Chapter 1
The first time it happens, halfway through the second week of eighth year, Harry isn’t convinced that the whole thing wasn’t some sort of fever dream.
He is pacing mindlessly, his shoulders nearly up to his ears and a high pitched buzzing ringing in his ears. It’s too much—being in the castle so soon after the last battle, after his final confrontation with Voldemort. Harry can hardly stand it. He’s still not sure how Hermione and Ron convinced him to return for a final year.
Everywhere he goes, everywhere he looks, he sees remnants and echoes of a previous life. One where Remus was still alive, and Sirius, and Fred, and —
Harry is hunched over one afternoon, hands on his knees, breathing in and out shallowly when a shadow falls over him and he hears a quiet, sharp intake of breath.
“Oh… pardon me,” someone says, their voice cold and oddly strained.
Harry curls further into himself, his arms wrapped around his midsection. “Can’t,” he says with difficulty, “can’t breathe, can’t—” he shudders and is about to collapse to the floor when a hesitant hand wraps around his elbow, tugging him back up.
“In here,” the person says, dragging Harry into one of the barely-used classrooms, the ones that are still undergoing repairs from spell-damage, or simply gathering dust due to the smaller number of enrollments this year.
Harry wheezes loudly, near whimpering, and the person curses.
They sound familiar. They sound like Draco.
Harry is shoved into one of the dusty desks.
“Put your head between your knees,” Draco instructs.
Harry obediently lowers his head. His whole body trembles, only calming slightly when the other boy rests one hand on Harry’s lower back, forcing him lower.
“I can’t,” Harry gasps. “Can’t breathe. Too much, too…”
“I know, Potter,” Draco murmurs. “It’s alright. Inhale through your nose and—yes, that’s good. Now exhale through your mouth. Now do it again.”
Following Draco’s calm instruction is the easiest thing Harry has done since the end of the war. He wraps his arms around his calves, pressing his head between his knees, and his panicked breaths slowly even out.
The classroom grows silent around them, and Harry’s cheeks slowly redden in shame as he comes back to his senses. He tries to quickly sit up but Draco keeps his hand heavy on Harry’s back.
“Careful,” Draco says. He allows Harry to come up, but slowly, and once Harry lifts his head up all the way, Draco studies his eyes.
“I’m, er, I’m sorry you had to see that,” Harry says. “I… it happens, sometimes.” He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly feeling flustered. “It’s just… being here, at Hogwarts, after all of the…” he gestures vaguely and then winces.
“I know,” Draco says again. “It’s alright.” He gives Harry a brief once-over and then straightens up, smoothing his robes and sweeping out of the room without another word.
***
The second time it happens, Harry is holed up in a broom cupboard on the third floor.
He’s not sure how long he’s been in there—only that he had heard a camera shutter go off, and a high pitched laugh, and he had thought of little Colin Creevey, and then his cold, pale face laid out on the floor of the Great Hall, and—
He doesn’t even register the door to the cupboard opening, or the body settling in across from him. It is only when cold hands cup his face that Harry jolts, eyes wide, searching futilely in the darkness.
“Calm down, Potter. It’s just me.”
“Draco?”
There is a long, heavy pause. “Yes.”
Harry relaxes minutely.
“Your friends are looking for you, you know.”
Harry doesn’t respond. Draco tries to withdraw his hands and Harry makes a quiet, panicked sound, pressing forward to maintain the comforting physical contact.
“It’s alright. I’m not going anywhere. Put your head between your knees, why don’t you?”
Harry tries, although it is hard to make happen in the small space. Draco pushes one hand down on Harry’s shoulder, helping him lower his head until he starts to breathe easier.
“Tell me, Potter. What was it this time?”
Harry takes in a slow breath and shudders, exhaling out, slumping further forward. “Couldn’t,” he rasps, “was too much—little Colin, and everyone—dead, all dead—shouldn’t have, my fault, all of it, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think—”
“Hush,” Draco says, interrupting Harry’s panicked rambling. “That’s ridiculous. You really think any of that was your fault?” The boy sounds incredulous, and a little angry.
