Show Me

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the work of J.K. Rowling and is not my intellectual property. I intend no copyright infringement and seek no financial gain from this work. This work of fiction is purely for entertainment purposes.  

~*~

It's cold enough that his ears hurt despite the thick, black earmuffs he's got on. He can't decide if it's the snow that's unnaturally white where it flutters down around them or whether the sky is just that densely black, but the scene around him looks oddly ethereal.

His breath fogs in opaque clouds of white before him, almost exact in resemblance to the other opaque, pearly white forms prancing gracefully above their heads all around the courtyard. Draco pretends to watch his own breath-cloud as it forms, dissipates and reforms with each deep breath of frigid air he pulls in. It's freezing cold and yet the courtyard resonates with shrieks of glee, bright, carefree laughter and bellowed, genial name-calling, all of it complemented further by the presence of over half a dozen silvery Patronuses with their warm, pearlescent radiance that dazzles them all.

He can't remember why he'd agreed to accompany the other Eighth Years outside to 'enjoy the first snow', but a half hour ago he'd found himself muttering wearily under his breath even as he'd readily pulled on an additional jumper, gloves, earmuffs and his house scarf before following the small crowd down to the courtyard along with Pansy who had then promptly ditched him when Ginny Weasley had popped up out of nowhere, sly grin on her stupid, pretty face at the sight of Pansy.

And so he'd just found himself sitting quietly on the low wall that ringed the oval courtyard, as people had scooped up the scant bit of snow that had collected on the ground, and was basically just sludgy mulch at this point, and thrown it at each other, hooting and howling like a bunch of boorish kerns. Finnigan had climbed into the frozen fountain in the centre of the courtyard, slipping and sliding on the ice, to poke at the marble centaur's gonads, and upon being dared to lick the bulbous carving (by his own boyfriend, no less) proceeded to get his tongue stuck on the centaur's balls.

Even Draco couldn't help but heave in silent mirth as he'd watched Finnigan shriek and scrabble at the centaur's hindquarters, Thomas almost pissing himself, judging by how hard he'd laughed, before going to rescue him while the rest of them, Potter included, had roared with helpless, breathless laughter.

And then the Patronuses had leapt to life. It started with Ginny Weasley conjuring hers, a graceful, spindly-limbed horse (probably just to show off in front of Pansy), and then most of the others had joined in, lighting up the courtyard luminously, each movement of the conjured forms scintillating.

Potter hasn't cast one though, Draco notices. He sits there and watches his friends muck about in the snow and spontaneously have their Patronuses race each other but he doesn't join in. He's sitting quietly, Potter, directly opposite Draco, and is watching with a happy, modest sort of pride as nearly all their classmates guide their respective conjured Patronuses around the courtyard.

For the enth time since they'd come back to Hogwarts, Draco notices how Potter appears to have not changed a smidge since the War while simultaneously seeming like a new person altogether. He still wears his hair rumpled and mussed up, still dresses carelessly and slightly sloppily, still flies a broom like he was born to; but there's also something startlingly adult about him now, something that makes Draco wonder whether he himself carries an air of having grown up too fast, too soon as well, or whether it was just Potter.

Maybe it's the stubble, Draco thinks quietly now, watching discreetly as Potter lifts a hand to let Granger's friendly little otter butt it's silvery head into his palm before streaking off to her again. Potter's nearly always wearing a very light stubble, like he can't be bothered to put much thought or effort into his shaving spells. Maybe it's the way Potter's smile doesn't very often reach his eyes anymore, although these smiles are genuine, warm and readily available.