(no subject)
OUT OF THE COLD
by novembersnow
(Part 2)
He thought about not turning around. He very nearly didn’t. But after only a momentary hesitation, he did, though he’d identified that snide accent immediately. “What, Malfoy?”
In the whirling snow, Malfoy reminded Harry of an apparition, all porcelain-pale skin and translucent hair and eyes like shadows. Harry wasn’t certain what to make of his expression-some inexplicable combination of loathing and curiosity and terror. Malfoy halted at Harry’s words. “I…nothing.” He shook his head, seeming almost angry. “Nothing. Never mind.”
In that instant, seeing Malfoy still as the wind swept around him, that garish, maddening green scarf tucked so neatly around his neck, Harry knew there could be no never mind about this, about anything that had ever gone on between them. He strode back to where Malfoy stood. “Nothing. Right.” Anger like he hadn’t felt in years seized him. “Fitting, since that’s all you ever were, Malfoy, and it’s all you’ll ever be. Nothing.”
Malfoy gazed back at him, expressionless.
“I don’t care how many Death Eaters you put in prison after the war,” Harry continued, somehow only more infuriated by Malfoy’s lack of response. “It doesn’t matter, because you’ll never be anything more than a pointy-faced git who picked the wrong fucking side.”
Malfoy laughed, a bitter sound. “Oh, and you’re so lily-white and pure in your motives, Potter. I still have scars from what you did to me in sixth year, you know. And I saw you kill my father. You smiled.”
“I did not!” Did he? “Besides, whatever I did, your father deserved it!”
“No one deserves to die, Potter.”
“Says the fucking former Death Eater,” Harry spat. “Probably still haven’t gotten over the fact that we killed your beloved leader.”
“No,” Malfoy responded coolly, “actually, I stand corrected. Voldemort definitely deserved to die.”
Malfoy’s use of the name was like a splash of cold water, halting whatever had been on the tip of Harry’s tongue-and at that point, he wasn’t entirely sure what that might have been, though he was pretty certain it wouldn’t have been something that was wise to say on a public street. He closed his eyes and took a calming breath. This wasn’t war anymore; it wasn’t even Hogwarts. There was nothing to gain by baiting Malfoy, and if Harry felt more alive right now than he had in months, well, that was only the adrenaline talking, and maybe it was long past time he joined a recreational Quidditch league on the weekends.
Harry scratched idly at his neck, where his own scarf made him itch, and in the silence, Malfoy unbelievably didn’t move away, but only watched him, calm and assessing.
“I used to wish you dead, you know,” Harry said.
Oddly, that drew a hint of a smile from Malfoy. “Oh, I assure you, the feeling was mutual.”
“Do you still?”
“Wish you dead?”
“Yeah.”
There was that smile again, and Harry would have sworn it contained a hint of self-mockery if he hadn’t known that was a concept unknown to the Malfoy clan. “No,” Malfoy said. “Not for a long time.”
It wasn’t precisely the answer Harry had expected. “What changed?”
“Well,” Malfoy said, “to begin with, there was the whole ‘if Potter dies, who’s going to do in the Dark Lord?’ dilemma.”
“Oh,” Harry said. “Yeah. Right.”
“And, well….” Malfoy’s gaze skittered away, and suddenly he seemed absorbed by the display of hippogriff talons in the window of the Apothecary across the street. “Maybe I got used to having you around.”
Harry frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Malfoy’s eyes met his again, and Harry found himself shivering from something entirely unrelated to the frigid temperature. “It means, maybe I didn’t understand what hate truly was until I watched Voldemort tear apart my family, and torture and kill my friends,” Malfoy said, without any trace of self-pity. “And maybe I didn’t realize until then that what I felt about you was something rather more complicated.”
Harry opened his mouth to respond, but his mind had gone blank. However, years of battling Dark Lords and masked henchmen had left Harry with a healthy respect for his instincts, so when something inside him urged him to take a step closer to Malfoy, he did. Still holding Malfoy’s gaze, he stripped off one of his gloves and gave into temptation, reaching to finger the bright green cloth that hugged Malfoy’s neck. Unbelievably, it was even softer than it looked, and he stroked it, fascinated.
“I don’t anymore either, you know,” he said at last.
“Don’t what?”
“Wish you dead.”
The words startled a short, rusty laugh out of Malfoy. “Oh. Ah, that’s good, I suppose.”
“Although you’d never know it by the way I’m keeping you out here in the cold,” Harry murmured, deliberately keeping his fingers where they were, caressing the incredible softness of Malfoy’s scarf. He could see that Malfoy’s cheeks had pinked slightly, and Harry didn’t think that was entirely from the cold either. It was a good look on him-and wasn’t that a strange thought to be having about Draco Malfoy?
“Oh,” Malfoy said, shifting his weight and moving his book under his other arm. “Yes, I suppose…time to go….” But he didn’t make any move to back away, and Harry thought he saw something like challenge lurking in those shadowy gray eyes.
Harry lifted his hand from Malfoy’s scarf and tugged his glove back on. “I was just about to head over to The Leaky Cauldron to get out of the cold,” he said, aiming for casual and not quite hitting it, but what did it matter when Malfoy was looking at him like that? “Maybe you’d like to join me for a drink? Er, purely for the purpose of warming up, of course.”
Malfoy laughed, a real laugh this time. “Warm up to you, Potter?” he said, and smirked. “You know, I think I just might.”
---
Notes: Thanks to m.e. for a speedy beta!