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“There you are!” Hermione waved at Harry from the edge of a section of the Great Lake that had been frozen into a little ice skating rink, her latest attempt at encouraging peace between eighth year students.
For weeks, Harry had dutifully listened to her ramble over planning an event of such scope and finesse. Today at breakfast, he’d drawn the short stick. His task was skating with the masses.
“Lucky you came when you did,” said Hermione. The words misted into foggy huffs, the air so cold. “Malfoy’s refusing to move.”
Ron snickered. Safely on the sidelines, he ladled out steaming cups of hot apple cider for anyone to take.
“He’s what?” said Harry.
“He fell, and now that he’s managed to stay upright, he refuses to move. Can you skate a few laps with him, please?”
At the far edge of the rink, Malfoy balanced on skates with his arms out and knees wobbling. Students passed him by, laughing merrily at their conversations and ignoring him entirely. Blaise danced circles around him, cackling as Malfoy feebly pointed two fingers at him. Malfoy seemed fine, as far as Harry was concerned, who’d arrived late on purpose to avoid going out on the ice himself. Malfoy fared better than he ever had. His arse looked a bit snowy, but he was upright for as long as Harry had been here.
“Erm—”
Hermione had already turned her back to him and fussed over the ciders. Aghast, she exclaimed, “The ladle is enchanted to serve equal proportions! How are the cups all filled differently?”
“Maybe it’s too close to the enchantments on the lake keeping that bloody squid from eating us alive,” said Ron.
“That’s nonsense. Look—” She waved a wand at Harry’s shoes and transfigured them into skates.
Harry stumbled in place. “What—”
“See, my spells are perfectly fine.”
Ron’s eyes gleamed, Hermione’s cheeks pinked. They were getting off on this, their ritualized flirting.
Harry chucked himself onto the ice. He’d rather fall on his arse so hard that the ice cracked, plunging him into ice-cold peril.
He slid a little along the ice before losing his balance. Reminding himself too much of Malfoy than he was comfortable with, Harry shot out his arms and froze in place.
“Good afternoon, Harry,” said Luna pleasantly, sliding past with her hand tucked in Neville’s elbow.
“Hey, Harry!” Neville clapped him on the shoulder in greeting.
Harry shot forward, a horse out of the gate.
It was like facing boggarts, Death Eaters, Voldemort, Madam Pince, and yet somehow worse because ice skating wasn’t like that at all. Shock and sheer pride kept him from crying out, and for whatever reason, he hadn’t fallen on his back, so he refused to move his legs. Others skated out of his way, grinning or snickering, and Harry slid forward. The only person who didn’t skate out of his way, inevitably, was Malfoy, oblivious to Harry’s imminent arrival as he stood frozen solid with his back to Harry.
Harry’s heart pounded.
They crashed.
Pirouetting, they crashed onto the ice, armfuls of Malfoy sprawled on top of Harry.
“Merlin’s b—Potter.”
“Malfoy, get off—”
“I’m…trying… Fuck.”
Harry gave up and relaxed onto the ice, arms instinctively wrapped around the greatest heat source available, Malfoy, who sighed and melted into the hold. Warm puffs of air toasted Harry’s neck. Whenever someone skated past, freezing wind and bits of scraped-off ice hit them. They clung tighter. Malfoy shivered a bit, having taken the full brunt of the assault.
Malfoy fidgeted over him. Various other scenarios invaded Harry’s head, of Malfoy nestled in a bed of blankets, steaming tea cups and a roaring fire, squirming with Harry atop him. Without realizing it, Harry rubbed his gloved palms down Malfoy’s back to work some warmth back into him.
Blaise Zabini skated past again, whistling. “Right on, Draco!”
Malfoy tensed. “P-potter,” he sneered, but the quiver in his voice softened the blow.
“Have you lost it, Malfoy? That was Zabini.”
“Shut it. I m-mean you. Pretend to kiss me.”
Heat bloomed in him. “What? No.”
“If you pretend to kiss me, no one will make us get up.”
It could work. But Harry had minor objections. “I don’t know how to pretend. Why not just kiss and forget about it later?”
“I— Ok. But no tongue, Potter. That’s disgusting.”
Harry didn’t dignify that with a response. He pressed pale, frigid lips to Malfoy’s, stayed for a second too long, and let his head rest back on the ice.
Draco chuckled. “No wonder Weasley left you.”
So Harry grabbed fistfuls of Malfoy’s coat and scarf and crashed his mouth into his. Without tongue, he practiced restraint and kissed as deeply as he could. By the time they broke apart, Malfoy’s gray eyes had lost the steely glint and were glazed over like foggy, overcast skies. Eyebrow raised, Harry awaited the verdict.
Malfoy sighed long-sufferingly. “You may use tongue.”
Harry kissed him again, gently licking Malfoy’s lips, which opened eagerly for him. At the warmth awaiting him in Mafloy’s kiss, Harry groaned. Cold hands touched Harry’s cheek and ran through his hair. He shivered and twitched from the chill and the pleasure sparking through him from head to toe. Malfoy grinned against his lips.
They kissed as skates kicked up ice over them, and kissed fiercely as Blaise sped on by, whose quips died down into nothing as they kissed and kissed and kissed, oblivious to everything else.