Chapter Text
Hogwarts was fucking pretentious in the winter.
Every single moment of the year, it was a cacophony of overly pompous frails and kitch, grandiloquent laces, but in the winter, with the fucking snow shovelled strategically into the most aesthetic corners, and touches of white snowflakes dusting everything in wonderful winter charm, Draco could swear the castle reached an entirely unprecedented level of flamboyance.
It didn't help that the students were so happy.
They pranced around like they were posing for the Daily Prophet, all smiles and laughter, with their robes just slightly dishevelled and their scarves dangling perilously from their shoulders, and their hair screwed up, and their glasses slipping from their nose - Merlin, why couldn't he just push them up?... In any sense, the students - all of them - were happy.
Draco guessed that surviving the War really did put things into perspective: they'd all returned to retake their last year - because not all of them were Granger, and it could get difficult to balance schoolwork and war strategy - and yet it all seemed so small now, the exams, the classes, the occasional assignments, that it seemed more like an extended holiday - like the week before Christmas in a normal school year, when most students were home and only some filtered still through the halls, lazy, sleepy-eyed and uncaring.
Not that Draco was exactly partaking in that happiness.
Because the War could have resulted in many things, but it sure hadn't brought down prejudice with it. It sure hadn't brought down the past. And those who had fought on the wrong side were not quite forgiven, and just shy of forgotten. Hanging in the edges of the school, reserved and quick-footed, all the outcasts like Draco spent their days pretending they weren't there.
Draco himself had made quite the art of it. He knew precisely which alcoves were never visited, and which classrooms were safe to occupy during dull moments; he knew that the greenhouses were often empty when it rained, and that the lake was deserted before breakfast.
He spent a lot of time there, by the water. He seldom got a good night sleep, and he found himself sitting by the margins often, surrounded in cold, grey fog, waiting for the castle behind him to come alive with lights for the day.
Presently, he was there, feeling the early dew bead and soak through his robes where they splayed over short grass. He wasn't alone this time. Pansy stood next to him, an idle hand in his hair.
'You'll catch a cold out here,' she said. She always said it when she found him there; she always stayed til he left.
'It's been worse.'
'There's no one at the castle, you know. You could just wait in the library,' Pansy pulled on a thread of his hair, 'He's not there. I checked.'
Draco rolled his eyes. He really did wish Pansy would sit beside him so that she could see it, but the only time he had suggested it she'd slapped his shoulder - she rathered have died in the battle, she said, than to join him on that freezing floor.
'He'll be there soon. Or one of his friends, anyway.'
'Well, that can't be helped; he's friends with everybody,' she scorned, picking a new lock to fiddle with.
Draco's lips pressed into a bitter line. Of course he was. Who wouldn't want to be Harry Potter's friend? And whom would Potter not welcome with a friendly smile? Everyone - absolutely fucking everyone - except for the old Slytherins, it seemed. How disgraceful of the Chosen one to keep such a closed mind, honestly; to listen to stereotypes, to simply assume that none of them had changed, that none of them could be repentant, desperate to make amends, to shake his hand, to even hold it…
'He fucked Seamus, I heard. Last night, at Hogsmeade.'
'He didn't - and stop that,' Draco snapped, batting her hand away from his hair. When he looked up at her, she was smirking.
'The rumours seemed pretty convincing, Draco. One too many shots of firewhiskey, is what I heard. Always does you in, firewhiskey. No wonder Potter was down to fuck any living-'
'He didn't fuck anyone,' Draco repeated, gaze now back on the grey lake in front of them, 'I checked.'
He hadn't checked. He'd just tired of staying in the common room all night, wondering how many people had gone to Hogsmeade, how many hangovers he'd see plastered on dehydrated faces the morning after, how many mistakes were being committed under the guise of cheap alcohol - picturing who was drunkenly grinding against whom; who was hooking up with people they'd never even considered, people who were so utterly unworthy… He'd decided to see it for himself and, well, once he caught sight of Potter's little group slouched in some seedy booth, old habits had kicked in. He'd loitered about until they went home, and he would have likely noticed if Potter and Finnigan had indeed fucked.
