3
The fifth time it happens, Harry is halfway to Hagrid’s hut for their weekly cup of tea when he hears it—
A muffled cry of pain.
He turns immediately on his heel and steps off the stone path, charging across the overgrown grass toward the sound. He’s not going to sit by and let a student get hurt on Hogwarts grounds—not while he’s still here, and not while the earth is still stained from last year’s battle.
So many students and teachers injured, so many dead, and people still have the audacity to hurt each other? To reintroduce violence to this place that should be sacred?
Harry’s thoughts flash unbidden to the memory he witnessed in fifth year of his father and Sirius and Remus hurting Snape, of using magic to humiliate him, and his blood boils.
The closer he gets, the cries of pain increase. And then—an icy fist grips Harry’s heart. He recognizes that voice.
Draco.
The last time Harry heard Draco crying out in pain like this was—in the bathroom. Water dripping everywhere, and spells flying, and then—blood, welling up through pale skin, clothing soaked red, and Harry’s classmate lying on the ground, his eyes rolling back and his hands twitching and it was Harry’s fault, all of it, and Draco was dying—
Harry’s vision goes red. He races nearly all the way to the outer edge of the Forbidden Forest when he finally comes upon them.
There is Draco on the ground on hands and knees, his robes torn and smudged with dirt. His face is flushed, his eyes lowered, and his mouth is bloody.
Harry doesn’t recognize the students surrounding him.
They look like sixth or seventh years—old enough to know better than this, certainly. And as he watches, not close enough yet to step in, one of them mutters something crude and levels a vicious kick into Draco’s stomach. Draco clenches his teeth hard, clearly trying not to give them the pleasure of hearing his pain, but a soft, muffled cry still escapes. He crumples to the ground and curls his knees to his chest, turning his face inward, and braces for the next attack.
Harry feels something dangerous thrum in his chest. He doesn’t quite know when his wand slid into his hand. By the time he makes it to Draco, his entire body is trembling with furious energy.
And then something—erupts, from his chest, from his tingling hands and sparking wand, and an enormous force sends the students to the ground, hard. Harry doesn’t remember uttering a spell, but he is viciously glad to see that his magic has done exactly what he wanted.
One of the students, the one who has just kicked Draco in the stomach, crawls to his feet after a moment and stares up at Harry. “Potter?” He asks.
“What the fuck is going on here?” Harry asks quietly.
The student hesitates, and then his gaze drifts to Draco and fills with hatred. “Isn’t it obvious?” He sneers.
“Why don’t you explain it to me anyway,” Harry says, his voice carefully cool. Quiet rage thrums beneath his skin. “Because from what I’ve seen, this is grounds for expulsion at the very least.”
Draco makes a weak sound behind him, a stuttering inhalation, and Harry nearly growls. He stalks closer to the student and stares him right in the eye.
“Expulsion?” The student scoffs. He stares back at Harry incredulously. “It’s just Malfoy. And he deserves far worse than this, doesn’t he? They never should have let him come back to Hogwarts. I would have thought you of all people would understand—”
-
What happens next is fuzzy in Harry’s mind, even much later, after he’s calmed down and Draco is safe and Harry is lying in the hospital wing with Ron and Hermione curled around him.
There’s no coherent thought in his mind beyond pure rage.
He vaguely remembers feeling this a few times before—fifth year, chasing Bellatrix down in the Ministry after Sirius and—last year, in the Gryffindor common room, when Carrow had spat on McGonagall and Harry finally had enough vengeful anger in his heart that he cast the Cruciatus without hesitation—
—And Carrow had deserved it. Bellatrix deserved it. They had all deserved it, terrible, horrible people, murderers, criminals—
—Harry can feel it now, pulsing, building inside him, itching to explode from his fingertips—they deserve it, they hurt Draco, they made him bleed—
-
Then there is a thin hand, wrapping firmly around Harry’s wrist.
“Harry,” someone says, very quietly.
Harry hesitates.
