Unwrapped

By: Cerulean Musings

ONE

If it weren't for the plethora of charms and incantations surrounding the castle and its vast grounds, Draco Malfoy would have flow away and never returned. Merlin, he didn't have the desire to return in the first place but he saw that look on his mother's face and knew that he didn't have an option. After everything that happened, after everything they lost, a return to normalcy was the only way the Malfoy family could move forward, he knew. And that meant he had to return to Hogwarts so he could bring prestige back to the Malfoy name.

His reddened nose wrinkled. Ha! Prestige wasn't going to come running no matter how much his parents believed it, no matter what feats he accomplished in his life. Not after everything they did. Not even after the turning sides. Yes, they did the "right thing" in the end but what did that matter when all anyone paid attention to were the events leading up to the shift? What did that matter when he still had to face the scrutiny, the whispers, and the thinly veiled threats as he traversed the halls of the blasted castle?

Draco's steel gray eyes, a fitting match to the solid gray cloudscape surrounding him, turned to said castle in the distance. His old stomping ground, a home away from home, now his own personal prison. And how fitting he was in Slytherin, kept down in the dank dark underground where he belonged. Or so the world thought. Simply because he was of age in his final year and simply because he wanted to protect his family. Something anyone else would have done in his position…right?

He sniffed; air rushed down his nose and settled into his lungs. He brushed the back of his dragonhide gloves against his nose and then removed them altogether. The bitter cold bit at his fingers and for a moment he settled himself on his broom, flexing his fingers as his legs dangled on either side. Most would find sitting thousands of feet up in the air unsettling, but not Draco. He loved being up there, away from his problems and his responsibilities. Even if only for a little while, even if he had to touch back down at some point. It was worth it to be able to spend some time weightless and free.

Curling his slender fingers around the smooth shaft of his broom, Draco leaned forward, squeezed his knees together, and took off. Air bit and pulled at his clothes but still he flew. The end of his robes flapped behind him. Tears collected in the corners of his eyes and spilled over, streaming down his face as he bobbed and waved around the tall goal posts and the spectator stands around the school pitch. The colors, once so vibrant, were muted blurs against the fading November backdrop. Much like his own life back in the first half of the year. The castle wasn't the only thing littered with scars.

Teeth clenching, muscle in his jaw twitching, Draco flew faster and allowed his invading thoughts to be left behind as he ran through some of their old plays. He ducked and swerved, dipped down towards the pitch only to pull up in a graceful arc that put wings on his heart, forget his feet. His stomach crammed up into his throat and adrenaline rushed through his body.

It was the most alive he felt in months.

He pulled up on the broom handle, stalling in the air, higher than he sat before. Lush, rolling green grasses spread out as far as he could see, fresh and pristine before snow came in and blanketed everything. It was only a matter of time, if the cold was of any indication.

He pushed a hand through his windswept white-blond hair and blew out a breath. It burst out in front of him like a cloud, like an exhale of a dragon. He snorted. How fitting. Once upon a time he used to revel in his name, in the strength that came from being named "Draco" matched with the power and notoriety of "Malfoy".

Oh, how the mighty fall.

Draco shook his head. A blast of cool air yanked at him, almost unseated him from his broomstick. His heart leaped and pounded in his chest. His fingers gripped the broomstick handle tighter. It was smooth, familiar, his. Not like the new wand he was saddled with. Two months in and he still didn't have a good handle with his new wand. It was too long, too rough, too unpredictable. He wondered if the wand's choice was a reluctant one. He'd spent two hours in the shop—not Ollivander's, oh no, he couldn't show his face around Diagon Alley let alone search for a wand—and he hadn't wanted to stay any longer. Facing that measuring stick, being reminded of the difference between his first year and his last… It was a waste of time. Eventually his parents arranged for a wandmaker to come to their home and he got to choose in privacy, in the comfort of his own home, but there was nothing comfortable about it.

Steadying his broom, he brought a hand up to his neck. His fingers, cold at the tips, brushed against the warmed skin beneath his scarf where a spiderweb of scar tissue stretched up one side. No, there was nothing comfortable about any of it.

A green spark exploded like a firework in his peripheral. He glanced downwards. First, he spotted Hagrid trudging up the lawn towards the castle; no doubt to speak to Headmistress McGonagall about which trees he was to bring into the castle for Christmas that year. Second, a gaggle of students filed out past him, walking briskly with bright smiles on their faces as they headed in the direction of Hogsmeade village. Then he looked down, way down, to the once empty pitch where, down blew, now stood a solitary figure staring up at him, wand raised.