Pansy let out a delighted laugh.
'You checked? Draco, dear, could you possibly be more in love?'
'Most definitely.'
'Merlin, you're impossible,' Pansy sighed, nudging his side with her leg, 'I should get back before I freeze.'
Draco hummed in acknowledgement. He knew how it went; she wouldn't move until he did.
'Are you sure he wasn't there?'
Pansy nodded with a little amused smile.
'I think I'll join you, then.'
They walked together back to the castle. Some of the windows were already dotted bright, making it stand out against the snow.
The problem with Harry Potter was that he was always everywhere.
Draco couldn't glimpse at a red and golden tie without thinking of him; he'd spot a redhead in the corridors and remember immediately of the Weasleys, and then of him; he'd pass the Fat Lady and wonder where he was; during storms, at night, whenever he heard thundering he was overcome with visions of his skin.
Or sometimes, most obnoxiously, he'd sit in front of him in class, shifting in his seat, dipping his head to write something down - which really was just to spite Draco, could only be, because Potter used glasses but he surely wasn't that blind -, or leaning to whisper something into Weasley's ear and then sniggering against the muffle of his hand.
It was worse in Charms class, as Draco could currently testify. In Charms, the tables were all close. Harry's back pressed against the edge of his table, and sometimes Draco would catch bits of what he told Weasley: some were ridiculously stupid, others actually funny, and it invariably made Draco wish he could tap Potter's shoulder and get his attention; answer him himself, maybe even be the recipient of Potter's little whispers.
But he couldn't. He couldn't, because they didn't exactly work that way; because Draco couldn't talk to him without remembering how acutely inferior he was; because Potter was all perfection and smiles, and Draco was the ghost with the Dark Mark on his arm, spending cold dawns by the lake.
After an hour of burrowing holes into Potter's back, Draco was elated to hear Flitwick finally dismiss them. He was gathering up his books when a body crashed against the table, the wood digging into his thigh. He looked up to see Potter struggling for balance, cheeks red, Weasley laughing behind him.
'Sorry, Malfoy,' he offered with a crooked smile - those damn smiles Draco was always seeing, that were only directed at him to polish a casual apology.
The thought made all potential friendliness disappear. He picked up the rest of his books, glancing curtly at him.
'And here I thought you were finally too old to be pushed around by your friends.'
'Don't know where you got that idea,' Harry retorted with another smile, 'Hey, did I see you at Hogsmeade last night?'
Draco very pointedly did not falter in his tone:
'No. It might come as a surprise to you, Potter, but not everyone's idea of a pleasant night involves obscene amounts of alcohol.'
'That is surprising.'
Ron chuckled from the side, where he was watching the exchange. And why wouldn't he laugh as his friend deemed to talk to Draco, to spare him a breath, to offer him any word in that tone no pain nor tragedy had dulled down - that still sang warm and bright like when Draco had first met him, and gone to bed for months after with one exclusive thought in mind: that Harry Potter would not be his friend, even though he could surely give him better clothes than the hideous sweaters Weasley's mother got him for Christmas, and make him laugh much louder than the little huffs he could see him breathe out during breakfast, when Draco stared at him across the Great Hall.
But Draco didn't let that upset him, and he raised one eyebrow cooly.
'And what does that say of your company?'
Potter's eyes were unfairly amused.
'Are you suggesting I get better company?'
Draco could feel his face heat - inexplicably, really - and he looked down at last, picking up his books.
'No. I imagine you're quite fine as you are,' he uttered before walking away.
Draco obsessed over the exchange for the rest of his classes: it would have been so easy to do better; it would have been so simple to be nice. When Potter had first apologized, he could have smiled and said 'No problem'. How difficult would it have been? Two words to convey enough friendliness that Potter would notice; to make him realize Draco was an actual person he could talk to unprompted by unhappy accidents.
