CHAPTER SEVEN
Snow fell hard, and fast, the first night of the winter holidays.
It encased the world in a soft, glittery silence and drove the remaining residents inside, back to warm common rooms and cozy offices.
Except for two.
"I can't believe I let you drag me out here," Arianna huffs fondly, a cloud of mist forming in front of her face.
"You can't tell me you don't wanna try," Icarus says, fastening his laces, "you never know if it'll freeze over again."
He stands up, wobbling, and almost slips. She laughs.
"I'd like to see you do better."
Without a word, she coasts past him onto the ice and spins and twists and circles back with her hands in her pockets.
"Showoff," he grumbles, scowling.
"Come on, slowpoke," she teases, "catch up."
He makes a show of it, of course - figuring out how to balance, to step off and slide - and soon enough she's drifting off across the cold surface, lost in thought. Slowly, he meanders over to her, careful to keep out of her field of vision and -
She squeals as he tackles her into a snowbank. He rolls off quickly, laughing, and shoots off across the ice.
They show up at Hagrid's an hour later, flushed and covered in melting snow.
"Havin' fun?" Hagrid asks, eyes twinkling as he tugs Fang back by the collar to let them in, "Want a cuppa?"
Over on the counter, in a much comfier nest than she'd originally been given, Rhiannon flaps down-covered wings and squawks. A happy chirp escapes Icarus as he crosses the room to greet her.
He swears he can feel Arianna roll her eyes.
The next week follows a similar pattern. The mornings, outside on the lake or wandering the grounds; lunch at Hagrid's; then their separate ways in the evenings. He tries to linger in the simple joy of days like this. Tries to just be, but the sinking in his gut just stays and -
His father lands him in checkmate. Again.
"I hate this game."
"We could play scrabble," Severus suggests, shrugging, "or…uh, checkers?"
Icarus starts to rearrange the board. Dark eyes linger on him for a moment, before the man sighs.
"Nevermind."
…
Icarus falls asleep well before midnight.
It's a tricky process; transfiguring the chair into a sofa and covering him with a blanket, tiptoeing over to his own room and getting ready - because, usually, he's an extremely light sleeper.
Somehow, this time, the boy doesn't even budge.
As he pulls the black shirt over his head, he's certain he knows the reason why. He's also certain he has absolutely no idea how to broach the subject.
That night, he dreams of a willow tree and a rushing river, and wakes to find Icarus' face inches from his own. His elbow shoots up and connects with air.
"I brought coffee," Icarus chirps, having moved out of the way, "Merry Christmas, Da."
The extra weight vanishes from the bed and he rolls over, groaning, into his pillow.
Ten minutes later he sits in his office, in his pajamas, with a large cup of black coffee. He eyes the pile of presents by the fireplace. It's the biggest pile of…things he's seen in years.
"You've been…busy," he mutters, taking a sip.
Icarus sets down a plate of toast and sausages and beans on the table in front of him.
"Not any busier than you, Mr. Scrooge," he teases, "over half of that is yours."
It doesn't take very long for the food to disappear, for the coffee to be finished, or for the first couple of presents to be summoned over. And Icarus is right, somehow, because they're for him.
Minerva, Rubeus, Poppy, Filius, Charity -
"This is ridiculous," he declares, after opening a box of chocolate frogs, "where the fuck are your -"
Icarus, halfway through a bag of treacle toffee, blinks at him. A small pile of presents sits on the chair next to him - a falconry glove, a dark green scarf, snacks and stationery -
"What," the boy says, swallowing, and before tugging on the string of the package in his lap, "weren't you aware you have a fan club?"
"I don't have a - did you put them up to this?"
Icarus rolls his eyes.
"Sure, Da," he drawls, "of course I did. I just chucked eleven years of pretending we're not related down the drain to make sure you got presents."
The statement catches him so off guard, stabs so deep in his gut that he hardly registers the expression on Icarus' face when the wrapping paper is pulled away to reveal the new violin case.
It was an expensive thing, custom made with ebony wood and etched with dahlias and queen anne's lace but - but -
Icarus' hug is warm and all-encompassing and he doesn't remember when it happened, but he has a feeling they've been there a while.
"Thank you," Icarus says, "thank you."
…
It's difficult to act mysterious and aloof when faced with the Great Hall at Christmas – and honestly, he doesn't even try.
It's overcrowded with trees decorated in snow and baubles and fairies; lit up with thousands of candles and lined in bushels of holly and ivy and mistletoe. Two house tables have been pushed together and piled with enough food to feed an army.
"Keep that mouth open and you'll swallow a fly," he teases, taking the seat next to Arianna.
She blinks, mouth closing with a clack.
"This is insane," she mutters, as he starts to fill a plate for her, "I mean, there's basically no one here. Who're they decorating for?"
He shrugs.
She's right, of course. Other than the staff that usually stick around for the holidays, there's only six students.
He sets the plate down in front of her and picks up a Christmas cracker. She takes the other end, a little suspiciously, and pulls. It explodes in a cloud of purple glitter and multi-colored streamers and he cackles at her scream.
They eat and collect a small fortune of gifts from the crackers and watch as Severus gets increasingly more uncomfortable as Hagrid and McGonagall get increasingly more drunk and soon, when the enchanted sky starts to get dark, they get up and head out of the Hall.
Arianna pokes him in the side as he turns to go back to his common room.
"Where're you going?" she asks.
"To...drop these off," he lifts up his half of the gifts they'd collected, "are we not meeting in the classroom?"
"Nah," she slips an arm through his with a grin, "that place is freezing. I've got a better idea."
Briefly, he considers running.
A moment later, when she's tapping on the barrel that acts as the entrance to the Hufflepuff common room, he knows he should've.
"Look, are you sure this is -"
"There's nothing in the rules that says we can't," she says, crawling in, "besides, you need to teach me the rules to exploding snap."
The room is smaller than he expected but warmer and much much cozier than Slytherin's. It's honey-wood and yellow and black tapestries, dozens of overstuffed armchairs, shelves upon shelves of books and plants. A few windows sit at the top of the room, as dark as the sky outside.
"This is...really nice," he says, as she drags two armchairs over to the fireplace.
She snorts.
"It is!" he dumps his gifts on a little coffee table, "I mean, Slytherin's is nice too...in a rich, pretentious, we're better than everybody way, but -"
"The only good thing about this common room is how close we are to the kitchens," she says, slumping into her chair, "now stop gawking and teach me how to play this game."
They're on their second, or tenth, or seventieth round when the common room door opens and the other two Hufflepuffs that had stayed behind crawl in. Icarus stiffens, all of his muscles tightening and, for a moment they all just stare -
"Hello," says the boy, walking over and extending a hand, "my name's Cedric. It's nice to meet you."