Drarry One Shots

Forfeit!

'Bloody Pansy bloody Parkinson!' Draco muttered to himself as he sat down on a low wall in the cloisters, the pale-yellow light of the wall sconces throwing impenetrable shadows into the darkness of the passageways. He allowed his shoulders to slump and his mask to fall now he was away from the stares and giggles and the whispers.

'And bloody Hermione bloody Granger,' he added for good measure.

He shivered against the first snowfall of the Scottish Highlands but ignored it stoically.

'Bloody, bloody, fuck!' he muttered, rubbing his arms over the thin crushed velvet of his top and then smoothing his hand down the satin of the fitted fishtail skirt he wore.

Admittedly, the satin did feel rather nice over his bare legs, especially as they'd Glamoured the hairs away so his legs were silky smooth.

'Ow!' he exclaimed when he stabbed himself in the eye with one of his impossibly long black nails as he tried to brush a snowflake away from his eyelashes. He couldn't even cast a warming spell because there was nowhere to carry his wand on the figure-hugging outfit.

The nails then proceeded to get tangled in his long black hair. 'Fucking Parkinson!' he grouched again, as he started to shiver violently. But the last thing he wanted was to go back in there where the beat from the music wasn't muffled by the blanket of the snow. It was giving him a headache.

He felt the smooth warmth of a weighty long dress-coat being slipped over his shoulders and closed his eyes against the familiar smell of sandalwood and ginger lily and black pepper that sent a warm glow through his blood.

'You'll catch pneumonia out here, dressed like that,' Harry said softly, climbing over the low wall to join him.

Draco's breath hitched as their shoulders touched.

'It's early this year,' Harry said, obviously referring to the snow.

They didn't look at each other.

'Are you here to talk about the weather or to gloat, Potter? Either way, both are tedious,' he sneered, sitting up straighter and trying to put his mask back in place but not really succeeding. He hadn't succeeded since they'd come back to finish their Eighth Year. Apart from in there, of course. Tonight, he'd worn it like a queen.

'You know I haven't. Have you seen me join in at all in the so-called merriment?'

'No,' Draco said curtly. 'No,' he repeated more softly with a resigned sigh.

Harry had been there, sitting on the side-lines as the forfeit was meted out. Not partaking, not even laughing. Generally, his lips were pursed and he looked disapproving. Occasionally he would even step in, suggesting that they went too far; like when there was a debate on whether the neckline on the crushed-velvet top should plunge to below Draco's waist or not, and when Pansy and Millie actually threatened to pluck Draco's eyebrows into a pronounced arch. Draco didn't need that; he could arch his eyebrows perfectly by himself, thank you very much.

'I'm sorry I couldn't stop them completely,' Harry said quietly.

'It was my choice,' Draco sighed. 'I chose the forfeit over answering the question. Bloody Parkinson and her fucking Truth or Dare...'

'She has, almost single-handedly, managed to pull our year together...' Harry said, a slight smile audible in his tone.

'At my fucking expense,' Draco grumbled.

He'd thought 'truth' would be the lesser of two evils. How wrong he was. Pansy only had to go and ask him that question, didn't she? She knew how to get to people's weaknesses even though she had no idea.