Just a Boy (in love)

“What do you mean the bloody git has to stay in my room?”

“Language, Ronald,” Mrs Weasley scolds. Harry looks between the two with wide eyes before his gaze inevitably lands on the blonde trailing behind Mrs Weasley. He’s wearing a scowl that Harry has been on the receiving end of many times before - except he’s refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. Harry feels that maybe he should be ashamed of his staring, but he simply can’t look away. Malfoy looks like absolute shit - his eyes and cheeks are sunken in and his skin looks sickly pale, as though he hasn’t eaten nor seen the sun in weeks. 

“But mum, he’s going to kill Harry and I in our sleep! You really trust this, this-” deatheater, Harry helpfully thinks to himself, “-this bigoted prat to be in the same room as us and not try anything?”

Harry barely hears Mrs Weasley’s second scolding - nearly all of his attention is glued to Malfoy. If he weren’t staring so intently, he would’ve missed the subtle eye roll and huff of frustration the Slytherin lets out. He doesn’t bother trying to defend himself, however, which makes Harry feel sort of… unsettled. The git always likes to get the last word in, but he’s completely silent as of now, even as Ron continues throwing insults around and Mrs Weasley proceeds to scold him.

“Harry, could you be a dear and show Draco to his room? I need to have a little chat with Ronald here. I’ll have breakfast ready soon.”

“His room? It’s my room, not his!”

Harry would normally laugh at his friend’s obvious frustration, but he’s too caught up in his whirling thoughts to react as he normally does. He simply nods at Mrs Weasley instead before turning and walking towards the stairs that lead to Ron’s room. He doesn’t bother turning to see if Malfoy is following, but he knows that he is when he hears the soft footsteps behind him. When he reaches Ron’s room, he pushes the door open and steps aside to let the other enter before him.

“This is Ron’s room,” Harry states emotionlessly. Malfoy hesitantly steps inside and looks around, obviously avoiding Harry’s eyes. He appears as though he’s trying his hardest to keep his expression neutral, but Harry doesn’t miss the slight curl of his lips and the furrowing between his brows.

“Am I really to be sleeping on the floor?” Harry shrugs in response. He thinks it would make more sense if Malfoy took up either Bill or Percy’s old room instead, but he supposes that Mrs Weasley doesn’t quite trust him enough to leave him on his own. He can’t really blame her.

He takes advantage of his position behind Malfoy to continue staring without being caught. The blonde’s hair is longer than he remembers - it’s nearly touching his shoulders but it somehow still looks elegant, unlike Harry’s unkempt mess on his head. His hair doesn’t seem to be the only thing that has grown; Harry stands at least a solid foot shorter than the other. He lets his eyes travel down until they reach Malfoy’s arm and he can’t help but wonder - does he have the mark? He can’t tell, what with the other’s expensive robes covering him up, but he supposes it doesn’t really matter. 

With the way Mr and Mrs Weasley explained Malfoy’s situation, it seems as though all of his decisions were made for him, leaving him without a choice. Harry doesn’t know how to feel - all of this has happened so bloody fast, so suddenly, he may still be in shock. That’s the only explanation he can think of as to why he hasn’t spoken more than a simple sentence towards the blonde. It’s not as though they’re on friendly terms, obviously, but he’d usually have enough wit in him to say something in order to get on the other’s nerves.

It was very early this morning when Harry stumbled downstairs to find Arthur and Molly whispering in the kitchen over a piece of parchment. They each had grave expressions on their faces - the stress made them appear older and Harry suddenly felt bad before he remembered that wizards live longer than muggles. He was ripped out of his thoughts and thrown back into the present when they asked Harry to go wake Ron and the others. When they were all awake and sitting at the kitchen table, Harry had the sudden fear that they were about to announce the death of one of the other Weasley siblings.

He remembers being young and lying in his cupboard when he was awoken by Dudley’s cries as his aunt and uncle shushed him. He didn’t find out until later that day that one of his aunt’s from his uncle’s side had passed - it was the only relative that had treated Harry with normal human decency - his favorite aunt. They didn’t even have enough respect for him to tell him straight to his face and he only knew because Dudley kept crying over her. Harry himself cried to sleep for many nights afterwards.

“Something has happened with one of Ron and Harry’s classmates. He’s… in a rather dangerous situation and needs our help,” Molly had said to them this morning.

“Who?” Ron immediately questions, his previous sleepiness immediately forgotten. “Is it Neville? Dean? Seamus? Are they alright?” Harry looks at Ron’s face to see his own anxieties reflected there - he’s already lost Sirius only a bit ago. He can’t afford to lose anyone else, otherwise he might just go absolutely mad.

“He’s… well,” Arthur trails off before looking to the side and scratching the back of his head awkwardly. Molly quickly picks up for him.

“Draco Malfoy. You-Know-Who has… He has it out for him.”

