December 1st - Cold weather
It was their last Quidditch game before Christmas, the 8th years playing Ravenclaw. It also happened to be the coldest day in the History of Cold Days and Draco was sure he was now permanently frozen stuck to his broomstick. Marvellous.
”Would you go on and catch the bloody snitch already, Potter,” he ground out through clenched teeth. ”I can’t very well catch it before it turns up now, can I, Malfoy?” It was only his good manners that kept him from giving Potter the finger. (That, and that his fingers were currently turned into popsicles, and just like his arse—frozen stuck to the broom.) They were, after all, playing for the same team now. Literally…and, metaphorically.
Quidditch, and Harry, was what had saved Draco’s eight year at Hogwarts. The first weeks had been hell. When the eight-years had been given permission to form a Quidditch team Draco hadn’t even thought of trying out. He knew the Golden boy was the given seeker, and Draco was hated by the rest of the students all the same, no one would want him on the team. He didn’t need to spend hours every week where they could send Bludgers at him hoping to knock him off his broomstick, no thank you.
It was actually Harry who had suggested that he’d try out as a chaser. ”It pains me to say it, Malfoy, but you’re a good player and we could use you on the team.”
Through some sort of miracle Draco managed to uncurl his fingers from the broom-handle in order to steal the Quaffle from one of Ravenclaw’s chasers. He sped past the Ravenclaw defence, narrowly avoiding a Bludger (Was that friendly fire?), feinted the Keeper, and scored. The audience burst out in boos and cheers, and Draco allowed himself a small smile. Being the most hated student at Hogwarts was exhausting, but being good at Quidditch at least had earned him some respect back.
”I think you should join the team, make some friends, Malfoy. You’ve been given a second chance. Take it, prove to them—to us—that you’re not who they think you are. Or that you’ve changed. Whichever it is.”
Harry had been right. Quidditch had been the proverbial foot in the door Draco had needed to start over, but he still had a long way to go to redeem himself. Making friends with Potter had helped some, too. Friends. Draco blushed slightly at the thought of just how friendly they’d become.
Draco saw a blur of colour swoosh past him—Harry had seen the snitch. Or so he hoped, he felt seconds away from losing his family jewels to frostbite. And wouldn’t that be a tragedy.
The crowd erupted into cheers and the game was over. ”Thank fuck for that!” Draco muttered to himself, not even caring whether it was actually Harry who had caught the snitch or if it was the Ravenclaw Seeker, all he could think about was a hot soak in the eight-years’ bath.
Draco watched his team hug and celebrate, but didn’t join them. Even Pansy—who, to everybody’s surprise turned out to be a great Keeper—had joined in and currently had an arm slung around one of the Patil twins’ shoulders. Draco had trouble telling them apart. Harry looked up and caught his eye, but knew better than to call him over. He just grinned at Draco who smiled thinly before turning around and heading for the baths.
The eight-years’ bathroom was just as fancy as the Prefects’, and Draco loved it. Not only did they have several different taps for various bath oils and bubble baths, they also had a sauna and a jacuzzi, and no one barely ever used it. Idiots. Draco supposed it was because they all had showers in their rooms, but still—this was heaven.
Feeling the holiday spirit Draco decided on a cinnamon scented bubblebath and added some vanilla oil to soften his skin. (Really, this cold was a nightmare.) He lowered himself into the bath and sighed as the hot water slowly warmed his cold, stiff muscles. Heaven. The door creaked open and Draco stiffened. No one ever used the baths. Had someone finally come to finish him off. Drown him in this Christmas-scented, foamy death trap? Draco didn’t blame them. Not really, but he also didn’t want to die. Draco’s heart raced. Why had he left his wand on the bench?
”Mind if I join you?” Harry sank into the bath next to him and Draco relaxed. Harry sat so close to him he could feel his skin against his own, and now his heart was racing for another reason altogether. His cheeks already flushed pink from the heat of the water turned red. This was all so new to Draco. Or, it had been going on for a little over a month, but it still felt new. It. Whatever it was.
Draco thought of stolen kisses, stubble on stubble, roaming hands, hot skin and gasping breaths. He swallowed. ”I though you’d be celebrating with the team.”
”I will. They can wait.” Harry paused. ”You’re a part of the team, too, you know.” Draco didn’t answer, so Harry pushed on. ”You should be celebrating too. Join us.” Draco didn’t look at Potter when he said, ”They hate me.” He’d sounded more bitter than he’d intended.
”Pansy doesn’t hate you. The twins don’t hate you.”
”One of them sent a Bludger after me today!” Draco exclaimed. ”Maybe it was by mistake?” Potter smiled sheepishly. Stupid Potter and his stupid smile.
”Bones hates me”, Draco continued.
”Well, can you blame her?”, Harry said, honestly. For some reason this made Draco feel a bit better. ”No.”
”Ron doesn’t hate you.” Draco scoffed. ”Anymore”, Harry continued. ”He doesn’t hate you anymore.” Fine. Potter had a point there, they had been getting on fairly well since they'd started playing Quidditch together.
”Still, that’s more than half the team hating me. Not to mention the rest of the eight-years. I really don’t feel like…” Harry interrupted him, ”I don’t hate you, Draco.” Draco’s stomach gave a jolt. Harry’s hand came up to touch his face, curled around the back of his neck, and pulled him in for a kiss.
Harry’s lips were hot on his and Draco instantly forgot what they were talking about. But the bliss what short-lived as Harry soon pulled back again. He didn’t let go of Draco, though. Hand still gripping the back of Draco’s neck, their lips almost brushing, Harry said, ”Come to the party. Stay for an hour. Have a drink.” Draco could feel Harry’s breath on his lips. ”What if someone poisons my drink?” Harry laughed, ”I’ll bring a bezoar”. Draco snorted. Stupid Potter with his stupid laugh and his stupid face and his stupid soft lips. ”Git.”
”Is that a yes?”, Harry whispered against Draco’s mouth. ”Yes”, Draco breathed. ”But it’s your fault if I…” Harry, again, interrupted him with a kiss. This time neither pulled back.