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When Draco returned to Hogwarts for his eighth year, he found himself frequently alone, with nothing to do most of the time. 

It had been quite understandable, really. Not many of them had even returned to Hogwarts for their eighth year, and between whatever minute percentage of them had, none – except for Draco – had been Slytherins. Pansy had long gone off to France with her mother, and Blaise had soon followed. Greg had stopped returning Draco’s owls about a month after Vincent’s death. 

It wasn’t as if Draco hadn’t expected this. Before school started in early September, he had gotten a private letter from McGonagall herself, asking for a meeting regarding the circumstances of his re-enrollment into Hogwarts. When he managed to drag himself up seven floors of the West Tower, he found himself standing in front of the headmistress’ office, heart pounding with anxiety and guilt, and mouth drying itself of its moisture. He had been scared to enter. Of what, he could not say.

“Please enter, Mr. Malfoy,” called McGonagall from beyond the thick wooden doors. For what is possibly the first time in years, Draco found himself properly sweating. 

When he entered, he found McGonagall sitting at her desk. Behind her hung Dumbledore’s portrait, which Draco immediately avoided making eye contact with. The portrait, however, had been quite engrossed in arranging a vase of lilacs and lavenders, slightly humming as it pushed the small bunches of purple flowers about.  

“I’m sure you are aware why I’ve called you here today, Mr. Malfoy,” said McGonagall after Draco had taken his seat.

“Because there are concerns about allowing a Death Eater into the castle?” asked Draco, the mark radiating almost mockingly with warmth under his sleeve.

“Well, I suppose that is one way to put it.” McGonagall put down her glasses on the desk. She cleared her throat and said, “Mr. Malfoy, you made choices during the war; Some under coercion, some of your own accord. I am aware of the distinction, as are the authorities who permitted your return. That does not erase the consequences of those choices."

"Many of the students returning this year have buried family members and friends. It would be unreasonable of me to expect them to welcome you back with open arms,” said McGonagall, crossing her arms on the table. "Nor, however, will I permit this castle to become a place of retaliation."

"You have been readmitted because Hogwarts exists to educate those willing to learn, not because anyone believes you are owed forgiveness. Forgiveness is a gift, Mr. Malfoy. It cannot be demanded, hurried, or earned through a single year of good behaviour. Respect, however,” she paused, staring into Draco’s eyes. “Respect is something you may begin earning the moment you walk out of this office."

“That is all, Mr. Malfoy,” said McGonagall, putting her glasses back on. “Have a good start of the year.”

Draco swallowed, throat burning with a strange kind of feeling. 

“Thank you, Headmistress,” he said, voice genuine. 

He stood up to leave, and was suddenly interrupted by a voice calling out to him.

“Have a sherbet lemon, Mr. Malfoy,” called out Dumbledore’s portrait, gesturing towards a bowl on McGonagall’s desk. It had been filled to the brim with small, yellow candies wrapped in a transparent wrapper – Some kind of Muggle treat, no doubt. Panicked and somewhat suffocating, Draco’s eyes flickered between the bowl and Dumbledore, before finally resting on McGonagall, who had simply raised one of her eyebrows at him.

Draco looked down at the bowl again, and took a sherbet lemon.

“Thank you, Professor,” he said again meekly, before almost running out of the office. He could hear Dumbledore’s hearty laugh as he parted.

That night, alone in his room, Draco took out the sherbet lemon from the inner pocket of his robe and unwrapped it. It fizzed and popped in Draco’s mouth.

It was quite good.

—-------

For the next few weeks, Draco often found himself wandering the fields outside. Oftentimes, he found himself sitting under blossoming trees, watching the day go by between the slivers of pink and red petals.  Sometimes, he took walks along the great lake, sitting by the edge and listening to the washing waves below him, watching the blue surface ripple. On the weekends, while everyone else was out at Hogsmeade, Draco liked closing his eyes and listening to the silence.

He loved the silence. Or, rather, the absence of silence. He loved listening to the rustling of the wind as it blew through blades of grass, and to the birds chirping in the trees. He liked to listen as the world passed him by, and often found himself waking up in the middle of the fields, the orange of the setting sun washing over him.

One quiet Saturday, Draco was back to his wanderings when he stumbled upon a small hut. 

Hagrid’s hut, to be exact.

“Hm,” Draco thought, then promptly turned away. 

He was stopped in his tracks, however, when someone called his name. 

"Draco?" asked Hagrid, standing in the open doorway of his hut. "What're yeh doin' down here?"

Draco was sweating again.

“Erm,” said Draco, very intelligently.

"Well, don' jus' stand out there! Come on in, have a cup o' tea." Hagrid opened the door of his hut wider, gesturing for Draco to enter. “Yeh look like yeh could use a sit-down.”

Draco really didn’t do much these days except for sitting down, but he entered regardless.

Hagrid's hut was a small, warm, and comfortable place. A circular wooden table sat at the centre of the room, surrounded by mismatched wooden chairs and a giant, orange armchair. Copper pots and blackened kettles hung from thick ceiling beams, catching the firelight in dull, amber glints and reflecting them back onto the cluttered shelves and windowsills. A fire crackled merrily in the stone hearth, filling the air with the scent of burning oak as the kettle on top whistled and steamed.

Fang lay sprawled across a worn rug before the fire, lifting his head only briefly to stare at Draco (who swallowed nervously; He liked dogs, sure, but Fang was more of a wolf than anything) before quickly deciding that he was of no interest, and returning to his slumber. 

“Hope yeh like chamomile,” said Hagrid, pouring Draco a cup of tea. Draco looked briefly at the chipped edges of the blue teacup before taking a sip, and promptly burning himself.

Thankfully, Hagrid did not seem to notice. The half-giant had already wandered into the small kitchen area, rummaging through something as he called over his shoulder, “Got some rock cakes bakin’ in the oven, so yeh’ll have ter wait a bit fer those.”

“Thank you,” said Draco, tongue still stinging. The tea was, despite its scaldingness, quite nice. 

“So, lad, what brings you to my cottage?”  

Draco looked down at the tea cupped between his hands. The warmth seeped slowly through the ceramic and into his fingers, a strange sensation after spending so much of the day wandering through the cold corridors of the castle.

“I was just walking around, I suppose,” he said.

Hagrid glanced over his shoulder from where he was sorting through a cupboard. “Ah, I do like a good walk meself,” he said. “Best thing ter do in weather like this. Though it’s always nicer with a bit o’ company, eh?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Draco.

“Where’s the rest o’ yer little Slytherin friends, then?” Hagrid asked after a moment, returning to the kettle. “They’re all off at Hogsmeade?”

“They’ve all left,” answered Draco.

“Oh.” Hagrid hesitated. “All of them?”

“Yes. It’s just me.”

“Blimey.” Hagrid frowned, setting the tea towel down on the counter and settling himself into the enormous orange armchair. The loud creaking of the floorboards woke up Fang, who simply sniffed around and nudged Hagrid’s foot with his black snout before falling back asleep. 

“Well, nothing a good cuppa can’t fix,” said Hagrid, who reached over for the kettle, and topped off his own cup. He then poured some more into Draco’s cup. Strangely, as he smelled the flowery notes of the tea in his hands, Draco agreed.

—-------

By early October, Draco had wandered around the outer limits of Hogwarts so much that he could map out the greenery in his dreams. He had also gone to Hagrid’s hut about thirteen times, and had almost chipped a tooth twice. 

Then, one day, Harry Potter walked in.

“Malfoy?” he asked, one hand still lingering on the hut’s bronze doorknob. The sky outside was bright with blue, and the rush of Autumn – almost winter – breeze made the fire crackle with mirth. Draco’s cup was still halfway to his lips, the amber tea inside bobbing with waves.

“Harry, m’boy!” called out Hagrid, who had been rambling to Draco about the proper procedures for caring for a Common Welsh Green. His armchair squeaked and tilted as he stood up, and he, apparently oblivious to the strange exchange of glances between the other two in the room, opened his gigantic arms to welcome Potter into his hut. “It’s bin forever since I’ve las seen yeh! Come on in!”

Draco stood up, resting his teacup back onto the holding plate with a clank. Both Potter and Hagrid turned to look at him.

“Where’re yeh goin', lad? Yeh've barely bin in here fer a minute!” Hagrid said as Potter stared at Draco suspiciously. Draco cleared his throat.

“Sorry, Hagrid, I’ve just remembered that I have some coursework to attend to,” Draco answered quickly, grabbing his satchel that had been resting beside the base of his chair. “I’ll see you later.”

“But I haven' even told yeh the Greens' favourite fruits yet!”

“Owl me about it, would you?” asked Draco, hands still steadfast in their effort to pull his bag up to his shoulder. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he made his way across the hut, and Potter’s eyes lingered on him all the way until he was out of the hut.

Draco hadn’t even noticed he had been shaking until he made it back into his room, fingertips tingling and pale. Seeing Potter had made his nerves run cold and his head dizzy, not unlike how he had felt when he first saw the portrait of Dumbledore behind McGonagall during their meeting. It made Draco feel small, exhausted and restless all at once, and made his skin break out in a cold sweat; the kind that reminded him of childhood winters when he’d break out in a terrible fever, and his mother would mutter sweet nothings to him with her cold palm on his forehead.

He had wronged a lot of people in the war, but none of them had even come close to the amount of wrong that he had done to Potter, and the thought alone made Draco nauseous. 

He didn’t sleep that night.

—-------

For days after, Draco would distinctly feel the gaze of someone pinned onto his back, like the lingering singe of a spark. No matter where he was – dining hall, library, or just out wandering the grounds –  the eyes lingered on him. Once, he was fast enough turning back, and had caught a sliver of brilliant green before it disappeared into nothing.

“Stop following me,” he called out into an empty corridor once, feeling both foolish and paranoid when the still air responded with nothing. The students a few rooms down were scrambling to their next class, their footsteps pounding through the halls, and Draco glared into the shadows before he left.

Then, while wandering the premises one Friday afternoon, he heard the rustling of branches from a nearby bush.