“I knew it!” Harry shouts while slamming his fists on the table. He hasn’t realized that he’s stood up until Ginny gently pulls on his sleeve from beside him. He sits down slowly when everyone turns to him. “Sorry…”

“Malfoy? Doesn’t surprise me, of course, but why does he need our help?”

“He’s run from home,” Molly sighs with sympathy. “Now that his father has been locked up, You-Know-Who has seen it fit to… Punish Draco and his mother.”

“Punish?” Harry questions with furrowed brows. 

“Yes,” Arthur sighs with a shake of his head. “He’s not safe. He needs a place to hide until school starts back up.”

“Wait,” the twins interject simultaneously.

“You’re telling me-”

“The same boy who bullies our family-”

“And Harry and Hermionie-”

“Is asking for our help to keep him safe?” They finish together.

“He went to Dumbledore for help and Dumbledore asked us if we could take him in. Nobody would ever expect him to come here, what with his and his family’s… disliking of us. It’s the smartest decision, really.”

“What if this is all a trick?” Ron asks with fury evident in his voice. “Malfoy is a git! You said it yourself, he hates us!”

“Language!” Molly yells. “Draco is just a boy. He may have a few rather… corrupt beliefs, but he has his parents to thank for that. He’s still a child, just like you and Harry. He deserves a chance. He’s on our side.”

Harry isn’t quite so sure that he believes that. I mean - he’s probably a deatheater now, just like Lucius. He’s called Hermione a ‘mudblood’ and made fun of Ron’s family for being poor a number of times. Just because he pussied out and ran away begging for help does not mean that he’s on their side. Then again, he isn’t on Voldemort’s side either, so… he supposes that he can give him a chance. But this does not mean he’ll be nice to the git, by any means.

_____

“He’s just a boy!” 

Draco awakes with a gasp, hand already clenched over the wrinkled fabric covering his stomach. With barely enough time to stumble out of bed, he hunches over as bile quickly climbs up his throat.

“He doesn’t have a choice, Cissy. He’ll kill him.”

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the blonde barely takes notice of the hushed whispers from down the hall. As he swallows down whatever is left from his stomach, he reaches into his bedside drawers in search of his dreamless sleep potion. He likes to keep a stash of the purple liquid hidden for nights just like these. Cursing with a sigh, Draco closes his drawer once he finds it empty. He was supposed to brew more yesterday.

“This is Lucius’ fault. This is his punishment for being foolish enough to get himself locked up!”

Ears perking up at the mention of his father, Draco finally focuses his attention on the voices that are gradually rising in volume.

“Shhh! Don’t wake Draco. He isn’t to find out about this.”

“He’s going to find out soon, Cissy. The Dark Lord is ready-”

Deciding he’s heard enough, Draco backs away from his door as the nausea quickly settles in again, as though it never left. Maybe it didn’t - he’s felt this way everyday for the past two months.

Stuffing a few pairs of pants, button-ups, pajamas and robes into a bag, along with some more essentials, Draco wastes no time in shoving his jacket on over his pajamas and stepping into his fireplace. The idea of every bedroom in the manor having its own fireplace is absurd, but that thought doesn’t cross his mind in the slightest as he throws down the floo powder.

_____

Stumbling out of the fireplace and into the Leaky Cauldron, Draco brushes off the residual floo powder from his silk pajamas, huffing as some falls from his hair as well. Trust a Malfoy to be troubled over running the risk of dirtying himself, even with his life in danger.

It occurs to Draco then that he hadn’t thought to check the time, the pub being completely deserted save for Tom behind the counter. The hunched man jumps at the blonde’s arrival, clearly having fallen asleep.

Walking up to the counter with his chin raised, Draco clears his throat. On the outside, he resembles the embodiment of utter serenity - platinum hair hanging over his forehead in a way that is natural yet well kept, face schooled into a blank expression, save for a slight smile directed at the bald man in front of him, ironed jacket covering his pajamas, giving him a poised yet comfortable look; The blonde suspects that no one would be able to tell that he’s in the middle of a crisis at first glance. If he were to take just a step closer to the counter, however, Tom would surely be able to hear the loud racing of his heart - see the strain behind his smile and the slight crease between his brows.

“What can I do for ya, lad?”

“One room for the night. Some spare parchment and an owl would be very convenient as well.”

Once the room has been paid for, Draco calmly walks down the hall until he reaches the door with his room number on it. Creaking the door open cautiously, the blonde winces upon inspection. Dusty bed sheets, a cracked window, cobwebs in every corner - he’s even pretty sure he saw a rat tail disappear under the bed when he opened the door. He doesn’t understand how a room can look so filthy; They have magic for Merlin’s sake! It’s no matter - he doubts he’ll be getting more sleep anyhow, especially with how loud the building shudders as the train passes overhead.

