Chapter Text
The castle was wrapped in an uncanny silence. The fifth-year holidays had left the corridors empty, as if Hogwarts itself had turned into a forgotten relic beneath the snow that kept falling relentlessly outside the windows.
Harry sat alone in one of the deserted rooms, facing the fireplace. The wood burned with an uneven glow, drawing shadows across his face: the deep circles under his eyes, the pale skin, the weary expression that seemed far more fitting for an adult than for a student.
His right hand rested on the arm of the chair, covered by a dark glove that hid the scar Umbridge had carved into his skin—an indelible reminder.
The crackling of the fire was the only sound accompanying his thoughts when, suddenly, the door creaked open.
Draco Malfoy.
His figure was outlined against the dim light of the corridor, and for a moment, he seemed just as surprised to find Harry there as Harry was to see him. Malfoy rarely stayed at Hogwarts during the holidays; finding him there, on that night, seemed almost like a mistake of fate.
Draco’s gray eyes narrowed slightly, as if searching for the right insult… but it never came. Perhaps because the scene before him wasn’t amusing in the slightest.
— “Potter,” he murmured, his voice lower than usual, heavy with poorly disguised surprise.
Harry turned his head slightly, without standing. A faint, tired smile—barely a trace—appeared on his lips.
— “Malfoy.”
Silence fell between them like a heavy veil, broken only by the crackle of the flames. Draco stepped further into the room, uncertain, watching Harry’s hunched figure and the strange glove covering his hand.
— “I didn’t imagine you’d spend Christmas here,” Draco said, his tone ambiguous, a mix of curiosity and sarcasm.
Harry lowered his gaze to the fire, almost ignoring him.
— “Didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
There was something in those words that Draco recognized, though he wouldn’t admit it aloud—an echo of loneliness, of guilt. Not too different from what had led him to stay behind, escaping a home that didn’t quite feel like one.
The room was swallowed in silence again, painted in shades of gray and orange from the firelight.
— “I thought you’d be with the Weasley clan this time of year,” Draco said sarcastically, though there was a curious edge in his voice. His gray eyes lingered on the dark circles beneath Harry’s eyes.
Harry didn’t look away from the flames.
— “I could ask you the same.”
Draco’s brow furrowed slightly. Harry let out a breath and added softly:
— “I didn’t want to cause them trouble… because of the nightmares.”
Draco leaned against the back of a nearby chair, raising an eyebrow with that same arrogance that never seemed to leave his face.
— “What a surprise. Potter the martyr—always with noble excuses to justify everything.”
Harry turned toward him, the green in his eyes flashing dangerously in the firelight.
— “Would you rather I give you the short version, Malfoy? I prefer being alone. Happy now?”
Draco smiled sideways, as if he’d won a small victory.
— “I might believe that… if I didn’t know how much you love being the center of attention. Even here, alone, you still manage to make everything revolve around you.”
Harry pressed his lips together, his gloved hand curling into a tight fist. The silence returned, heavy, electric.
— “And you?” Harry said finally, without looking at him. “Run out of people who can stand you at home?”
Draco stiffened, his smile faltering for an instant—but pride didn’t allow him to stay silent.
— “At least I have a mansion to go back to. Let’s not talk about the shack the Weasleys call home.”
The comment cut like a knife. Anger flared in Harry’s eyes, but he didn’t explode—not this time. He simply stared into the flames, breathing deeply.
Draco watched him in silence, the bitter satisfaction of having landed a blow fading faster than expected.
The fire popped between them, sparks flickering like tiny explosions.
Neither spoke again for a while. Yet despite the venom in their words, neither left the room either.
Harry didn’t respond to the last jab. His green eyes stayed fixed on the fire, though his clenched jaw betrayed him.
Draco, still leaning on the chair, narrowed his eyes. He’d hit harder than intended, but he wasn’t about to take it back. A Malfoy never retreated.
— “Nothing to say, Potter?” he asked lazily, though he expected a reaction.
Harry turned his head slowly.
— “I’m not surprised you talk about things you don’t understand. That’s always been your talent.”
Draco gritted his teeth but forced a mocking smile.
— “And yours has always been playing the victim.”
The silence returned, thick and cold. The wind howled outside, rattling the windows, mingling with the fire’s crackle in a rhythm that made the room feel utterly isolated.
Harry broke it first, his voice low but sharp:
— “If you can’t stand me, then what are you doing here, Malfoy?”
Draco met his gaze, tense.
— “Maybe the same as you, Potter.”
The answer lingered in the air, more revealing than Draco intended. Harry held his stare a second longer before looking back at the fire, as though the orange glow held more truth than his rival ever would.