He blinks rapidly and shakes his head. His vision is swimming too much, he’s too angry, too full of swirling magic—he needs to let it out, he needs to send his rage hurtling somewhere—and where better than here. They deserve it, they hurt Draco, they need to hurt, they need to bleed like they made him bleed—
“Harry,” someone says again.
It sounds like Draco.
He sounds scared. Harry shudders. He tries to shrug Draco’s hand away, but the grip only tightens.
“Harry,” he says again, insistent. “Harry, please look at me.”
There will be time after, Harry thinks savagely. Time after to look Draco over, to catalog his hurts, to take him to the hospital wing. Time after to hold him close. After he finishes this. After he makes these students pay for what they’ve done.
“Harry.” Draco’s grip around his wrist is suddenly—too tight, painful, and Harry jerks, a choked noise escaping his throat. He whips his head around and stares at the blond boy, his eyes wide, and his body still thrumming with magic.
“Let go,” he pleads, strangled. “Let me go, Draco.”
Doesn’t Draco understand? Doesn’t he see why Harry has to do this? Doesn’t he taste the blood in his mouth, feel it staining his teeth and dripping down his chin? Doesn’t Draco want them to hurt?
“No.” Draco squeezes his wrist again. He’s on his knees beside Harry, his other hand clutching Harry’s robes and he’s trembling faintly, like he is struggling to hold himself steady. “No, Harry. You’re not going to hurt them. They’re just students. Stop this, right now.”
Harry shudders again. “No, no—it’s not right. Let me go, please. I need to—”
“I said no. ”
Draco sounds furious. Harry makes an uneasy, frustrated sound, trying to tug his arm away, and Draco snarls. He yanks back, hard, and Harry falls to one knee.
It begins to grow painful, holding all of the angry magic inside of him. He needs to let it out somehow. Harry tries to climb up to his feet, but Draco uses his other arm and presses down on Harry’s shoulder, keeping him grounded.
“Draco, please, please let me,” Harry pants. “I can’t, I can’t, it’s too much—” he cuts off, a whine on his lips, and shudders when his body is wracked with another wave of magic. He curls into himself and tries to force it down. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, please—”
“You need to let them go,” Draco says firmly. “Let them go now, Harry. Stop this.”
Harry stares wildly out at the students around them—all four are down, pressed to the ground by some unseen force, and although they appear unhurt for the most part, they all wear matching expressions of terror. One of them catches Harry’s eye and tries to speak, but no sound comes out of their mouth.
Harry is startled, a little perturbed, but—
“They hurt you,” he says to Draco, almost plaintively.
Draco clenches his jaw and yanks Harry down again when he tries to move. “I don’t care,” he says harshly. “They’re just students, Harry. What are you going to do, kill them?”
“N—no,” Harry says.
He feels disoriented, angry, and nauseous. His skin itches. The magic wants to come out. It wants to hurt, and rage, and destroy everything. Harry doesn’t want to stop it.
“Then let them go,” Draco orders. “Now, Harry.”
Draco’s expression distorts with panic when the magic only continues to surge around them.
Harry is a moment from giving in, letting the magic swallow him whole and wreak havoc, to do whatever it pleases no matter the consequence, when Draco’s hand slides from his shoulder to the nape of his neck and squeezes hard.
Harry is not expecting it. His entire body shudders. He blinks heavy and slow, his shoulders slumping, and he lists toward Draco. Some of the magic unwinds itself from around his chest but its—it's not enough.
Not nearly enough.
“Let me go,” Harry pleads a moment later when he has a hold of himself again, although his voice is softer now. “Let me do this. I have to.”
“No,” Draco says. “Absolutely not. You don’t have to do anything, Harry. Are you listening to me?”
Harry is trying to, but it's so hard when everything hurts, and his chest is aching, like something dark and hungry is trying to crawl out. He knows that Draco is scared, and hurt, and bleeding, and if he would just let Harry go, if he would just let him do this then everything would be okay—
“Harry,” Draco says, yet again, and this time it is so severe and full of fury that Harry jerks to attention. He stares at Draco wide-eyed.