He had wandered into the outer edge of the Hogwarts grounds, stopping just before a small dirt crossroad that led him into the Forbidden Forest. The air was always awfully still there, with the land and the sky all seeming to pause in the presence of the woods. Silence, he thought. How wonderful.

He had set up camp under a particularly tall tree, and had begun absentmindedly flipping through one of his books when the noise distracted him. 

“Hello?” he called out, and frowned when there was no response. 

Then, a whine. A soft, pained one.

Draco made his way to the bush.

“What?” he whispered when he saw what was in the bushes: a large, black dog, curled up on itself in a circular fashion. Its fur was dark and sleek – beautiful, really – and its ears were large and pointed upright. No collar, Draco noted, and his eyes drifted towards its right front leg, folded awkwardly underneath its torso.

Draco always had a certain soft spot for dogs. His parents never allowed him one, of course, as his father believed it was "unsophisticated" and “uncultured” to be in proximity with mutts. However, Pansy’s family once owned a large, dark hound, and during the Summers, Draco would spend hours with it in their garden.

“Hello, darling,” he murmured, hands slowly reaching forwards. The dog growled and attempted to stand, though it yelped loudly and fell when its twisted leg touched the grass. Draco frowned. “Have you twisted your leg? You poor thing.”

He grabbed his wand, and the dog shut its eyes and whimpered.

“I’m not going to hurt you; I just want to fix up your leg,” Draco mumbled sympathetically, hand stilling in mid-air. “You must be in a lot of pain.”

He raised his wand again, and this time, the dog just stared at him, unmoving. Taking that as a good sign, he pressed the tip of his wand against the hound’s right leg and whispered, “Episkey.”

“There,” Draco said, and watched as the dog tentatively put the weight back on his right leg. When it realized the pain was gone, it stood up firmly and shook off quickly, causing bits of loose grass to fly off into the air.

Slowly, it came up to Draco, tail tucked behind its torso, and cautiously sniffed his hand. 

Then, it ran off. 

“A thank you would’ve been nice,” Draco muttered to himself, tucking his wand back into the inner pocket of his robe. 

—-------

Draco tried his best not to eat meals in the Great Hall anymore. He did for the first few weeks of the semester, but it always just led to him sitting quietly amongst the roaring crowds of other students, poking and splitting bits of his food as he ignored the glares and mutterings of the people around him. He soon learned the habit of eating one meal a day, and sneaking off into random corners of the grounds or the library to finish off bits from his bag.

However, he still sometimes attended breakfast just to catch the rare owl-mail by his mother, Pansy or Blaise, and today had been one of those days. 

The first letter had been one from Pansy, which was mostly about some random gossip she had picked up from the Cursebreakers office she worked in in France (Draco would never tell her, but he was actually quite invested in her story about how her boss and his secretary were having a secret affair). The second was from his mother, which read:

My dear son,

I’m so glad to hear that you are doing well. Words cannot even begin to describe the amount of gladness that fills my heart at your well-being. 

As for myself, I am doing quite well. Lyon is brilliant this time of year; The cuisine is wonderful as always, and though their botanical gardens are nothing compared to that of the manor, I suppose they are still adequate. I’ve recently started thinking about starting a new garden at our chateau; Perhaps a few roses? 

I’m sorry your father still hasn’t sent you any letters – He is still quite upset about the exile, though I suppose he will come to terms with it sooner or later. Please don’t hold this too heavily on him. I imagine this is much more difficult for him than it is for me; He had so much more to prove, and much more to lose, too. 

I miss you so terribly, Draco. When I first departed for Lyon, you were the only thought in my mind, and that has persisted even as we have settled down. I know it must be incredibly difficult for you, all alone, and my heart aches at the thought of me not being there for you. I am so proud of you for staying resilient, and know that I am always thinking of you.

With love,

Mother

When Draco finished reading the letter, he folded it neatly and tucked it into the inner pocket of his robes, and left the hall without saying a word. 

That afternoon, ravenous, Draco had thoroughly regretted that decision. 

He had been so filled with emotion at his mother’s letter that he had forgotten to eat, and it was now lunch. Bustling crowds rushed headfirst into the dining hall, with students of each house chatting lively at their respective tables, and Draco was not in the mood to be a part of the noise.

Stomach growling, he had laid down in the grass instead. The sun shone brilliantly against his pale skin, warming him beneath his robes, and, despite his hunger, he had almost dozed off before something cold nudged up against him.

He looked down to see a green apple.

“What?” he murmured, picking up the apple and twirling it around investigatively. Raising his head further, he saw the dog sitting in the distance, another green apple resting in the grass in front of it.

Noticing Draco’s gaze, the dog nudged the other apple forward, and it rolled along the curve of the ground, all the way until it came to a halt along Draco’s thigh. He laughed.

“Did you get these for me?” he asked, entertained. The dog just sat there, eyes still locked onto Draco. 

It sniffed a little, and cautiously strolled up to Draco before taking another few larger sniffs. Its snout trailed up his fingers and onto his arm, leaving behind a smattering of short, black fur on Draco’s robes. Then, it moved down Draco’s torso and back to one of the apples by his thigh. It nudged at the apple. 

“What is it?” Draco asked. The dog nudged at him again, and the apple rolled up to his hip. He raised his brow and picked it up. “Yes, how brilliantly generous of you. I don’t have anything for you, I’m afraid.”

The dog whined, almost as if in distress, and pawed at Draco’s leg. 

“Hey, these trousers are expensive!” Draco pulled his leg back, and the dog growled before lowering its head. It nudged at the other apple at the side of his leg again, pushing it even further forward.

Draco gestured the apple up to his mouth. “Do you… want me to eat it?” he asked, and the dog barked happily, wagging its tail furiously. Draco bit into the apple, and the sharp, puckering acid of the fruit coated his tongue almost immediately. He quickly finished the apple, and the dog stayed by his side the entire time, head bowed as it laid on the grass. 

“Thank you,” he eventually said, wiping his mouth and fingers off with a handkerchief. The dog barked, and raised its head to sniff at Draco’s fingers. 

Carefully, Draco hovered his other hand above the dog’s head, and was pleased when it allowed him to gently pet down the span of its back. Its fur was soft and gorgeous.

“You’re a smart one, aren’t you?” he asked, scratching the dog behind its ears; It let out a pleased little grumble. “Quite pretty, too.”

The dog’s head suddenly snapped up; It quickly shook off its fur (and Draco’s hand) before running off into the woods, leaving Draco befuddled as he stared at the half-eaten core of an apple beside him.

—-------

A week later, Draco repeated his mistake. 

Blaise and Pansy had sent him a joint letter along with a photograph of them together in France, both smiling in front of a field of flowers, and Draco had been filled with such sudden, devastating loneliness that he ran out of the hall, clutching the envelope to his chest.

That night, his hunger had been eating him from the inside out, and by the second hour of him laying down and trying his best to ignore it (and failing miserably), he got up, grabbed his coat, and left his dormitory. He wandered listlessly through the darkened corridors, each thump of his Oxfords against the stone floor echoing endlessly through the empty space.

Then, someone tapped on his shoulder.

“WHA—” Draco startled, but his mouth was quickly muffled by someone’s hand. He was backed into a wall, and a sheet of some sort was then tossed over him. He opened his eyes to find Potter. 

“What the fuck?” he said, heart pounding against his chest. He could feel himself trembling. “You’ve almost just bloody killed me!”

Potter rolled his eyes at Draco. “Don’t be such a wuss, Malfoy. I doubt you would’ve fallen over and died from a tap on the shoulder,” he said. “Besides, I just saved your arse. Slughorn’s down a corridor.”

The sound of footsteps echoed through the halls, and Draco stilled. Potter, however, just leaned closer into the wall, and looked over Draco’s shoulder. 

“Relax,” he whispered. “He can’t see us.”

“What?” Draco asked, head still spinning. He peered at the shimmering material covering the two of them, eyes wide. “Is this… the invisibility cloak?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re using it to sneak around at night?”

“Yeah.”

“You know that you’re Harry Potter, the saviour of the wizarding world, yes? I doubt anyone would stop you from your midnight wanderings,” Draco muttered, feeling the soft fabric of the cloak between his fingers. “What are you doing out this late anyway?”

Potter was still beside him, warm and heady. He was so close that Draco could feel his breath on his skin.

“What are you doing out this late?” he asked, and Draco narrowed his eyes.

“I asked first, you git.”

“And I just saved your bloody life.” 

Draco rolled his eyes at Potter exasperatedly. “Fine,” he said. “If you must know, I was hungry and couldn’t sleep.”

Harry raised a brow at that. “And your solution was to walk around aimlessly in the dark?”

“Do you see any better options?” Draco asked dryly, gesturing to the pitch darkness around them. The cloak rustled, shimmering in the dark as it did. For a moment, Potter did nothing but stare at Draco thoughtfully, and it made him oddly self-conscious about the wrinkled coat he picked up.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Potter finally said, and, without any warning, dragged Draco along the halls.

By the time Draco came to, Potter had already dragged him to the kitchens through a small, hidden passage. There, he waved at and greeted nearly every house-elf to ever exist (Draco lost count after the seventh one), and sat down by a small table. He pulled Draco, who was still quite dazed from the whole ordeal, to sit down next to him.

He turned to the side and muttered something to one of the house-elves (Winky? Draco wanted to say), and before long, slim elvish fingers had presented a plate of sandwiches on the desk in front of them, along with a cup of hot tea.

Embarrassingly, Draco’s stomach growled, and Potter looked quite pleased with himself.

“Well?” he said smugly. “Eat up.”

Draco turned to look at him, flabbergasted, but then promptly decided that most questions could be asked after a good meal, and dug into the sandwiches.  

“Merlin, just how hungry are you?” asked Potter as Draco was mid-bite into a sandwich.

Draco, too ravenous to come up with a snarky response, murmured, “I haven’t had anything all day.”

“Probably ‘cause you never bother showing up to lunch or dinner.”

“People stare. I’d rather starve than be an exhibit,” muttered Draco, more honestly than he had intended, and Potter, surprisingly, did not say anything back. He remained silent for the rest of the meal, taking occasional sips of his tea, and stared off into the fireplace in front of them.

