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Crackling noises from the fireplace add to the buzz from the pub's mulled wine in Harry's system. Across from him, Draco's pint is empty. His face is illuminated by the ember glow from the fire. He sits straight-backed and rigid. Harry knows he's tipsy enough to be honest.
Harry takes a deep breath, staring at the small glimmering tree in the middle of the room, surrounded by rainbow fairy lights. “A student is doing uncharacteristically poorly. I tried to approach her, but she won't open up.”
Draco blinks slowly. “Amelia Abrams?”
“How did you know?”
“She has things going on at home.” He shakes his head. “I'm not supposed to tell you that. To put your mind at rest, we're working on it.”
“She told you? But she's… a Gryffindor.”
“Easy…” Draco waves his hand. “Between the strict teacher and the fun one, who would she confide in? She wouldn’t even care who’s the head of her house and such—”
“I'm not strict—”
“You're the serious and earnest ex-Auror. It's not bad but it makes you seem hard to approach. I'm fun—”
“You're teaching charms, Malfoy. I teach DADA; you don't have fun with DADA.”
“There you go.”
“Fine.” Harry frowns. “I can't believe I said that.”
Draco smiles sweetly. “You'll never beat me.”
Harry knows. He won't say it out loud. Harry hates to admit it, but Draco is good. Harry has a lot to learn from him in terms of building teacher-student relationships. Draco won the favourite teacher poll the past four years. Harry minded it the first year; he didn’t really know Draco then. He accused him of cheating.
All these years watching him by his side tell Harry that he never did.
“I'm glad she’s getting help.”
_______
An hour later, they trace back to the castle.
Hogwarts grounds are coloured white. Draco's boots leave two inch deep footprints behind him. He's dressed in grey, a match to the background. Except for his scarf—a bright scarlet, a contrast to its surroundings. It was Harry's gift from last Christmas. Harry notices how often he’s worn it this winter. It brings unspeakable joy—it makes him wonder sometimes. Until he remembers Draco uses the Muggle pen Neville gifted to him as often. Harry's not that special.
Draco's legs are long. His steps are fast. Harry tries his best to keep up, managing with a small jog. As Harry catches up, Draco smiles at him. His cheeks are red—like the scarf—from the cold, and his eyes are soft.
“Come on, walk faster. It's bloody cold.”
As if Harry isn't trying.
“You're helpless. Your legs are gnome-short.” Draco smiles with his insult. But there’s a small, six-sided, complicated snowflake caught by his pale eyelashes, glistening under the winter sun, so near to Draco's silver eyes. Harry's lucky he's close enough to see.
You wait, then, Harry never says.
Harry doesn't dare to breathe. He wants to touch the snowflake. It, or Draco's face, all the same.
Oh.