Harry tenses, and his breaths threaten to become shallow again, and Draco increases the pressure on Harry’s shoulder blades, keeping Harry’s head down between his knees.
“I was so—afraid,” Harry forces out, his words rasping clunkily out of his dry throat.
How long has he really been in this cupboard?
“We all were, Potter.”
“I was too afraid,” Harry presses. “I should have—should have died sooner. Should have given myself up right away. At the last battle. Then they wouldn’t have—I could have saved—”
“Stop that,” Draco says harshly, and Harry flinches. He curls into himself and starts to shake again. He sees Colin’s face, and then Lupin’s, and Fred’s, and Tonks, and Sirius—
Draco swears quietly under his breath. He shifts closer to Harry, pressing his palms to Harry’s cheeks, swearing again when he encounters fresh tears.
“You really are torturing yourself,” Draco says. “Didn’t you get enough of that last year?”
“I can’t, I can’t stop thinking about it, all of it,” Harry trembles. “I shouldn’t have come back here. I don’t deserve it. I dunno what I was thinking, I can’t—”
“Just let it go,” Draco hisses. “There’s no point, Potter. Do you think this is what they would have wanted? You, the Saviour of the wizarding world, the Boy-Who-Lived, having a breakdown in a cupboard every fifteen minutes and crying about how you couldn’t save everyone?”
Harry’s thoughts are in all directions and blinks wildly at the other boy, confused. “...No? But I… I don’t…”
Draco makes a frustrated sound. Seemingly on a whim he reaches out, winds his fingers through Harry’s curls and yanks, hard.
Harry’s mind goes entirely blank. He makes an odd, strangled sound and his body goes limp, slumping forward nearly into Draco’s lap.
“...Oh,” Draco says. He sounds a bit startled.
Harry shifts and tries to speak but when Draco tightens his grip, Harry can only shudder, going even more lax.
“There you go, then.”
Harry suddenly can’t remember what he was so upset about.
“That’s not so hard, is it?” Draco says. His voice has gone liquidy soft, and quiet in Harry’s ear. Harry has never heard Draco speak in that way before. Goosebumps erupt all over his skin. When he begins to squirm, Draco tugs at his hair again, tutting disapprovingly.
“Mm—Draco,” Harry slurs, his eyes swollen with tears, his throat hoarse, and Draco pulls Harry forward further onto his lap, so Harry’s mouth is pressed right to the other boy’s collarbone.
“Be quiet, Potter,” Draco murmurs. “That’s all you have to do. Just be quiet, and I’ll do the thinking for you.”
Harry shudders and his breath rushes out all at once, and he slumps completely onto Draco, dissolving into relieved tears.
Draco lets him cry and doesn’t release his grip on Harry’s curls. The tighter he pulls, the more Harry’s thoughts go fuzzy, and after a while his sobs turn to sniffles, and then he very nearly falls asleep.
It is only when Harry feels a familiar warming in his pocket that he stirs. He pulls out the coin, squinting at it, but it’s too dark in the cupboard for him to read.
“‘Mione,” he rasps. His throat is aching.
“Yes, well,” Draco says. “As I mentioned before. Your friends are looking for you.”
Harry finally withdraws from the other boy with some difficulty (and a great amount of reluctance, if he’s being honest with himself). Draco helps him to his feet and casts a quick spell under his breath that cleans the dried tears and snot from Harry’s face.
“Erm, thanks,” Harry says, shifting awkwardly, squinting out into the brightened corridor ahead of them. He glances back at the dark cupboard and at Draco’s unreadable expression.
“I don’t want to find you hiding away in another cupboard,” Draco says. “If you’re having a panic attack, you’ll find Weasel and Granger and tell them you need help.”
“Okay,” Harry says automatically. He turns to go, when Draco grabs his arm and yanks him to a standstill.
“You will, won’t you?” The boy asks, his expression tense.
“I’ll try,” Harry says.