He rolled his eyes. Couldn't have shot that bloody spell any closer, could he? It would've done him a favor. Blowing out a breath, Draco took one last look at the expanse around him, committed it to memory, and eased his broom back to the ground. Once he got within jumping distance, he swung his leg over the broom handle and dismounted with grace and ease that he briefly allowed himself to wonder if anyone on the Quidditch team had seen his dismount and saw what they were missing.

It was a longshot, he knew, returning to the Slytherin Quidditch team but he had to try at least. He was a valuable part of their team. He could fly and he was good at it, precious Potter be damned. Certainly, he was much better than the other flyers—especially that twtichy sixth year lad that flew away from the quaffle thrown at him as he guarded the goal posts—even Theo had said so, and getting any sort of compliment from him was like pulling teeth.

So he tried. And they said that they didn't want anything clouding the views of their team and that he wasn't the right "fit."

Bloody cowards.

Tucking his broom beneath one arm, Draco extended his free arm and curled his fingers rapidly. Give it here. Theodore Nott dug into the bag hanging off his shoulder and removed a moleskine journal and a raven feather. Draco accepted both items, flipped open to a blank page, and quickly scribbled. He turned the book around and jabbed his quill at the words scratched not the paper with shimmering black ink:

You have lousy aim.

Theo snorted. "You know very well, Malfoy, if I wanted to actually hit you, I wouldn't have missed."

Maybe you're losing your touch.

"Maybe you haven't had enough oxygen up there."

Draco's lips twitched in the corner; Theo's face barely changed from its blank slate but Draco caught it. The brief flash of mirth in his eyes before it drowned in hazel depths. So, they were still tiptoeing then? Not that he particularly cared, this was Theodore Nott afterall, but…it's been two years.

They were cordial when they spotted each other on that familiar platform at the beginning of the year. Exchanging brief hellos and a courteous head nod. They'd shared a compartment but that was out of necessity than desire. After all, it wasn't as if anyone else was going to sit with them or even speak to them. But, still, it surprised Draco that Theo even wanted to share the same space with him after everything that happened. And now…

He pressed his lips together. There it was again, hope. Stupid hope that seemed to pop up when he didn't need it, shined a light on everything to cast him as a fool over and over again. Especially when it came to Nott. But no more.

Draco scribbled again: Don't you have to brood somewhere?

There. That was a safe question. Better than the other one that jumped to the forefront of his mind at the sight of his solitary friend. Theo merely grunted and then dug into his bag again. Draco waited, stuffing his fingers back into his dragonhide gloves as a blast of cool air ruffled their hair and added splashes of red to their pale cheeks.

When Draco lifted his eyes from his hands they rested on a crinkled, folded stark white envelope. He spied familiar emerald green ink, the slanted, spidery handwriting and—he flipped the envelope around, just to be sure—the wax seal on the back.

His breath lodged, a painful lump in his chest. His fingers curled, pressing dents and creases into the envelope. It squeaked and creaked beneath his grip. His mother barely wrote. He didn't need to open it to know what the letter, brief in its intent, would say. It said the same thing as all the other notes he was presented with before he was whisked away to meet another one of her parents' left-over connections.

Draco's lips pressed into a line. How many more people were they going to take him to? He'd said in no uncertain terms that he was tired of it. Just…tired of it. Tired of the false hope, the false promises, the pity. Oh, how he despised the pity. And yet his parents didn't seem to get the hint. Desperation didn't look good on them.

But wait…

He turned his stone-cold eyes to Theo. A few beats of silence passed between them and then Draco shook the letter, gesturing to it. "What?" Theo asked. Draco rolled his eyes. Theo knew exactly what he was getting at. Leave it to Nott to be such a git about it. "Relax, Malfoy, I didn't read it." Draco grunted. Yeah right. "S'not my fault you're messier than a bog. It was on the floor." Draco hummed, wracking his brain but he came up with nothing. Flying had that effect on him.

"Expecting you to return for the Malfoy Christmas Extravaganza, I reckon," Theo supplied, lacking any sort of pity in his words, Draco noticed. No, his words and gaze were steady and sure, as always, but they carried an extra weight. It hit Draco straight in the stomach and his nerves zinged beneath the intensity behind one simple look.

