A Weasley Sweater -- Harry Potter (Draco, Draco/Ron)
Ron hadn’t pushed when Draco had refused his offer. He’d probably figured that giving Draco space would help him cope with losing his parents or some noble Gryffindor crap like that. Git.
But Draco wasn’t lonely. He just wasn’t used to being alone. But he certainly didn’t want to be suffocated in the Burrow, surrounded by a mass of red hair and freckles and noise. Who would want that? Only those crazy Weasleys. Not him. Definitely not him. Compared to that, being alone was the best thing in the world. That’s what he told himself, anyway.
He spent the night before Christmas going through his mother’s clothes until he found the dress she’d worn last year. It was emerald and had glittered when she’d walked. As he looked at it, he couldn’t even remember what she’d gotten him for that Christmas, but he could remember how beautifully the dress had fit the pale skin of her body. He held the dress against him when he went to bed that night, pressing cheek to fabric, and he inhaled, almost allowing himself to be foolish and sentimental, almost hoping the flowery and expensive scent of her perfume would be lingering there.
He awoke in the late morning to a thumping sound and the bed dipping under the weight of a package. Despite his haze of sleepiness, he recognized the tiny, bobbing bird that delivered it, so he didn’t shrug Pigwidgeon off when the owl rested on his shoulder. He opened the package slowly, still waking, still recognizing exactly what its arrival meant. The package was stuffed with pies and Honeydukes chocolates and bags from the joke shop and everything else Draco had come to associate with Ron’s family. And on top of it all, folded as neatly as something of its bulk could be, was a sweater. A Weasley sweater. Slightly oversized, green, and sporting a silver ‘D’, it smelled of warmth and kitchen fires and that smell only a large, living family could have.
Pigwidgeon pecked fondly at his ear as outside a peacock screeched and Draco brushed sleepiness-for that’s all it was-from his eyes, and even in the cold, hollow manor, he knew he wasn’t alone anymore.
But Draco wasn’t lonely. He just wasn’t used to being alone. But he certainly didn’t want to be suffocated in the Burrow, surrounded by a mass of red hair and freckles and noise. Who would want that? Only those crazy Weasleys. Not him. Definitely not him. Compared to that, being alone was the best thing in the world. That’s what he told himself, anyway.
He spent the night before Christmas going through his mother’s clothes until he found the dress she’d worn last year. It was emerald and had glittered when she’d walked. As he looked at it, he couldn’t even remember what she’d gotten him for that Christmas, but he could remember how beautifully the dress had fit the pale skin of her body. He held the dress against him when he went to bed that night, pressing cheek to fabric, and he inhaled, almost allowing himself to be foolish and sentimental, almost hoping the flowery and expensive scent of her perfume would be lingering there.
He awoke in the late morning to a thumping sound and the bed dipping under the weight of a package. Despite his haze of sleepiness, he recognized the tiny, bobbing bird that delivered it, so he didn’t shrug Pigwidgeon off when the owl rested on his shoulder. He opened the package slowly, still waking, still recognizing exactly what its arrival meant. The package was stuffed with pies and Honeydukes chocolates and bags from the joke shop and everything else Draco had come to associate with Ron’s family. And on top of it all, folded as neatly as something of its bulk could be, was a sweater. A Weasley sweater. Slightly oversized, green, and sporting a silver ‘D’, it smelled of warmth and kitchen fires and that smell only a large, living family could have.
Pigwidgeon pecked fondly at his ear as outside a peacock screeched and Draco brushed sleepiness-for that’s all it was-from his eyes, and even in the cold, hollow manor, he knew he wasn’t alone anymore.