***
The third time it happens, there is a vague thought at the back of Harry’s mind that he should find Ron and Hermione, but he’s not thinking straight, and when he stumbles into the library an hour before curfew, it’s not either of his best friends that he finds, but Draco.
The blond boy is set up at a smaller table near the back of the library, books and pieces of parchment spread across the table and his brow furrowed, a quill in his hand.
He doesn’t notice Harry at first, but then Harry must make some kind of sound, because Draco’s eyes dart up and then widen slightly.
“Potter,” he says.
Harry’s knees feel weak. He stumbles a few feet closer to the other boy and then stops. His chest feels tight, and his vision is swimming, and he doesn’t know how to ask for what he desperately needs.
“I’m, I’m—” he stammers, his hands shaking.
Draco looks around them at the empty library, and then back at Harry. “Come here,” he says.
Harry doesn’t need to be told twice. He moves so quickly that he stumbles over his feet and ends up on his knees before Draco, clutching helplessly at the other boy’s robes.
Draco looks down at him with a tight, conflicted expression.
“I told you to find your friends,” he says, patiently, as if he is dealing with a toddler.
Harry flinches. He suddenly thinks that he’s made a huge mistake.
It was different when they were in that abandoned classroom, or tucked away in that closet, where no one could see. Of course Draco doesn’t want to deal with him now, in the library, where anyone could walk in and see how much of a failure Harry is, how he fought in a war and defeated Voldemort but can’t handle a bit of anxiety. He tries to clamber to his feet but then there is a heavy weight pressing down on one shoulder, and Draco’s other hand winds through Harry’s sweat-soaked locks.
“I’m—I’m sorry, I just—can’t—can’t breathe,” Harry says, trying to explain, his tone nearly plaintive. “Couldn’t find—couldn’t find Ron, or ‘Mione, and didn’t want… didn’t want them to see me like this—”
“Hush,” Draco says. His tone is soft now, forgiving, and Harry relaxes. He pushes unconsciously into Draco’s touch, and the other boy, making an odd sound in his throat, tightens his hands in Harry’s hair until it grows near-painful.
“Hnnn.”
“What is it this time, hm?”
Harry, too busy swimming in his now pleasantly empty-mind, doesn’t respond.
“Potter.” Draco tugs at his hair until Harry is forced to lift his head up a few inches, blinking lazily at the other boy.
“Tell me what’s wrong with you, Potter.”
Harry’s brow furrows. “...Headache,” he manages to mumble.
“A headache? Is that all?” Draco sounds disbelieving, and Harry ducks his head. He’s not sure how to get the other boy to understand, and his thoughts are quickly growing muddled.
“It’s not—not right,” Harry says. “I’m not supposed to—my head’s not supposed to, anymore. It’s—I was afraid it was… him.” Harry shudders. “Don’t want him in my head anymore.”
Draco’s eyes widen slightly in alarm.
“It hurts,” Harry adds, and his face screws up, and he tries once again to climb back up to his feet. “I have to—I have to tell Hermione, it’s not safe, it’s not—” his breathing picks up, his body beginning to tremble, but Draco yanks him back down to the ground.
“Don’t be stupid,” Draco says, although there is an odd tension to his tone. “It’s just a headache. You slayed the Dark L— Voldemort, months ago. The whole school saw it. So stop all this nonsense about him being in your head. Think rationally for once in your life, Potter.”
“But it hurts,” Harry repeats, his shoulders knotted with tension, and he screws his eyes shut. “Why does it… hurt?”
Draco heaves a great sigh and tugs Harry closer, until he is perched right between Draco’s knees. Draco then pulls on Harry’s curls, hard, until Harry’s eyes roll back and he slumps forward.
“It hurts because you have a headache, you idiot,” Draco says, sounding slightly annoyed, although when Harry tenses up at the angry tone of his voice, Draco immediately leans in close, murmuring in his ear.
“You’re going to be alright,” he says quietly. “Just sit right there, and hold still, and I’ll take care of it.”
“Mmm,” Harry says.