Letting the door shut behind him, Draco finally breaks down. Knees buckling, the blonde leans heavily against the dirty door, no longer paying any mind to the state of his clothes. A shaky gasp leaves pale lips as long fingers grip tightly at his hair, pulling hard as though to ground himself. Any sense of gracefulness is lost on the now crumbling boy. If his father could see him now…

Not having remembered closing his eyes, silver - turned gray opens up at the sound of a hoot. He can see a slight wetness clinging to his top eyelashes and quickly blinks it away as he finally pushes himself up into a proper standing position. He makes his way over to the little desk under the window when his vision momentarily goes dark and all he can hear is a loud ringing sound that he knows is in his head. Leaned over with his hands splayed on the desk in front of him for support, Draco closes his eyes again until the nausea passes. He’ll get used to this soon enough. 

After a few minutes of deep breathing and thinking of who to contact, he sits and finally brings his quill to the parchment. His letter is short and to the point, his once neat penmanship now barely legible, but it’ll do. It has to.

Leaning back in the dark wooden chair that appears to have once been painted white, Draco allows his eyes to slip shut once more. He’s been preparing for this day ever since the end of fifth year. Draco had learned quite early on what his father’s faded forearm tattoo meant - had overheard him and Severus talking about it on more than one occasion. He knew his father had some sort of connection to the Dark Lord, but he was never worried about this until recently. Until he returned. Until his father’s faded tattoo turned black.

Lucius had always been a cruel father, but he’d become a complete monster once the Dark Lord returned. He snapped at everyone, even Draco and his mother. He sometimes locked himself in his room and didn’t come out for days - he’d once refused to leave his room for two weeks straight and Draco assumed he was dead or at the very least, dying. It was a sort of exciting thought at the time. Anyone can imagine his disappointment when his father finally decided to re-enter the real world and immediately invite his “friends” over for a “meeting.” It was Draco who was then locked in his room for hours upon hours, and not by choice. 

These “meetings” began to occur once every two weeks, and then once a week, and then twice. Draco had stopped bothering to leave his room entirely after that, having grown tired of hearing his aunt’s unnerving laugh echo through the manor. Sometimes, however, Lucius would leave Draco no choice but to join him and his “friends” for dinner. He claimed it was to introduce him to his future family. His mother had always sent his father the side-eye after those sorts of comments. 

One evening, Draco had sat down at their dining table between his father and Bellatrix, per his father’s aggressive forcefulness. He sat silently through his father’s speech about how they planned on capturing Potter that school year - something to do with a prophecy and Sirius black and- Draco had stopped paying attention less than halfway through. It sounded like a pretty shite plan, if you asked him. 

“Draco, darling. You’ve barely touched your plate. Don’t you like it? I made it myself.” Draco forced a smile as he reached for his fork and shoveled a bite of… whatever it was into his mouth. 

“It’s great, aunt Bella.” Bellatrix smiled wickedly at him before leaning closer and wrapping her boney hand around his - probably equally boney - shoulder.

“Make sure you eat up, love. If you do, you’ll become an even bigger and stronger death eater than your dear father.” Bellatrix slowly trailed her fingers from his shoulder up his neck, her long, pointed nails scratching him gently. Thin fingers gripped his jaw then, turning his face towards hers. Her wicked smile never faltered.

“Such a pretty boy. Bet you’ll turn out much more handsome than your father, too.”

Draco stood abruptly then, nearly knocking Bellatrix off of her chair in the process. Without a word, he swiftly walks out of the dining room and into his own bedroom down the hall, bile ready to break free from his insides. He threw up, then, all over his bedroom floor. He’s refused to eat a full meal since.

It was practically a given that his father busted into his room that very night, eyes blazing with a fury brighter than he’d ever seen directed towards him. Draco had barely enough time to sit up from his bed before a fist was brought down not once, not twice, but three times upon his face.

“You disrespectful piece of shit!” Lucius had leaned forward to land another punch, but Draco was more prepared this time. Scrambling off of his bed, he backed into the opposite side of his room as his father turned on him once more.

“How dare you embarrass me like that? How dare you treat your company like that? I raised you better than this!” Lucius was practically in his face by then, spit leaving his mouth as he basically snarled. Standing toe to toe, the height difference between father and son was very miniscule. Draco liked to take slight comfort in this fact - his father was much scarier when he was a small child

Another punch suddenly landed directly into Draco’s nose, an audible snap! filling the brief silence of the room. Huddled over with his hands now covering his face, blood dripping down his wrists, Draco gasps in pain. He’s learned better by now than to cry out while his father hit him. 

“You are a disgrace to the Malfoy name. I’d better see some improvements by the time you’re to be branded with the mark. You will not embarrass me again.” With that, Lucius leaves his room, the faint sound of his mother’s sobs barely audible over the sound of blood rushing to his head.