Finally, Draco sat down across from him, crossing his legs with practiced ease. Two declared enemies, facing the same fire on the quietest Christmas Hogwarts had ever known. Perhaps they weren’t so different after all—neither had anyone to spend Christmas with.
Harry gave a dry laugh.
— “Shouldn’t you be with your perfect, rich family—bored to death by your own ego?”
Draco’s jaw tightened, though he forced a cool smile.
— “I’d rather be here than endure endless dinners listening to my father talk about ‘honor’ and ‘tradition.’”
Harry tilted his head, surprised by the bluntness.
— “Well, that’s new. I thought you lived to repeat those words.”
Draco shot him a glare.
— “You know nothing, Potter.”
— “And you know nothing about me,” Harry replied instantly.
The air thickened again, charged with defiance and something neither wanted to name. Draco sank back in the chair, pretending to be comfortable, though the tension was palpable.
— “At least I don’t need a glove to hide,” Draco muttered, nodding toward Harry’s covered hand.
Harry’s lips tightened.
— “Shut up, Malfoy.”
— “Or what?” Draco challenged with that infuriating half-smile.
Harry held his gaze, green eyes burning with anger. For a moment, Draco thought he’d attack, but instead Harry simply turned back to the fire and muttered:
— “Forget it.”
Draco frowned, thrown off by the lack of fight. The fire crackled, and though hostility lingered, neither moved.
He studied him quietly. Potter’s hand was clenched, the glove stretched tight. His eyes stayed fixed on the flames, but there was no defiance—only exhaustion.
The dark circles made him look older. Draco had them too, but somehow it felt wrong that Potter did. He was supposed to be the golden boy, the one everyone loved. In theory, Potter shouldn’t have problems.
And yet, there he was—crumbling in front of a fire on Christmas night.
Draco swallowed hard, crossing his arms abruptly as if to regain his composure.
— “Well… and here I thought the great Harry Potter never had a bad day,” he said finally, lacing the words with poison to protect himself from whatever he was feeling.
Harry didn’t answer right away. He simply clenched his fist tighter and lowered his head.
— “You don’t know half of anything, Malfoy.”
Draco, bored of the silence, dropped onto the nearest armchair with feigned laziness, trying to ignore the tension twisting inside him. He stared at the fire instead of Potter.
Minutes passed. Neither spoke.
Finally, Draco broke first.
— “So… what are you doing here, anyway?”
Harry tilted his head slightly.
— “Same as you, I guess. Running away.”
Draco raised a brow.
— “I’m not running from anything.”
Harry’s lips curved faintly.
— “Of course not. You just hide in empty rooms on Christmas like everyone else.”
Draco scowled, but Harry’s tone wasn’t mocking—it was calm, too calm. That unsettled him more than any insult.
He cleared his throat.
— “You’re unbearable even when you’re quiet.”
Harry shrugged.
— “Better that than listening to your voice.”
Draco smirked.
— “Ah, there it is. I thought you’d lost your edge.”
Harry glanced at him sideways, eyes tired but sharp.
— “And I thought you’d be too busy practicing your ‘tragic heir’ look to bother me.”
— “At least I was born an heir, Potter. You only inherited trouble.”
Harry leaned forward slightly.
— “And yet, I seem to handle them better than you.”
Draco clenched his jaw but glanced at the gloved hand again, uneasy.
— “Sure… You look great, by the way. Like a building about to collapse.”
Harry smirked.
— “Look in a mirror, Malfoy. No one would say you’re doing better.”
The words weren’t sharp, not really—almost… understanding. That unsettled Draco even more.
— “At least I have an excuse,” he muttered bitterly.
Harry tilted his head.
— “And what’s that?”
Draco avoided his eyes.
— “Well, isn’t this charming? Potter, the lonely hero, spending Christmas by a fire—with me.”
Harry chuckled.
— “Trust me, Malfoy, this wasn’t on my holiday plans.”
— “You say that as if I were happy to see you,” Draco shot back.
— “You’re the one who came in here, not me.”
— “Please. I found this room first. You followed me, as usual.”
Harry arched a brow.
— “Right, because I’ve got nothing better to do on Christmas than stalk you.”
— “Who knows. Maybe you just wanted to spend the holidays with someone classy.”
Harry rolled his eyes, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.
— “If I wanted that, I’d have stayed in Privet Drive with my cousin.”
Draco glared, but found himself strangely… amused.
The fire popped between them again, filling the silence with warmth that felt strangely unfamiliar.
Draco stood and reached for a small plate of cinnamon biscuits left on the table. He picked one up, examined it with disdain, and dropped it back.
— “Merlin… what kind of punishment is this? Not even decent food during holidays?”
