Drarry One-Shots 2

Heartsease

day 3: "the language of flowers, pyjamas, a secret passageway"

Drarry, Eight Year, Getting together

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Draco released a breath of relief once he'd finally managed to creep to the boring-looking wooden door which matched any other boring-looking broom closet entrances all over the castle. While such broom closets could usually hide nothing more than broken chairs, desks and Filch's stashes of cleaning supplies along with an occasionally inappropriately passionate couple, this door hid one of the half-a-dozen secret passages which Hogwarts had so graciously made for them during the Death Eaters' occupation of the castle.

This one was Draco's favourite though, not only because it was unknown by the great majority of students who are at least somewhat aware of all the short-cuts around Hogwarts, but also because it led to the Room of Requirement (and in the last few months, Harry Potter).

He cast another warming charm to cling to his pyjamas as Hogwarts in February wasn't a particularly forgiving place, temperature-wise, and then leaned against the wall of the passageway to gather himself.

He was trembling. From anticipation, uncertainty, or a gripping fear of embarrassment, resentment, a broken heart. All of it. He was surprised he could walk.

He pulled up his left sleeve and touched the clean skin around his Dark Mark with shaking fingers. He didn't have to go. He could return to his dorm, pretend he slept through the night, delay for just a while more.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to find the courage his midnight companion seemed to be drenched in. The darkness of the passageway greeted him as he opened his eyes and with a heartbeat too fast to ignore, he began walking to the Room of Requirement.

He had a response to give.

As he walked, his right hand kept coming up to rub at his left forearm, as if it could feel the tickle of all the past nights written over the skin. It started back in October, and it was his fault so he couldn't really blame Potter for feeling like he was going to die before he managed to reach the exit of the passageway.

He was in the Room of Requirement (that first night in October), just as always, unable to sleep and restless. He had a muggle marker in his hand and was drawing senseless lines across his Dark Mark in lieu of actually giving in to the urge to cut it out. And then Potter burst in. Accidentally, if his shocked wide eyes and a quick intake of breath were genuine.

"Can't sleep?" Draco had asked, like a complete idiot he was whenever Potter was in the room. Potter had shaken his head, sat down next to him on the floor, and that's how it began.

At first, they didn't talk. Then when they started, they didn't talk about the war. Somehow that wonderful topic had an equally wonderful habit of sneaking up on them when they weren't paying attention. Finally, they talked about nothing but the war. And somewhere, during those late nights and early mornings, Draco spit the hateful words inspired by his Mark into the space between them and Harry took over the doodling bit of the routine.

He drew flowers, usually. Almost every time. It was puzzling, but Draco just figured he liked flowers. It wasn't until Potter casually remarked: "That's cowslip, you know", that he started wondering if there was more to the whole flower business than just Potter's hidden appreciation for herbology.

So, when Potter once again started doodling the more or less the same three or four flowers on his arm the next time they met, he decided to inquire more.

"What's this one?", he asked, casually pointing to pale blue, bell-like flowers near his wrist.

"Harebell," Potter said, glanced up at him and smiled as if the question made him happier than anything else that'd happened recently. The rest of the doodles were filled with cowslip, cypress, and elderflower, which Draco carefully stored in his mind, careful not to forget.