Learning to Breathe

He notices immediately when the warming charm wears off, and he descends to the ground, where he dismounts his broom. She is already waiting for him, her arms wrapped around herself, and her teeth chattering. He watches with a somewhat heavy heart as she takes the brooms and hides them under the blanket again, and suddenly he is struck with a thought.

She is the kindest person he's ever met.

His chest fills with fury at the people who surround her on a daily basis and yet have no appreciation for her. He frowns as he thinks of Potter, who had her adulation for almost three whole years, and never once looked her way. The frown deepens as he thinks of all the times that he's been the source of her pain, and yet somehow she has been able to look past all of that and become something that he never thought she'd be.

His friend.

She turns and catches him frowning at her, and he realizes too late as she turns away that she thinks it is directed at her. He takes off through the ankle-deep snow, jogging until he catches up to her, and reaches a hand out to touch her shoulder. She stops and turns to give him a questioning look.

"Thank you." Such simple words, but he has to force them past his lips. When she gives him a tight-lipped smile, he realizes why he's never been able to say the words properly. He's never meant them before, and no one that he's ever said them to has believed him. He moves in front of her and places a hand on each of her shoulders, looking her square in the eyes. He does not miss the way that her lips part slightly or the widening of her eyes. "Thank you," he says again, this time feeling it as he says it.

She nods quickly, understanding now. She knows that he means it, and that satisfies him. Without thinking too much about why he wants to do it so badly, he wraps his arm around her shoulder and guides her towards the school. He tells himself silently that he is only doing it to help keep her warm and share body heat, but he knows that that is not totally truthful.

He's wanted to touch her like this for quite some time, now.

They walk through the doors and as soon as they are in the building, warmth floods over both of them. She is still shivering, though, and he knows that she needs to be near a fire in order to truly be warm. He doesn't want her to go back to her rooms, though; he doesn't want to be alone on Christmas anymore.

"Come back upstairs," he says, before he can stop the words from escaping. "You need to sit by a fire."

"I really should be getting to bed," she protests, glancing toward the stairs that lead away from him. He gives her a curt nod, and walks away without another word. Once inside his room, he changes into his nightclothes - a simple t-shirt and flannel pyjama pants. He stokes the fire and sits cross-legged in front of it, staring at the flames. They remind him of her hair - brilliant streaks of orange and red, with golden highlights here and there. He is so absorbed in identifying every shade that the knock at his door startles him. He jumps up from his place on the floor; it can only be her.

He opens the door quickly, blinking in surprise at Ginny. Her hair is pulled back into loose pigtails and she is wearing a baggy set of worn flannel pyjamas. His eyes drift down to the two steaming mugs in her hand, and a small plastic bag that dangles from her wrist. She gives him a sheepish smile.

"I didn't know if you liked marshmallows in your chocolate or not, so I brought them separately in a bag." He steps aside and allows her in.

"No, I don't take marshmallows in my chocolate," he confirms. "I'm somewhat of a purist." He realizes as soon as the words are out that they sound bad, and he grimaces. He waits for her to chastise him or make some cutting remark, but instead, she smiles. He wonders why he's never noticed before that she has a dimple in her left cheek.

"I had my suspicions." She hands him a mug, and he thanks her quietly before sitting beside her on the floor in front of the fire.

"I thought you'd gone to bed."

"I was going to, but then I got a craving for cocoa, and I thought that you might need something to warm you up, too."

He nods and sips at the hot liquid as he thinks how lovely the evening has been. She has given him so much tonight without realizing it, and as he sits with her, he thinks about how this is the biggest Christmas he's ever had. He knows that he should just relax and enjoy this time with her, but he can't. The thought that she's going to have to leave soon eats away at him, and it sucks all of the pleasure of her company away.

"Are you all right?"

"Just cold," he lies. She cocks her head at him.

"I hope I haven't overstepped my boundaries by coming back," she offers softly. He turns to look at her, and shakes his head.

"You haven't. I'm glad you came back." She smiles brightly at him, and it makes him feel as though someone has just touched his skin with the flame of a candle. He stares down into his mug and contemplates asking her to stay the night, so he won't be alone. He takes several deep breaths, and she sits patiently, waiting for him to speak. She can tell that he wants to say something to her, and that whatever he's about to say is very important to him.