“If you do this,” Draco says, each word uttered carefully, “I will never, ever forgive you. Do you understand me?”
Harry freezes. His heart floods with fear, horror, and it misplaces some of the boiling rage. “Never?” He chokes out.
“I will never speak to you again,” Draco adds. He squeezes Harry’s wrist threateningly. “Do you hear me?”
“Yes,” Harry says. “But—”
“Is that what you want?”
Harry makes an anguished sound. He shakes his head, but— “you don’t understand,” he says. “Please, Draco. They deserve it, they shouldn’t get away with—”
“But they will,” Draco interrupts firmly. “They will get away with it, Harry. As has every student who did this before them, and every student who comes after.”
“Before—” Harry’s eyes darken. The hungry thing in his chest opens its maws. “Before? Fuck. Draco, who else—who else did this to you? Why didn’t you tell me? Tell me now, so I can—I have to make it right—we’ll find them and—”
Draco growls. With his one hand still squeezing painfully tight at the nape of Harry’s neck, he takes the other, winding it through Harry’s curls and yanking up so that Harry’s breath catches in his throat and his mind goes blank.
“You’re not being a very good boy,” Draco murmurs, now leaning close, very close, his breath ghosting warmly over Harry’s ear. Harry shivers and tries to speak but Draco yanks up again.
“Hnnnn—”
“Quiet.” Draco’s voice is hard. “That’s quite enough out of you. Now I’m tired, and my ribs hurt, and my mouth is bleeding. How long are you going to keep us out here?”
Harry shudders. He blinks rapidly and tries to push off his knees, to get away from Draco, but Draco snarls and shoves him back down to the ground. The dirt is cold, and hard on his knees, and the sensation takes Harry a little further away from the murderous rage in his chest.
“Draco—”
“No. I said quiet, Harry. I thought you knew how to listen. I thought you liked being a good boy for me.”
Startled tears spring in Harry’s eyes.
He’s never heard Draco speak to him in this disappointed tone. “I do,” he whimpers. “I do, please Draco. I’m sorry. But you don’t understand, I need to—”
“No, you don’t. You have no idea what you need. But I do, don’t I?”
Draco shuffles closer, still pressing down hard on Harry so he can’t move, but he tilts Harry’s head back and drags his lips along the column of Harry’s throat.
Harry’s breath stutters and he holds himself perfectly still. “You… you do?” he repeats.
“Yes,” Draco says, drawing back slightly. “You need to do exactly as I say. Isn’t that right?”
“Exactly… exactly as you…” Harry hesitates. He whimpers when Draco leans in close again and this time he licks a thick stripe of skin along the side of his neck and up to his jaw. Harry’s magic stutters, contracting oddly, and the steady pressure in his chest eases as a new heat starts to build low in his stomach.
“Exactly as I say,” Draco says with a hum. “Can you do that?”
“I… I don’t…”
“Yes or no, Harry.”
“Yes,” Harry says, shuddering.
“Then let them go, Harry. Now.”
Harry doesn’t have enough energy to argue further. He groans, taking hold of the angry threads of magic and yanking them back into himself. It doesn’t want to let go, at first, but Harry forces it.
It grows easier when Draco curls around him, when he exhales in relief, when he presses his lips to Harry’s skin again and this time he doesn’t seem so angry.
“Go,” Draco says to students, once the invisible force pressing them down has been lifted and Harry has swallowed it back down, shoving it to the deep place inside of him where he puts all of his wild magic.
The students scramble to their feet and flee back toward the castle, faces white with terror. They don’t look back.
It is only when they’ve disappeared into the distance, out of the range of Harry’s magic, that Draco heaves a great sigh and slumps to the ground. He lets go of Harry and closes his eyes.
“Fuck.”
