The castle smells of pine. Sharp, bittersweet, and pungent, Harry cannot breathe without inhaling the scent.
It's only logical, he thinks, after all, it's Christmas.
Somehow, this year, logic isn't playing a large part in his world, so maybe it is strange that pine is hung everywhere, bound up with red velvet and holly berries. Maybe it is strange that there is crisp, crystalline snow on the frozen, hard ground. Maybe this isn't how Christmas is supposed to be.
Draco Malfoy certainly isn't supposed to be a part of Christmas. Harry knows that, at least. Ron and Hermione, Dumbledore, McGonagall, even Snape, those are the fixtures of his Christmases. He isn't supposed to look up at dinner and see a silvery, shining head bowed over an overflowing plate, untouched.
It is three days before Christmas.
Neither Ron nor Hermione are here. They are holidaying in Gibraltar, and as Hermione had tearfully explained to Harry, her parents could only afford one guest. Harry understood; it was perfectly logical for Hermione to want to take her boyfriend as opposed to her male best friend. Harry doesn't have a problem with the fact that Hermione and Ron are alone. He has a problem with the fact that he's alone with Draco Malfoy.
They are the only students in the entire castle that remained for the Christmas Holiday.
It's strange enough; Harry thinks as he slowly chews his shepherd's pie, that there are only two students here for holidays.
It is even stranger that Draco Malfoy is the second of the two. Draco Malfoy, son of the rich and powerful; even if his father is in Azkaban, his mother retained the mansion and their estates, according to popular gossip. So why isn't Draco at home being given gilded presents wrapped in cloth of gold?
Draco himself no longer seems to be wrapped in cloth of gold. He no longer struts through the castle, arrogant and beautiful in his pride. He speaks little, and when he does, his voice is quiet, subdued, never insulting and taunting. He appears weighed down by some great burden, and Harry knows that Draco Malfoy has never had to carry anything for himself before. He eats little, and when Harry looks closely at him in the candlelight, he sees the hollows that flicker in and out below delicate cheekbones.
Draco appears to feel Harry's eyes on him, and he looks up quickly. Their eyes meet for one bewildered second before Harry looks away, feeling as though someone has caught him as a Peeping Tom.
Dimly he hears snatches of a conversation that has been ensuing throughout dinner between Professor Dumbledore and various members of the remaining faculty. It provides the only accompaniment to utensils scraping plates, liquid meeting lips. These small sounds echo throughout the cavernous Great Hall, gently colliding with each other, rafters, stained panes of glass, candlelight, falling softly as the snow to rest upon the ear. Harry is intensely aware of each one as he stares at his half-eaten pie, avoiding Draco's hollow gaze.
He has never liked Draco, but something in him could never quite come to hate him. He has envied him, fought with him, disagreed with him, and once or twice he has grudgingly admired him.
Now, watching this new and introverted Draco, Harry almost wishes for the old, cruel and haughty boy. He knew where he stood with the old Draco. This changeling has never once insulted him the entire year. He has not picked a fight, or even acknowledged Harry's presence. He hasn't really acknowledged anyone's presence.
"Harry?" a genial voice pulls him sharply from his thoughts, and he looks up quickly into Dumbledore's twinkling blue eyes. "Harry, dear boy, I was just asking Draco if he'd like to move into Gryffindor tower for the holiday on account of the cold dungeons. Would you mind terribly?"
Harry's first reaction is to say a very firm no; there is no way on earth that he would allow Draco Malfoy to sleep in bed so close to his. But in his periphery he sees the pale, haunted face, and he knows it can't be good for the boy to be alone in the cold.
"No, sir," he says quietly. "I wouldn't mind." Draco looks up sharply, and Harry looks at him, seeing some unnamable emotion in his eyes. He suspects that Draco never expected his former arch-enemy to allow him residence.
"Wonderful!" Dumbledore claps his hands and a house-elf scurries to his side. He bends over to the small creature.
"Would you kindly bring Mr. Malfoy's things up from the dungeons and move them into the seventh year Gryffindor Dormitory? Please place them in the bed next to Mr. Potter's." The house elf squeaks its assent and disappears with a small pop. Dumbledore looks at the two boys, smiling and twinkling.
"Mr. Potter, perhaps you would be as kind as to show Mr. Malfoy to your room? After you're finished eating, of course."