Chapter Text
Harry trudged down the halls of Hogwarts, Marauder's map on hand to ensure there were no prefects around the corner.
He had been caught out after curfew many times before, and at this point, the prefects didn't care, but it was never too safe to be sorry.
It was hard for him not to be on edge all the time. Yes, the war was over, and yes he wasn't hunting for Horcruxes anymore. But he couldn’t let his guard down.
Maybe tonight he would go out to Hagrids and check on him to make sure he's okay. Being kidnapped by Voldemort is no laughing matter. He wondered if Hagrid had nightmares like him.
He checked the map again. No one. Maybe they were steering clear of him. Again, It wouldn't be the first time. Many of the professors and prefects had probably been told to leave him alone. He’s fragile, of course.
Harry glanced out the window, at the thick snow that coated the trees and ground yet still continued to fall. It would definitely be cold out. Maybe he should save seeing Hagrid for another day. Even though he had brought an umbrella, his school robes wouldn't be enough to keep him warm.
He continued staring out the window, glancing over to the quidditch field. The full moonlight shone down on it, illuminating the stands and the shiny rings that had been replaced after giants had ripped them out of the ground to attack children during the battle.
Harry shivered, trying to focus on anything else other than the horrid aftermath of the war. Of wounded and dead children scattering the grounds. Of their parents, wailing with grief at the loss of their babies' lives.
He stared at the quidditch field, blinking in surprise and squinting to try and make his eyesight better. It looked like there was someone on the quidditch pitch. He definitely saw a silhouette but he couldn't tell who it was.
They didn't look like they were wearing anything appropriate for the weather and Harry was curious. Who could that be?
He turned tail and walked towards the doors that lead out towards the quidditch pitch. It was out of the way, and somewhat off the school grounds, but he was 18, and he could choose whether or not to go off the grounds, even if he was technically still a student.
Once he made it to the doors, he opened up his muggle umbrella. He and Hermione had bought it while they were camping. It didn't hurt to be prepared, especially when a cold wind could have sent one of them down with a case of pneumonia.
He was sure normal camping would be better than what they did. But who's to say? At least it helped people in the end. Even if they didn't technically find any of the Horcruxes while camping.
Harry quickly made it out to the field, and luckily the person was still there. As he got closer, he started to recognize the tall, lean figure, and the way the moonlight reflected off their white-blonde hair.
Why was Malfoy standing in the snow at night? Harry slowed his pace down to a trudge once more. Did he even want to try to deal with Malfoy? He had known that Malfoy had stayed for the Eighth year, along with a few other Slytherins, but not many had the means to be able to keep going to school.
So far, Malfoy had been relatively civil. Well, as civil as a former death eater could be. He mostly stuck to the backs of classrooms and skirted around the other students. For once, Harry could not remember the last time he said anything to anyone.
Maybe he wasn't trying to cause trouble for once. Besides, Harry had walked into his alone time. It would be rude to antagonize him now. He was too tired to try anyway.
Harry walked right up next to Malfoy, holding the umbrella higher so he was under as well. It wouldn't do any good for him to get a cold.
Malfoy jumped slightly in surprise but didn't look at Harry. He lifted a hand to touch the umbrella, looking somewhat confused. He didn't say anything.
Harry didn't say anything either, just watched the snowfall. It was soft, fluffy even. It was the type of snow that one would catch on their tongue as a kid.
He lifted a hand out, letting the snow fall on it. It melted before he could take a closer look, but that wasn't the point anyway. It was cold, refreshing even. It reminded him of Godric's Hollow, of his parents and their graves.
He glanced over at Malfoy, at the sharp edges of his cheekbones, at the almost gaunt look on his face. He looked tired. That was one thing they had in common.
The moon shone brightly on them, illuminating the snow around them and the slight hollows that he had almost missed in Malfoys cheeks. He seemed to be taking the aftermath of the war harder than Harry had thought.
He had assumed that the Malfoys' riches would be able to keep them afloat, along with Lucius Malfoy's ability to twist the truth. Maybe it didn't work out quite as well the second time around.
