Work Text:
Draco looks out his window to see that Potter has taken his Defense class outside for today’s lesson. Again.
A trail of fourth years follows behind him as he pads across the grounds, imprinting dozens of footprints in the freshly fallen snow. The students walk with a spring in their step that they never seem to have during Potions.
Potter turns to walk backwards as he leads the class across the field, chatting with a small circle of Hufflepuff boys gathered around him, pausing to call out to a group of Ravenclaws who are lagging behind. He freezes suddenly, and Draco can just make out how his eyebrows narrow in conspiracy in the distance, murmuring something to the group of students who have paused in his stead. Then he turns and bolts off, and the children dart after him in an impromptu race.
The man is like a golden retriever.
Draco has countless scrolls about ingredient interactions to mark, but he finds himself leaning against his windowsill as Potter’s lesson unfolds — if one could even call it a lesson. He thinks for a moment that Potter might take the opportunity to teach his students about fighting snow wraiths or frost salamanders, but instead he drops to the ground, Gryffindor scarf spilling out to his side, and spreads his arms and legs out like a capital X.
Draco watches in abject horror as the students follow Potter’s lead, dropping to the ground and weaving their arms and legs in and out of the snow.
They’re making bloody snow angels.
It quickly becomes clear that even the faintest idea of education has been thrown out the window. Potter stands, and a cloud of white powder bursts against his shoulder. He stares with mock surprise as a Slytherin girl grins devilishly at him from a distance. Then, the lot of them devolve into a rowdy and highly unprofessional snowball fight.
It’s warm in Draco’s office, but as clouds of snowballs erupt against shoulders and backs and the occasional ear — one Gryffindor smarts Potter directly on the back of his head — he finds himself craving the fresh sting of the cold.
Then he catches himself, and sinks back into his desk. With a flick of his wand, he charms his tea warm again, and draws the curtain closed.
.
Draco had learned very quickly after taking over the Potions professorship that there was no use trying to keep Potter in line. Potter could set the castle on fire and Headmistress McGonagall would somehow find it an occasion to give him a promotion.
In fact, very little has changed about Potter since their school days. As Potter drops into the seat next to him in the Great Hall for supper, Draco rolls his eyes at the amount of food piled onto his plate. It must be necessary to keep his energy up with all of that running around and not teaching he’s been doing lately.
“I’m surprised you have time for supper today,” Potter says, ignoring his plateful of food for a treacle tart, which he almost demolishes on the first bite. “I understand you have quite a bit of grading to do.”
Two more bites, and the treacle tart is gone. Draco raises an eyebrow at him. Potter shrugs.
“All my sixth years can think about is Arnica and Wormwood,” he continues. “You really have them writing three scrolls this close to the holidays?”
“Yes, well,” Draco says. “Not all of us can pause our curriculum for winter festivities once a week.”
Potter just smiles at him. It’s a stupid smile, really, more in the warmth of his eyes than played out across his lips. It’s a smile like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.
“You remember what it was like to be a kid, don’t you?” Potter says. “I know you’ve been, like, spiritually thirty since birth, but if you recall, it gets a little stressful. They could use a break now and then.”
Draco scoffs. “That’s all well and good, but some of us are trying to teach,” he says. “You might try it sometime.”
Then that smile does stretch across his lips. “Right,” Potter says. “Maybe I will.”
.
The next day during Draco’s free period, Potter is out again, this time with the seventh years. Their entire future depends on their N.E.W.T. marks, but Potter apparently sees fit to pause their education in favor of —
Draco lets out a huff of indignance as he peers down at the scattering of children — a category which includes Potter, really — bending over to roll mounds of snow into large balls. They stack them clumsily atop one another, some long and skinny, some short and stout, until there are a dozen snowmen dotting the grounds.
Draco draws closer to his window as he realizes that the students have lined the snowmen up in a single file line. They step a few paces away from their creations, standing at attention across from them like the beginnings of an icy battle.
As he watches, Potter turns to look over his shoulder. His eyes rise up to the castle, his gaze falling directly onto Draco’s window. It’s too far for them to quite see each other, but Draco stumbles back anyway, as if he’s been caught in something.
Then, Potter turns back to the students and shoots a bright red flare up with his wand.
Immediately, the seventh years spring into action. They shoot off a stream of combat spells, bright bursts of purple and red and blue light that slice into the line of snowmen. Some of them explode on the spot, others are hewn in twain by the invisible force of hexes. One Ravenclaw sends her snowman flying ten feet into the air before it comes crashing down, flattening into a pile of snow on the ground.
It’s ridiculous. All of it is absolutely ridiculous. But Draco can nearly feel the students’ energy from where he watches, the way their laughter is clear in their shaking bodies, the way they high five each other in congratulations, their skin growing red with the cold and the excitement.
Potter stands a few paces away, watching it all unfold with his hands on his hips like a proud father. Draco doesn’t need to see Potter’s face to know what expression he’s wearing — that smile. That stupid smile.
.
Draco marks papers in his office, and then he marks papers in the staff room, and then he marks papers in the Great Hall, sitting at the empty Slytherin table after supper. Eventually, all of the words on the parchment seem to blend together until his students’ scrawl makes about as much sense as parseltongue.
His winding spool of thoughts is interrupted by the clink of ceramic against the wooden table. He looks up as Potter places a steaming mug next to Draco’s hand. If it were anyone else, it might be tea, or maybe coffee. But it’s Potter, so Draco knows immediately that it’s hot cocoa.
“You looked like you could use a pick-me-up,” Potter says. His hair is more of a mess than usual, and his cheeks are ice-kissed and red.
