Chapter 3
When Draco came to, he heard the sound of water. He opened his eyes and saw the lake, painted with strokes of green and blue. He was laying on his bed in the Slytherin dorms, covered in blankets. He immediately sat up in alarm and regretted it instantly. His mind was foggy with sleep. How did he get here? His eyes scanned the room, landing on a bottle of Skele-gro, his wand, and a note sat on his nightstand.
Potter.
Memories came flooding to him. Potter’s magic crackling in the air. Potter’s touch searing his skin. Potter, holding Draco in his arms. Draco’s heart beat wildly in his chest.
Where was Potter?
Draco fumbled for the note. God, Potter’s handwriting was worse than chicken scratch.
didn’t want to wake you up, seemed like you could use the sleep.
diagnostic spells showed a hairline fracture in your rib, skele-gro’s on the counter
Oh, merlin. Had Potter tucked him in? He sunk into his mattress.
After a particularly grueling session with the skele-gro, Draco dragged himself into the showers. He couldn’t miss class for a hairline fracture–he was being held to a different standard. For the typical Hogwarts student, playing hooky meant a dressing down from McGonagall and maybe a detention. For Draco, his future hung in the balance. Even with perfect marks, he wasn’t likely to be accepted into any respectable profession in Wizarding society. Sometimes he thought of hiding away in the Muggle world, starting afresh in a town where no one knew of him and all he had done. But he didn’t suppose that he deserved that, a fresh start. The mistreatment that he received here paled in comparison to what he truly deserved.
He typically waited until everyone else was done showering, lest he risk exposing the Dark Mark. He stripped down, peeling off yesterday's robes. The tile floor was cold against his feet. He turned the knob to the right, causing hot, scalding water to jet out. Steam rose to the ceiling. He stepped into the stream, the water burning his skin. He watched as the expanse of pale skin on his chest turned tomato red. He grabbed the bar of soap, lathering up with a loofa. At another time, Draco was the bane of his Slytherin classmates for different reasons. He used up all the hot water. He spent hours meticulously grooming himself. First impressions are everything, Draco. His mother had said. Before you have a chance to speak, how you look speaks for you. Draco supposed she was right. He watched as droplets of water cascaded over his ribs, visible and jutting out underneath his skin. His cheekbones were hollow, his eyes sunken. His emaciated look showed how he felt on the inside: hollow. He scrubbed his skin raw.
Draco walked with his head down, avoiding making eye contact with passersby. As he walked, he counted how many stones his stride could cover at once (somewhere around two and a half). He gripped his leather satchel tightly, holding it close to his chest. He had made the mistake before of carrying all his textbooks in his arms–by the third tripping jinx, he figured it was easier to pick up the satchel rather than each book, one by one. The satchel also broke his falls, so it was beneficial all around. From outside of the potions classroom, he heard hushed whispers. As soon as he stepped inside, a hush came over the classroom. Draco instantly looked at his inner left arm, but the dark mark was covered. Did he have something on his face?
He walked to his usually empty spot in the back of the classroom, the wood floor groaning under his weight. In the corner, Draco had the entire table to himself. Back when he enjoyed potions, he would’ve resented being relegated to the back of the room. Now, he just wanted some peace and quiet. And besides, there wasn’t anyone left to impress. Before, he would spend hours poring over his Book of Potions. To make the perfect batch of calming draught, amortentia, or felix felicis meant that Snape might give him a word of praise. Nowadays, it didn’t mean anything.
Snape, like Dumbledore, had tried to help him. In retrospect, Draco should’ve seen the signs. For months, he had wondered–why did Dumbledore seem to anticipate his own death? When Snape raised his wand, why did his hand tremble? Only later did he understand how ignorant he was, how he was just a pawn in a larger game between the Dark Lord and the Headmaster. It could’ve been worse, he supposed. Potter was the one who actually had to die.
The scrape of a chair on hardwood pulled him out of his reverie.
“This seat taken?”
No.
No.
This could not be happening.
Before the war, before the carrows, before the Dark Lord’s return, Draco’s sole objective was to capture the attention of Harry Potter. It didn’t matter how, through playground taunts, pranks, or hijinks–ultimately, he just wanted Harry to look at him. To acknowledge him. From the beginning, Harry had ignited a burning curiosity within himself that he couldn’t ignore. He had heard all of the stories of the boy who lived. He had heard of the prophecy. But when he saw him, really saw him, that first day at Madam Malkin's, he didn’t find an untouchable demigod. He was just a boy. A boy in tattered clothes with faded bruises on his arms. A boy that was rather confused by the world that Draco had grown up in. He had tried to make friends. At the time, he thought it was the perfect alliance. If Harry Potter was as special as people said, he would fit right in with Draco. Or at least, that’s how the reasoning went. But underneath the strategy lay something more raw, more vulnerable, that Draco didn’t dare face at the time.
He liked Harry Potter.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Harry said, taking the seat next to Draco. The entire classroom was staring at them. The Weasel and Granger looked on from the other side of the classroom with worried expressions on their faces. Harry removed his satchel and placed it on the mahogany table, taking out his textbooks with no care in the world. Suppose he’s used to the attention. Draco grimaced. Ugly jealousy curled up in his stomach. That’s what happens when you make all the right choices.
Harry glanced at him and gave him a reassuring smile. An undercurrent of guilt passed through Draco. It’s hardly his fault that he’s so…good. Draco stole a furtive glance. Harry’s dark brown hair was black with water, still damp from his morning shower. Droplets of water darkened his robes. Idiot. Draco thought. Doesn’t he know the drying charm? Strands of hair stuck to his face wildly, as if his hair was intent on claiming a part of him. The things that Draco could do with half an hour and a little Sleekeazy's. In the before times, he often daydreamed about combing his fingers through Potter’s hair and taming the unruly locks. Another droplet fell onto Harry’s shoulders.
Well, this was just absurd. He would catch a cold if he continued like this. And if Draco didn’t do anything about it, well, didn’t that make him complicit? Our Hero Dies of a Common Cold–Death Eater Responsible? Skeeter was quite capable, and Draco really had enough counting against him already. He couldn’t survive the Golden Boy’s death on his conscience. He pulled out his wand and gestured carefully so that hot air streamed out of the tip towards Harry’s robes, which began to steam as they dried out.
Harry parted his lips in surprise. Dry and cracked. In desperate need of chapstick. Draco looked straight forward, eyes trained on the chalkboard. He heard the rush of his own blood in his ears. At that moment, Slughorn walked into the class, ending any further possible interaction (or so Draco thought). Next to him, Potter was writing furiously with his quill. A piece of parchment landed on Draco’s desk, displaying two simple words:
thank you x
Dracos’s eyes widened. After all, he owed Potter a life debt. It was the least he could do.