Festive Drarry

One

One: Snow

In which Draco gets poetic.

Draco Malfoy stared up at the candles that decorated the ceiling of the great hall. They glistened in the darkness like one thousand little lights, guiding the way home. Hogwarts was like a second home to him, he realised with a start. This was where his friends were, not that they'd been particularly good friends this year (or maybe that was just him). It was also where he'd found refuge from his father's accusing words for five and a half years. It's your fault, Draco. Do your duty, Draco. You know what's expected of you, Draco. And worse than all of them, you've let us down, Draco.

But it would not do to dwell on Lucius Malfoy too long. Lucius had not been chosen for this mission, the most important since the Dark Lords return. Lucius is not nearly as important as his son, thought Draco, puffing out his chest a little. (Old habits die hard, you see.) I'm not nearly so much of a pompous prat as I used to be. But I'm still feared. There are other ways to make yourself feared than by flaunting your wealth, like father. But do I want to be feared?

Draco didn't know.

He resumed staring at the candles, the small, enchanted flames flickering. But they had lost their attraction now his mind was on other things, so the platinum haired Slytherin searched the hall for another diversion. He found one on the Gryffindor table, in the shape of Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.

Potter - Harry - the boy (what was Draco meant to call him?) was chatting quietly to his friend. The ginger one, that is. The Weasley. The bushy mudblood was no where to be seen. Harry had his back to Draco, and even across the two tables that stood in between them, Draco could see the dark lock of hair that nestled in the nape of his neck. Draco couldn't help wondering what it would feel like to touch that hair, to stroke it and run his hands through the ruffled mess. Would it be soft, or coarse? Did Potter even like to have people caress his hair? Questions like those rushed through his head as he stared at the boy across the room, drinking in his every feature. As he looked he found himself fantasising about what the Chosen One thought of him. Probably something awful, after all, Draco was known for being a cruel and prejudiced bully.

Although his imagination and thoughts strayed, Draco's eyes stayed fixed on Harry's back. But he'd been noticed, and his heart sank as the Weasley pointed in his direction. Harry turned his head, probably thinking to be discreet. If he was, he failed miserably.

The old Draco would have pointedly smirked in their direction, but not anymore. Now he just averted his gaze and looked down at his still full plate. Although he had looked away, Draco could feel Harry's eyes burning into him. See? Utter contempt. You were stupid to think he could ever look at you any other way.

Thankfully, further awkwardness was avoided by a loud shriek from a small, Hufflepuff first year. Draco's head snapped up at the noise, his fair hair flopping in his eyes as he did so. "It's snowing!"

Gasps of delight and happiness echoed through the hall, but the cloaked boy did not join in. However, when the whole hall decided to uproot themselves and rush outside (even the teachers), Draco decided he'd better come too. Perhaps the sight of flaky, cold white stuff might cheer him up. And maybe he'd have a chance to bump shoulders with the Chosen One. Maybe.

As he trudged outside, dutifully following the crowd, Draco did have to stop and stare. He didn't gasp or laugh in joy, but he did allow a small intake of breath. Great flurries of snow were floating down from the sky, and if he looked carefully, he could pick out individual flakes

Snow is like people. Each little flake is individual, but when you look carefully, they all have similar traits. And they're all made of the same material. So each looks different, but they're all connected at heart. Like humans. And although it's falling, and it's going to hit the ground and melt eventually, it still keeps carrying on. It understands, but it hopes.

Draco couldn't help but laugh bitterly at his own poetic thoughts. Oh what the hell, it's just snow.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" came a voice from next to him, a warm body appearing by his side.

Draco Malfoy looked up and down at Harry Potter. "Yes, yes, it is."

The two boys stood side by side in the snow, even when everyone else had deserted and gone back to the warmth. Harry said nothing, but Draco knew what he was thinking.

Because he was thinking the same.

You're okay, Potter
And you, Malfoy