When Draco finally finished everything and the plate in front of him lay bare, he wiped his mouth with a handkerchief and said, quietly, “Thank you.”

Potter nodded, and neither of them said anything else for the rest of the night.

—-------

For the next few weeks, both Potter and the dog became strange staples in Draco’s life, with Potter popping up beside him in the kitchens at the deadest hours of the night, and the dog mysteriously appearing and following him around the grounds whenever he dawdled around.

Draco, in response, had developed a terrible habit of talking to the dog. 

“I owled Hagrid about you, you know?” murmured Draco one day, petting down the dog’s back lazily. It was curled up against Draco’s side, a large, warm mass that nestled into the grass. “He said there were no kept dogs on the grounds, which means you’re probably a stray.” 

The dog let out a quiet huff.

“I wonder how you got here.” Draco traced absent circles through its soft black fur. “Did you get lost?” 

Beside him, the dog stretched with a sleepy yawn, and Draco reached over to scratch behind its ears. He leaned backwards into the earth behind him, staring up at the sky above. Though autumn had long settled over the castle and the weather had started to chill, the sky was still a brilliant blue, clear and wonderful, and the sun peeked through clouds on the horizon. 

“I suppose that makes the two of us, then,” Draco whispered, and closed his eyes. 

That night, he snuck back into the kitchens to see Potter already there, sitting by the small table. 

“How did you find that passage?” Draco asked after a particularly delectable shepherd's pie, and Potter simply shrugged.

“Some year sixes told me about it during second year,” he said, taking a sip from his cup of warm tea (which he takes with five sugars, Draco noted, revolted). “I come over when I need a break, or when it gets too loud. You know how the hall gets.”

Draco certainly did, though he wasn’t sure the irritated glares that people sent his way were quite what Potter was talking about.

“You mean when your rabid fangirls try to swarm you?” he asked, and Potter laughed; a crisp, warm thing that Draco found he quite liked.

“Sure, but also just normally. People get too loud about everything,” Potter murmured, and Draco nodded like it made sense.

The kitchen was quite loud, too, but a nice kind of loud. The room was filled with the crackling of the stone hearths, the banging of the pots and pans as wooden spatulas stirred their contents magically, and the distant murmurings of house elves, whispering charms and spells to ready the meals for the next day.

The air was thick with the smell of garlic, thyme, and an assortment of spices that made Draco think about his mother’s cooking — She didn’t cook often, but it was always a treat when she did — and family dinners. The scent made his heart pick up, and filled his chest with a strange, indescribable emotion.

“Why did you bring me here?” Draco eventually asked, staring at a house-elf (Tilly, Draco knew this one for sure) who was running around making bread.

Potter blinked, then answered, “Because you said you were hungry?” as if Draco had been a child or an idiot. 

“But this was—” Your space. Somewhere quiet. A place where you got away from the noise and sat alone, eating sandwiches and pies and slivers of cheese against the fireplace. “Never mind.”

Potter took another sip of his tea. 

“It’s nice though, isn’t it?” he asked, drumming his finger against the wooden table. “Eating with someone else.”

“Yeah,” Draco answered, feeling warm.

—-------

“I miss my mother,” he told the dog one Sunday afternoon, when the fields were quiet, and all that could be heard was the chirping of distant birds. “She hasn’t died or anything, just gone off to France, but I still miss her all the time.” He scratched a line down the dog’s back. “I miss my father too, but less so.”

The dog sniffled, its tail wagging and sweeping the dirt beneath it.

“She mails me all the time, but it’s not the same,” Draco murmured. “I didn’t know it was possible to miss someone so much.”

The dog clambered closer to him, its warmth radiating off its large body, and nuzzled its head into his neck. Its fur smelled of earth and blades of grass, of forest rains and of freshly watered flora. Draco scratched beneath its chin.

“You know, I was so frightened coming back to school,” Draco said softly. “I didn’t tell my mother that, of course – she’d worry endlessly if I did – but I had been so afraid and so upset.” His gaze drifted across the empty fields, and across the grass that rippled like waves beneath the autumn breeze. “None of my friends came back after the war, so it was just me for a while.” He swallowed. “I was terribly lonely.”

At that, the dog let out a whine – a soft, quiet one that was different from the pained ones before. It nosed insistently beneath Draco’s jaw, and gave his cheek an enthusiastic lick.

Draco spluttered, laughing despite himself as he pushed the enormous muzzle away.

“You menace,” he said, laughing, and the dog only wagged harder, looking entirely too pleased with itself.

Draco smiled.

“I suppose I have you now,” he whispered, rubbing behind its ears, and the dog leaned into the touch.

—-------

A few days later, during one of their late-night kitchen meet-ups, Draco had been enjoying a nice Yorkshire pudding (Thank you, Winky) when Potter had set his cup down abruptly. 

“Do you want to go to Hogsmeade?” he asked. 

Draco, mid-chew, blinked. “What?”

“Do you,” Potter paused, speaking slowly. “Want to go to Hogsmeade this Saturday?”

“With you?”

“Yes?” 

“Oh.” Draco paused, putting down his fork. He glanced around, suspicious, and turned back to Potter when everything appeared normal. “Are you playing a joke?” he asked.

“Er, no?” answered Potter.

“Then why are you asking me?”

Potter’s cheeks flushed with a warm red. “Whatever, Malfoy,” he muttered, avoiding Draco’s eyes. He put down his cup, crossing his arms on the bench table in front of them. “If you don’t want to go just say so.”

“Well, I didn’t say that, did I?” asked Draco, and Potter looked up, eyes wide. “I was just wondering why you weren’t going with Weasley and Granger.”

“They’re busy,” murmured Potter.

“Still in their honeymoon phase, then?” Draco took another bite of his pudding. “McGonagall should’ve never given us singles. Bet they’re fucking like rabbits.”

“Oh my god, what the fuck is wrong with you?” groaned Potter, shoving Draco’s shoulder, and Draco hid his smirk.

—-------

That Saturday, at Hogsmeade, they had first one into one of the shops where Draco purchased three wool scarves (“What do you need all those bloody scarves for?” “Not everyone is an inferno like you, Potter.”) and two quills. This was followed by a visit to the hair supply shop (“Maybe they have something that could fix the thing you call your hair, Potter.” “Shove off, Malfoy.”), and then Honeydukes, where Potter purchased a bag full of chocolate frogs and made Draco try one of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans (He got raw liver).

Around seven in the evening, they found themselves in the Three Broomsticks, which was bustling with the weekend crowd: students, faculty, and visitors alike. Draco first froze at the sight of crowds, but soon realized that no one really cared about him or his distasteful history when he was next to the literal saviour of the wizarding world. The two then squeezed themselves into one booth, sitting across from each other, and took shots of Firewhisky until the ground tilted sideways.

A few hours later, as the crowd dispersed and the noise began to rest, they left. Draco had intended to return to his dorm (as it was already after hours, and he was not Harry Potter, which meant he could not get away with staying up past his bedtime), but Potter had other plans. Swaying, he dragged Draco to a nearby bench, washed golden by a nearby street lamp, and began opening his chocolate frogs.

“Bollocks, me again,” muttered Potter, who was still swaying back and forth as he flipped over the card. His cheeks were flushed with alcohol, and his lips were red from his gnawing in efforts to concentrate. 

“I can’t believe they added you to the frogs.” 

“Apparently they’ve added me to every single bloody one.” Potter gestured to the pile of cards beside him on the bench, all with little Potters encased in each card. “Haven’t even gotten a single Merlin yet.”

Draco laughed, a loud and drunken one that erupted out of him unexpectedly. “These cards are stupid,” he muttered, leaning half his body against the bench as his world tilted. 

“Nuh-uh.”

“Yuh-huh, see–” Draco picked up one of the Potter cards; Underneath his still portrait lay a single line which said The Boy Who Lived, and Draco waved the card back and forth. “Your bloody card doesn’t even tell you anything about yourself! Everyone and their mother knows that you’re the boy who lived.” 

Potter stared at Draco, eyes oddly clear. “What else would they put on there?”

“I dunno, everything else? This bit is not interesting at all,” Draco grumbled, still glaring at the card in his hand. “For starters, maybe they can put how you like your tea with five sugars. Then your beheading will be right on track.” 

Potter laughed at that, and it made Draco feel light and airy on the inside. He found himself laughing alongside the other boy, and eventually, the two of them were both giggling and manic with laughter. Potter had laughed so hard at one point that he leaned forward and into Draco, forehead resting against his shoulder, and all Draco could think about was how warm he was.

“M’tired,” slurred Potter, head still on Draco’s shoulder.

“Me too.” Draco yawned. The air was turning chilly now. “We should head back.”

Without replying, Potter rustled through his bag and pulled out his cloak, which shimmered against the dark backdrop of the night. He threw it on the two of them, and they began their slow crawl back to the castle. Despite the ground shaking and them giggling the entire time, Potter successfully escorted Draco down to the dungeons.

“This was fun,” murmured Potter, grinning widely at Draco, who couldn’t help but smile back. 

Then, he left, and Draco – with no recollection of how he got to his bedroom – woke up the next day with a terrible headache. 

—-------

“What do you think Potter’s up to?” asked Draco the week after.

The dog, which had been digging furiously at the ground just moments before, stilled. It looked up at Draco, snout and paws caked with a layer of dirt and mud, and tilted its head.

“He’s been acting all friendly all of a sudden, and I don’t know why," he said, crossing his arms. “We went to Hogsmeade just last week. Told me Granger and Weasley were ‘busy’. Isn’t that mad?”

“The two of them are understandable; they’re in their little honeymoon phase or whatever, but honestly, I haven’t seen anyone else with him at all,” Draco said, and it was true; In the odd moments where he would catch Potter without Granger and Weasley – either from across the hall or at the other end of a classroom – he was always alone.

Despite their obnoxious devotion, the rest of the school seemed to keep him at an arm’s length, like an artefact or exhibit you’d watch voyeuristically. Even the rest of the eighth years – Merlin, even the girl Weasley – seemed to drift off without him.

“Do you think he’s lonely?” Draco asked, looking down at the grass contemplatively. He picked at some loose blades beside his thigh. “I suppose it would be, to be him.”