Harry blinks. His head feels heavy, and his hands are aching, and he’s not sure exactly what’s going on or what has just happened.
“Draco…” he mumbles, feeling uneasy.
“Hush,” Draco says tiredly. “Just… come here, Potter.” He flaps a hand and Harry obediently lurches forward. His hands flutter, trembling hesitantly over Draco’s body, wondering how seriously he’s injured.
Draco rolls his eyes after a moment. “I’m fine,” he says. “You can touch me. I won’t break.”
Harry wraps his arms around Draco and pulls him forward into his lap. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, his throat thick. “I am so sorry.”
“Don’t start on that now,” Draco says. “Take me to the hospital wing, won’t you? We can talk about this whole mess later. I do believe I’m about to pass out.” He reaches up and pats Harry patronizingly on the cheek and then he goes limp.
***
Harry’s heart races the entire walk from the forest to the infirmary. He can feel his arms trembling, and the shuddering gasps coming from deep within his chest, but he holds Draco carefully and is careful not to jostle him. Draco wakes when Harry is lowering him gently into the bed.
“Harry?” He mumbles, his eyelids fluttering.
“What on earth—” Madame Pomphrey bustles over, her robes fluttering, and she takes in Draco’s split lip, bruised cheekbone and his soiled robes. Her eyebrows shoot up to her forehead and she herds Harry out of the way, leaning over the blond boy and inspecting him closely.
“Will he be okay?” Harry croaks, watching helplessly.
Madame Pomphrey removes her wand from her robes and runs it carefully slowly over Draco’s inert body, and then she mutters something quietly to herself. She turns to Harry with a grim look.
“What—?” Harry chokes. “Why are you—is he—”
“Did you have something to do with this, Mr. Potter?” She asks, her eyes narrowed. “I know you and Mr. Malfoy don’t have the best of histories, but this is too far. I thought you two had learned your lesson after what happened in sixth year.”
Harry gapes at her. “No!” He exclaims. “No, I would never—I didn’t—” his hands start to shake even more, and his chest seizes up. He can feel his eyes going glassy.
Because it is sort of his fault, isn’t it?
If he had taken Draco straight here, instead of wasting his time on those other students, trying to get some sort of stupid vengeance, then maybe Draco would be okay.
Madame Pomphrey’s gaze softens. “Alright,” she says. “Well, do you know how his injuries came about?”
“Injuries? What is he—” Harry shudders. “Can you fix him?”
She snorts. “Of course I can. He’s going to be fine, Mr. Potter. What do you take me for? The broken rib will take some time of course, and the concussion will require a round of potions, but he will certainly survive the ordeal.”
Harry feels cold. He sinks into the chair beside Draco’s bed, staring down at him.
Draco takes the opportunity then to wake briefly, turning to stare blearily at Harry. “Harry?” He says again.
Madame Pomphrey tuts and helps Draco into a seated position.
“Broken rib?” Harry repeats faintly.
“Ugh. Is he being dramatic again?” Draco asks, blinking up at Madame Pomphrey.
“Unfortunately, he is,” she responds. “Now—look here,” she says, holding her wand up with the end lit. Draco follows it with his eyes until Madame Pomphrey sighs, seeming faintly relieved. Then she points it directly at his rib cage and a jet of light darts toward Draco, enveloping his entire torso in light.
Harry tenses. “What was that? What are you doing?”
Madame Pomphrey gives him a very grievous side-eye.
“I am performing my duties as the official medi-witch of Hogwarts, Mr. Potter,” she says primly. “And if you cannot sit quietly, I will have you removed.”
Harry scowls and slumps back in the chair, although he continues watching her very closely as she bustles around Draco, muttering a spell here and there that seems to be helping him quite a bit.
“I am going to take a nap,” Draco announces to the room after a while.
“No, you most certainly are not,” Madame Pomphrey says. “Not until I’ve finished with you, young man.”
