'𝐓𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍

Chapter 5

If he's honest with himself, Draco expects himself to capitulate much more slowly.

Their romance feels like years ago (anything parsed by a war would probably have that kind of quality). Their time in Hogwarts, before the war, feels like a pleasant memory, pleasant, but distant: of snogs stolen in alcoves, furtive glances in the corridors and across the Great Hall, forbidden trips out into Hogsmeade, snowball fights, and that one last Quidditch match just before the news broke out of the fatal Death Eater attack on the Ministry. It feels like a story that happened to someone else.

So he's surprised at how strongly the emotions rush through him again. Feelings he thought were suppressed or forgotten -- it's like Harry's very presence is the key to unlocking them again. And unlock them Harry does, carefully and patiently.

The day after their conversation at the Leaky is surreal. Draco wakes up in his bed, too cold as usual, because the Warming charms in his apartment have worn off at some point in the night.

He dresses, teeth chattering, pulling on his shoddy overcoat and gloves and blowing into his hands to warm them up. He picks at some of the loose threads on his coat; he'll need to look into replacing it soon. Draco wonders if he has enough Galleons to cover the purchase. Winter's started early this year, and he'll still need to last through a chilly spring.

Exiting his apartment, he almost swallows his tongue in shock when he bumps into a solid shape.

Harry pushes his glasses up his nose, and smiles apologetically. "Good morning, Draco."

"Morning," he stammers, because Harry is at his door, and how did Harry even know where he lived, anyway?

Harry fumbles with something he's carrying, and that's when he realises that Harry, dressed in his bright red Auror robes, is weighed down with an assortment of paper bags.

"Did you go shopping before you came by?" Draco says stupidly, forgetting that it's probably around seven in the morning, and most shops don't open until nine.

"Well -- something like that," Harry mumbles, and if his hands were free, Draco thinks he'd probably be scratching his head sheepishly now. "Here! This is for you." Harry thrusts something long and green and woollen at him, and Draco takes it instinctively. It warms his cold fingers immediately. "It's a scarf," Harry says awkwardly, when Draco doesn't move.

"It's warm." Draco does not sigh the word.

Harry beams. "It's for you," he repeats. Then he shuffles his feet. "Are you going to St Mungo's? I thought I could Side-Along you, so that you don't need to walk there."

"I was going to take the Knight Bus." Harry's face falls, but Draco continues, "But I wouldn't mind arriving at work without bruises on my body for once."

Harry's smile is sudden and blinding.

~*~

It's still daylight when Draco leaves St Mungo's, unexpectedly early. The sunlight is wonderfully warm in spite of the chilly wind, and he turns his face upwards to catch the rays, a sigh on his breath.

It was a good day. He's escaped with relatively few bad-tempered patients; the cafeteria lady scooped an extra helping of mash for him, with the stern admonishment that he needed to eat more; Head Healer Weatherby even chased him off early for taking extra shifts the week before and "working too hard -- you've got to learn how to enjoy your Christmases, m'lad."