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Harry sits huddled in a corner by the Christmas tree, out of direct reach of the fireplace. Ron and Hermione went to sleep hours ago and the eighth year common room remains empty. There are a handful of them back this year, most of them battle-scarred and too afraid of the outside world to move forward. They deserve one more year, a pause to breathe and remember they're still alive. It's why Harry agreed to come back. And because he came back, so did Ron and Hermione. They wanted to keep an eye on him, even though Hermione should be at the Ministry and Ron should be starting Auror training.
Harry appreciates their company more than he can ever tell them. When the nights get too cold or the nightmares take over, it's a relief to be able to crawl into bed with Ron and know everything's okay. To fall asleep on the couch next to Hermione as the fire washes over them. Or, like that evening, to be able to sit in his corner and watch the students coming in and out of the common room, as Ron and Hermione's chatter drowns out the other conversations.
He has a support system. He has people he can rely on, who will pull him back when life gets to be too much. They ground him and give him safety, and he wonders whether life is that simple. Whether all anyone needs is someone in their corner reminding them that everything will be alright.
He sighs and the sound gets lost in between the howling wind outside and the crackle of firewood indoors. In a few minutes, the portrait hole will open and Draco will walk in, his robes too loose around his body, his eyes downcast. He'll walk past Harry on his way to bed, sparing only a momentary glance before he flees. He never says a word. Not even when Harry calls his name. He's always alone. No Ron or Hermione to ease his war-torn soul.
When the door opens, Harry stands next to the Christmas tree, stepping in front of the staircase to the boy's dormitory. Draco spares him a quick glance and the moment their eyes meet, Harry feels his breath stick in his throat. They don't move. Perhaps because Harry's gone off-script by making his presence undeniable. If Draco wants to go to sleep, he'll have to either say something or push Harry out of the way.
"Move, Potter," Draco says, eventually.
"No," Harry says.
Draco inhales harshly, his nostrils flaring as he glares. Harry blinks at him, keeping his expression neutral until Draco's eyes slide away, towards the window and to the falling snow. Draco swallows and clenches his jaw so hard that the muscles on his neck stand out in sharp relief. He's trembling, starting from his clenched fists to his bony shoulders.
Harry steps forward and Draco flinches back, his eyes running between Harry, the Christmas tree, and the staircases at Harry's back. Draco shifts on his feet, unable to keep his eyes in one place, even as he draws himself to full height. The next time Harry steps forward, Draco holds his ground. Up close, it's easy to see the bags under Draco's eyes, his drooping, tired eyelids and that faint quiver of his lips.
"Sit with me," Harry says. "It's late and I'm tired."
Harry stays only long enough to understand that he's not getting an answer. Then, he turns back to the common room and settles down on the couch closest to the fireplace. He keeps his eyes on the dwindling fire, watching the flames engulf the wood until all the logs are alight. He hears sounds behind him, feet moving away from him, and he can't help the disappointment that settles in his chest.
If someone asked him what he wants, he'd never be able to tell them. But he knows that Draco walking away isn't it.
"Stay," he says, keeping his eyes on the hearth before him.
He hears the hesitation in Draco's stride, the shuffle as he slows, followed by silence as he stops. Harry inhales as quiet as he can, afraid that too much noise will scare Draco away. He holds himself still as Draco moves closer, hardly daring to breathe as Draco sits down next to him. The couch is large enough for two but Draco takes a seat much closer than Harry expected. The sides of their legs touch.
They're silent, neither of them knowing what to say to each other after everything that's happened. Harry would never be able to explain all the ways that Draco Malfoy moves him. He has no words for the way his heart settles in his chest, comforted by Draco's body next to him. He can feel the air filling his lungs, every nerve on his skin coming to life as they sit there together.
He doesn't know what it is about Draco that calls to him. He doesn't even know if Draco will welcome his advances. But the years have made him brave and when he reaches out to take Draco's hand, Draco doesn't pull away.
That, Harry supposes, might be the beginning.