It was fleeting but a strange development, that. Getting the stomach-swooping, heart-thumping sensation which only arrived whenever he flew on a broom. Until now. But he cast it aside just like he did when he first spotted Theo's face on the train platform back in September; because it was just a flash of relief, is all. Relief at seeing a familiar face, then and now. Better Theo be the one casting spells at him than unknown assailant hiding in the shadows.

Draco dropped his hand from lightly tracing the scars on his neck once more. Theo's eyes burned holes into him, following every stroke of his fingers. He didn't suspect the letter was something so simple as that but that wasn't something for Theo to know. He shifted his eyes away from Theo's gaze and wrote on the paper again: Any way to keep in good graces.

His nose wrinkled, and he made a face, moving to scratch out what he'd just written but Theo grabbed his hand, effectively stopping him. Instead, Draco made a sweeping gesture with his palm against the page. Forget it. He'd said too much, the wrong thing. What was it about Theo that allowed him to let his guard down too far?

"You could always just not go," Theo pointed out.

Draco's eyebrows shot upwards and he attempted a laugh; a wheeze of disbelief came out instead. Leave his mother and father alone to face a crowd without their dutiful son? Impossible! They all had roles to play; he knew his cues, knew his blocking, and knew his lines. What better way to hush the tittle-tattle and present a picture-perfect pureblood family than parading them around?

As if I have that option.

Setting the quill down, Draco snapped the book shut, pinning the writing aid inside. End of discussion. His gesture didn't hold the same weight as a well placed "Bugger off!" but, well, it was something. Better than nothing.

Silence stretched between them. Theo sucked in a breath. And then… "You must have practiced that one," Theo mused aloud, "got the biting snap just right." As he moved to put the book and quill back into his bag, his mouth pulled back into a smirk. "You know, I can even see you mulling over the weight and the paper property just for that moment."

Lids drooping, accompanied by a sneer, Draco rolled his wrist as if to say go on, then, since you think you're so clever.

"It's nice to know you haven't changed," Theo concluded. Draco studied him, searched for the hint of spite that was ever present but his face, and words, remained clear. Haven't changed. The thought alone would have sent him into hysterics if he could laugh properly. But he couldn't, and he wasn't so sure he would ever again. The Battle of Hogwarts didn't only change the tides for his family.

He still saw the flash of green whenever he closed his eyes. He still felt the stinging, constricting jinx slamming against his chest and crawling up his neck in his haste to find his parents. He still felt the grating, scratching pain that crawled up his throat whenever he attempted to make a sound. Haven't changed. His father would quite like that. If only…

"Let's go to Hogsmeade." Theo spoke so suddenly Draco was thrown for a second. He shook his head and blinked rapidly. "They have the holiday Butterbeer that I like." Without waiting for a response, Theo turned on his heel and walked off.

Draco stared at his retreating back, wondering just what made Nott think that Draco would just…up and follow him? Like he had no choice? Or like he knew what Draco would choose? If he chose to go to Hogsmeade it would be of his own volition! Because…he needed more ink and he needed a gift to present his mother with when he returned home. And, of course, there were the scales he needed to replace before their Potions examination.

He extended his arm—accio satchel!—and curled his fingers around the strap of his bag the minute it flew into his hand from high up in the stands. He shoved his broomstick inside, thanks to an extension charm, and followed Theo. No, not follow, just...he happened to be heading in the same direction of him. He would say that to the smirk that attached itself to Theo's face if he could speak.

They fell into step, hunkering down against the wind as they headed towards the snow-capped village in the distance. Along the way he continuously glanced at Theo out the corner of his eye, trying to make sense of him or whatever agenda he was trying to push. Theo's face remained as blank as the untouched snow decorating the village's rooftops. Draco pursed his lips and he shoved his mother's letter into his bag for safe keeping. He didn't need to open it to know what it said. But Theo, on the other hand, was a blank slate. Sometimes he wished he knew what his friend was thinking.

Here we are, my first official holiday Draco/Theo fic! I've been suffering from writer's block for a while but when I thought of this fic, inspiration has been flowing! This is going to be a short fic, maybe twelve chapters tops. I already have up to chapter five written so the updates should be more frequent, assuming my workload doesn't leave me exhausted. Which is possible, so head's up.

Please read and review!