Harry grinned.
— “Don’t tell me you expected a private feast.”
— “Well, yes, Potter. That’s the least they could do. You know how depressing it is to survive Christmas on biscuits that could double as bricks?”
Harry grabbed one and bit into it.
— “They’re fine.”
Draco stared at him, appalled.
— “Of course you’d say that. You’d eat anything that doesn’t crawl off your plate.”
Harry smirked.
— “Funny how you know so much about my eating habits. Do you spy on me in the Great Hall?”
Draco nearly choked on his own breath.
— “Please. It’s impossible not to notice your… manners.”
Harry shrugged.
— “Better that than taking ten minutes to cut your food into perfect pieces like it’s a ritual.”
Draco glared.
— “It’s called education, Potter.”
— “I call it a waste of time.”
For once, Draco didn’t reply. Instead, he picked up another biscuit, broke it in half, and tossed one piece at Harry.
— “Then enjoy my ‘ritual.’”
Harry caught it mid-air, smiling faintly.
— “Was that a Christmas gift, Malfoy? I didn’t know you were so generous.”
He popped it into his mouth.
— “Not bad,” he mumbled deliberately with his mouth half full.
Draco looked horrified.
— “For once in your life, could you not behave like a cave troll? Clearly, those Weasley table manners rubbed off on you.”
Harry shrugged.
— “I’d rather be a troll than a spoiled prince.”
Draco huffed.
— “Better a prince than a peasant with a hero complex.”
Harry chuckled.
— “You and your titles.”
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable—but fragile, as if something unspoken lingered there.
Then, a loud creak echoed from the corridor. A clear step—someone outside.
Harry and Draco tensed instantly.
— “Oh, no…” Harry whispered.
— “What professor would come here at this hour?” Draco muttered, already paling.
A beam of magical lantern light slipped through the crack under the door.
Harry’s mind raced—then he remembered.
— “The cloak,” he whispered urgently, rummaging under the chair.
— “What cloak?” Draco hissed.
Harry didn’t answer. His fingers brushed light fabric, and he yanked it out. Draco’s eyes widened.
— “What the hell is that?”
Harry didn’t bother explaining. He grabbed Draco’s arm and pulled the cloak over both of them just as the door creaked open.
Light flooded the room. Steps echoed. Snape’s voice—silent but unmistakable—breathed through the air.
Harry held his breath, Draco’s shoulder pressed against his under the fabric. He could feel the tension vibrating through him.
— “Stop breathing so loud,” Draco whispered.
Harry glared.
— “Do you want us caught?”
Snape moved closer, lantern sweeping the walls, then paused by the fireplace. The fire crackled as if guarding their secret.
Seconds stretched like hours until finally Snape exhaled sharply, turned, and shut the door behind him.
They stayed frozen a few moments more before Harry lifted the cloak slightly, letting air rush in.
— “So?” Draco muttered. “Care to explain how you got this?”
Harry shook his head.
— “No.”
Draco blinked.
— “No?”
A faint smirk.
— “I’d rather let you wonder.”
Harry adjusted the glove on his right hand, subtly hiding the movement. Draco noticed but said nothing. Instead, he looked at him sideways.
— “I’ll never understand how you always get away with everything,” he said finally.
Harry shrugged.
— “Maybe I’m lucky.”
— “Or just shameless.”
Harry smiled faintly, exhaustion softening his features.
— “Why not both?”
For the first time, Draco stared longer than he meant to. Potter didn’t sound like the golden boy anymore—just… normal.
He looked away, uncomfortable.
— “Well,” he muttered softly, “it’s not the worst Christmas I’ve had.”
Harry turned, surprised.
— “That almost sounds like a compliment.”
— “Don’t get used to it,” Draco replied quickly. “This doesn’t make us friends.”
Harry smirked, his eyes glinting with tired amusement.
— “Relax, Malfoy. If I ever thought that, the world would probably end first.”
Draco opened his mouth to reply, but Harry leaned back in his chair, the hint of a real smile crossing his face.
— “Well then,” he said, mock-serious but gentle, “hello, I’m Harry Potter.”
He extended his hand, as though they were truly meeting for the first time.
Draco blinked, caught off guard. The gesture was absurd—ridiculous—but somehow, strangely defiant. After a pause, his lips twitched between a grimace and a smile. Finally, he lifted his hand and replied:
— “I’m Draco. Draco Malfoy.”
The handshake was brief but real—not a truce, not yet, but a strange acknowledgment: two enemies lowering their weapons for a moment.
When they let go, Draco turned back to the fire.
— “This still doesn’t make us friends, Potter.”
Harry leaned back, still wearing that faint, defiant smile.
— “We’ll see.”