Eyes of Phthalo Green - DRARRY

Chapter 9 - The Lights of Winter

Draco met with Harry every Saturday. He had quit the potions and had regained his appetite, and always made sure to direct a large bite of treacle tart in the direction of the Gryffindor table every time it appeared. The Slytherin had even taken out his old art again, restoring the closet to it's former haven of safety. Nobody noticed Harry's late-night absences; The Daily Prophet made sure that nearly the entire student population distrusted him and found him a lying attention monger. It wasn't exactly ideal, but the fewer people who cared about where Harry went the better. Draco made sure his hallway insults were as cutting as ever, then laughed at "Scarface's" jokes behind closed doors. The two were happy, even in their pain. Sometimes Harry would come to his room in tears from a particularly disturbing dream and the two would just sit there in silent acknowledgement of the world's weight. On nights where he felt up to it, the Gryffindor would describe the ominous door to Draco as he sketched, then they would compare it mentally to all the entrances they could remember. But for the most part, his room was an escape from reality. A place where, surrounded by the smell of linen and wormwood, they were just Harry and Draco. 

There was never any kind of relationship milestone between them. Separate mugs of mint tea, both of their favourites, became a shared cup. Sitting awkwardly on the floor of Draco's closet morphed into huddling up together to escape the wintery drafts. Tearful confessions and fear of the future had settled into the resolute rhythm of their breaths. Harry taught Draco defence spells, which Umbridge had tactfully excluded from her Defence Against the Dark Arts curriculum. The Gryffindor told him about a group he had founded for that purpose, but his new friend refused to join. He wasn't ready to expose himself to the greater world, and Harry tried to understand. As much as Seamus and Ernest criticised him, the Gryffindor knew he would always be their "golden boy." Draco had no such assurance. 

That didn't stop the two from growing closer. It didn't stop them from letting their fingers interlace ever so slightly, as a reminder of apologies and truth. It didn't stop Draco from playing with Harry's hair when he thought he wouldn't notice, wondering how one person's hair could be both so unkempt and so perfect at the same time. It didn't stop him from brewing the boy a special pain killer for his scar that employed the sensory effects of Amortentia to make it always taste like Quidditch and treacle tart. And as the days became shorter and the nights colder, Draco found himself transfiguring useless objects into blankets and cushions for the closet. Yes, he knew it was dangerous to allow himself to feel. The sorting hat had made no hesitation over his head; even Draco was a Slytherin at heart, and was, as such, a liability. But when Harry teased him about why any one person could possibly own so much green stuff, he was more than willing to forget the fear. 

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The winter had begun to make its presence known. Herbology entered its technical unit, locking the greenhouse doors until February, making for a rather pleased Draco Malfoy and a rather disgruntled Neville Longbottom. The aroma of cinnamon and chestnuts wafted through the halls, alongside the not-so-wholesome lyrics of Peeve's favourite carols. The fireplaces seemed to burn brighter in the chill. Students walked around like animated snowmen, red noses and frosty skin peeping out from over yards of woollen scarf. Holly and Mistletoe appeared along the cloisters, sending younger years running in embarrassment. Draco, for his part, would pick the decorations clean; the berries were essential and valuable ingredients in many potions, and he had no intention of wasting them. The Black Lake began to freeze over, the merpeople entering a deep hibernation until the spring, scales just visible through the swaying of the seaweed. 

Draco didn't know what he should get Harry in preparation for Yule, or even if he should get him a gift at all. In the end, though, he had an idea. On days the boy couldn't come to visit, suffice to say weekly encounters had not been nearly adequate, Draco would sketch him in secret. Unlike his other works, Harry was not in pain. He was not drowning or bruised but smiling, throwing his head back in a laugh. Once the outline was complete, Draco started to paint, trying to remember all the shades and hues Harry had liked best. The canvas came alive with the lights of winter: skin so cold it was nearly blue shone beneath the boy's vermillion lips and cheeks. The black hair hanging messily, struck with sparks by the light of a street lamp. A pair of round, black, wireframes shielded the closed eyes from the snow, which blizzarded around the Gryffindor in a shower of gold and icy blue. Draco painted from memory, a collage of all the times he'd seen Harry smile. It was like painting the sun, blinding in its beauty.