This wasn’t the first time his father had hit him, of course. He’d hit him a number of times as a child. Draco figured he'd be able to handle Lucius' abuse as he aged, but the hits seemed to become harder and harder. As a child, Lucius had never hit hard enough to leave lasting marks - his mother made sure of that. If he did accidentally cause a bruise or busted lip, he was quick to heal him up before his mother noticed. This time, however, Draco was left to clean up the mess his father made without the help of cleaning nor healing spells.

Shaking himself out of his daydream - nightmare, more like - Draco glances at the owl beside him. She's a simple barn owl, but she's beautiful nonetheless. He'd always wanted a pet of his own, but his mother and father always insisted otherwise. 

Chin in palm, Draco watches the owl fly onwards through the night sky, letter in tow. Closing his eyes with a heavy sigh once the owl flies out of his view, the blonde slumps forward on the hard desk. He hopes to Merlin his letter reaches its destination before the morning. In the meantime, he has no choice but to sit and wait in this dusty inn.

_____

A knock on the door is what wakes Draco out of his fitful nap on the desk. Heart immediately jumping to his throat, the blonde starts and whips out his wand, raising it towards the door just as it opens. 

Feeling his shoulders slump forward, Draco feels relief for the first time coming face to face with those twinkly eyes. He never would have thought he’d be happy to see the old geezer.

“Headmaster-” Draco hesitantly lowers his wand, embarrassed. Dumbledore simply looks at him, eyes never leaving his face.  “You… You got my owl.”

“I did, indeed.” Dumbledore smiles at him then, for the first time since… ever. 

“My mother. Is- Is she safe?”

“Quite safe, Mr Malfoy. Not to worry, I’ve already taken matters into my own hands.” Draco sighs in relief, all tension leaving his body then as he sits down on the dusty mattress for the first time since he’s arrived at this dingy place. 

“You… believe me?” the blonde asks then, voice small. Dumbledore smiles again.

“Of course, Mr Malfoy.” Draco nearly splutters before he remembers who he is and who he’s with, schooling his expression back into something neutral, albeit a bit confused.

“But.. Why? How do you know I’m not under the imperius curse? What if I’m here to lure you to the Dark Lord?” He knows he should probably be grateful for Dumbledore’s seeming willingness to help him, but he doesn’t want to risk the old git thinking that he’s under You-Know-Who’s thumb.

The headmaster simply smiles at him again, eyes twinkling in that annoyingly knowing way. His expression always screams ‘I know something that you don’t’ and it infuriates him beyond relief. He manages to keep his anger in check just enough to keep his mouth shut, but he has little control over the grinding of his teeth.

“Believe me, my boy. I know.” Draco wants to roll his eyes, to stand up and scream ‘How?!’ He inhales deeply for a moment instead, nodding slowly as he exhales.

“So, does this mean you’ll take me back to Hogwarts with you, then?” Dumbledore’s smile transforms into a smirk, then. The blonde wouldn’t have noticed, had he not been watching the headmaster’s face intently for any signs of distrust. He can’t help but get the feeling that the sneaky bastard is planning something - something that he won’t be happy about.

“Not quite. No need to fret, Mr Malfoy. I’ve already arranged for your stay somewhere where no one will be able to get to you. Now, if you’re ready…” Dumbledore holds out his arm then, looking at him expectantly with that same knowing glint in his eyes. Draco is about ready to wipe that bloody smirk off of his face. If he didn’t know any better, he’d assume the headmaster was a Slytherin with how damned sneaky and untelling he is. 

Draco stands from the bed with hesitance before brushing the dust off of his pajamas. Picking up his small, hastily packed bag of belongings, Draco reaches out and grabs ahold of Dumbledore’s elbow with a grimace. He hopes that wherever he’s being taken, there’s few witnesses. He’d rather not pop into a room full of people he’s uncomfortable with when he’s dressed down and unshowered. He imagines landing in a room full of Weasleys with Dumbledore - of all people - by his side. He shivers at the thought. Now that would be a nightmare. 

“Hold onto your stomach,” the headmaster says with humor in his voice. Draco opens his mouth to retort that he’s done this many times before, but gets cut off when he feels himself being pulled and twisted uneasily before landing on a dirt path surrounded by nothing but grass fields. That is, until he turns around and comes face to face with a lopsided, multi story looking house. If one could even call this a house. Draco’s certainly seen better.

“Are you ready, Mr Malfoy?” Dumbledore asks. Draco has many questions and concerns, but Dumbledore simply strides ahead of him, and this time the blonde actually does splutter.

“Where are we? Are you telling me someone actually lives here?” Dumbledore pointedly ignores him, humming to himself mindlessly as though he hasn’t a care in the world. As though he isn’t about to hide one of the most infamous Death Eater’s son.

