Disclaimer: I don't own anything; be happy about that.
Summary: A soft, quiet scene between Harry and Draco in the aftermath of a quidditch game.
Author's Note: A thought that came to me and asked rather politely to be written. I wrote it in present tense partially because it was just fun and I'd wanted to do it for awhile, but mostly because I wanted it to be written in a simple style. I'm not sure how that went over…much rambling… Many thanks to Mackenzie, who I told to be brutal and was barely unpleasant.
--
It's been raining since the end of the game. The pitch has been invaded by puddles, the stands are slippery and drenched, and the sky is enveloped in melancholy gray clouds. The grass is slickly wet and muddy and the air feels oppressive and thick, like breathing through several layers of gauze. Sitting under the overhanging roof of the broom-shed, Draco doesn't really care. He listens as the rain splatters onto the building above him, creating an almost symphonic cacophony of drippy, tinny pings and then watches as the drops fall to the ground and blur together.
His back is pressed tightly against the old wooden wall, forcing him to retain the rigidly upright posture his father had embedded in him years ago. Inside, his broom has long since been put away, but he still wears the deeply green Slytherin quidditch robes. They are damp and cold from sweat and rain, but he has worn them this long and doesn't want to take them off quite yet.
It's cold, he thinks, pulling his knees up to his chest and burrowing them under his robes, but not cold enough.
Several leaden minutes pass in quiet stillness and the falling of rain, until Draco relaxes from his straight position, crossing his arms over his knees and letting his head hang down dejectedly. Several strands of blond hair fall from their already wind-ravished position, but he doesn't bother to push them back. He's not in the mood to keep up such vanities. He's really not in the mood for anything.
The memory of the day's game in his mind is so heavy and suffocating, that it is almost solid. It plagues his thoughts like a bad dream, but for all its bulk, it makes him feel empty. Looking out across the lengthy pitch, the memory bears down on him heavily, and he can't help but remember in perfect clarity.
The stands had been full, packed tightly with students and teachers, and there were so many colors and faces that they all blurred together in one breathing, heaving mass. The atmosphere was tense and exhilarating and made his stomach knot. The cheering was so loud he felt he might burst. His name was broadcasted, so loudly and clearly that everyone in the crowd heard, and for one glorious moment, it was just he and his broomstick, soaring through the air in total freedom, like he could just go on forever.
But then he had been announced: the wonderful Harry Potter in all his Gryffindor glory, and Draco's moment had ended.
The following match had been intense, laden with the fierce sort of rivalry that made the Gryffindor/Slytherin games so edge-of-your-seat exciting, like a bolt of electricity. Draco and Harry had followed each other tightly, never more than an arm's length apart, tossing about barbed insults and witty retorts with a well-practiced ease.
And then there had been the flash of gold, the back and forth push of their struggle, and then the moment that had completely shattered Draco's world. He had caught the snitch and beaten Harry Potter for the first time in his life.
He had dreamed of the moment for years, the instant when he'd be Potter's better, the minute that would eclipse the pain and rejection the scarred boy had brought upon him. But then Draco's gloved fingers had closed around the silver-winged snitch. And nothing happened.
There were no fireworks, no ringing bells, and there certainly wasn't the overwhelming feeling of accomplishment. Everything was exactly the same as it had been. And for some reason, that hurt worse than losing.
Then the sky broke open and the rain fell down in sheets, thick and encompassing. The Slytherins celebrated, players flying around the pitch in large, excited loops. The Gryffindors were dejected, leaving the stands quietly and wondering how Harry had lost. And the rain covered everything. Draco didn't even pay attention as his team congratulated him, as Snape looked proud. He just rushed to put his broom away, to get away from the crowds and the emotions. He had sat down, secluding himself outside, watching the rain and trying to figure out what had happened.
It doesn't matter that the front of his robes are steadily getting wetter in the torrents of rain, or that his hair is wild and in his eyes. It only matters that he has won, and it feels so wrong.
From the corner of his eye, Draco sees a blur black approaching from his left. He wonders briefly who would be stupid enough to be out in the rain, disturbing his peace. Then the advancing figure begins to take shape: black hair, pelted down in the rain, annoyingly bright Gryffindor scarf wrapped proudly around a slim neck, and the greenest eyes he's ever seen.
Harry crosses in front of Draco, moving to his right side, and sits down as if he's been asked. Draco's not sure what to make of his enemy's presence beside him, so he says nothing. If he wants to sit in the cold dirt and get wet, Draco isn't going to stop him. Of course he's all wet by now, anyway. Draco watches as drops of water run from his dripping hair, down the line of his neck, and into the already sopping collar of his black cloak.
The rain suits him, Draco thinks.
"You look like a drowned rat," he says.
Harry smiles wryly, as if Draco has told a joke, but Draco doesn't get it. Then again, he doesn't get a lot of the things Harry does.