“Oh really? And… under whose authority are you speaking?” Draco responds, his words slurring. “Because… see, I’m very very tired, and I’m lying in this very nice bed here, and so I’m just going to close my eyes and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”
Madame Pomphrey rolls her eyes. She jabs her wand at Draco and he jolts upright, his face going red. “Ow!” He says.
“Oh, hush,” Madame Pomphrey says. She withdraws a series of vials from her robes and places one of them in Draco’s hand, and leaves the other three on his side table. “Take that now, and these three in the morning,” she says.
Draco opens the vial immediately and downs it in one gulp. “Goodnight,” he says, slumping back onto the mattress.
Madame Pomphrey rounds on Harry, then.
“Now you,” she says.
Harry flinches. He grips the arms of the chair tightly and his eyes dart toward the door. “I’m sorry,” he says desperately. “It was—I found him, outside. They were—they were hurting him, and—” he hesitates and then fixes watery eyes on the medi-witch. “I’m really sorry. He’s going to be okay, right?”
Madame Pomphrey’s lips purse and she seems suddenly worried, although Harry can’t imagine why, seeing as Draco is tucked safely into the bed and his chest is rising and falling at a normal level. (Harry would know, because he is making sure to check on it every few seconds.) He stares up at Madame Pomphrey and more anxiety brews in his gut.
“Right?” He repeats. He twists his hands together and takes in a couple of gulping breaths but he feels like he can’t get enough air.
Madame Pomphrey thrusts a vial out to him, right in front of his nose, and Harry stares at it. “Er…?”
“Take this,” she says tersely. “Now please, Mr. Potter.”
Harry, feeling more than a bit confused, nonetheless uncorks the vial and swallows the potion down. He’s spent enough time in the hospital wing to know that nothing good comes of disobeying the medi-witch.
An instant calm spreads over him, warm and indulgent, and Harry sags in his seat, his shoulders slumping. He inhales slowly, and then exhales. He blinks up at Madame Pomphrey in faint confusion.
“A calming draught?” He mumbles. “But I’m… it was Draco, I’m fine, I didn’t need anything—”
Madame Pomphrey laughs sharply. “Didn’t need anything? Merlin, child. Not like you were on the cusp of a magical breakdown. You haven’t stopped trembling from the moment you carried Mr. Malfoy through the doors. Now—” she raises a finger, silencing Harry’s planned rebuttal, “pick a bed and lie down. I don’t want you walking back to your common room alone in this state. So unless you are planning to call Mr. Weasley or Miss Granger to come for you, you will have to spend the night here along with Mr. Malfoy.”
Harry gapes at her, feeling slightly insulted, and then decides that he’s very much pleased with this turn of events because it means that he doesn’t have to leave Draco alone in the hospital wing. So he closes his mouth and clambers obediently into the bed right beside the blond boy.
Madame Pomphrey hums in approval, her mouth still pinched, and then she sweeps back into her office.
Beside Harry, on the small side table, a tray appears with a pitcher of water and a small bowl of soup. Harry ignores the soup but grabs the pitcher and brings it to his lips, downing the entire thing so quickly it makes his stomach ache.
-
Sometime later, when Harry has laid down on his side and is staring at Draco, watching the boy’s chest rise and fall, and is basking in the quiet calm of the empty hospital wing around them, his pocket warms. He reaches in and pulls the coin out.
U OK ? it reads.
HAGRID WORRIED
Harry sits up.
FINE he sends, and then after hesitating for a moment,
HOSPITAL WING
DRACO HURT
-
It seems that he only blinks once and then Ron and Hermione are there, curled around him, their faces lined with concern.
“Hey,” Harry says, smiling sleepily at them. He lifts a hand and waves.
Ron snorts. “You high, mate?”
Harry shakes his head and points to the empty vial sitting on the side table. Hermione picks it up.
“A calming draught?” She says, and Harry nods. “Oh, Harry. What happened? Are you alright?”