Once they reach the front door of this shack, Dumbledore reaches up and knocks on the door. Draco’s heart begins to race as he looks frantically back and forth between Dumbledore and the front door, wondering if he’s made a mistake, wondering if he’s been set up, wondering if this is just a trap. Just as Draco makes up his mind and decides that yes, he’d rather take his chances out on the streets, the front door squeaks open to reveal a short, redheaded woman wearing a kind smile. She’s also rather plump, if Draco does say so himself.

“Dumbledore - so good to see you!” Dumbledore reaches for the woman’s outstretched hand and brings it to his lips just as a tall, thin man makes his way to the front door as well.

“Arthur,” Dumbledore smiles and nods his head at the also redheaded man and- wait. Arthur… Weasley?

“Is this some sort of sick joke?” Draco finally intervenes, causing all eyes to flit towards him as though they just realized he was there. Mrs Weasley’s smile - he now knows it’s her - seems to strain before her face settles into a look of mere pity. It sets Draco’s blood on fire.

“Mr Malfoy,” male Weasley hesitantly nods his head at him in greeting before stepping aside and making room for them to enter. Dumbledore shoots him a look that is likely meant to calm him before following the elder Weasleys through the front door. Draco has no choice but to follow.

“Welcome to the Burrow, Draco.”

Draco starts at the use of his first name. Few people actually refer to him as such. Hearing his name come from the mouth of a Weasley, well…

He nearly gapes at the woman before he remembers to gather his bearings and school his face into something less… unappealing. He looks to Dumbledore for, well, he isn’t really sure. Guidance? Reassurance? A bloody explanation? Dumbledore simply smiles at him and Draco inwardly sighs. He isn’t sure why he expected anything more from the annoying git. 

“I’ll be seeing you again quite soon, Mr Malfoy. The Weasleys will be sure to take good care of you. You’ll be safe here, my boy.”

Draco has so many questions that he wants to ask - namely, the first one being what the fuck? - but he feels himself freeze up when he hears a commotion from somewhere near the stairs. Dumbledore says his goodbyes to the Weasley parents and apparates away just as heavy footsteps stomp their way downstairs.

“I’ve already arranged for you to sleep in Ron’s room with him and Harry, dear,” Mrs Weasley turns her attention towards him again, but all Draco can do is stare. Harry. Of bloody course Potter is here, too. As if it wasn’t bad enough that I have to sleep in a house full of Weasleys for an entire month, might as well add Potter to the mix because - why not?

It’s right then and there that Potter and the Weasel decide to step into the kitchen. Draco barely even takes note of the Weasel’s indignant comment about him sleeping in the same room as them - he locks his eyes onto Potter. The last time he’d seen him in person, people believed him to be touched in the head and/or attention seeking with his claims of the Dark Lord having returned. Draco was the only other student to know that his claims rang true - besides the git’s closest friend’s, obviously. Staring ahead at him now, he looks… Tired. His wide eyes are flitting between him and the elder Weasleys, green as ever, but dark and gaunt underneath. He doesn’t appear to have grown even a centimeter since school ended, not that Draco ever analyzed his appearance so closely before, of course - it’s just that even from across the room, he can tell that he towers over the noirette by a good amount.

Just as Harry’s eyes flit back towards him again, Draco averts his own eyes. He can’t bring himself to look at these muggle lovers for any longer. He wordlessly follows Potter upstairs, ignoring the Weasel's indignant cries that follow him.

Potter leads him to Weasley’s room, shoulders stiff. He throws his arm out in an awkward gesture when they reach the bedroom. “This is Ron’s room,” is all the shorter says, voice coming out as uncomfortable as Draco feels. There’s only two beds in the room - meaning he’s likely to sleep on the floor. Potter merely shrugs when he asks as much. He tries to keep the disgust off of his face, simply because he knows that if he lets himself show any sort of emotion right now, the rest of his emotions are likely to bleed through as well. He feels so much right now - anger, confusion, disgust, sadness - he can’t afford to have a breakdown until he’s completely alone.

Potter leaves him wordlessly, likely returning downstairs to demand that he be moved to a different bedroom. And they’ll listen to him - the Chosen One always gets his way. Draco can’t even bring himself to care. He’ll sleep on the bloody bathroom floor if it means he’s safe. He never thought he could reach such desperation - so desperate that he’d somewhat willingly sleep in the same room as his arch nemesis - and yet here he is.

He feels like a child cast to the corner when in trouble, with the way they all just left him here by himself. He looks around the room again and takes note of the Quidditch posters on the wall and Quidditch magazines lying around. I mean seriously, does the Weasel not have a single other personality trait? 

At least ten minutes have passed and he begins to feel antsy. He hates not knowing what could be happening downstairs - what if Voldemort somehow knows that he’s here? What if he’s already sent another Death Eater to come find him and take him away? What if he’s found his mother? Gods, his mother! He misses her already - she may not have been the most maternal parent, rarely showing him affection or giving him praise - but she’s always been loads better than his father. 