"I don't want you to leave," he whispers, hating the way his voice shakes as he says it. He closes his eyes and waits for her to take the mickey out of him, but she doesn't.

"Really?" He looks up at the strange note in her voice, and he can tell that she's not upset. She looks mildly surprised... and strangely pleased. He nods. "I'll stay as long as you want me to."

It is his turn to be surprised. "All night?"

"Oh," she breathes, her eyes widening. "I didn't think you meant-"

"I don't mean it that way," he says quickly, shaking his head. "I just meant..." his voice trails off as it strikes him that he doesn't really know what he meant. She looks around his room and frowns.

"But there's only one bed."

"We could share it without touching," he offers. She studies his face carefully, and he gazes back at her nervously.

"Are you sure?" He exhales slowly, relieved that she's going to stay.

"Yes."

"Are you tired now, or do you want to do something else?"

"Like what?"

"Chess?" she suggests. He nods and rises to fetch the board and pieces, and soon they are deadlocked in the middle of the game. She is a much better player than he'd anticipated, and it's one more thing he likes about her. He can tell from her game face that she is fiercely competitive, just as he is. She plays to win.

"I'm sorry I don't have anything to give you for Christmas," he says, after he's packed the game board away and is climbing into bed. She shrugs lightly before she slides beneath the covers next to him. Their bare feet touch, which elicits a giggle from her.

"Your feet are almost as cold as mine." He grins at her before extinguishing the candle, and the only light left in the room is from the fireplace. He is grateful that she's stayed; is grateful for the added warmth in his usually cold bed. He turns his back to her and closes his eyes. "You can give me a gift." He turns onto his back and stares into the darkness where he knows she is.

"I can?"

"I mean, if it wouldn't bother you too much."

"What?" His pulse races; he would do most anything for her at this point. She's made him feel more alive in one night than he's ever felt in the whole of his life, and he wants to repay her for it.

"Would you hold me?" He goes deathly still, and feels his palms begin to sweat. He knows that she isn't asking for touches or kisses or anything else along those lines, and that is what makes him nervous. He knows how to do those things; knows how to grope and feel and touch that way. He has never just lain beside a girl with his arms around her.

Curiosity gets the better of him, and he decides that it's about time that he knew what that felt like. He clears his throat and rolls onto his side, facing her. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," she whispers. She rolls onto her side, with her back to his chest, and he drapes an arm around her. She sighs contentedly and snuggles back against him. His nose is buried in her hair, but he doesn't mind it as much as he thinks he probably should. He is pleasantly surprised when her hands come up to rest on his arm, giving a gentle squeeze one time. Before long, he hears her breathing steady, indicating that she's fallen asleep. He strokes the skin of one of her hands with his thumb, only stopping the motion when he falls asleep, too.

When he opens his eyes, she is still there, although sometime during the night, they've manages to move apart. He scoots closer to her and pulls her to him, wanting back the warmth and comfort she provides. She sighs and shifts in her sleep so that she's facing him now, and her breath tickles his nose. He smiles softly at her and the sight of her hair fanned out across the pillow - his pillow.

He knows that it's wrong, but now he feels as though he somehow owns her. She spent the majority of the previous day with him, and now it is Christmas morning, and she has spent the entire night sleeping in his bed. Surely he is justified in feeling a bit possessive of her?

He raises his hand and gently strokes the side of her face with his fingertips, enjoying the way that the motion makes her squirm, even in her sleep. His thumb drifts down and glides lightly across her lips, feeling their smoothness. He wonders what it would feel like to kiss her. He doesn't want to violate her, but an unspeakable ache floods through him. What if she wakes this morning and decides that last night was a mistake on her part? What if she leaves his room, and never comes back? He cannot bear these thoughts, and they weigh heavily on his heart. What if she leaves, and he's never presented with another opportunity like this?

He leans forward and presses his lips lightly to hers - he wants a kiss, but he doesn't want to wake her while he steals one. When he pulls away, he checks to see if she's awake, but her breathing is still steady, and her eyes are still closed. He leans in again and kisses her with more pressure this time, needing a more substantial touch this time. He keeps the contact for as long as he dares, and then pulls away and studies her face one last time before closing his eyes. He doesn't want her to wake up and find him staring at her; he knows that that would be creepy.