"Like you look much better," Harry responds lamely. He looks Draco up and down, taking in his disheveled appearance. Actually, he doesn't think he looks that bad. In truth, he doesn't think he's ever seen Malfoy look so… normal before. He briefly considers describing him as vulnerable, but he finds he can't use the word when referring to his longtime rival.
Draco runs a hand through his hair, upsetting it even more than before. "Fuck off, Potter. What the hell are you doing here, anyway?"
"I could ask the same of you," Harry says, stripping off his soaking cloak and scarf. He throws them into a messy pile on the ground, which Draco eyes distastefully. Harry looks like he's expecting to stay awhile, and Draco doesn't like it. When Harry fixes Draco with a soft, calculating stare, he likes it even less. Draco wants to be left alone to brood and he certainly doesn't need Potter making eyes at him while he's doing it.
"Shouldn't I have been the one out here moping for the last hour?" Harry asks. His face is half-covered in a nauseatingly friendly smile, making Draco feel left out.
Draco thinks of a snide remark, but doesn't feel like saying it, so he doesn't answer at all. But Harry isn't expecting a response. He just turns to stare at Malfoy, looking at him as if he's trying to take him apart. Draco glares, wishing he would just go away, but his eyes meet Harry's and he falters. Looking into Harry's eyes, the air feels less concrete than before. Draco thinks that maybe there's something different about Potter today.
Or maybe it's just him. Draco is the first to look away, nervously fidgeting and lowering his head. He's not sure how to act, especially with Potter looking at him like that. Silence stagnates between them heavily.
"Why are you out here?" Draco asks, genuinely curious.
Harry looks at him as if he should know the answer. "Because you are."
Embarrassingly, a blush blooms across the blonde's pale face and he rushes to turn away, instead staring out at the still-pouring rain. That certainly wasn't the answer he was expecting.
"I caught the snitch," Draco says, changing the subject.
"Yeah," Harry agrees quietly.
"I won," Draco continues, but somehow, it doesn't sound as gloatingly as he had hoped.
"Yeah," Harry agrees again. The silence resumes. Draco uncrosses his arms, awkwardly setting one on the ground near Harry's hand. He feels restless and inelegant and having someone he thought he hated acting civilly to him isn't helping any.
Harry hardly notices Malfoy's discomfort. His eyes have been locked onto the hand so near his. He can't help but stare at the pale limb. The fingers are long, nails blunt and clean. He doesn't even bother looking at his own, knowing that they are bitten and probably dirty. It's so like Malfoy to have such a perfect hand, he thinks, trying to muster up some anger at the other boy. But he can't, so he just keeps looking at his hand.
"Then why is it like this?" Draco asks, softly, his voice falling into the rain.
"Like what?" Harry asks, confused, tearing his eyes away from Draco's hand to look at his face. Draco is staring at him, all gray and steel, and Harry suddenly wishes he were still looking at the ground.
"Why does my victory feel so hollow?"
Harry isn't sure how to respond. He feels like Malfoy's eyes are drilling holes into his own and considers himself very naked.
"I think," Harry says slowly and carefully after a moment of thought, "That you're finally realizing that I'm only human. You've spent years tormenting me, trying to beat me in every way you could, and now that you have, you see that we're really on the same level, you and I. And it's kind of like you've just wasted all these years on a stupid, childish rivalry. Maybe it's not your victory that feels hollow, but yourself."
Harry's softly spoken words are like the wrenching of a dislocated shoulder back into place. Though painful and sharp, it's good intentioned.
"So the great Harry Potter is only human?" Draco asks, a ghost of a smile on his face.
Harry chuckles, ducking his head down in a way that Draco finds strangely endearing.
"Yes. Only human." Harry confirms. Draco likes the way it sounds.
"So what do I do now?" Draco asks. His voice is quiet and unsure, and very unlike himself and Harry finds himself caring, even though he doesn't want to. Trying not to think too much into it, he places his hand atop Malfoy's in what he hopes is a platonic gesture. If Draco is at all surprised by the act, he doesn't show it.
"You fill yourself back up," Harry replies belatedly.
Draco doesn't say anything, but Harry is becoming accustomed to this and it doesn't bother him. Instead, he rubs his thumb in slow circles on the back of Draco's hand, noticing how chilled the soft flesh is. He's surprised that he cares.
"Go inside," Harry orders, "It wouldn't be right for my worst boyhood enemy to be defeated by the cold before I got a chance at him."
"Are we still enemies, you and I?" Draco asks, in lieu of reply.
Harry pauses, considering. "Somehow, I don't think so."
Draco's only response is a half-smile creeping up the side of his face. Harry thinks it's a start. To what, he's not sure, but he does know that something has changed between the two of them.
Draco notices it, too, but he tries not to think about it. But, he decides, enjoying the warmth of Harry's hand on his, it's a nice feeling.