It took hours on end, but, with a week before Christmas break, he finished. On the back of the canvas Draco signed the painting, and, beneath his name, a short missive: "Happy Christmas! Make this come true." Draco nearly ran to the Owlery, startling Harmen when he burst through the wooden doors. He gave the bird a scrap of parchment, inviting Harry to his room later that night, nearly jumping in anticipation. Harmen raised a feathery eyebrow and gave what could only be considered the equivalent of a "Someone's excited" hoot. Draco just laughed, "Go on, deliver it! And don't tell my father about any of this!" The owl complied, spreading his wings and aiming up and out of the colosseum-like structure.

The hours stretched before him, warping around Draco in an eternity of moments. His blood ran cold with anxiety, then surged in flame. A glimpse of Harry in the hallways was all too short, but the seconds that surrounded it stretched unbearably. With her every consonant and vowel, Pansy's speech befouled his ears until he yearned for the Gryffindor's voice. Crabbe and Goyle discussed the best racist insults, while Draco silently wondered what could have been had he not called Granger "Mudblood" in second year. The more he walked with the other Slytherins, wandering from class to class, the more he secretly regretted his facade. Perhaps they could have escaped the bridle of their parent's twisted expectations; it was too late, the rider had ascended and their wills were not their own. 

Finally, mercifully, the time came. Draco heard the gentle knocking on his bedroom door, a muffled signal that Harry had arrived. He opened the door, careful not to seem to eager to see his friend; he didn't want to give away his surprise. Draco stalled Harry in the main bedroom, waiting to unveil the painting in the closet. Up until that night, the Gryffindor would never have seen him draw anything that wasn't, at best, unsettling. When he could tell that Harry was curious why they were still in the bedroom, Draco made his move. 

"I know it's early, but I made you something. For Christmas...um, it's a gift." He was nervous, but excited too, as thrilled at the prospect of unveiling the painting as if he had recieved something as well. Draco swung the closet doors open with a bashful smile. He walked to where he'd rested the canvas, picked it up, and handed it to Harry. Silence. Shakily, Draco raised his eyes. A rush of motion enveloped him and he toppled backwards onto the floor. Something warm and wet was seeping down his neck from beneath a hard disc-like thing buried under his jaw. The fall had knocked the breath from his lungs, but when he tried to regain it he could not, such was the weight that held him down. Draco had closed his eyes on instinct, yet when he reopened them he could not see through the messy black hair that had fallen over his face. It was then that he realized: this was a hug. And not just from anyone; Draco Malfoy was being hugged into near nonexistence by a sobbing, tear-faced Harry Potter. He could have lived in the moment, built his house upon the first teetering ledge of affection he'd ever been offered, but it could not last. 

"Merlin, I'm sorry," Harry stuttered, awkwardly rising off Draco's crushed ribs, "That looked like it hurt, I shouldn't have...And I'm crying too, shit. It's just f-for my birthday...gave them all to Dudley...my cupb-b-board..." Fresh tears cascaded down the golden boy's cheeks. Harry took of his glasses and covered his eyes, from embarrassment or pain Draco couldn't tell. It was hard to watch him there, looking so small and broken in his sleep shirt, splattered with drops of salt water. But like a rainbow after a storm, Harry looked up at him and whispered, voice hoarse from crying, "Thank you." 

He wouldn't know what overtook him, even years later. It might have been the smile that had broken through those tears, warm as the sun through clouds. Perhaps a rush of confidence or emotion or stupidity. He could not know. In that moment, Draco made a decision that changed the course of his life forever. He leant forward, and, ever so softly, pressed his lips to Harry's.