The next time he opens his eyes, he realizes that he must have fallen back asleep. The sun is much lower in the sky than it was the first time he'd awoken, and it casts sleepy shadows across his tower room. She is still snuggled up in his arms, and she is still sleeping. He wonders briefly if he should wake her, and then shakes the thought away. The longer she sleeps, the longer she's in his bed, and the longer he's got his arms around her.

He drifts in and out of sleep and wakefulness, and his reality becomes confused with his dreams. Is he really in bed with her, holding her, or is it a part of the dream he's just had where he's kissed her? Or was that real? It seems he can't decide. Perhaps the draught has failed him tonight, and he's having these lucid dreams because of it. At this, his eyes fly open, and he is totally awake.

Neither of them took the draught last night, and yet they both fell asleep almost immediately.

He understands now that that's why she's so exhausted; she hasn't been sleeping well without the draught. What his mind can't seem to process is why she fell asleep so easily - or why he did, for that matter. He wasn't haunted by the night terrors last night, and he didn't even have to take the draught for that. It was her that kept his demons at bay.

This thought pleases him and frightens him immensely at the same time. He likes having her nearby, and he likes holding her even better. She trusts him; he knows that she does, else she wouldn't have stayed the night in his bed and believed him when he said he'd keep his hands off of her. He likes liking her.

He doesn't like the thought that he needs her.

Before he can think more on this new development, she stirs in his arms. He can't contain his grin as she stretches; she reminds him of a cat when she does this. He is hesitant to loosen his arms around her, but when she opens her eyes, he does anyway. She blinks several times, and he supposes that she's trying to remember what's happened. After a minute, she closes her eyes again and gives him a sleepy smile. He thinks that it's the prettiest thing he's ever seen, and it makes his chest swell to know that it's for him.

"What time is it?" she asks, yawning.

"I'm not sure," he admits. "But I think we've been asleep for a long time."

"Is Christmas already over?" she asks, frowning.

"I don't think so," he says uncertainly. She stretches again, pulling away from him slightly. He is instantly cold, and he sighs silently. She rolls onto her back and turns her head on the pillow to look at him.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For my gift." All he can do in response is nod at her, but she seems to accept this. He wonders vaguely how he's going to be able to sleep without her now, but he knows he has to. He watches as she rubs the sleep from her eyes with her fists. "I don't know about you, but I'm starving."

"I am a little hungry," he admits. She seems reluctant to get out of bed, and he is curious as to why. She pulls the downy coverlet back up to her chin and shivers slightly.

"How do you sleep up here? It's freezing."

"I'm used to it, I suppose." He wants to offer to hold her again, but is afraid to. She was the one who asked him to do it last night, and he acquiesced; he would feel uncomfortable doing it again, unbidden.

"Aren't you cold?"

"I don't notice it, if I am." The lie rolls off of his tongue so easily. He never noticed the cold before last night, but now he is painfully aware of it.

"Want to get some breakfast with me?" she asks sweetly. "Or lunch, if it's that time?"

"All right," he says, nodding. He sits up and then moves away from the bed, heading towards his dresser to get a fresh change of clothes. She stands and stretches her arms above her head, then plods to the mirror that hangs on the wall to inspect herself. She gasps and he turns to see her hands come up and touch her cheeks.

"I have freckles!" She says it with such surprise that for a moment, he thinks she is serious. When he sees the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, though, he grins at her.

"No! Really?"

"Really," she says, turning to him and nodding. "Look, right there. A whole sea of them."

"You're twisted," he comments, shaking his head. She just shrugs and gives him another smile as she heads toward the door.

"I'm going to go get dressed. I'll be right back." He watches as she exits the tower, the silly grin still plastered to his face. Why is it that she has the ability to make him smile like this, and at the strangest of times? He ponders this while he pulls his clothes on, but he still can't figure it out.

He is tying the laces on his trainers when she returns. She's neatly dressed in a pair of jeans and an emerald green jumper with a giant letter G on it. He smirks at her. "Forget what letter your name started with?"