“M’fine,” Harry says, lifting one shoulder and dropping it. “But er…” he pauses. “You know how, erm… since the war, sometimes my magic goes all…” he trails off, and when he looks up, Hermione and Ron are looking at him with grim, knowing expressions.
“What happened, Harry?” Hermione asks again, her voice very gentle.
Harry hunches into himself. “I didn’t mean to,” he says, his voice small. “Only, they were hurting him.”
“Hurting him?” Ron repeats. “Hurting who, mate?”
Harry’s eyes dart over toward Draco, and his hands clench.
“They were hurting Malfoy?” Hermione asks, and Harry nods.
“Heard him crying,” he says, morose, and he thinks faintly that if he weren’t still feeling the effects of the calming draught, he might start feeling dangerously angry again. “They were just—standing around him. Four of them, and just… hurting him.”
“Bloody hell,” Ron swears under his breath. He looks worriedly over at Draco. “The prat’s alright though, isn’t he?”
Harry shrugs again. “Broken rib,” he says. “Concussion.”
Hermione gasps, presses one hand over her mouth, and seems faintly sick.
“His mouth was bloody. They made him bleed,” Harry goes on, and then closes his mouth abruptly.
He’s starting to feel nauseous again, his magic swirling, looking for something to latch onto, and he doesn’t want to lose himself again here in the hospital wing. He swallows thickly and clenches his jaw, trying to control his breathing, and it’s only when Hermione’s hand slides into his own that he feels the tension in his shoulders drop.
“It’s good that you were there,” she says softly. “Before things went… went too far. Further, I mean, than they already were.”
Harry shudders and then shakes his head. “No, it was bad, Hermione. I mean I almost… I almost…” he squeezes his eyes tightly shut, and feels Ron take his other hand.
“Did you hurt them, mate?” Ron asks quietly. Harry keeps his eyes shut and shakes his head again.
“I don’t… I don’t think so,” he says haltingly. “Just scared them a bit. They made it back up to the castle in the end. But I. I wanted to. I really wanted to make them hurt.”
Ron squeezes his hand gently. “But you didn’t though, did you?”
Harry opens his eyes and looks over at Draco, whose chest is still rising and falling at a regular level.
“No,” he says. “Draco wouldn’t let me.”
He doesn’t realise he’s crying until Hermione makes a sad sound and leans in close, pressing her palm to his cheek.
“Oh, it’s alright love,” she says softly. “You’re fine, aren’t you? And you brought Draco back safely, and you didn’t hurt anyone.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Harry croaks. He closes his eyes and leans into her touch, trembling, and he feels Ron’s arm slide around his waist. “I have so—so much, inside me, and—I can’t hold it in sometimes, and—I don’t know why I get so angry, or scared or—I don’t know how to stop it—”
It gets harder to breathe, to think, and Harry’s chest starts to hurt, and then Hermione murmurs something and she is pressing another vial to his lips, and Harry swallows it down frantically, and then he feels another wave of calm wash over him.
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Ron says fiercely. “We all went through that bloody war. Didn’t we?”
Harry chokes out a laugh. “But you guys… you’re fine, you’re just… normal, and I’m such a freak, I can’t, I can’t—”
Hermione tuts. She runs her fingers through Harry’s curls, tucking them behind his ears, and then gives him a reproving look. “You think we’re fine?” She asks. “Really, Harry. You know what it was like those first few months, all of us back at Grimmauld Place. It was sort of horrible, wasn’t it?”
Ron snorts. “You could say that again.”
Harry fidgets. He glances over at Draco again. The blond boy inhales slowly, his chest rises and falls, and then Harry looks back at his friends. “Sure,” he says, “but then we came to Hogwarts, and you both just…” he falls silent.
Hermione sighs. “You know I still wake up from nightmares about four times a week?”
Harry stares at her.
“She’s right,” Ron nods sagely. “Cries up a storm, too. It’s a bloody mess.”
Hermione rolls her eyes and shoves at Ron.