Narcissa Malfoy is a woman of poise and beauty - he likes to believe that he got all of his features from her. He surely has her pale skin and eyes, as well as her sharp jaw and nose. It must be the Black blood in them.

Speaking of Black, Draco’s thoughts jump to his aunt. Bellatrix was there the night that his father was arrested, there the night that Potter’s godfather was killed - she was the one that killed him. And then his father was whisked away to Azkaban. He isn’t sure if he’d prefer it his father or Bellatrix that be locked up. Both would be nice. The joy he felt at his father being taken away was short lived when he found out Bellatrix would be taking his place. Her food was absolutely disgusting - but never as disgusting as her taunting laugh.

Heart racing, Draco stands abruptly from the bed that he didn’t even remember sitting on. He’s been doing a lot of that recently - getting so lost in his head that he creates gaps in his memory. He once was so distracted by his thoughts that he’d found himself walking the yard barefoot with his bloody peacocks when he snapped out of it. He’ll never shake the feeling of peacock shit from his feet ever again. No amount of scourgify can make him feel fully clean after that.

Hushed voices filter in through the slight gap in the door, and Draco can’t help but be intrigued. With careful steps, he makes his way closer to the door so he can hear better.

“What if the git kills me in my sleep? How does mum expect me to sleep in the same bloody room as the bastard, knowing who he is?” Draco grits his teeth.

“Come on, Ron. It can’t be too bad. Besides, if Dumbledore and your mum said he’s on our side, we have no reason not to believe them. They said Malfoy’s in trouble.”

“Not too bad? Are you hearing yourself, mate? Since when are you friends with Malfoy? Who cares if he’s in trouble! Git deserves whatever's coming to him, I say.”

“Look, Ron. I’m not saying Mafloy isn’t a git. He’s the biggest bloody git I’ve ever met!” Wow. Thanks, Potter. “But… he’s not evil, Ron. I’m not saying we should be friends with him or anything,” Potter laughs then and Draco can’t help but feel irritated that Potter of all people is sticking up for him right now.

“It’s just… What if he actually has, you know, changed? What if he really doesn’t want to be like his father?” He hears Ron scoff then and Draco’s decided that he’s heard enough. He grabs his bag before pulling the door open some more.

Two pairs of eyes turn his way when he steps out of the bedroom. “If you’re done confessing your undying love for me, Potter, I’d appreciate if one of you could direct me to the nearest shower,” he finishes with a sneer.

Potter openly gapes at him. Draco would laugh, were it not for Ron stepping up to him, face nearly as red as his hair. Potter quickly makes his way over to them once he’s over his shock, but he doesn’t look nearly as angry as Ron. Annoyed, however… 

“Two doors down, blondie.” Draco doesn’t - repeat, he doesn’t jump when one of the Weasley twins appears next to him with a resounding crack! 

“We’ll make sure our dear Ron Ron behaves himself upon your return,” the second twin smirks at him when he appears. Draco blinks once. Then twice. 

“...Thanks.” Draco turns then, but not before missing the mischievous look shared between the two.

Once Draco closes the bathroom door behind him, he immediately drops his bag on the floor and grips the sink so tightly that his knuckles whiten. He heaves out a sob and closes his eyes, but thankfully, no tears come. His stomach aches, and that’s when he remembers Mrs Weasley mentioning breakfast. He doesn’t particularly want to eat, but…

Draco raises his eyes to look at his reflection then. The first thing he notices are the bags under his eyes - a dark purple that clashes horribly with his pale, almost waxen skin. His cheeks seem to sink inward, as though he were purposefully sucking them in to hollow them. His jawline, which was already sharp and defined, mind you - is now impossibly sharper than before. To put it simply, he looks sickly, as though he hasn’t eaten in weeks. In reality, it’s only been a couple days… he thinks.

Draco pushes himself away from the sink and turns the shower on before he starts stripping. He lets out a sigh once the hot water hits his back, leaning into it as it soothes his sore muscles. Lack of sleep seems to finally be catching up to him.

 _____

“Mum, he’s a complete git! Don’t you remember all of the things he’s said about us, about dad?”

“I know, Ron. It’s not an ideal situation, but…” Mrs Weasley looks off to the side, a sad look overcoming her face. Even Mr Weasley seems to appear sympathetic as he finishes setting the table for breakfast. 

“With his father in Azkaban, he and his mother aren’t safe. You-Know-Who…”

“Voldemort wants to make him a death eater,” Harry finishes for her, jaw clenching. Mr Weasley inhales sharply at the name as Mrs Weasley nods sadly.

“He’s just a boy. No matter what evil beliefs his father drilled into his head, he’s still a kid, just like you guys.” The rest of the Weasleys seem to quiet at that statement, the clinking of silverware the only sound in the room. 

