
He stared ahead, jaw working.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “I know the feeling.”
“Of course you do.” She bumped her arm lightly against his. “Captain America’s best friend. Winter Soldier turned redemption arc. Poster boy for ‘Look, we promise we’re learning from our mistakes.’ They don’t see James Buchanan Barnes, they see… a symbol.”
He swallowed. “You too. The Girl Who Lived. The Woman Who Won. The ‘inspiration to witches everywhere.’”
She huffed a humorless laugh. “I should start charging royalties on the posters.”
He looked at her. “I liked you better as the chaotic tree-seller who threatened to hex my shoelaces.”
Her mouth curved. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he said, voice low and certain. “That’s the version I came back for.”
Her breath hitched just slightly, the playful edge of her expression melting into something more fragile, more real.
“For what it’s worth,” she said, eyes locked on his, “I never really believed the papers about you. Not the bad ones. I see you now and I think… you’re just Bucky. You like crooked Christmas trees and good cocoa and pretending you don’t brood when you absolutely do.”
“I do not -”
“You absolutely do,” she said softly. “And I like that man. The one who shows up at my stall and lets trees choose him.”
The words hung there, warm in the cold air.
He felt something in his chest loosen, like a knot he’d stopped noticing because it had been there for so long.
“Harry,” he said quietly, “I like you too.”
She smiled, eyes shining in the soft light. “I know. You asked me to a White House gala. That’s practically a declaration in your line of work.”
He shook his head, turning to face her fully. “I don’t mean just tonight.”
Her smile faltered, then deepened. “Oh.”
“I keep thinking about the market,” he went on, words slow, careful but unstoppable. “The snow. Your stupid fairy. The way you made space for me to just… stand there. Be a person. You’re the first one in a long time who’s looked at me and didn’t see Steve’s shadow first.”
Her throat bobbed.
“Bucky…”
“And being here with you,” he gestured weakly back toward the ballroom, toward the world, “it doesn’t feel like a PR stunt. It feels like… I’m not doing it alone. Like I’m allowed to actually enjoy it because you’re here.”
Silence.
Except for the distant muffled music and the faint hiss of falling snow.
Harry’s eyes shone, bright and wet at the edges.
“You know,” she said in a small, fond voice, “for someone who claims he doesn’t brood, you’re outrageously sincere.”
He huffed a breath that was almost a laugh. “Is that a problem?”
“It’s my favorite thing about you,” she admitted.
That startled him more than any headline.
He watched her, really watched her, the tilt of her mouth, the way her fingers curled on the stone, the hint of nerves in the way she shifted her weight.
“Your turn,” he said softly.
She blinked. “My turn?”
“For being outrageously sincere.”
Her cheeks flushed, color blooming against the cold.
“Alright,” she whispered. “But if I start reciting terrible toad poetry, I’m blaming you.”
“I’ll risk it.”
She rolled her eyes, then took a breath.
“I like you,” she said, and the words came out simple and true. “Not the way the world likes you. Not as a symbol on a podium or a sanitized story in a history book. I like the you who complains about meetings, and worries about his tree stand, and texts me instead of pretending he’s fine.”
He swallowed hard.
“I like the man who brought me into that room tonight and made it feel less like a cage and more like… just a weird, fancy date with too many canapés.”
He huffed a soft laugh. “Worst date review ever.”
She smiled. “I like you, Bucky. And I’d like to keep liking you. For a long time. If that’s alright with you.”
His heart was pounding. But for once, it wasn’t with panic.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s more than alright.”
Snow landed in her hair again. Without thinking, he reached up and brushed it away, fingers lingering near her cheek. She leaned into the touch, just a fraction.
Between them, the air seemed to thrum, magic, nerves, hope.
A soft chime sounded above them.
Harry frowned slightly and glanced up.
Dangling directly over their heads, glowing a gentle green-gold, was a sprig of mistletoe.
She narrowed her eyes. “I did not put that there.”
Bucky’s lips twitched. “You sure? Feels like your brand of sabotage.”
“I swear on my wand, that is not mine,” she said. Then, after a beat, added thoughtfully, “But I fully support its life choices.”
He chuckled, focusing back on her. “So what’s the protocol here? Is there a regulation for magical mistletoe in federal gardens?”
She smiled, slow and wicked and soft all at once.
“Unofficially,” she murmured, stepping closer, “it would be wildly irresponsible not to comply with the magic of the season.”
His hand slid to her waist, her own fingers resting against his chest over his heart.
“Harry?” he asked, giving her one last out.
She rose onto her toes, green eyes bright. “Bucky.”
And then she kissed him.
It was gentle at first, tentative, warm mouth against his in the cold night, tasting faintly of cocoa and something wild. He breathed her in, his free hand coming up to cradle the back of her neck, careful and reverent.
She leaned into him like she’d been waiting for this as long as he had.
The world blurred. The ballroom’s muffled music, the weight of the White House behind them, the years of being symbols and soldiers and saviors, all of it faded under the simple, startling fact that he was kissing Harry Potter under a strand of enchanted mistletoe in the snow.
When they parted, her forehead rested against his, both of them a little breathless, a little stunned.
“Well,” she whispered, lips brushing his. “That was… very not-bad.”
He laughed quietly. “Yeah. Definitely not-bad.”
Her fingers curled into his lapel. “So. Second date? No politicians, more trees?”
“Deal,” he said. “I know a place in Brooklyn. Potter’s Evergreen Haven. Owner’s a menace, but I like her.”
Harry’s smile was blinding.
“Good,” she said. “Because she’s already half in love with you.”
His heart stuttered.
“Yeah?” he managed hoarsely.
“Yeah,” she said, and kissed him again, slow and sure.
Above them, the mistletoe sparkled approvingly.
Inside, the world kept spinning, chandeliers glowing, senators scheming, wizards whispering.
Out here, under falling snow and fairy lights, it was just Harry and Bucky.
Just two people.
Breathing.
Laughing.
Choosing each other.
And for the first time in a long time, Christmas didn’t feel like a memory he was trying to relive.
It felt like the beginning of something new.