Harry hadn’t realised. He had forgotten about that—that nowadays, Hermione and Ron were practically a married couple. They slept in the same bed, most nights. All of the eighth years had been given private rooms, of course, the few of them that managed to return, and Harry had been happy to have some privacy, although the silence of the room reminded him a little bit of his cupboard sometimes.
“Oh,” he says.
Hermione looks suddenly like she might cry. “Please don’t be upset,” she says, her lip wobbling. “You didn’t want to sleep with us, did you? Only I asked you so many times, I thought it could be like last year, when we all slept in the tent together, but you just…” she shrugs helplessly.
“No,” Harry agrees, his throat suddenly feeling thick. “It… it wouldn’t have been fair. Things were different then, during the war. And then at Grimmauld Place. But you two… you have each other. And I figured… it was time for me to figure my shit out.”
Ron looks visibly wounded at that, his face going white, and his arm tightens around Harry.
“What the hell, you prat,” he says, his voice rough. “We never asked for you to do that. Fuck’s sake—you know we love you, mate.”
“I know,” Harry says softly. “I know you love me, but. It’s different. Isn’t it? You love me… differently, from how you love each other. It’s okay, and I just— I don’t want to be in the way of that. I’ve,” he hesitates, “I’ve gotten in the way enough, I think. After everything I put you lot through, the war and the horcruxes, and Malfoy manor—”
Hermione makes a wounded sound and Harry shuts his mouth. He feels his hands start to tremble. He tries to withdraw, to pull out of their grasp, but they only hold on tighter.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”
“Harry, we’ve talked about this,” Hermione says desperately, sounding heartbroken. “You can’t categorise different kinds of love, and you can’t decide which one is worth more. You can’t do this to yourself. And it’s not fair to us either. We love you, and you love us, and that’s that, and it’s never going to change. Do you understand?”
Harry shifts uneasily and stays quiet, his eyes darting between them.
“Never?” He verifies, and is embarrassed when his voice comes out a bit shaky.
“Never,” Ron says fervently. He presses forward, pulling Harry into a warm bear hug, and the flimsy hospital bed creaks beneath them. Harry presses forward into the embrace and closes his eyes, feeling himself trembling, and more tears escaping from his treacherous eyes.
“Okay,” he mumbles. “Okay, good.”
“And that shit with the war? And the horcruxes? Bloody hell, mate,” Ron murmurs, still holding Harry very tightly. “Don’t be stupid. That wasn’t your fault. Or did you forget about the old snake-face?”
Harry snorts, his face hidden in the crook of Ron’s neck. “Can’t really ever forget him, can I?”
Beside them, Harry feels another set of arms wrap around him, and he sighs when he inhales the soft scent of Hermione’s shampoo.
“You didn’t put us through anything,” she says, sounding personally affronted. “Everything that we did was our choice. We stood by your side because we wanted to, and because it was the right thing to do. Alright Harry? Do you understand?”
Harry hesitates. He takes in a long, deep breath, practically inhaling the fibers of Ron’s robes.
“Harry,” Ron says, almost threateningly, squeezing Harry very tight in his arms, and Harry laughs.
“Okay,” he says. “Okay, yeah. I understand.”
He cries a bit more, after that, but it’s alright because his friends don’t leave him—they stay there on the bed, curled around him, and only when Madame Pomphrey comes out of her office and makes a fuss, flapping her hands and shooing them off the bed do they finally leave, each giving him one last hug and making him promise to check in with them in the morning.
“Promise,” Harry mumbles sleepily, smiling when Hermione leans in and gives him a quick kiss on the top of his head. Then he lies back down, turns on his side to face Draco and he keeps his eyes carefully trained on the blond boy for as long as he can until he falls asleep.
-
“Potter.”
Harry shivers. He twists in the bed, burrowing further under the sheets. It’s warm, and so nice and quiet here, and he was dreaming a very pleasant dream—something about quidditch, but they had been flying under the lake, and the mermaids had been keeping score. Harry had been just about to catch the snitch.
