Conflict

Dimly Lit Courtyard

Crickets chirp in the rustling leaves that scatter themselves about the courtyard. The big tree by the wall sways in the breeze, doing little to cool the air of the low warmth that comes with an ending may. Draco was propped up in the grooves of the tree, leaning back against it on the ground.

"There you are." You skip over to him. He looks up at you. His brows push up and in as your eyes meet.

You toss a green apple you'd swiped from your table to him, and he catches it in his free hand. You slump yourself down beside him. He focuses his attention on a patch of dirt in the grass in front of him.

It's hard to see his face with only the distant glow of the castle corridors reaching out to light the way. The moon hides behind a collection of pale, dusty clouds, not unlike the wispy hair that frames the top half of Draco's face.

You hear him swallow. "You weren't at dinner." You explain.

He huffs a dry laugh. "Stupid Gryffindors. Always playing the hero." His voice is low and even, and you can almost feel the way it rumbles in his throat. Something you won't acknowledge pulls at the inside of your chest.

In his other hand, a glint catches on the shiny emblem of his inquisitorial squad badge. His fingers smooth over the silver 'I', twirling it around in his hands so it faces the ground. Your gaze crawls to his face and you watch him stare down at the dull, matte back of the thing, almost regretfully.

"Real powerful, eh?" You mock. It's a blunt attempt at humor, forcing the joking lilt in your tone to try and lighten the mood. You never thought you'd miss his egotistical smirking, much less try and get it back. Especially after all that had happened before Umbridge was removed.

His solemn expression hardens. The corners of his mouth pull down. His nose wrinkles up. "Shove off."

He shimmies where he's sat, and you bring a hand to firmly rest on his arm, just below the crease of his sleeve. "I'm only teasing."

He turns to look at you. The lit archways in the wall well behind you reflect in his gray eyes, framing your silhouette. He opens his mouth like he wants to speak, but nothing comes out. The two of you stare at each other.

He blinks once, twice, then he's turning away.

"I knew Potter wasn't lying." He rushes out. A breath bigger than the lungs it leaves blows out of him. He looks into your eyes again, vulnerable uncertainty tugging at his features. "About you know who."

"Me too." You reply. "You're late to the party." Another attempt at lightheartedness.

A chuckle leaves him. The corners of his mouth finally pull upwards again, albeit laced with a discomfort that etches deep into the rest of his face. "I was earlier than you think."

You pinch the fabric of his sleeve between your thumb and forefinger, letting it go and rubbing your palm in small circles up the fold of his elbow. He looks back at you and you smile at him. Tension bleeds from his form. He swallows again, the rest of his body shifts to face you.

The hallway behind him back-lights his figure, and another wave of pressure settles in your chest. You wordlessly gaze at one another, and you can feel his breath fan over the small space between you. His badge clinks to the ground, and his hand brushes onto the side of your face.

Quiet and calm, you both close your eyes and lean in. Your lips meet and it feels like the cavity behind your ribs has been sucked dry, breathless. Your fingers twitch and ball up in his sleeve, and his hand slips down your jaw to hold you more firmly by the side of your neck.

His palm is tacky against your skin, warm like the air. Another gust of mild wind blows through, and the tree's branches sway above the two of you.

His fingertips tickle the hairs at the base of your nape, and for just a moment there's no such thing as 'Gryffindor', 'Slytherin', or even 'you know who'. Just for a moment, there's only you, Draco, and the sound of crickets chirping in the dimly lit courtyard.