She blushes slightly before shaking her head and tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "My Mum makes us new sweaters every Christmas," she explains. "And I think she puts the first letter of our names on them so she remembers which one belongs to who. She's been making them for Harry and Hermione as well, so I don't know how she keeps them straight anymore. Last Christmas, I could swear that she'd given me George's."

"Did you get many gifts?" he asks.

"A fair few. This is from Mum, plus she sent me a cake, since I stayed here and won't get to eat it at home like everyone else. We could share it later, if you like," she offers, glancing down at her feet. "I mean, if you wanted to."

"You want to share one of your gifts?" he asks, incredulous. In his entire life, he can't remember ever sharing anything he's ever gotten.

"There's far too much for me to eat it all, and it would be a shame to let it go bad," she says. "It's too good to let it just rot."

"If you're sure you don't mind," he says, nodding. She looks relieved and smiles brightly at him, and he wonders why it seems so important to her that he share the cake with her. He rises to his feet. "What else did you get?"

"Hermione gave me a book about Claudius Ptolemy," she says it with a wry smile, and he can't help but grin back at her.

"Why would Granger give anyone a book for Christmas?" he teases. She laughs. "You'd think she liked them, or something."

"I made the mistake of showing a teensy bit of interest in astronomy this summer. I guess she has a better memory than I thought."

"Are you actually going to read it, then?"

"If I can ever get past my endless essay work in all of my classes long enough to read for fun."

He doesn't respond to this, although he wants to. He wants to tell her that he will help her with anything she needs help in, but he's afraid that being so open and available to her will frighten her away. She clears her throat, causing him to focus his attention back on her.

"I hope you don't mind, but I -" she steps forward and pulls something from behind her back, holding it out to him. It is a small, rectangular box, and it has no ribbons. It isn't wrapped, either. He looks from it to her. "I got it for you just in case you were okay with me giving you gifts."

He reaches out slowly and takes the box from her, opening it without hesitation. When he pulls the lid off, he finds himself looking at a leather bound book. He removes it from the box and flips through it, noting that all of the pages are blank.

"It's meant to be a journal, but you can use it for other things, if you like." He runs his fingers across the leather once, and then looks back up at her.

"I don't know what to say."

"Thank you would be perfectly acceptable," she says, her eyes sparkling.

"I can't repay you," he says quietly. This causes the sparkle in her eyes to dim somewhat, and she frowns.

"Gifts are just that, Draco. Gifts. You don't pay someone back for them." His eyes wander to her face, and he stares at her with a kind of wonder. "What?"

"You just called me Draco," he accuses.

"Yes, well," she says, fidgeting a bit. "Isn't that your name?"

"I've never heard you call me that before."

"I suppose that after last night, I'm allowed to call you by your first name, aren't I?" The teasing glint is back, and his chest expands.

"True enough," he concedes, putting the journal back inside the box and replacing the lid. He sits it on his desk, then turns back to her. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she breathes. "Now let's go eat, before I die of hunger."

She leads him down to the kitchens, and this time lets him tickle the pear. He thinks it's funny, and he wants to stand there and do it again, but she pulls him away. They sit in the same seats that they occupied the night before, and they share a grand meal together. The house elves have really outdone themselves this year; there is so much food that they aren't able to finish it all.

"Why don't we take some of it with us?" she suggests. He hides his pleasure at these words; they clearly indicate that she will be around to share the leftovers with him. He nods, and they watch as the house elves prepare a basket of food to take with them. As they're leaving the kitchens, she turns to him.

"Ever wanted to see the inside of Gryffindor Tower?" To say that he is surprised is an understatement, and he nods more eagerly than he wants to. She grabs his hand and begins running in the direction of her house. He doesn't pay attention to his surroundings - he is too focused on the warmth of her hand in his. When they approach the portrait of the Fat Lady, she says, "Fizzing Whizzby." The Fat Lady is barely awake, and she allows them entrance without noticing that Draco is clearly not a Gryffindor.

He follows her through the hole and into the common room, which is decorated in rich, jeweled tones of red and gold. He is warm here, and he realizes why the Gryffindors love their house so much. It is comfortable, and there is a definite air of kinship, even without anyone in the room. She surprises him when she pulls him toward the steps that lead to the girls' dormitories.