“Where is Draco, anyway?” As if on cue, a scream echoes through the halls. Nobody notices the twins stifling a laugh.

“Malfoy?” Harry yells, already halfway up the stairs. Once he reaches the bathroom, Ron at his heels, he raises his fist to knock just as the door is wrenched open.

Harry’s fist freezes as he comes face to face with Malfoy - more like face to chest - as he looks up, and up - until he reaches gray, narrowed eyes. All three of them are silent for some time, none daring to break this moment of calm before the storm. Suddenly, Ron snaps, unable to keep himself together any longer.

“Bloody hell!” Ron laughs, doubling over until he nearly falls to his knees. He finally does fall after a moment, whole body bending forward as laughter continues to rake through him. Harry simply blinks up at Malfoy, wide-eyed, until he too overcomes his shock, fist moving to instead cover his mouth as he barks out a laugh. He’s never seen Malfoy look so furious.

“Think this is funny, do you?” Malfoy takes a threatening step closer to the pair when Molly suddenly appears around the corner.

“Boys, what is-” Molly breaks off, mouth open as she takes in Draco’s appearance. His once nearly white hair has been turned to a bright orange-red, just the same as the Weasleys. 

“FRED! GEORGE!” Molly turns and leaves to go after the twins while Harry helps Ron to his feet.

“You know, Malfoy. Orange doesn’t quite suit you.” Harry almost regrets the words that leave his mouth as he’s pushed up against the wall half a moment later. Malfoy snarls in his face, hands on either of his shoulders as he shoves him hard. Ron is quick to pull Malfoy off of him by his arms before releasing him with a look of disgust. Malfoy turns to Ron then.

“Your brothers. Are. Dead.” With that, Malfoy picks his bag back up before spinning on his heel and striding down the hall to Ron’s room, head held high with confidence as though he hasn’t just been turned into a redhead. Needless to say, he slams the door behind him. 

“Bloody bastard is going to break my door off of its hinges,” Ron rolls his eyes.

“Living with him for a whole month is going to be tortuous,” Harry says with a grimace. 

“You’re telling me, mate.”

_____

To say the Weasleys weren’t happy about their guest staying with them would be an understatement. They all tend to avoid Malfoy, leaving him to hole up in Ron’s room all day by himself. He’d received a letter from his mother a few days back assuring him of her safety, as well as sending along a few of Draco’s books. She must have grabbed them before she left the manor and went into hiding - she knows him too well. 

It’s only been about a week since his arrival at the Burrow, and Draco feels as though he’s been sent through hell and back. He feels even more tired than before, having received a mere couple of hours of sleep each night on the floor near Potter and the Weasel’s beds. He’s certainly eaten a bit more as of late - Mrs Weasley’s cooking is astounding, not that he’d ever admit so out loud - but not nearly enough for him to have gained much weight. He doesn’t quite mind this, however, having grown quite attached to the way his bones stick out in ways that they never have before. 

He’s refused to join the other’s at the dinner table for each meal, instead preferring to sneak out and pick at whatever food Mrs Weasley has left for him in the middle of each night. He can’t stand the awkwardness and the dirty looks from all of them - but most of all, he can’t stomach the looks of pity thrown his way by both of the elder Weasleys now and again. 

After the hair incident, he’s made sure to only shower after Potter to ensure the water hasn’t been charmed to dye his hair orange again. Thankfully, the color had faded from his hair a few hours after that incident, but he hasn’t forgiven the twins and their very obviously insincere apologies towards him. 

As he sips a cup of tea and reads his book, he winces at the scratchy feeling in his throat. He hasn’t spoken one word to anyone since the hair incident, and his throat is paying the price. Thank merlin for this tea. It’s about dinner time, he’s gathered based off of the smell of something delicious being baked downstairs, when he hears a soft knock at the door. He’d planned on ignoring whoever it was until they went away, but then he hears an equally soft voice following the knock.

“Draco, dear? Arthur and I would quite like it if you’d join us for dinner tonight. I made a treacle tart and apple pie for dessert.” Draco’s ears perk up at the mention of apple pie - his favorite. He stands from his seated position on the floor and makes his way over to the door, fighting through the blurriness and nausea that accompanies him as he does so. The feeling passes quickly.

“Thank you, Mrs Weasley. I’ll be down momentarily,” Draco sends the woman a genuine smile before closing the door again. He really doesn’t want to sit and eat with them all, but Mrs Weasley had looked at him so pleadingly… If his father knew what a soft spot Draco had for Mrs Weasley now, he’d surely throw a fit. 

_____

Harry eyes the treacle tart settled on the kitchen counter as Mrs Weasley passes everyone their utensils for dinner. He turns to ask Mrs Weasley if he can skip dinner and jump straight into dessert when Ginny catches his eye from the seat next to him.

