Work Text:
Narrator POV
It was the end of December. Snow was falling quietly across the grounds of Hogwarts, drifting in slow spirals like flakes of glass and ash. Most students were still inside, tucked away in the Great Hall or by common room fires, but not everyone.
Some ghosts prefer the cold.
So do the broken.
Near the back of the castle, just behind the Astronomy Tower, a narrow set of stone steps led down to an unused path that curved toward the edge of the Forbidden Forest. They were mostly forgotten in winter—iced over, hidden by snow.
But someone was there now.
---
Draco sat on the top step, arms wrapped around his knees, breath coming in soft clouds. His winter cloak—charcoal grey, thick and lined with dragon wool—hung around his shoulders like armor, but it didn’t keep out the cold.
He could still feel it.
The wind sliced through the silence, not harsh but persistent, like guilt.
His eyes burned, though he had long since stopped fighting the tears. They fell slowly now, silently, soaking the soft white wool at his sleeves. His fingers were stiff, but he didn’t move.
He didn’t know why he came here.
He didn’t know why he’d come outside at all.
He’d left the Slytherin common room because it was too loud. The crackling fire, the laughter of students who didn’t know what he carried—it made his skin itch. He had nowhere else to go, not really. Not anymore.
He didn’t hear footsteps until someone sat beside him.
He flinched.
His head snapped sideways, expecting—
Snape?
Pansy?
Someone to tell him to fix his bloody face?
But it wasn’t any of them.
It was Ron Weasley.
Of all people.
Wrapped in a soft, thick new cloak—green and navy tartan—and red-cheeked from the cold, Ron plopped down beside him with no explanation.
Draco blinked.
“…What the hell are you doing?”
Ron didn’t answer. He just sat, arms crossed, eyes straight ahead.
“I said, what are you doing?” Draco muttered.
“Can’t a bloke sit on some steps?”
“Next to me?”
Ron shrugged. “You looked like you needed someone.”
“I don’t.”
Ron didn’t move.
“Go away, Weasley.”
“No.”
“Are you deaf? I said—”
“You can keep crying,” Ron said simply, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Draco froze.
The snow crunched softly around them, white settling in his hair, on Ron’s shoulders. Draco sniffed, dragged a hand down his face quickly, but he didn’t speak. Not right away.
Then—
“…Are you going to laugh at me?” Draco asked, voice low.
Ron looked over. His expression was unreadable. “No.”
Silence again.
Then Ron said something unexpected. “You want to talk about it?”
Draco scoffed. “Talk. Right. Like I’d bare my soul to you.”
And yet…
And yet, something cracked. Something deep. Something cold and tired.
And before he could stop himself, before he could throw up the walls again, he was talking.
Not about the dark mark, not about the task he’d been given, not about the fear curling like rot in his stomach every time he looked in a mirror—but about the rest.
About his father.
How he hadn’t even asked—just told him.
How Narcissa had cried when she thought Draco was asleep.
How the name Malfoy didn’t feel like armor anymore—just a cage.
“It wasn’t supposed to be me,” Draco whispered, eyes locked on the snow. “They wanted my father. But he failed. So now it’s me. I didn’t get a choice.”
He felt the tears returning, hot and sharp.
“And everyone thinks I’m proud of it. That I’m… some kind of monster. I walk the halls and they stare at me like they know. I haven’t slept through the night in months. I don’t even feel real anymore.”
A hollow, shaking laugh escaped him.
“I bet you’ve never had to deal with anything like that, have you?”
---
Ron was quiet for a long time.
He didn’t know what he expected—some snide insult, some pompous complaint about homework—but not this.
Not honesty.
Not hurt.
He hadn’t seen Malfoy—Draco—cry like that. Not even when Dumbledore died.
Ron’s voice was soft when he finally spoke.
“You think I don’t know what it feels like? Being trapped in something you didn’t choose?”
Draco looked at him with swollen eyes, confused.
Ron inhaled slowly. The cold hurt his lungs.
“I know people think I’ve got it easy. Big family. Friends. But…”
He trailed off, then tried again.
“I’m the sixth son, Draco. Sixth. And before you say it, yeah, I love them. I do. But when you’re surrounded by greatness—Bill the curse-breaker, Charlie the dragon-tamer, Percy the prefect, Fred and George the bloody legends… It’s like there’s no air left.”
He clenched his jaw.
“Then Ginny came along. The only girl. Smart, funny, fierce. Mum dotes on her. The whole family does. And I’m just…”
His voice broke.
“I’m just Ron.”
He hadn’t meant to cry.
But once it started, it didn’t stop.
“I was always the one in the hand-me-downs. The sidekick. The afterthought. Even with Harry and Hermione… I love them. But sometimes I wonder if anyone would notice if I disappeared.”
He wiped his nose with his sleeve, embarrassed.
“I didn’t come out here to cry, you know. I saw you through the window. I thought you looked like you were going to fall apart.”
Draco didn’t say anything.
So Ron added, “Turns out, maybe I was the one falling apart.”
---
Neither boy knew who moved first.
One moment they were sitting apart, and the next, Ron’s arm was around Draco’s shoulder, and Draco was leaning in, and they were holding each other—awkward, clumsy, real.
No words. Just snow. Just breath. Just warmth shared in the hollow ache of winter.
When the crying finally stopped, their eyes red and tired, they sat quietly for a long time. The sky above was turning indigo. Dusk creeping in.
Draco, voice hoarse, finally broke the silence.
“…That cloak.”
Ron blinked. “What?”
“Your coat. It’s new.”
Ron flushed, looked down.
“Harry got it for me,” he mumbled. “Early birthday present.”
Draco nodded.
“…It suits you.”
Ron blinked again, surprised.
Then, to his own amazement, he laughed.
“Don’t get soft on me, Malfoy.”
Draco smirked weakly. “You were crying in my arms five minutes ago, Weasley.”
“…Touché.”
---
They didn’t talk about it again.
The next day in the corridors, they passed like strangers. They’d go back to bickering, snarking, pretending like nothing had changed.
But it had.
Because once, in the quiet snow, they'd seen each other truly.
And neither of them would forget it.
--
The End.