"Boys can't get into the girls' rooms," he protests weakly. She ignores him and pulls him up the stairs without incident. "What have you done to your dormitories to allow boys in?"

"We figured a way around the spell a long time ago," she says, shrugging. "Do you really think that Ron and Harry would spend seven years as Hermione's friend and not figure out a way to get up here to see her when they wanted?"

"I suppose not," he admits grudgingly. He looks around the room that she shares with three other girls, and he picks out her bed before she indicates which one it is. It is the messiest one in the room; clothes are strewn around the trunk at the foot of it, and the sheets and coverlet are askew.

"Not as nice as your room," she murmurs, looking around. "But it does the job all right."

"It looks exactly like the room I used to share with -" he stops himself before he can say the names of his deceased friends, and takes a breath. "The room I used to have in the dungeon."

"That's sort of sad," she says. "I always imagined that the rooms in every house were different."

"Where is everyone?"

"I told you, not many people stayed around this time. I think there are only two other Gryffindors staying, and they're both boys, so we probably won't be seeing them. Why, do you want to leave?"

He doesn't know how to explain to her that he feels out of place here. Most Gryffindors are good and kind and brave, which is why they were placed in this house. He knows that he is none of these things, and that he does not belong here.

"Where do you want to go?" she asks.

"Doesn't matter."

"Do you want me to leave you alone now?" He can feel the surprise that he's sure is etched across his face. The last thing he wants is for her to go; he is afraid she will not return.

"No," he says vehemently. He says it with such force, in fact, that she blushes slightly.

"Chess?"

"Maybe later."

"Snowball fight?"

"Too cold."

"Just want to talk, then?"

"Sure." She nods and starts toward the door, but stops halfway there. She shoves the food basket at him and goes to her nightstand. He steps closer to look at the parchments that she's removed from the drawer and placed on her bed while she looks. What he sees makes his heart plummet straight into his stomach.

Her name is written alongside Potter's, surrounded by hundreds of hearts in different sizes. She turns and finds him looking at the parchments, and her face turns crimson.

"It's not what you think," she says hesitantly, not meeting his eyes.

"What do I think it is?" he asks curiously.

"You think it's evidence that I'm in love with Harry," she says softly. "Everyone else thinks that that's what it is."

"Isn't it?"

"No."

"What is it, then?"

"I just keep it so that if people rummage through my drawer, it'll distract them from going any further." He gets the feeling that by them she means someone in particular, and just doesn't want to name that person.

"I see."

"I don't love Harry," she reiterates. He is unwilling to linger on the words; they give him a hope that he knows he shouldn't have.

"I know."

"You do?"

"Yes."

"How?" she looks confused as she puts the papers back into her drawer and closes it.

"You just told me twice." She nods as though this is a satisfactory answer, and he breathes a sigh of relief. He doesn't want her to know that once upon a time, he watched her very closely, and he's seen the way she used to look at Potter, and the way she looks at him now.

To Draco, the difference is huge.

She tucks something under her arm and is about to exit the room again when he stops her. He puts a hand on her elbow, and she turns her eyes to him. She does not look surprised, but she doesn't look as though she was expecting it, either.

"Would you stay with me again tonight?" His voice is low and it rumbles in his chest as he speaks. She nods mutely. "Do you want to take some clothes with you so you don't have to come back here to get them?"

Instantly he is sorry that he's said the words; they make him sound weak and pathetic. He is not willing to sacrifice a moment of the time he's been granted with her, though, so he bites down on his pride and waits for her answer.

"Do you have a shower up there?" is her only question. He nods, and she goes to her dresser to pick out a change of clothes, and her pyjamas. She gathers a few more things, like toiletries, and stuffs them into an old duffel bag. She removes the item from beneath her arm and sticks it deep inside the bag, and instantly his curiosity is piqued.

They walk back to his tower slowly, taking their time. It's nice to be able to walk through the hallways without fear of being seen, but on the other hand, he is still afraid. It seems that no matter what happens, he just can't shake the fear that has been the one constant in his life since he murdered his father.