drarry fluffshots!

hand in glove

Hand in Glove

Harry wondered how it managed to snow every year without fail at Hogwarts. For the first eleven years of his life, a white Christmas was just a fantasy.

Hogwarts however, seemed charmed to snow every year.

It was ironic, he thought, as he slipped down the stone steps of the Entrance Hall that he had so often wished for a snow day so that he didn't have to go to school. At Hogwarts, everything was business as usual. Stupid wizards.

He opened the huge wooden door to the entrance hall just wide enough for his skinny body to slip through. It took all of his weight and he leant against it to make sure it closed again. There was a very loud 'thump' as it clicked back into place. He'd probably woken the whole castle. Great.

It was still dark outside. If he looked up, he could still see stars sat in the dark lilac-grey sky. Clouds drifted like veils across the waning moon. If Harry stood here and looked up, would he be able to see the stars disappear one by one? Like sparklers burning out on bonfire night.

He had woken up early and couldn't get back to sleep. The cuts on his hand had been bothering him, and then there was Ron's sleep-talking and Neville's snoring and the whispers coming from Dean and Seamus' corner of the room.1 So, he had slipped on his school robe and snuck out of the dormitory. It was bizarre that they were all together for Christmas, and he found himself irked by it. He treasured those times when him, Ron and sometimes Neville basically had the whole common room to themselves and could do whatever they wanted.

Then again, Harry supposed, a lot of things irked him nowadays.

His scar gave a twinge of pain in agreement to this point. He gritted his teeth and picked up the pace. He wanted to crush the snow under his boots. He pressed his feet down as hard as he could with every step, but it was too deep for him to reach the ground.

He picked up the pace, trying again and again to step right through it. Step right through all the pain in his head and his hand and his mind. If he could just make it through to the paving below – to the grass below – then – then he would be free. It would free him. He'd see things clearly. Everyone would.

He slipped.

He had made it to the small hill before the Black Lake, even though he hadn't been paying attention. His foot had slipped on the sudden ditch and flew out from beneath him, taking the rest of his body with him as though he was being pulled by a ghost. He landed on his back with his robes spread around him. The snow swiftly began to melt through his cloak and pyjama bottoms.

There was a snort from somewhere above him.

Harry's heart skipped a beat before he realised that most of the things that tried to kill him did not snort at him. Voldemort laughed, but didn't snicker quite like that. So he turned with an excuse on his tongue for Ron-

And found himself staring up at Draco Malfoy.

"Had a nice trip, Potter?"

He was just an outline against the lightening sky, but the silhouette was unmistakable. Harry had been glaring at Draco for five years, why shouldn't he know the boy's outline as clearly as Ron or Hermione's?

"Almost as good as the Hogwarts express," he snapped. "Did mummy not let you go home for Christmas this year?"

There was a pause.

"Bit of a wordy comeback, don't you think?" Draco asked. He was smirking, but there wasn't that malevolent glint in his eye. "Need a hand?"

Harry was still sprawled in the snow.