The dog was now entirely still, head lowered, and ears pulled back. Its tail had stopped wagging ages ago, and its eyes were wide and locked onto Draco. 

Draco let out a short laugh.

“I’m going bloody mad, talking to a dog and saying Harry Potter is lonely,” Draco murmured, staring at the dog. He brushed off the bits of grass on his robes. “He probably just thinks I’m up to something.” 

Like everyone else in this school went unsaid.

Suddenly, the dog whined loudly, sprinting up to Draco and attempting to shove its head into his shoulder. Draco shrieked, fingers getting covered in bits of dirt as he shoved at the dog’s head. 

“Merlin!” he yelped, laughing as he tried to push the beast away. “Get off! You're filthy!”

But the dog just inched closer, its tail wagging furiously behind it. Draco wrestled with the animal for a few moments, feeling foolish and entirely undignified, but still, he could not stop the corners of his lips from rising.

A few moments later, Draco, exhausted and covered in dirt, lay down on the ground and gazed up at the sky. The dog, tail still wagging, sat down beside him.

“You are the worst dog ever,” Draco grumbled, petting the dog behind its ears, and the dog just wagged its tail harder.

—-------

One early December morning, on a cold Friday, Draco received a neatly wrapped package from his mother. On top of the brown wrapping paper was a letter, which said:

My dear son,

As per your suggestions, I have started planting a few white roses, Daffodils, and Tulips in my new garden. I’ve always loved spring blooms, though I’m afraid the manor did not, and they always wilted before blossoming. Here’s to hoping we will see these to fruition.

The weather has come down quite a lot in Lyon, and I can only assume it is the same over in Scotland. Please take care to stay warm, as you know how you get in the Winters with your fevers.

It shatters me to have to spend this upcoming Christmas without you by our side, though I know it must be even more difficult for you. I’ve sent over a sweater, gloves and scarfs as an extra precaution for the upcoming weather, and when you wear them, know that I am always thinking of you, and treat them as if I am beside you. 

Take care, my darling.

With love,

Mother

Like always, the letter had made him emotional and his chest raw and tight, and it had only gotten worse when he had opened the package in the darkness of his bedroom – revealing a green, cashmere sweater, a pair of gloves, and a winter hat, embellished with gold accents – and caught his mother’s Jasmine perfume on the fabrics. It made his eyes burn with a childish yearning that he had not experienced since childhood, and made that night’s sleep difficult. 

Her letter, however, also had him thinking about something else: Christmas. Draco could not go to France for Christmas, as his probation orders did not allow him to travel, and his parents could not come to him due to their exile orders. The Ministry is a twisted thing, he thought that night, staring up into a darkened ceiling. They knew what they were doing.

For the next few weeks, the thought of spending Christmas alone gnawed at him from the inside. It would be his first Christmas ever without the company of family or friends, and the mere thought of returning to the manor, empty and destitute, made him nauseous. Therefore, in the second week of December, Draco – for the first time ever – put down his name on the list of students staying over the holidays. McGonagall shot him an empathetic look that made him just the more miserable.

That night, he left his dorm at midnight. Instead of going to the kitchens, he went to wander the dark grounds. He made it about fifteen steps before a familiar pant came from behind him.

“Where did you come from?” Draco asked, kneeling down to pet the approaching dog, its fur glistening in the torchlight. “I never see you out this late.”

The dog sniffed and nudged him at his knee. It then looked up at Draco with a suspiciously questioning gaze, at which he sighed.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted softly. 

“This'll be my first Christmas without my parents.” He looked away, toward the distant silhouette of the castle. “Can't go home, so... I'm staying here. At school.” He paused, and quickly swallowed. “Where no one likes me.”

The dog whined, and then pawed gently at his boot.

“Yes, yes.” Draco huffed out a bitter laugh. “Tragic, isn’t it?”

“It's my own fault, anyway,” he murmured after a while, setting off across the frost-bitten grass. The dog padded behind him faithfully. “Took the wrong side in a war and nearly destroyed the entire school.” He shoved his hands into his pockets against the cold. “I suppose spending a few Christmases alone is probably the least I deserve.”

He eventually came to a standstill, sitting down at a far patch of moonlit grass somewhere to the South of the castle. The dog stopped beside him and sat down, resting its heavy head across Draco's lap as it laid down.

“It’ll be awfully cold out for Christmas. Think I could sneak you into my room?” Draco mused, petting the dog behind its ears. The dog nudged its snout even further into his lap, nuzzling against his abdomen. “No... the other Slytherins would despise me.”

The dog gave a disappointed huff, and Draco fell silent, absentmindedly running his fingers through its thick black fur.

Then, something occurred to him.

“Huh,” he murmured.

—-------

The next morning, he knocked on the wooden door to Hagrid’s hut. The door swung open with a loud crash, revealing the half-giant, grinning brightly.

“Draco!” he called out cheerfully, squeezing Draco to half an inch of his life. “Come on in! I’ve got the tea on the fire, piping hot.” 

Hagrid moved to step into the hut, prattling on about some other magical animal as he walked into the kitchen. When his gigantic form no longer covered the span of the door, Draco looked in to see Potter, sitting on one of the chairs like he had been there for ages. A cup of tea was already in his hand, steaming against the cold winter air, and he looked up to meet Draco’s gaze.

“Morning,” Potter greeted, taking a sip of his tea. 

“Morning,” Draco replied, looking at the other boy suspiciously. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“Well, figured I’d just pop by for tea,” Potter said. Draco opened his mouth to question him further, but he was promptly interrupted by Hagrid returning from the kitchen, holding two plates of rock cakes, rattling against the white dishes. 

The next hour passed by relatively uneventfully. Draco took his spot next to Potter, who chatted lively with Hagrid about his classes, Hippogriffs, and some other eighth-year gossip that Draco had no knowledge of. 

“Oh, come off it, Finnigan and Thomas are obviously together,” Draco interrupted over his cup mid-conversation. He had stayed mostly silent up to that point, and Potter turned to stare at him, eyes wide and questioning. “Don’t look at me like that, anyone with eyes can tell!”

“That’s nonsense!”

“No, it’s not. I see them making eyes at each other during Potions all the time!”

Potter raised a brow at him. “So it was your fault that our cauldron exploded. You were busy staring at Dean and Seamus!”

“No, I told you, it was because you mixed it in the wrong direction—”

“What does that have to do with anything? It all gets mixed eventually!”

The two of them bickered back and forth for a few moments, with Potter’s smug smirk growing larger and larger as they went. It made Draco’s face flush with anger, but also with something else that felt more intimate, private. It all made him argue louder. 

Towards the end, Potter stood up and went to refill his tea in the kitchen. Left alone, Hagrid smiled at Draco.

“So nice ter see yeh two bein' such good friends,” said Hagrid, looking at him with a strange gentleness that made his stomach twist up into knots. 

“We’re not friends,” Draco said automatically.

“Sure seemed like it ter me, lad.”

Draco opened his mouth, but closed it soon after. He wanted to deny it, to say that him and Potter weren’t friends, and were just unlikely acquaintances who ate dinner together, and got drunk at Hogsmeade on the weekend, and sat in class together, and— 

Alright, he saw Hagrid’s point.

“I'm really happy fer yeh,” Hagrid said, giving Draco's shoulder a heavy pat that nearly knocked him sideways. “Seemed like ages ago when yeh firs' nipped in.”

Draco thought back to himself at the beginning of the semester, alone and wandering through the grounds aimlessly. “Yes,” he said softly. “I suppose so.”

“Nothing a good cuppa can’t fix, eh?” Hagrid winked at him playfully. 

Beside the fireplace, Fang stirred from his slumber. He stretched languidly, the bells on his collar chiming a sharp melody as he shook himself. Draco’s gaze drifted towards him, and, as he looked at Fang’s giant paws, was promptly reminded of the reason why he came here.

“Hagrid,” he began, setting down his cup. “Do you remember that owl I sent you some time ago about the dog I've been seeing around the grounds?”

“Of course, lad! Went out lookin’ for him me-self. Never found him, though, bet he’s a sneaky lil’ thing.”

“Yes, quite.” Draco rubbed his thumb nervously against the side of his cup. “Anyways, with Christmas approaching, I was wondering if...” He hesitated. “Well, I'm worried about leaving him out in the cold. I don't think he has anywhere to go, and obviously, I can't keep him in my dormitory.”

“I'm afraid he may end up freezing or starving if he keeps wandering around the grounds,” Draco finished, quieter now. “So I was hoping you might be willing to look after him for a few weeks.”

Hagrid’s gaze softened. “Oh, o’ course lad!” he answered excitedly. 

“Really?”

“O’ course! Fang would love the company, an' I’d love ter finally see the little fella.”

“That’s– That’s brilliant! Thank you.” Draco beamed, the heavy weight in his heart finally dropping. “I’ve been so terribly worried about him. You don’t know how much—”

“What are we talking about?” interrupted Potter, carrying his cup in one hand and a hot kettle in the other. He sat back down in his seat, knees bumping Draco’s under the table briefly. 

Hagrid smiled. “Draco's asked me ter look after that dog he's been fussin' over.”

Potter went still.

“The dog?” he repeated.

“Yes, there’s been a stray roaming around the grounds, and I’m worried it’ll freeze over Christmas,” Draco replied absentmindedly, sipping his tea. He turned to Hagrid. “I’ll bring him over sometime Saturday?”

“Course, lad. I'll get everythin' ready.”

Beside him, the scraping of a chair made Draco jump. He looked up to see Potter standing, hands on the table. His usually warm, dark bronze skin had gone quite pale, and his eyes darted around nervously.

“I’ve– um, I’ve just remembered I've got somewhere to be.”

Draco frowned as Potter grabbed at his bag on the floor. “Now?”

“Yeah, I’ve got to– uh, go out with Hermione and Ron!” 

“Potter—”

But Potter was already out the door, closing it behind him with a loud slam. Draco stared at the closed door for a few moments, bewildered. Across from him, Hagrid, who had also been staring at Potter as he left, looked equally puzzled.

