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It was absurd. Ridiculous. Completely unheard of.
If you would have asked Harry even a few months ago if this would happen, he would have undoubtedly frowned and told you to sod off.
And yet, as the days turned to weeks, the night terrors persisted, and the aching cold of a castle leaking into winter only worsened as the hours turned dark. The ghostly shadows under Harry’s eyes were worsening, turning him into a ghost himself as he wandered the chilling halls of the sleeping school.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept through the night, woken up rested. These days he was thankful to wake up with a whole, unbroken hour under his belt. Eventually, the -pat-pat-pat- of his footsteps lulled his exhausted mind into a stupor, and he knew that he could return for a few precious, peaceful moments curled up by the fire. As if that would stop the cold. Sometimes Harry feared that he was the one made of ice, frozen, lifeless, decaying. A corpse imposter in the world of the living.
The only way he knew it wasn’t true, was because he couldn’t see them. The ones he’d killed, the ones he had torn from their happiness, from their lives. The ones he couldn’t save.
Harry padded into the common room, eyeing up the dying embers of the fire. He supposed he should have stayed, kept the fire warm, but he couldn’t find it in him to care. It wasn’t as if it could penetrate the cold in him anyway.
The Gryffindor sat himself on the armchair closest to the fireplace, his gaze settling on the embers in the darkened room, and soon his eyes turned heavy. The promise of a small piece of rest called to him, and he did not notice the lingering figure in the doorway to the boy’s corridor as he sunk into slumber.
—-
Harry wasn’t sure how much time had passed when a gentle hand on his shoulder shook him awake.
“‘Mione?” Harry looked past his best friend and around the room quickly in alarm. “What’s happening?” He gripped the wand in his pocket tightly.
“No, no, it’s okay, Harry. Nothing’s happening.” The witch shushed him, bringing his attention back to her. “You should go to bed. Everyone will be up in an hour or two.”
Harry flicked his gaze over to the tower window. It was still dark outside. “Yeah, yeah, okay. I’ll go to bed.” He mumbled, offering Hermione a tight smile as she watched him worriedly. He stood up, and a weight fell off of him, piling around his feet. He looked down, confused, taking in the soft green blanket. Looking up at Hermione, he found her back already turned, heading off down the girl’s corridor. Where had the blanket come from? Harry glanced around the room once more in confusion. No one was there.
The Gryffindor shook his head, picking it up and balling it in his hands. He trudged across the common room, lifting it to his nose subconsciously. It smelt clean, like fresh sheets, but there was something else, a hint of mint and vanilla. The scent was familiar and foreign all at once. Harry shrugged to himself, his sleep-starved brain settling on the idea that he must have found it on his wanders.
He opened the door to his room, pulling the blanket around his shoulders before locking himself in. He dove onto the bed, wondering if he could suffocate himself in his pillows if he just refused to move.
—---
Night drifted in around the castle once more, and the eighth-year common room slowly began to empty. Those who had chosen to return were each given their own room, complete with bed, wardrobe, and desk. Harry wasn’t sure how much he liked it. The privacy was nice, but there was no comfort to be found in the sleeping faces around him when he woke. Instead, when he was inevitably woken from his nightmares, Harry found himself greeted only by his own loneliness. By day, the feeling still lingered. The golden boy shrunk in on himself, not caring to participate in conversation. He found that the only input he wanted to contribute anyway was an endless need to apologise. His friends didn’t want this from him. They saw no need for it. He was guiltless; the saviour of their world. If only they knew that it was all his fault, that he was indeed in fact guilty.
Amongst the returning students was a certain blond Slytherin. The moments that Harry could actually consider himself present in, were filled with cautious, curious, glances towards Malfoy. He looked as bad as Harry probably did; hollowed cheeks, dark eyes, consistently crouched over in one way or another as if he were trying to disappear. Draco had returned alone, and alone he stayed, followed by the glaring gaze of anyone who realised he was there.
As Ron took Hermione’s hand, leading her down the boy’s corridor to do things Harry didn’t even want to think about, he flicked his eyes over to the Slytherin, the only other person left in the common room, where he sat hunched over on the sofa opposite Harry. To his surprise, he found Malfoy already watching him.
It should have panicked him, but he found no malice in the blond’s expression, no mocking. “It’s late,” Harry said. Malfoy didn’t respond, looking over at the flames crackling in the fireplace. Harry looked too, a shiver crawling up his spine. He supposed it was probably warm in the common room. He wouldn’t know.
“You’re cold.”
Harry looked back over at him, realising that this was the first time he’d heard him speak all year. Something in his aristocratic voice stirred something in the Gryffindor. Now he’d heard it again, it was almost like he had missed it. “No, I’m not.”
Malfoy pressed his lips together in a frown. He knew Harry was lying. The Slytherin shuffled in his seat, lifting the corner of the blanket off of his lap. Harry wanted to laugh. He didn’t.
“Don’t be absurd.”
Malfoy tilted his head. “I’m not.”
Harry blinked at him, his mind blank, and Malfoy huffed. “We’re friends, remember?”
The Gryffindor gulped. He thought maybe he hadn’t sent the letter that drunken night in July. He hadn’t received a response.
Malfoy,
I hear that after my testament, you’ve been released on probation. Does that mean you’ll be back at Hogwarts in September? I will. They say I don’t need to, but what else would I do? My mind healer says I need normality. Whatever that means.
I don’t want us to be enemies anymore, which I suppose means that we’re friends. At least, we know each other too much to be acquaintances.
I don’t know why I’m writing this really. I just wanted to say that I’m glad you’re not in Azkaban.
HP
The letter had no doubt been messy and nearing illegible, and probably stained with beer. But apparently, Malfoy had indeed received it.
Harry didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t as if he didn’t want to be friends, but how did one even start to be friends after having the relationship that they had? By sharing a blanket, apparently.
He watched as Malfoy pulled back the blanket and stood, walking the few feet to stop at Harry’s knees. He took his hand, and Harry found it soft and gentle and warm. Malfoy tugged at it, tilting his head towards the sofa.
Wordlessly, Harry stood, following Malfoy, their hands joined as they sat down and Malfoy pulled the blanket over their laps. Harry couldn’t help but lean into the Slytherin, marveling at the heat radiating from him.
It was absurd. Ridiculous. Completely unheard of.
If you would have asked Harry even a few months ago if this would happen, he would have undoubtedly frowned and told you to sod off.
Draco smelt of vanilla and mint. Harry swallowed hard.
“You gave me your blanket.”
Malfoy hummed. “You were cold.”
“I’m always cold.” Harry didn’t move, but he desperately wanted to see Malfoy’s face. Had he ever been this close?
“Are you cold now?”
Harry couldn’t help it, the way he leant in even further to Malfoy’s warmth. “Not as much.”
“Then stay.” The words were whispers, barely audible, but they made Harry’s heart stutter nonetheless.