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It’s funny, how things don't work out the way you expect them to.
Like being friends with Harry Potter.
After getting rejected by him in first year.
After getting the Dark Mark.
After the war.
After everything.
It makes him uncomfortable, the way Potter makes sure to greet him every time they pass by each other in the halls.
As if sixth year didn’t happen.
As if the war didn’t happen.
As if he doesn’t have the Mark on his arm still.
He doesn’t like the way Potter tries to make small talk during Potions, or Transfiguration, or any of their shared classes. He doesn’t like it when Potter tries to talk to him, period.
He thinks Weasley and Granger don’t like it, too, but they don’t say anything; they just watch Potter with wary eyes and resigned sighs and it makes the back of Draco’s neck itch. Sometimes, they even greet Draco good morning, too.
It makes his arm itch.
Sometimes, he does scratch it.
At night.
With nails.
Because there’s no one to stop him anymore. Crabbe’s dead. Goyle’s in Azkaban. Merlin, the only reason he’s not with Goyle in Azkaban is because of Potter. Again. It’s always because of Potter.
He doesn’t understand it, why Potter’s suddenly trying to be nice.
Passing him ingredients, asking about his homework, complaining about Slughorn.
It makes him pass ingredients, too. And ask about Potter’s homework. And gripe about McGonagall.
He’s not supposed to be doing this, this… making friends thing.
He’s supposed to go about his eighth year in solitude, hanging his head in shame but otherwise graduating with grades passable to be a Potions Master.
He’s not supposed to… to smile when Potter smiles back. He’s not supposed to say good morning to Potter, or Weasley, or Granger, or to anyone else for that matter.
He’s not supposed to be meeting Potter in the library after classes, doing homework, smirking at Potter’s dismay at having to witness Weasley and Granger’s snogging sessions all the time.
He’s not supposed to be swiping treacle tart from the dinner table so that they could munch on something while studying, because treacle tart is Potter’s favorite, and since when did he care about Potter’s favorites?
(Potter also likes apple pie.)
He’s not supposed to be having normal conversations with Potter like this, about favorite food, and homework, and professors, and what’s it like being the center of everyone's attention, what’s it like growing up in the wizarding world, and how Potter takes gift giving seriously, and how Draco likes snow and looks forward to the first snowfall of every year like a child.
He’s not supposed to let Potter borrow his quill, because now Potter doesn’t seem intent in returning it, and always uses it in class, and Draco doesn’t ask for it. (He likes seeing Potter use it.)
That’s what friends do. They borrow each other’s things and they don’t return it, and they’re not supposed to be… friends. Or whatever this is. Whatever Potter wants this to be.
Because at the end of the day, they’re not friends, they can’t be friends, Potter’s the Savior of the Wizarding World, and Draco’s a Death Eater.
He’s Marked, and it slithers on his arm like penance, like punishment, like a warning.
And it definitely won’t work out, this thing between them, and this Draco believes most on days that they quarrel, because Draco said something bad about Weasley, or Draco said something bad about himself, and Potter’s just in one of his usual, grumbling, withdrawn moods that usually has him snapping at everyone within three feet radius and has them saying things that they don’t mean.
The Mark hurts the most on those days, or maybe it’s just his imagination, or maybe it’s just his nails, but Potter shows up in the library the next day, anyway, with an apology on his lips and some tart and some salve, and Draco’s scared, because Potter’s not supposed to be saying sorry.
Potter’s not the one that’s supposed to be saying sorry.
But Draco accepts the tart and the salve anyway, and they sit side by side in the library again, shoulders relaxed and voices low, their arms pressed warmly against each other.
And then one day, Draco wakes up, and the room is empty, like how it’s been empty for the past three months, until he realizes it’s not empty after all, and there’s Potter suddenly in the middle of the room, all pink cheeks and sheepish smile and everything that Draco’s not supposed to have.
It is morning, and Draco is contemplating whether he’s dreaming or not, until Potter grabs his wrist and gently pulls him out of bed.
“Invisibility Cloak,” Potter explains, as if that says everything about why he’s suddenly in Slytherin, in the middle of Draco’s room, in pyjamas.
Draco’s mind is still befuddled, and he thinks it shows on his face, because Potter’s smile becomes fond, and it’s horrid, that smile.
“Come with me,” Potter says, and Draco does, without preamble.
Potter pulls him close, too close, and throws the Cloak around both of their shoulders. It’s a tight fit around two grown men, but Potter keeps him close and Draco doesn’t move away.
The sleep is still heavy in Draco’s eyes, and he realizes just how early it is when they step into the Slytherin Common Room and there are no students yet that are awake.
Potter leads them out of the Common Room, out of the dungeons, and out of the castle into the Transfiguration Courtyard. The sun is peeking out from the horizon, painting the sky and Potter’s glasses.
And no, they’re definitely not supposed to be doing this, this little tryst while everyone’s asleep, like a secret.
But they step into the Courtyard and snow falls on the tip of Draco’s nose, and it’s the first snowfall of the year, and it’s beautiful and Potter’s beautiful.
It’s cold, but Potter takes his hand, curls his fingers around Draco’s, and they’re not supposed to be doing that, either, but Draco wants to.
Merlin, he wants to, so much.
There’s fear in his chest, and in his throat, but there’s also hope, and it’s welling up in him, slowly, but as sure as the morning sun.
With a shaky breath, he curls his fingers back.