“Did I say summat?” Hagrid asked.

“I…” Draco frowned. “I don’t know.”

—-------

Soon, it was the day before Christmas break, and the dog was nowhere to be seen.

The dog had been missing for the past two weeks, and that morning, when Draco received the letter from Hagrid saying that he still hadn’t seen the animal either, his shoulders had collapsed defeatedly. 

“What’s with the long face?” Potter asked as he slid into the seat next to Draco. The kitchens were roaring that night, the room filled with the smell of winter suppers and firewood, but Draco was in no mood to enjoy any of it.

Draco, who had leaned forward and dropped his head onto the table, mumbled, “M’ dogsgonmissin.”

“What?”

“My dog’s gone missing,” he said loudly, snapping his head up. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I haven’t been able to find him anywhere. I’m worried sick.”

“Oh,” said Potter quietly. 

“I mean, it’s almost Christmas! What if he gets cold or freezes or starves? I… Merlin,” Draco trailed off, putting his head in his hands. “This is a nightmare.”

“Maybe he’s just gone back home,” Potter murmured softly, scooting closer to Draco. Their knees bumped beneath the table as he put a hand on Draco’s shoulder, warm and soothing. “Probably sensed the cold or something and went. They’re smart, y’know.”

Draco sighed. “I suppose.”

“I bet he’s off somewhere lazing around while you’re off whinging like a girl,” Potter said, and Draco smacked him on the shoulder. Potter rubbed at his shoulder while grinning at him.

“You’re so not funny, Potter,” Draco muttered, but the corners of his lips twitched. “Are you going anywhere for Christmas?”

“Why? Missing me already?”

“Just concerned about my private access to the kitchens.” 

Potter laughed, a bright thing that made Draco’s cheeks flush. He took a sip of his hot tea. “No, not going anywhere.”

“Oh.” Draco blinked; that was unexpected. “Not even the Weasley’s?”

“Nah, s’too awkward after Ginny.”

Draco stared. “You two broke up?”

“Yeah, ages ago.”

“Why?”

“Why does anyone break up?” Potter shrugged, tracing circles on the table in front of them. “Just… weren’t right for each other, I guess.”

“Huh,” Draco murmured, not really knowing what to think over the loud thumping of his heart. In the midst of the silence, Potter cleared his throat.

“You going anywhere?” he asked.

“No,” Draco answered.

“Well, guess we could spend the break together, eh?”

“I think I’d rather die,” Draco said, and it was Potter’s time to smack him over the shoulder.

—-------

Soon, Christmas break came, and winter washed over the castle grounds. The grass, roofs, green hedges and bare branches were all engulfed in brilliant white snow.

Draco always loved Winter. It reminded him of childhood outings when he’d wake up in his bedroom, eyes full of wonder as he gazed at their snow-piled garden out of his window. He’d lie down in the snow and get the layers that his mother made him put on all soaked, and, at the end of the day, he’d lie in his bed with a pleasant rosiness in his cheeks.  

What he especially loved, however, was how much quieter the world got when everything was covered in snow, and that was no different now. The murmurings and chatter of the other students, all packed from top to bottom as they parted for break, had long gone, and they had left behind nothing but a distant smattering of footprints in the ground. 

Draco stepped onto the wooden bridge, leaning against its wooden bannister. The ravine below him was frozen and silent, with the pale mountains beside it stretching beyond the horizon. The cold air nipped pleasantly at his cheeks, and his eyes fluttered shut as he breathed in deeply.

“Bloody hell, it’s freezing over here,” muttered Potter from beside him, ruining his moment entirely. He peered over at Draco. “Where’d you get that hat?”

“It’s from my mother,” Draco replied dryly, opening his eyes. “When the hell did you get here?”

“When you were apparently having a nap by the side of a bloody bridge.”

“I was relaxing, Potter. Then you decided to show up and talk right into my ear.” 

“Oh, boohoo,” Potter said, then shivered deeply. “Merlin, it really is cold.”

Draco looked over to see Potter, unsurprisingly, poorly dressed for the weather. He was wearing nothing but a maroon sweater, some dark trousers, a Gryffindor scarf, and a pair of brown gloves. Draco, on the other hand, was wearing that and more.

“Probably because you decided it was a good day to wear one layer, you idiot.”

“Hey!” Potter crossed his arms in front of him. “I’m wearing a shirt under this!”

Draco rolled his eyes, but said nothing as he took one of his three (yes, three) jackets off. He reached over Potter and wrapped it around the other boy’s torso, fingers lightly brushing the back of his neck as he dropped the fabric against him. 

“Oh,” Potter said, sounding out of breath. “Thanks.”

Draco shrugged and leaned back onto the bannister. Beside him, the wooden boards of the bridge squeaked and creaked as Potter fidgeted and tapped, shifting his weight back and forth nervously.

“Do you have something to say?” he asked, turning to look at Potter, whose cheeks were now flushed.

“Erm,” Potter said, scratching the back of his neck. “Do you want to go drinking with me?”

Draco sighed.

“Potter, we’re two eighth years with all the time in the world and literal magic at our fingertips during the holidays—”

“If you didn’t want to go—”

“Of course I want to go drinking with you,” Draco answered finally, and Potter beamed. 

—-------

That night, they snuck into the Gryffindor common room (well, only Draco really snuck, he supposed), which was delightfully empty. Then, Potter, seemingly out of nowhere, produced a few bottles of firewhiskey and poured Draco a glass.

“Where’d you get those?” Draco asked. Potter, in response, just grinned smugly and said, “I’m Harry Potter,” to which Draco smacked him over the head. 

An hour and a few glasses later, the two of them were giggling messes that laughed at every moving thing. Potter was curled up on the maroon couch in front of the fireplace, staring up at the ceiling while humming something under his breath, and Draco was on the carpet in front of him, leaning back against the foot of the couch.

“Move– Move aside,” Draco said, stumbling slightly as he stood up. “I want to be on the couch.”

“Nuh-uh.” Potter grinned, nuzzling himself against the arm of the couch like a giant cat. Draco huffed, and attempted to grab Potter’s legs to throw him off the couch (Potter giggled even louder at that, kicking at Draco with his socked feet like a small child). When he eventually discovered that he was too tired (and drunk) to do so, he just collapsed on the couch, on top of Potter.

Potter was brilliantly warm, and Draco shivered at the feeling of skin; It had been ages since he was this close to someone.

They stayed like that for a little bit, warm and sleepy with the snow raging outside. The fireplace crackled loudly beside them, blackened logs snapping and popping, filling the air with the pleasant smell of firewood. Under him, Potter stirred, and Draco tucked his feet between his.

“What the fuck?” Potter jumped, blinking slowly. “Your feet are fucking freezing.”

“I run cold,” murmured Draco, head nestled into the other boy’s chest.

“Obviously,” Potter muttered, then made the motions to push Draco off him. Before Draco could be disappointed, however, Potter grabbed him by the forearm and dragged him along a few flights of stairs, humming and muttering under his breath the entire time. 

Eventually, they made it into Potter’s bedroom, where he collapsed immediately onto the bed and fell silent. Draco, in response, just stood dumbly beside the four-poster bed. 

“Potter?” he eventually called out, hands freezing.

“Hngmm?” mumbled Potter, whose face was flushed against his pillow.

“I need t–to get back to the dungeons.” Draco looked around the room, stumbling slightly. “Do I take your cloak?”

“Hmgm,” responded Potter, whose eyes were now closed.

“What?”

Against his pillow, Potter shook his head, murmuring something that Draco couldn’t catch. He then scooched to the left side of his bed, and patted the now empty right side heavily.

“S’ too late,” muttered Potter. “Just…. crawl in or something.” His arm then fell lax with sleep, and his breathing began to even. 

After a few moments, Draco, after taking off his robes and shoes, “crawled in or something”, and promptly fell asleep. He dreamt of spring blossoms and family dinners, warm and delightful.

—-------

The next morning, Draco was woken up by the morning sunlight gleaming through the window. His first thought had been, “Fuck, it’s bright,” and his second was, “It’s so warm.” 

He woke up before Potter, who was no longer face-down on the pillow, but rather curled up against Draco’s side. During the night, one of his hands had settled across Draco’s stomach, and the feeling of a heavy weight across him made Draco’s stomach flutter with emotion. Heat poured off Potter like a fountain, and, nestled close, Draco could also smell his body wash: citrus, cedar, and something else underneath that made Draco’s mouth run dry and his fingers twitch.

When he successfully extracted himself from Potter’s grip, he briefly sat down on the edge of the bed, contemplating last night. Afterwards, he attempted to sneak his way out of the bedroom quietly. 

In the middle of putting on his scarf, however, he heard the rustling of bedsheets behind him.

“What’re you doing?” murmured Potter, voice low with sleep. His glasses were still on his face, its black frames leaving reddened imprints on his nose and cheeks, and his hair looked as if a crow had settled down in it.

“Erm,” said Draco, pausing like a deer in headlights. “Leaving?”

Potter yawned, bleary-eyed and slow. “What time s’it?”

Draco cast a quick Tempus, and said, “Half-past seven.”

“What’re you doin’ up so early?” asked Potter, rubbing his eyes sleepily. 

“Well, I was sneaking out of your room.”

“Why?”

“Erm,” Draco paused. “Felt appropriate?”

“You’re so weird,” murmured Potter. He yawned again, louder than before, and stretched languidly with his arms raised above his head. His maroon sweater rose up, revealing a small stretch of bronze skin underneath, which Draco definitely did not stare at.

Eventually, Potter sat up and asked, “Do you want to go get breakfast?”

Draco blinked. 

“I suppose,” he answered, and Potter crawled out of bed and into the bathroom. 

When he came out, the two of them shuffled out of the bedroom and into the kitchens, passing cold, empty corridors that did not seem so terrible anymore. Potter, still half awake, lingered and floated, torso half-pressed against Draco’s side the entire way there. 

When they arrived at the kitchens, Draco made two cups of hot tea, put five sugars in one, and passed one off to Potter.

“Mmm,” Potter hummed over his cup, and Draco felt his heart beat against his ribs.