Draco stares at the fluffy white marshmallows bobbing at the surface of the cocoa for a moment, then he wraps his fingers around it, letting the warmth seep into his skin. “I’m not really a chocolate person.”
Potter laughs, but it isn’t cruel. “Why does that not surprise me?” He looks down at the mess of Draco’s work, stacks of parchment, multiple quills of different colors for grading, a thick copy of Advanced Potion Making teeming with bookmarks and dog ears. “You look like you have your work cut out for you.”
“Well —”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Potter says. “‘Some of us are trying to teach.’ But you know, a touch of fun every now and then wouldn’t kill you.” He pauses, eyes tilting upward in fake ponderment. “Or maybe it would. I’m beginning to think you may have developed an allergy.”
“Sod off, Potter.”
“Goodnight, Professor Malfoy,” Potter says with a chuckle, turning to leave the Hall.
Draco glares after him as he disappears into a corridor, watching him run a hand through his hair as though he’s just realized how chaotic it is. Draco takes a sip of the cocoa, letting the sweetness and warmth pool in his chest. Something about it brings him back to his own time as a student, sitting at this very table, gossiping or stressing over coursework or staring across the Great Hall at a pair of bright green eyes that were looking anywhere but his direction.
The cocoa is far too sweet, but he finishes it anyway. Then he spells the parchments into a neat stack and packs them into his bag.
.
Draco generally tries not to think about his time as a student, all of the darkness he experienced and perpetuated within the castle walls. But that often means forgetting that good memories tucked away among the bad. Winter was always his favorite time of year, the way the soft blanket of snow hushed the grounds and made the castle seem to glow with magic. Now, he hardly has time to enjoy it.
Amid all of the lessons and the terror, Draco used to come to this very spot with Blaise and Pansy: a small gathering of trees just beside the Great Lake where they could be hidden out of sight while maintaining a perfect view of the castle’s entrance. As Draco stands behind the trunk of an ancient oak, he realizes that it’s not the first time he’s done this. He’s stood behind this very tree before, ten years ago or more — watching the castle doors from the shadows while he waited for the glint of spectacles and the shock of jet black hair.
Potter eventually emerges, like he does most mornings before his lessons, to walk around the grounds and burn off more of that perpetual energy. He stops short a few paces from the door, freezing in place at the sight of Draco’s creation.
As it happens, Draco has found himself with a wealth of spare time, having canceled the rest of his assignments through the holidays — his ears are still ringing from the uproarious whooping from his students when he’d announced it.
He had to find something to do with himself.
Draco steps out from behind the tree and leans against it as Potter eyes the snowman. It’s a flattering replica, really — a Gryffindor scarf wrapped around its neck, a pair of circular glasses pushed into its snowy face, right above its carrot nose. Beneath them, two stones charmed bright green.
Potter breaks into laughter before he even sees Draco. It’s light and earnest, almost giddy, a boyish silliness to it.
You could fall in love with that laughter alone.
Potter looks over to him, looking completely unsurprised to see who the sculptor is. “He looks just like me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Draco says. “He’s far more handsome than you are.”
He stands next to Potter as he continues to survey his double, his eyes falling on the pin Draco has pressed into its side — one of the only souvenirs he kept from his boyhood. POTTER STINKS, it reads, the text swirling above an image of Potter at fourteen.
“You’ve really outdone yourself,” Potter says without taking his eyes off of it. “I had no idea you were such an artist.”
Draco shrugs. “I was recently told by a colleague that I should try having — what was the word, again? I’m unfamiliar with it.”
Potter grins over at him. “I believe it was fun.”
“Right, right, fun,” Draco says. “I take feedback from my colleagues quite seriously, you see.”
Potter laughs again, eyes closed, head shaking. “You know, if you wanted my attention, you could have just said.”
The smile on Draco’s lips wavers. Potter clearly meant it as a joke, and Draco isn’t sure why he’s taking it so seriously. He isn’t sure why the words come out of his mouth, but they do. “Maybe I did,” he murmurs.
Potter’s face falls. He drops into uncharacteristic silence as he studies Draco, but that smile stays in his eyes. “Err — oh,” he murmurs. “Well, maybe I did, too.”
Then, it’s Draco who’s laughing, because suddenly it all makes sense. Potter always seemed to hold his outdoor lessons right underneath Draco’s window. He always seemed to find a reason to sit beside Draco even though the castle could seat a thousand. And sometimes when Draco hastened a look up to seek those bright green eyes in staff meetings or during Quidditch matches, he found that they were already gazing back at him.
“Well,” Draco murmurs, closing the distance between them. “You certainly have it now.”
The air around them is crisp and static with winter’s chill, and Potter’s lips are the soft warmth of summer, cutting through the cold. And it’s this Draco has been wanting, in this very place on these very grounds — since before he understood it, and for the countless years he spent denying it. Potter pulls him close, pressed against the heat of his body, and Draco can feel from the desperation in his fingers and his lips that Potter has been wanting it, too.
A squeal sounds out from the distance. They break apart and look over to where a gaggle of third-year Gryffindors are gaping at them, incredulous grins painted on their faces.
“So that’s why Professor Malfoy canceled our papers,” one of the girls exclaims.
“Alright, alright,” Potter says, turning to herd them back into the castle. “I’m quite sure I can find you some assignments if you’re so desperate for something to do.”
Draco’s fingers take an uncharted path to his own lips, touching them lightly as if Potter’s warmth might still linger there, like it may have been transferred into him. He feels his lips stretch into a smile beneath his touch, watching as Potter bends down to chat to the bouncing third years as he leads them back to the castle.
As he opens the door to let them scurry inside, he glances over at Draco, still standing frozen in the snow, and fixes him with that idiotic smile. That idiotic smile which, Draco finally realizes, has been for him all along.