When Potter had asked him if Draco was suggesting he got better company, Draco could have been brave and said 'yes'. He could have said 'Me'. He could have told Potter - with one single fucking word, no effort at all - that he was equally fit to be his friend; that he'd excell at it, even, because he knew what jokes he liked, and he'd be much more reliable than all those flimsy Gryffindors that could barely stand straight after two drinks, and he wasn't too scared to tell the Chosen One that he wasn't fooling anyone by chewing on the same burnt piece of toast for the entirety of breakfast, and to make him sit down and eat properly for once since he'd fucking gotten to Hogwarts.
All of this he could have said, had he some of Harry's courage.
Of course, Pansy found the whole thing hilarious.
'You truly are daft, aren't you, Draco?' she laughed, sitting across from him at lunch, 'Truly, completely daft.'
Really, he didn't know why he still shared anything with her.
'What would you have had me do, then?' he asked absently, his eyes flittering around the Great Hall. The institutionalized habit of house-designated tables had mostly crumbled since the beginning of the year - friends sat with friends, independently of house, which meant Potter was much more difficult to pin these days: Draco had seen him sitting in every corner of the Hall by now - all except Draco's table, which remained still nearly exclusively Slytherin.
'You could have asked him out on a date.'
That made Draco snap to attention pretty instantly.
'I don't want to date Potter.'
'Well, you obviously want to shag him,' she smirked, 'And spend every waking moment with him. And kiss the ground he walks on. Would you not call that dating?'
'Don't be ridiculous, Pansy,' Draco rolled his eyes, 'I simply don't understand why he's decided to make friends with absolutely everyone except for me.'
Pansy sent him a pointed look which he primly ignored, focusing instead on the pieces of honey glazed pork on his plate that he'd been moving around with his fork.
'He hasn't tried me yet either, darling, if it serves you any comfort.'
Draco could hardly contain the bitterness in his gaze:
'He's talked to you before. He asked you for help in Potions, Pansy.'
Potions. Draco had been sitting right there, and he'd asked Pansy.
He pushed his plate away, bumping elbows with Blaise, who was animatedly gesturing beside him as he chatted with Pike and their new obnoxiously tall, absurdly dull Ravenclaw friend.
Pansy's face split into a teasing grin.
'Are you jealous, Draco?'
She hadn't even looked up at Potter before reciting some vague answer. If he'd asked Draco, he wouldn't have minded leaving his own brew alone for a second and personally analyzing Potter's potion. If he'd just asked, Draco would have made sure it came out perfect.
'No. I simply think it was rude of him, is all.'
'I'll tell you what,' Pansy's eyes went black with challenge, 'You really want Potter to be your friend?'
Carefully, he nodded.
'Then it's decided. We're going to Hogsmeade next week.'
Draco could feel his mind go blank.
'We're absolutely not going to Hogsmeade next week.'
'Please, Draco, you'd be going anyway to spy on him, what even is the difference?' Pansy's expression seemed fully unimpressed, and Draco felt himself shrink under her expectant gaze.
But he simply couldn't go. He wouldn't be able to stand it. All those people stumbling in the snow, cheeks flushed and robes ruffled; all that aimless happiness that had no place for him.
'I don't spy,' he murmured. Pansy waited with stubborn decisiveness, and he sighed, 'He can't see me, Pansy, not after I essentially told him I'd never step foot in that place.'
'He'll be too drunk to remember,' she shrugged, her entire countenance glistening with victory.
Draco couldn't blame her - she had a certain way of making possibility seem like fact.
Still, telling her so would do no good. What terrible things would come of Pansy knowing just how influential she could be to Draco.
'I'll consider it,' he said; and, taking an apple from a nearby fruit bowl, he stood, 'Better be off, now.'