—-------

This strange occurrence soon developed into a nightly routine; The two of them would sneak into the Gryffindor common room, and drink until they were warm and senseless enough to settle by each other on the couch. Eventually, they would get into Potter’s bedroom, crawl into his bed together, and sleep until the morning came. 

Sometimes, neither of them would sleep, and they would just stare at the ceiling together, giggling and laughing over nonsense under the covers. Other times, they talked, lips loosened by alcohol. They talked about everything: things they had seen in the war, family secrets and histories, things they had previously thought about each other and everyone else. Being in Potter’s room and under his covers seemed to be a different universe; A small, warm one where they could be honest and private. 

The mornings were no different. Draco would oftentimes wake up before Potter – since Potter had an incredibly bad habit of sleeping in, oftentimes until noon – and would get a glimpse of the saviour’s face, rested and unguarded. He looked almost like a child in those moments, soft and serene, and it always made Draco’s heart ache.

He would only get a quick glimpse of these moments, however, as Potter would always quickly wake after Draco slipped out of bed, and would whine and groan and roll around in his bed.

“S’too early,” Potter would murmur, head still buried in his pillow. When Draco would then remind him that it was a perfectly reasonable hour to wake up to, he would groan some more, and exasperatedly kick the blanket off him before following Draco off to breakfast.

“You don’t have to come with me,” Draco would say, once they were both in the kitchen.

“No,” Potter would reply, flicking a pea at Draco. 

And so their arrangement continued. They walked around together during the day – with Draco ignoring the strange glances from the few students that remained and Potter either not caring or completely oblivious towards them – and dilly-dallied in the snow before going to the kitchen for a cuppa. Potter showed him secret tunnels and spots around the castle, and Draco, in return, walked him around the grounds, pointing out different herbs and plants dusted with white.

“Oh, they’re brilliant,” whispered Potter.

“Yes, Yuletide Camellia,” said Draco, looking at the bright red flowers amongst the shrubs. Potter had bent down to get a better look at them, no doubt dirtying his robes in the process. 

“I didn’t know any flowers blossomed in winter,” said Potter, petting a petal. “So vibrant, too.”

Draco smiled. “They’re one of my favourites. I would see them a lot as a child in winter, running around the garden and all.”

Potter laughed, a warm, lovely thing. 

“You ran around your garden as a child?”

Draco raised a brow. “Yes? That’s a perfectly normal thing to do as a child.”

“That’s funny.”

“And why is that?” 

Potter shrugged. “I dunno, I guess I expected you to only like… calligraphy or something. Something weird and posh.”

“Well, you expected wrong.”

“Yes,” said Potter, voice suddenly gentle. “I’ve been doing a lot of that, I think.”

Draco paused, looking into the other boy’s bright green eyes. He swallowed. 

“And,” he said. “I’ll have you know that calligraphy is not weird and posh. It is a very refined form of expression–”

Potter groaned and ran away, leaving Draco to chase him through the snow until they both fell onto the ground panting and giggling, robes soaked and cold. On the walk back to the Gryffindor tower, they both shivered so hard their teeth began chattering, and yet Draco, in the back of his mind, thought that it was the happiest he had been in a very long time.

—-------

“Sometimes, I get angry,” Potter murmured one night, as Draco was just about to drift off to sleep. He whispered, “Really, really angry. It started sometime after the war ended, after the trials, and I’d start smashing things or punching holes into the wall. I didn't even know why I was doing it. I just knew I was...” He exhaled slowly. “So bloody angry all the time.”

“I think everyone knew,” he continued. “I’d snap at them or say something wrong, and then they’d look at me like…. Like they’re afraid of me. Like I’m some freak that fell into their lap.”  He laughed, a small, sad thing that made Draco’s heart clench.

 “They don't know what to say to me, and they don't know what I'm going to do,” he muttered quietly. “Everyone’s weird and horrid when I'm around.”

“I’m not.”

Potter glanced over. “What?”

“I'm not weird and horrid around you.”

A sleepy smile tugged at Potter's mouth. “That’s because you're already weird and horrid.”

Draco smacked him on the arm, and Potter winced slightly before grinning. Draco, feeling bad, reached over to rub the spot he had smacked.

“Is that why you hang out with me?” asked Draco, feeling the warm muscles under his fingers.

Potter huffed out a laugh. “Cause you’re weird and horrid?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Because I don’t get weird and horrid around you.” 

Potter smiled, a soft, beautiful thing. “Maybe,” he said, reaching up to cover Draco’s hand in his, his thumb resting absently against Draco's knuckles. “Or maybe, I just like being with you.”

“Oh,” Draco said, heart pounding against his chest. “That’s… good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” Draco stared into Potter’s green eyes and said, “I’m sorry about your friends. You must’ve been terribly lonely.”

“Yes,” Potter whispered, breathless.

I’ll keep you company, Draco thought. And because he was drunk, instead, he said, “I’ll keep you.”

For a moment, Potter stayed silent, lips trembling and eyes watering with emotion. And by the time Draco’s hazy mind finally realized his mistake, Potter, strangely, had already begun to laugh.

“You can’t just say shit like that, you fucking weirdo,” said Potter, burying his head into Draco’s shoulder. Draco, alcohol dazing his mind and honestly just out of words to say, stayed silent, feeling the hot breath against his skin like summer tides.

After a few moments of silence, when Potter’s breath was even and his hands were no longer shaking, Draco said, “I’m afraid of dying alone.”

Potter stirred, blinking up. “What?”

“I said, I’m afraid of dying alone,” repeated Draco, hand warm underneath Potter’s, and neck tickled by the dark curls brushing past him. “Everyone I love is in France, and I’m stuck in this school where everyone and their mother despises me. I’m so terrified and lonely all the time that I’ve started talking to a bloody dog.”

“Oh, Draco,” Potter whispered, and the use of his name, for the first time in a long time, made his heart flutter. 

“Once, Pansy and Blaise sent me a photograph of them in France, and I cried so hard I had to cast a Muffliato in my room,” Draco continued, a hard lump rising against the back of his throat. “I can’t visit my parents, I miss my mother, and my father won’t even send me letters.”

Beside him, Potter had moved up, and his hand trailing over Draco’s chest and against the nape of his neck. His fingers were tangled in Draco’s blonde hair as he pulled him closer, head against chest and skin against skin. 

“I’m sorry,” said Potter. “You must’ve also been lonely.”

“Yes,” whispered Draco, voice small. “Now we’re even.”

“Yeah,” Potter murmured softly, before falling fast asleep. Draco soon followed after.

—-------

Everything goes wrong on Christmas Day.

It started out as a relatively normal day. As always, the two of them woke up tangled and warm, huddled under a blanket as the Winter breeze blew in through the cracked-open window. They shuffled into the great hall to pick up their mail (Draco got a brilliant new Potion-making kit from his parents, and Potter received a mountain of miscellaneous gifts, packages and letters from Weasley and Granger). 

“They’re saying there’s going to be a blizzard. First in years,” murmured Potter over his copy of the Prophet during breakfast. The hall was almost empty apart from the two of them, and what few students stayed lingered in small groups on the other side of the hall. Potter, seemingly emboldened by this – or just not caring – pressed his entire side flushed with Draco’s, head almost nestled into the crook of the other boy’s shoulder. Under the table, he had been playing footsie, dragging the tip of his shoe up and across Draco’s ankle. 

“I didn’t know you could read,” said Draco as he cut up his eggs. Potter rolled his eyes and shoved Draco on the shoulder, but pulled himself back into Draco’s side soon after. He reached over and stole one of Draco’s sausages, grabbing it with his fingers.

“Good gods, Potter–”

“Harry.”

“Harry,” Draco corrected. "Haven't you ever been taught table manners?”

“Nah,” answered Harry as he chewed, looking unbearably pleased with himself. “Dead parents, remember?”

“Not an excuse for you to be disgusting.”

“Worked for me so far,” Harry hummed, settling more comfortably against his side. “Merry Christmas.”

Draco sighed, and cut up whatever was left of his plate.

They spent the rest of the day first visiting Hagrid at his hut and wishing him happy holidays (to which the half-giant nearly suffocated the both of them in a terrifying, tight hug), then, on their way back to the castle, building ugly snowmen and throwing packed snowballs at each other. When they both collapsed onto the snow-laden grounds, panting and arms heavy, they picked each other up and began their slow crawl to the kitchens for lunch.

“Go on without me,” said Draco as they walked along. Harry looked at him suspiciously but continued on regardless, and Draco took the moment to rush back down to his dormitory. When he appeared in the kitchens ten minutes later, holding a large bag of presents for the house elves, he was immediately bombarded with squeaks and sobs and cries of, “Master Draco!”

When he was finally able to return to his seat, hair ruffled and eardrums bursting, he found that Harry was already staring at him, soft and lovely. 

“You really have changed, haven’t you?” murmured Harry, smiling gently.

“Just something for the tea,” Draco muttered over his mug, and Harry nestled his head on his shoulder.

—-------

That afternoon, the winds howled as they picked up, and snow began to fall heavier and heavier. Like Harry had muttered to him over breakfast, a blizzard was coming, and the grounds, even more than before, soon became caked with a thick layer of ice and snow.

“What’re you looking at?” asked Harry, peering over Draco’s shoulder as he stood by a window of the Gryffindor common room. “Merlin, it’s really picking up, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” whispered Draco, still staring blankly out at the fields beneath, all white and grey and pale.

“Are you thinking about the dog?”

Draco sighed. “Yes.”

The truth was, Draco was always thinking about the dog. He had tried going out and searching for it on the slow days during the holidays, but he always came back with nothing but soaked clothes and freezing hands. He had told Harry so, but the other boy always just insisted that stray dogs were smarter than they looked, and that if he had survived so far without Draco, he would now.

Harry gave his shoulder a small squeeze. “I’m sure it’ll be fine, Draco,” he said, and Draco wished he could believe him.

—-------

By midnight, the winds had become monstrous, battering against the castle so violently that the windows rattled in their frames. Sleep was impossible. Every time Draco closed his eyes, he imagined a pair of dark eyes somewhere beyond the castle walls waiting in the snow, alone and petrified. 