“What is this, Potter?” Harry jerked at the sudden question, whipping his head back around to face Malfoy, who still wasn't looking at him.
He must have taken too long to answer, so Malfoy turned to face him. He seemed like he was trying to look at him haughtily, but the bags under his eyes and utter resignation in his demeanor counteracted the look.
He gestured up at the umbrella, “What is this?”
Harry frowned in surprise, “It's an umbrella… have you never seen.. Or used an umbrella?”
Malfoy huffed, turning away from Harry again, “What use would I have of such an item when I could just use a water-repelling charm?”
Harry shook his head, turning back to the snow, “Even if you haven't used an umbrella, you've had to have seen one? Hagrid has one... Other students have used them around you.”
Malfoy huffed again, not answering Harry. He rolled his eyes and didn’t start up the conversation again. Who knew Malfoy could make mundane and civil, albeit confusing, small talk?
He had barely known that he could tolerate him enough to even stay this close to him for an extended period of time, much less talk to him about umbrellas.
“Why are you out here, Potter?” Malfoy spoke up again, sounding somewhat suspicious.
Harry supposed it made sense that he was on edge. What other reason would ‘Golden Boy’ Harry Potter have for being this close to a former death eater other than to scope them out for Azkaban, or to try and get them in trouble?
Why would the Boy-Who-Lived be civil with one of the people who tried to make his life hell, other than to antagonize him?
“So you don't get a cold,” Harry answered, monotonously. He wasn't going to tell Malfoy he was curious about him. That would set him on edge, and he didn't want to break the fragile peace that he had established with him.
Malfoy made a face that could probably be described as feeling conflicted, but to Harry, he just looked constipated. Maybe that's what he was. Emotionally constipated.
Harry wondered if maybe he should try his luck with asking Malfoy a question, as Malfoy had already asked him multiple. It was his turn now, Malfoy could suck a lemon.
“Why are you out here?” Maybe that wasn't the best question to ask, Harry thought, as Malfoy seemed to curl back into himself, staring up at the bright, full moon.
Harry almost cursed out loud, He was just getting Malfoy to finally open up but he stuck his foot in his mouth, as per usual. Obviously, it was due to his Gryffindor hard-headedness that stuck with him through and through.
He could definitely fix this, he just had to not ask anything too personal. He didn't know why he cared about fixing a tentative truce with Malfoy of all people, but the fewer enemies the better.
“It's getting cold... Should we go inside?” He uttered, turning to face Malfoy. Since when did Malfoy get tall? He silently cursed out the Dursleys for their hand in stunting his growth at a stupid solid 170cm.
Malfoy, who was now looking down at him with a pensive look on his face, was somehow 180cm. He supposed that both of his parents were tall, but Draco was definitely taller than both of them now. He didn't remember Lucius looming this much over him, even as a second-year.
“I suppose,” Draco muttered, turning to the entrance and walking in that direction.
Harry cursed his short legs, almost having to run to keep up with Draco and hold the umbrella over his head.
Draco almost looked surprised at his insistence on keeping the umbrella over him, but schooled his expression and continued to walk towards the castle.
They kept a comfortable pace with each other, both still refusing to acknowledge the other person.
Soon, they reached the doors to the castle, and Draco reached out to open them but hesitated.
Before Harry could demand for him to open the door, he was cold dammit, Draco spoke up.
“Why are you being... Civil, Potter?” He asked bluntly, still refusing to look at him, keeping his eyes firmly on the door in front of him.
Harry blinked in surprise but did contemplate the question. Why was he being civil? It's not like there was anything he could gain from civility. He didn't want to be friends with him, he was still a prat, but what other reason could there be?
He had no clue, so he just shrugged at Draco, making sure to keep a dismissive expression up, to hide the churning of his thoughts and gut.
Draco didn't look back at him, opening the castle door and almost running back to the eighth-year dorms, not letting Harry get a word in before he slammed his own door to his room.
Harry trudged back to his room, laying back down on his bed. What a strange night.