The winters at Hogwarts are cold. Always, always cold… I look out the window and snow drifts freely down to the grounds, piling up on a Quidditch field that won't be used until the weather eases. I know I should be paying attention. I should be listening to the teacher's lecture. But how can one expect me to focus when the snow is falling in such a way? I watch it enviously. I feel jealousy well up inside me at the snow's freedom-- its ability to catch on the wind and launch forth into the sky, across great distances without worry or troubles or sadness.
When class ends, and all the Slytherins are forced to return to the common room, my heart sinks. One can't observe the snow while being shut up under a lake… I try to take walks out on the grounds, but the wind bites at my skin and whips my hair around and leaves me frozen. I don't have the physical endurance.
The lake crushes in on the walls around our common room, and the cold in there reaches new extremes. The fire warms a small portion of the room, but it leaves the rest of us shivering and trembling. I sit the farthest away from the other students as possible, and during the winter, this means the farthest away from the fire. It's not like it's much of a change though. I'm used to feeling cold. Just this time, my body is pale and trembling along with my mind.
I sink into a reverie as I slouch in the high backed armchair on the opposite side of the common room as the fire. I take refuge in a world made of fragments of memories, of forgotten stories that have no end, of thousands of broken days that the world has thrown away, only for me to pick up. The pieces are like that of the rejected pieces of a hundred different jigsaw puzzles; they don't fit together, they don't belong. I'm haunted by the image that they fail to create.
Sometime during my journey through my bastion, my eyes shut, and my breath slows. I sink into a dream. A chronic nightmare hurls itself into my path as I walk leisurely across the ice fragments in my mind. The broken jigsaw pieces mutate and form a portrait of what was. A happy mother, a doting father, a happy son with a loving older brother…. And slowly as I approach it (because I just want to feel the warmth again…) the pieces break apart, a silent explosion, fragments like broken mirrors soaring past my ears, taunting me into looking one more time…. And in those jagged glass shards I see what came to pass. A dead corpse with blood spread about it like a sheet, a hateful father who couldn't stand to look, an older brother with tears streaming down pale cheeks, turning his back… And a son. A son whose smile had faded and whose sanity was violated and thrown into a dark corner, and he sat holding himself, trying to keep his body from falling apart like a broken puppet.
But I refused to cry.
Because despite this pain, I am not weak. No, not weak.
Distantly, I feel a hand on my shoulder, shaking me. My eyes opened slowly. As my sight regained focus, I noticed that the common room was dark except for the fire on the other side of the room. It must be night.
I look to my left and there, perched on the arm of the chair, sat none other than Draco Malfoy. He gave me a strange look, a look that was a cross between confusion, frustration, and was that…? Concern?
"Nott," he said somewhat nervously.
"What?" I said, my chest still heaving slightly from my nightmare.
"You… You, er, were squirming and moaning over here. Stupid question, but, is there something wrong?" he said, propping his chin on his palm.
"No," I snapped "No everything is just fine. Peachy."
"Uh huh. Sure. Because normal people really just writhe around and groan helplessly like they're getting violated all. The bloody. Time." He sighed impatiently. "Don't insult my intelligence. Something's wrong."
"I was just having a nightmare is all." I was still breathing heavily, and I searched for a change in subject. "What time is it?"
"About 1 am."
I breathed in. "Awful late for you isn't it?"
"I neglected to do the necessary reading for History of Magic," he said matter-of-factly.
"That doesn't sound like you."
"I was distracted."
"By what, might I ask?" I breathed out heavily.
"You." He stated simply.
I paused and gave him a strange look. "What?"
"You." He said again. "I was watching you sleep. You looked really peaceful until a while ago, more peaceful than you ever look when you're awake. It was nice."
My breath became still with shock. I searched for words, something to say, someway to respond. Words failed me.
Draco sighed. "Look. I'm going to bed. You should, too," he paused as he got up. He bit his lip, as it considering something. As I gazed at him, mouth agape, he leaned in and placed a soft and brief kiss on my lips, placing one pale hand on my still trembling one.
As if I wasn't confused enough.
He turned on his heal and marched up to the door that led to the boys dormitories. Before he disappeared, he turned around and gave me an almost pleading look, then took a step and was submerged in darkness.
I sat there in awe for what seemed like hours. Then, silently, I rose and treaded up the stairs into the boys dorms. I pulled back the curtains on my four poster, and risked a glance over at Draco's bed. The curtains were drawn tightly shut. I sat on my bed and exhaled a large breath, which I hadn't realized I'd been holding. A strange feeling rushed over me as I glanced at the hand that Draco had touched with his. My thoughts wandered to Draco's hand, pale and slender. So very pale.
The color of the white snow falling on the grounds. Except unlike snow, I don't have to wait until winter for Draco to arrive only to watch from a distance. He was warmly tangible, much unlike the frozen water droplets that sucked the heat from your hands if you try and touch them.
I drifted to sleep, smiling slightly, and was not haunted by nightmares of the past, but rather a light dream of Draco Malfoy after a Quidditch match, broom still in hand, covered in fallen snow.
Perhaps, I though gently, I won't have to hold myself when it gets cold anymore.