He left the Great Hall alone. Pansy stayed with Blaise, which truly was quite laughable: not like she'd be able to distract him from the new Ravenclaw he so fancied - and, truly, it really was just impossible to conceive how everyone made friends so easily.
He headed to the Astronomy tower. There was a nook there, almost on the top floor, under an arched window, bathed in a soft, pale light that was perfect for reading. It had become a favoured spot of his - no one else ever went there, and when the pages began to bore him he could turn to gaze out the glass panel, at the frosted school grounds, the front of trees guarding the Forbidden Forest, the edges of the Quidditch court, over which he could occasionally catch the quickly-shifting dots of players, and let his mind distort every little glimmer into the gold stripes on a scarf or the reflection off round-lensed glasses.
The tower was also never truly silent: there was the incessant ticking of hidden clocks - inexistent clocks, perhaps, but there nonetheless; the whispers of the wind as it whizzed through the cracks and eroded the old, porous blocks of stone. A little soundtrack composed of nothings which played a slow rhythm in the back of Draco's mind as he settled down under the window's archway, intent on studying some advanced formulas for the manipulation of potion scents. It quickly proved fruitless, however, even in the melancholic calm the space evoked; each phrase and diagram served only as a reminder of that day at the start of the year where Potter had sauntered past him, the best student in that class, and asked Pansy for suggestions. The ache stung just the same on his chest as when he'd stretched his hand to Potter before they were Sorted, and Potter had denied him.
Draco set the book aside on the cold floor, staring morosely out the window. A prickly layer of ice had frozen over the glass.
He wondered if it'd be snowing the next time he went to Hogsmeade. If Pansy would still make him go if it was. If she'd actually force him to talk to Potter, all in the name of her preposterous misconception that Draco wanted to date him - as if that could ever be possible.
No, Draco set much lower goals. All Draco wanted were small, scattered things: to be the sole sharer of a joke Potter had found especially amusing; to be greeted just like Potter greeted his friends - with a fond hand on a shoulder and sleep-smoothed smile; to be able, in turn, to guide Potter with a hand on the low of his back, when the boy was all nerves and indecision; to know where Potter was not because he lurked but because he'd told him over breakfast; to wake up next to him so he could see his hair before Potter styled it - if Potter even touched that bird's nest at all; to be the one Harry leaned against when he had too much to drink; to not have to loiter outside, alone in Hogsmeade, but to be sitting at that seedy booth right next to him, even if that meant enduring his other friends; to get to rest an arm around him, feeling his warm breath against his neck; to be the only one Harry ever wanted to tug toward the dance floor.
All he wanted were moments like that.
Because Draco had always felt that - he'd known ever since a child that he felt love for Potter. But his love hadn't bloomed normal, and it grew dark: old and bored, attached to all the fucked up things he'd done in order to conceal it. Draco Malfoy was not supposed to want to hold the Chosen One's hand, yet he did, ever since first year, and now the want had dulled, and he'd become accustomed to it, just as one does to a weak heart. It was a constant hurt, like a bad back, that Draco had endured for so long that he couldn't remember standing without its weight on his shoulder or breathing without its hold in his lungs. An indissociable part of him, his love for Harry, but nonetheless resigned: it was purposeless, and it was effortless, like correcting his name to Potter when he thought of him, or telling the world what he felt was hatred.
So yes, Draco loved him, but that didn't necessarily mean he wanted to date him. Some things were simply too farfetched to be wanted.
It still hurt, however. Especially now. Everyone else glowed with optimism for their new lives after the war. It was contagious, and Draco found himself unwittingly hoping for change in a fact that had been set in stone years ago: Potter didn't want anything to do with him, and never would.
He sighed, picking back up the leather bound book. It was pointless, all of this. He'd been obsessing over Potter for years now: where had it ever led him?
Potions, that was worth his time.
And so, Draco pressed his back against the glass, letting himself be swept into a world of measurements and technique. Behind him, snow began to fall, swaying slowly in the air, painting the window white.