“Bloody hell,” he eventually thought, and hopped off the bed. He then dressed quickly (all while trying his best not to wake Harry, who was still snoring away beside him), pulling on his coat, gloves and scarf before slipping out of the dormitory.

Draco crept through the castle until he reached the entrance hall, then pushed open the doors, where he was promptly swallowed whole by the storm.

Within seconds, his hair and shoulders were covered in white, and the castle behind him had already begun to disappear into the storm. Painfully, snow whipped against his face, biting at every inch of skin it could reach. 

“Come on,” he muttered, pulling his scarf higher over his mouth. “Where are you?”

He stepped onto the grounds.

The snow was already deep enough to drag at his boots, forcing him to lift his legs higher with every step. Wind tore across the open fields, shrieking around the castle walls and driving sharp flakes against his cheeks. Draco hunched his shoulders and pushed onward, shielding his eyes with one gloved hand.

“Here… boy!” he yelled, pausing nervously. It was then that he realized he had never actually named the dog, which made his heart pick up anxiously. “Come here!”

He pushed farther into the grounds, peering beneath trees and around the edges of the forest. Despite his gloves, his fingers were starting to go numb. Wind whipped around him, loud and roaring, and the cold had begun to seep through his robes, settling deep into his bones.

“Come out,” he called, his voice thinner now as his teeth chattered. “Please.”

The forest loomed ahead, its dark branches sagging beneath the weight of the snow. Draco peered between the trees, searching for any movement, any flash of black fur, but all he could see was snow. Instinctively, he reached into his robes, and swore when he realized that he had run out in such a haze that he had forgotten his wand beside.

He turned slowly, trying to orient himself, but the blizzard had swallowed everything, and everywhere he looked appeared the exact same. White ground, black trees, grey sky. The wind had erased everything. 

“Shit.”

His legs had begun to feel strangely heavy, as though the snow were pulling him downward. He stumbled once, caught himself, and continued. His fingers no longer hurt. That frightened him more than the pain had.

“Where are you?” He called again, voice cracking. “Come out!”

Draco's teeth began to chatter violently. He could barely feel his feet anymore, and his thoughts were becoming slow and muddled. He tried to remember how far he had walked, but the number wouldn't come.

Then, he stumbled, knees buckling under the cold wind. He landed hard on the ground, arms and legs radiating with dull pain against the biting cold, and his cheeks painful and red with the wind. Above him, snow poured down, and all he could hear was the thrashing of the wind.

He lay there, arms weak and trembling, and laughed dryly. He’d survived an entire war, and was now going to die in the snow like a moron. A lonely, terrible death, he thought, and maybe that was all he deserved.

Then, out of the corner of Draco’s eye, a dark silhouette emerged from the snow.

It bounded toward him with frantic determination, cutting through the snow and leaving behind it a flying trail of white. Its dark fur was like a beacon in the sea of white, and it raced across the field with speed never before.

When it reached Draco, it immediately began whining, nudging its cold nose against his face and pushing insistently at his shoulder. 

“Hello, darling,” whispered Draco, arms weak and tired as the dog licked at his cheek. “I've been looking everywhere for you.”

The dog whined again, sinking its teeth into the sleeve of Draco’s robe and attempting to drag him. 

“I’m– I’m afraid I can’t move,” murmured Draco, and the dog pressed closer, its body radiating what little warmth it had against Draco's side. Draco buried his shaking hand in its fur, all while it continued its frantic efforts nudging and pulling at him.

“I’ll get up.” Draco was struggling to keep his eyes open. “I just… just need a moment, that’s all.”

Soon, his arm fell limp, and his eyes were fluttering shut on their own. Beside him, the dog whined louder and louder, the high-pitched squeals and whimpers getting more and more frantic, until eventually, Draco felt the fur of the dog shift into something warmer, harder.

Then, he passed out.

—-------

Draco’s love for winter, as most things, started in childhood. He loved the childhood outings, warm beds and silence, sure, but that was not his favourite thing.

In complete honesty, his childhood in these seasons was often treacherous and horrid. His weak physique as a child meant that he fell sick against the snow often, and that one bad outing meant bed rest for days, and a terrible and rapid fever that swallowed his entire self whole. His body would burn up, starting from the head, and his dreams would be filled with nothing but a vibrant crimson. Without fail, every winter, one way or another, he would fall so sick that his family would gather worriedly at his bedside, tending to his every need.

In some sick way, that was Draco’s favourite thing about winter. It was terrible, sure, his body would be drenched in sweat and pain would shoot through him like ice, but the feeling of being pampered, of seeing his mother’s brow and knowing that he was cared for and loved, was something that he could not deny himself. It had even got to the point that sometimes, he would roll around in the snow until his father grabbed him roughly by the arm, and he was pulled into bed with a thick blanket lulling him to sleep.

There was one winter, however, that Draco could not scrub from his mind. His fevers had ceased sometime after his eighth birthday; however, there was a sudden resurgence of it the winter of his sixth year. His father had been arrested just months prior, and he spent the winter alone with his mother in the manor, so paranoid with thought that he drove himself sick. 

His mother had laid over him, soft hands and cold skin, but Draco had not felt anything. All he remembered was a haze of regret, of desperate thoughts about the inevitable, and dark visions of his father imprisoned. Of loneliness and death and shackles. And in his fever-hazed mind, he could not help but think about ways of escape. 

Perhaps if he was able to stand up for what was right and against what was wrong; if he was quiet and docile and made not a sound, or if he was a little less mean. Perhaps if he befriended Harry Potter – brave and brilliant – when he had the chance, then this all would’ve never happened.

He spent the rest of his illness alone, as his mother eventually became too occupied with both the dark lord’s impending occupation and his father’s imprisonment, and he would wake up in the dead of night, alone and petrified. The wind thrashed against his window and the white snow blinded him, and there was nothing to keep him company except for the moonlight by his feet.

Embarrassingly, in those lonely moments, he would, once again, think about Potter. About everything that could’ve been. And he would fall back, sound asleep with distant dreams of being right, and walking by Potter’s side.

Of course, that would never happen. And winter-Draco could’ve never known that, just a short four months later, he would be lying in a bathroom, bleeding out from a curse from the saviour himself. He could’ve never known that, as he laid in a pile of his own blood, mind hazing and breath escaping, he would be thinking about that Christmas Eve when his fever broke, when his skin was slick and sticky with sweat, and when he would dream about green eyes in the dark.

—-------

When Draco woke up, he found himself in one of the beds in the hospital wing, head pounding and limbs aching. Pain immediately shot from his temples down the side of his neck, and he groaned mutely.

Beside him, a head shot up, and Harry’s green eyes — accompanied by terrible dark circles beneath them — stared into Draco.

“You’re awake!” Harry exclaimed, voice frantic and loud. 

Draco winced, squinting his eyes against the light. “What happened?”

“You’ve been bloody passed out in a fever for days! You ran out into the blizzard and—“

“The dog,” Draco suddenly said, mind racing. Shaking, he sat up, pain still radiating through his torso. “Where’s the dog? I saw him in— in the snow; he was with me.”

“Draco, calm down, your injuries—“

“No! Where’s the dog? He found me; where is he? I need to–”

“Draco!” Harry grabbed Draco’s forearms, hands warm and engulfing. His gaze softened. “I know where the dog is, okay? He’s fine.”

“But—“

“You can see him, but only after Pomfrey looks you over. Okay?”

Draco stared at Harry, who, unrelentingly, stared back. Eventually, Draco sighed and sank into the pillows behind him. “Fine,” he muttered, and Harry ran to grab Pomfrey.

After the checkup, in which Draco was prodded and splashed with all kinds of different potions and spells, Pomfrey scolded Draco for being terribly reckless, but said that his winter fever had mostly gone, and that there was now nothing wrong with him except for a few scraps and bruises. Through the entire time, Harry stood in the corner, staring and nervously fidgeting with his hands. 

Eventually, Pomfrey left, and it was only Harry and Draco. Harry stepped forward and took a seat on Draco’s bed.

“Well?” Draco asked loudly. “The dog?”

Beside him, Harry had gone very still, looking terrified and small. Draco frowned. “...What?”

“I need to tell you something,” Harry said quietly, hands trembling. “Can you promise you won’t be angry with me?”

“I can hardly promise that until you tell me.” 

“Please, Draco,” whispered Harry. 

“What’s the matter?” Draco asked softly. He reached over to try to hold Harry’s hand in his, but the other boy just pulled away, eyes wide and afraid. Draco shrank back down into his bed, concerned. “Alright, yes. Sure. Tell me.”

Then, Harry stood. And he began to change.

The boy standing beside his bed seemed to blur and fold in on himself. His clothes disappeared beneath shifting black fur, his hands became paws, and within moments, there was no Harry Potter standing there at all. There was, instead, the dog.

“Oh,” Draco murmured, heart pounding. The dog lowered its head, looking up at him with big, pitiful eyes, and Draco swallowed hard. 

The dog whined, its tail tucked behind its hind legs, and trembled just slightly. Draco sighed.

“Will you turn back? I do not want to be caught having a conversation with a dog,” he said, and watched in morbid fascination as the dog morphed back into Harry Potter. 

“You do that all the time, though,” a very human Harry muttered quietly, shaking his head like a dog caught in the rain.

“Yes, in private. Not in the middle of the bloody infirmary.” Draco looked Harry up and down while the latter fidgeted nervously.

For a few moments, neither of them said anything, with Draco being too tired and exhausted to do so, and Harry being too terrified and ashamed. Draco could see it in him; his cheeks were flushed, and his gaze was jumping all over the place.

“So,” Draco started, looking out at the window beside him. “Is this where you tell me everything for the past four months has been an elaborate joke?” 

“What? No! No, of course not! Why would you think that?” Harry said all at once, rushing forward to take his seat again next to Draco’s bed.

“What else am I meant to think when you just turn into a fucking dog that I’ve been talking to for the past school year?” asked Draco, side-eyeing Harry heavily. 

“Erm, I dunno? That I’m awful and get angry at me for lying to you?”

“And why did you lie, exactly?” asked Draco, crossing his arms. “What on earth made you decide this was a good idea?”