“Potter, wake up.”
“Mm…?” Harry groans and half-sits up, tearing himself reluctantly from slumber into the waking world. He gathers his blankets to his chest and then feels around on the side table for his glasses.
“Harry,” Draco hisses.
Harry scrubs his eyes and then looks around. “Draco?” he mumbles, feeling alarmed and confused. He finally makes contact with his glasses and grabs them, shoving them on his face and blinking rapidly. He stares over at the boy in the other bed beside him. “Why are you… we… why are we in the erm… hospital wing?”
Draco sighs in exasperation. “Never mind that. Come here, Harry.”
Harry sits all the way up and pushes his blankets aside, swinging his bare feet down to touch the cold floor. He stares at Draco and memories of the previous day come rushing back.
“Harry,” Draco says warningly, and Harry flinches.
They had been hurting him. Draco had been on the ground, bleeding, defenseless, and Harry had almost—he had almost—
Harry makes a strangled, nervous sound, deep in his throat, and stares at the blond boy in horror.
“Come here right now,” Draco says, his tone leaving no room for argument and so—Harry goes. He stumbles out of his bed and then walks the few steps it takes to get to Draco’s side. His legs are wobbling, knees shaking, and he is moments from collapsing to the ground when Draco’s hands wrap around his shirt and yank him forward.
Harry goes sprawling, falling forward into the bed, and his face presses into the crook of Draco’s neck.
“There you are,” says Draco. His arms come up around Harry, pulling him close, and Harry makes a pleased sort of moaning sound.
“Draco,” he mumbles. “You’re alright?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” Draco says with a hum. His lips brush against the top of Harry’s head. “Hardly feel a thing. And I’ve had much worse, you know. ”
Harry goes rigid. “Draco—”
“Shhh,” Draco says, his arms going tight around Harry so that his words grow even more muffled. “None of that.”
Harry lifts his head, sits up slightly, and he looks Draco up and down very carefully. He does seem alright, and he’s not bleeding anymore, or shaking, and his eyes aren’t filled with pain or fear or resignation. Harry sighs in relief.
“And what about you?” Draco says.
“Me?”
“Are you alright?”
Harry frowns and looks down at himself. He glances over toward his bed, where the empty vial of calming draught sits on the side table.
“I’m fine,” he says.
Draco narrows his eyes. “Don’t lie to me, Harry.”
Harry shifts uneasy and lowers his gaze. “I am fine,” he insists. “I had to, erm… Madame Pomphrey just gave me something. It was nothing. I was sort of, er, well. You know, you saw how I… I almost—”
Harry falls silent. He feels himself starting to tremble, and a flash of self-hatred floods through his body. He clenches his jaw tightly shut and closes his eyes.
“You almost, but you didn’t,” Draco says.
Harry grimaces and shakes his head. “I could have hurt you,” he says, very quietly. “I… I made it worse.”
Draco half-smiles, and shakes his head. “It’s alright,” he says gently. “I know you wouldn’t have. And you brought me straight here, didn’t you?”
Harry nods again. “You were—” he shudders. “You passed out, you weren’t even—I didn’t know if you would be—”
“I am perfectly fine,” Draco says. He pulls Harry closer, wrapping his arms around him, and threads his fingers through Harry’s curls, pulling just enough that a shiver of pleasure spreads from the nape of Harry’s neck to his toes. He exhales heavily and goes limp, lying across Draco’s chest.
“Draco,” he mumbles.
“That’s right. I’m here, Harry. Now go back to sleep.”
And so Harry does.
He doesn’t rouse until the early hours of the morning, when soft light is spilling in through the windows of the hospital wing and Madame Pomphrey comes bustling out of her office and shrieks, tugging the blankets off their entwined forms and shooing Harry out of bed and back to the eighth-year dorms, another vial of calming draught clasped tightly in his palm and Draco watching with cool, grey eyes and a fond smirk on his lips.