“That’s right,” Draco hums, like Harry has just said something incredibly intelligent. “You don’t have to worry. I won’t let anyone get inside your head.”
“Draco,” Harry mumbles.
“Yes, Potter. It’s just me.” Draco rubs nice, little circles into Harry’s scalp, introducing waves of pleasurable goosebumps and making his pounding migraine recede slightly for the first time all day. Harry goes limp and nuzzles closer to Draco, like a cat.
Draco swears under his breath.
Harry thinks he must fall asleep, or something like it, because when he blinks into awareness sometime later, he has nearly crawled completely into Draco’s lap and is wrapped tightly in what must be the other boy’s cloak.
There is the soft hum of conversation, and Draco is tense, and his voice sounds unhappy.
“—haven’t done a thing to him,” Draco is saying coldly. “He came to me like this.”
“Well I don’t understand why he didn’t come find me or Ron,” Hermione responds hotly, but she sounds uncertain, and her voice is pitched low, like she doesn’t want to wake Harry.
Harry lifts his head and squints up at Draco.
“Time’sit?” He asks fuzzily.
“It is past curfew,” Draco says curtly. Harry hunches inward.
“M’sorry,” he says.
“Hush,” Draco says, and Harry feels arms tighten briefly around him.
“Hello, Harry,” Hermione says hesitantly, and Harry twists around to look at her. His face reddens.
“Oh,” he says. His words come slow, and his tongue feels heavy and thick in his mouth. “I’m—sorry, I’m… I was, only my head hurt, and…” he starts to tremble again, feeling terribly guilty and not knowing why.
“You had a headache?” Hermione says, and Harry nods. “Oh, Harry. I’m so sorry. When did it start? Did you go to Madame Pomphrey?”
“No,” Harry mutters, embarrassed.
“It’s alright,” Draco murmurs in his ear. “You came and found me, didn’t you? It’s alright, Harry.”
Harry nods and buries his head in the crook of Draco’s neck briefly, inhaling, and trying to absorb back some of the calm that had come over him during those quiet hours in the library.
Draco goes perfectly still and behind them, Hermione inhales sharply.
“Sorry,” Harry says again, his words mumbling through the warm skin of Draco’s collarbone. He’s not quite sure why Draco is upset, or Hermione, but he figures it is probably his fault.
“Stop that,” Draco says. He runs his fingers through Harry’s curls, and then squeezes lightly at the nape of his neck.
“Draco,” Harry rasps, shuddering. He burrows closer to the boy and closes his eyes in relief.
Hermione makes another odd sound, like she is trying to keep silent but can’t quite withhold her reaction.
“Merlin’s sake,” Draco mutters quietly, under his breath. He starts to shift around then, carefully, helping Harry off his lap and not letting go until Harry’s feet are standing steadily on the floor of the library.
Harry blinks, startled, and then realising his hands are clinging tightly around Draco’s neck, finally lets go and tucks them up close to his chest instead. He suddenly feels very cold.
“It’s late, Potter,” Draco says. He straightens a few stray hairs hanging over Harry’s eyes, and adjusts the heavy cloak that is still wrapped around his shoulders. Harry shivers.
“Oh,” he says, and jumps slightly when he feels Hermione’s slim arm wrap around his waist. He turns to her and sighs. He slumps into her hold and blinks heavily.
“There you go. You’ll be fine,” Draco says quietly to Harry, his eyes dark and unreadable.
“‘Mione,” Harry says, his words slurring slightly. His migraine has fully disappeared, but in its place has come a fog of bemusement and exhaustion.
He wants to climb back onto Draco’s lap, to nuzzle into his chest and go to sleep, but it looks like that option is currently off the table. He allows Hermione to slowly guide him out of the library.
“Thank you, Malfoy,” she says hesitantly, over her shoulder.
“Anytime,” Draco responds, sounding sarcastic, but when Harry himself glances back, the boy is watching him like a hawk, his eyes narrowed in on Harry’s trembling legs. Harry raises his hand in a facsimile of a wave, smiling slightly, and to his delighted surprise, Draco smiles back.