“The animagus part or the befriending you as a dog part?”

“Both, you git.”

“Well, I became an animagus during seventh year. It was easier being on the run as a dog, easier to go undetected, too.” 

“Are Granger and Weasley…?”

“Nah, just me. They thought it was too much work.” Harry traced nervous circles on the white bed sheet. “Hermione was a cat for a little bit back in second year, but that’s a story for another day.”

Before Draco could ask, he continued, “Anyway, as for the befriend you bit, I didn’t actually plan on doing that. I guess.” “I saw you at Hagrid’s back in September, and I… I guess I just got curious about what you were up to.”

“Thought I was up to no good?”

“No! Merlin, not like that. I just saw you walking around and sitting a lot, and you stopped showing up at lunch and dinner. I was just… wondering what you were doing all the time,” Harry admitted, looking ashamed. “So I used my dog form to follow you around a bit, and then I fell in a bush and twisted my leg.” He shrugged, still not meeting Draco’s eyes. “And that was that.”

“Why didn’t you tell me anything?”

“I was afraid that you’d, I dunno, hate me or something. And you obviously love the dog–”

“I do not.”

“Oh, come off it, Draco. I’m the dog. Don’t get all bloody shy about it.” Draco flushed, and attempted to rebut, but was interrupted by Harry continuing with, “I tried to let you off and stopped before Christmas break, but then you had to go out and run into a blizzard like a reckless moron.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault now?”

“Not what I said! You’re so annoying.” Harry moved to sit on Draco’s bed, pushing him aside. “Scooch over, you big lump.” 

“You can’t just take over people’s beds like that; I’m a dying patient!”

“You’re not dying, Pomfrey said you just had a bad fever and a light cough. Now move over.”

Eventually, Harry made his way next to Draco, side flushed to one side. He was warm, so warm, and his skin burned Draco from the inside.

“Are you angry with me?” he eventually said to Draco, voice soft. “It’s okay if you are.”

“Thanks for your approval,” said Draco back, and Harry rolled his eyes. Feeling more honest than usual – most likely from whatever potions that Pomfrey doused him with – Draco answered, “Yes. I’m upset.”

“Oh,” said Harry, deflating. 

“But,” Draco interrupted. “I suppose you’ve done nothing but keep me company. As both human and dog.” Draco turned to look at Harry, eyes wide and hair ruffled. “And I guess that is not much to complain about.”

Harry smiled, a soft thing. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I wanted to tell you.”

“I know,” Draco answered. 

“It hasn’t been a joke to me, Draco, really,” Harry whispered. “I meant it when I said I liked being with you.”

“Okay,” whispered Draco. “Me too.”

“I really, really want to kiss you.” Harry trailed his fingers against Draco’s arm, drawing soft circles on his skin. “Is that okay?”

Draco, breathless, said, “Yeah.”

They kissed, and warmth washed over Draco like never before. Harry’s lips were soft, and he smelled like his citrus body wash, bright, brilliant, and heady. His hand continued to run up and down Draco’s arm as they kissed, tangling into each other, skin over skin and body over body. 

Finally, they separated, and Harry gave him a smile that was the brightest, and most beautiful thing Draco had ever seen. They stayed like that for a few long moments, just staring at each other, cheeks flushed and stupid smiles unable to be kept down.

Then, in the silence, Draco said, “You know, I’ve always wondered if Animagi would transform back nude.” 

Harry smacked him across the shoulder.

—-------

For the few weeks after winter break, when students rushed back into the halls and dorms in a frenzy, Harry had apparently made it a goal to be a public nuisance every night. He insisted on either sneaking out to see Draco in the dungeons, or moaning and groaning until Draco was willing to sneak back into Gryffindor Tower and into his bedroom. 

Eventually, one night, as Harry attempted to usher Draco into his bedroom through the common room, Finnigan, tangled on an armchair with Thomas (Draco is still convinced that they’re dating), called out, “Y’know, you don’t have to pretend to sneak him in. Nobody gives a shit.” 

Harry’s eyes widened and Draco had to stifle a laugh, but after that, they stopped hiding their strange little affair entirely. Nobody batted an eye when Draco Malfoy walked through the Gryffindor common room, drank their tea and soaked up their fire, or lazed about with Harry on the couch. 

Then, one early morning – when Draco had been loitering in the Gryffindor common room as Harry got dressed – Hermione Granger pulled him aside. 

“I don’t remember the last time Harry’s looked at this light,” she said, face lit with the morning sunlight. “He was so miserable and moody before, always sulking and simmering, and he wouldn’t talk to me or Ron. It was terrible.”

“Yes, he told me,” murmured Draco. “He was terribly lonely.”

Her face dropped at that, and she blinked quickly. “Well,” she said eventually. “Whatever you’re doing, it’s obviously working. And…. I’m glad you’re there for him.”

“He’s more there for me than I am for him,” answered Draco, and before Hermione could ask another question, Harry had emerged through a passageway and beamed at the sight of the two of them chatting. He wrapped his arms around Draco, sprawling over him like vines, and frowned when he had to leave for breakfast with Ron and Hermione. 

“You know,” Hermione started as they lingered in the doorway. “You could just come with us for breakfast.”

Which brought Draco to the present.

It was now April, almost May, and the spring blossoms had begun to bloom outside on the grounds. The air was warm, and the grass was littered with brilliant spots of colour as newborn flowers burst from the ground. Inside the dining hall, students chatted excitedly about far-and-wide gossip and plans for the upcoming summer holiday. Winter was long gone, and Draco was sitting at the very edge of the Gryffindor table as he poked at his breakfast.

“I’m telling you, Hermione, they’re bloody insufferable!” 

“I’m so sorry you think that way, Weasel,” drawled Draco, dodging a bean that Ron flicked at him. “Perhaps invest in some better muffling charms?

“What the fuck is a muffling charm going to do when I can hear you two through the bloody walls?” Ron exclaimed, putting his hands up in the air in frustration. “Also, put up your own bloody muffling charms!” He looked desperately at Hermione. 

Hermione cut up her eggs. “Don’t look this way, Ron,” she said, and Ron put his head in his hands. Draco smirked.

“You’re just angry because I beat you at Wizard's Chess.”

“Which you totally cheated at, by the way,” Ron grumbled, glaring at Draco. He then went back to flicking beans and bits of torn-up tissue paper at Draco.

“Who’s cheating on what?” asked Harry, peering over Draco’s head as he stepped into the Great Hall. He pressed a quick kiss to Draco’s cheek. “Good morning.”

“Merlin, just look at them! We don’t even snog half as much as they do,” Ron grumbled, and Hermione reached over to pinch him on the thigh. “Ouch!”

The rest of breakfast was spent bickering back and forth about the best seasoning to put on eggs, and seeing who could make the best catapult to sling paper at the other. Draco, of course, was the winner of both competitions, which was a momentous achievement considering he had Harry’s hand stroking his thigh the entire time. 

Soon, the fluttering of wings broke through the daily chatter, and mail floated and dropped onto benches. Draco, in particular, received quite a few letters. 

“You’re quite popular, aren’t you?” said Harry, looking at the small pile of letters on the bench in front of Draco’s. Draco pressed a small kiss to the corner of his mouth and opened his letters.

The first letter was from Pansy, which described how her boss’ wife had finally discovered his months-long affair with his secretary (“I bloody knew it!” exclaimed Ron, who Draco had accidentally gotten hooked on the story after a night of drunken gossip in the common room). She only knew this as the said wife stormed into her workplace and threw a combination of vases, tables, and paperwork all over the floor, and, judging by the smudge on her ink, Pansy had been laughing so hard she cried as she was writing the letter. 

The second was from Hagrid, who invited Draco & Co. over for a nice cuppa. Unconsciously, Draco licked at all the teeth in his mouth, and slipped that one into Harry’s letter pile instead. He could deal with it instead.

The third was from his mother, which contained the usual swarm of well wishes and inquiries, as well as a dried-pressed Daffodil attached to the page. It made Draco’s heart swell with heavy emotion, and he thumbed over the ink on the paper over and over. He tucked that letter into the breast pocket of his button-up.

The fourth, however, was different from the rest.  It was a letter from McGonagall, which read;

Dear Mr. Malfoy,

I hope this letter finds you well.

When I spoke to you at the beginning of the school year, I told you that forgiveness was a gift, and that respect was something to be earned. I imagine you thought little of my words at the time, as you most likely had more pressing concerns. Nevertheless, I have found myself thinking back to that conversation rather often.

You have endured a difficult year, Mr. Malfoy. I am aware that there have been days when returning to this castle has not been easy, and I am equally aware that not every difficulty you have faced has been visible to those around you. In spite of all that, however, you have conducted yourself admirably, and I have watched you become considerably less concerned with proving yourself to others, and considerably more concerned with deciding for yourself the sort of person you wish to be. I believe that distinction matters.

I am also pleased to see that you have allowed yourself the company of others. In particular, your friendship with Mr. Potter has been rather unexpected, though I cannot say I am displeased by it. Keep your friends close, Mr. Malfoy.

You have earned my respect this year. Do not mistake that for an absolution of the past; it is, however, an acknowledgement of the person you have chosen to become since then. I hope you will remember that, and recognise how far you have come.

Take care, Mr. Malfoy, and happy (almost) Summer holidays.

Sincerely,

M. McGonagall

P.S. There is a parcel enclosed with this letter. It was requested specifically by Professor Dumbledore, who insisted that I deliver it to you. I have found that arguing with his portrait is rarely productive.

Draco opened the package and found packs of sherbet lemons, shimmering and sweet. He offered most to his friends, put some through the mail for his family, and, returning to his bedroom after breakfast, put the rest into the drawer by his bedside.

That night, he found Harry humming on his bed, clear wrappers overflowing on the small nightstand. His hair was wet and wild, skin golden bronze and endless, and he smelled like the earth and grass and rain — how he always did after he came back from one of his runs around the grounds as a dog. He smelled like freedom.

When he noticed Draco’s presence, he smiled, and Draco leaned down and kissed him on the lips. He was not surprised to find that Harry tasted of sweet, sweet, lemon.