“I told her it was your favorite,” she smiles at him then and Harry feels as though his heart skips a beat. Ginny really is attractive, anyone with eyes could see that. Harry feels himself smile back, unable to resist the warm feeling that bubbles up in his stomach at the sight of her. 

“Thanks, Gin.” Ginny’s face lights up before she turns back to her food, a light coloring spreads across her face before she hides behind her curtain of hair. Cute, Harry thinks. 

Just as Harry turns back to his own plate, he hears the quiet footsteps of someone descending the stairs. His eyes snap up on their own accord, watching as an unusually shy looking Malfoy enters the kitchen. He pulls at the collar of his gray tee as he avoids everyone’s eyes - a nervous tic, perhaps. He seems to hesitate before making his way over to the table before looking around helplessly.

“I set your plate up next to Harry’s dear. Please, take a seat,” Molly smiles warmly at him then, finally giving him enough confidence to sit down. The entire table has gone quiet upon his arrival. Mr Weasley clears his throat before starting up small talk with the twins. Ginny leans over to him then, smirk in place.

“Quite evil of mum to put the snake next to you, huh?” Harry pretends not to notice Malfoy stiffening up next to him at the comment that was whispered but obviously meant for him to hear.

“Er, it’s alright. If I can manage being in the same room as Voldemort, I’m sure I can handle sitting next to Malfoy for a bit.”

Malfoy chokes on his bite of food then, startling Mr Weasley out of his conversation.

“Alright, Draco?” He asks before pouring him a glass of water and passing it along. He simply nods his head as he appears to force the food down.

“Bloody git is just dramatic,” Ron muffles through his mouth full of food, rolling his eyes. Molly looks at him sharply.

“Language, Ronald. And mind your tone, Draco is our guest.”

“How can you still call him that? It’s not as if we invited him here,” Ron scoffs. “It’s all his and Dumbledore’s fault, really.” Molly opens her mouth to likely reprimand Ron, But Draco cuts her off before she gets a word out.

“Believe me, Weasley. I’d rather be anywhere but here.” Harry had just about reached his mouth with his fork, but he can’t help but freeze up in response to the gravelly sound of Malfoy’s voice. It doesn’t usually sound so deep. He’s much more used to the nasally, whiny voice that the blonde typically uses.

“Leave, then,” Ginny butts in. “We don’t want you here.”

Molly lets out a surprised “Ginny!” at the same time as Ron says, “Go run back home to your daddy then, Malfoy. Oh wait, I forgot - you can’t. He’s in Azkaban.” 

Draco sets his fork down with as much grace as he can before he pushes himself away from the table and stands, turning to hide the frustrated flush that he knows has taken over his face by now. He walks towards the stairs calmly before turning and looking over his shoulder with intent to insult Ron and his family before he catches Mrs Weasley’s worried eyes. The poor woman looks like she’s in shock over what Ron and Ginny have said to him, while Mr Weasley and the twins are awkwardly avoiding everyone's eyes by staring down at their plates. Ron and Ginny both look smug and continue eating their food as though nothing happened. He misses Harry’s shocked face as he speaks directly to Molly.

“Thank you for dinner, Mrs Weasley. I’ll be sure to try some of that apple pie later.” Without waiting for a response, the blonde turns back towards the stairs and disappears from sight. Once away from everyone, he hurries down the hall to the bathroom and locks the door before falling on his knees in front of the toilet and emptying his stomach of the little food he’d put in it today.

Harry blinks bewilderedly at Malfoy’s retreating back. Malfoy never backs down from a fight. Harry knows from experience that the git loves to get the last word in. Harry wouldn’t say he’s… worried about the blonde or anything, but… Something is very off with him. He hasn’t spoken to anyone in days, not even responding to Harry’s jabs at his ugly silk pajamas. Not to mention, his sudden respect for Mrs Weasley is rather odd. Harry isn’t often right about many things, but he knows he’s right about one thing for sure - Malfoy has changed. Even if he’s still a right git.

_____

Harry leaves the bathroom later that evening with his dripping hair wetting his shoulders. As he makes his way down the quiet hall and down the stairs, part of him - the insane part, he notes mildly - hopes to find Malfoy in the kitchen. The unusually quiet blonde locked himself in Ron’s room after dinner until Ron himself broke down the door, claiming he had no right to keep him from his own room. Harry agrees with Ron, of course, but he also knows his friend was just itching to get on the entitled git’s nerves and that was the only reason for him invading the blonde’s brooding session.

When Harry makes it to the kitchen, he’s unsurprised to find it empty. It’s nearly midnight, at least Harry thinks it is once he glances at the clock on the wall that simply reads ‘Bedtime.’ All of the Weasleys are asleep, Ron included, but Malfoy is nowhere to be seen. He isn’t quite sure where he fucked off to after Ron kicked him out of his room. Surely not too far.

Again, it’s not that Harry is worried, of course. It’s just that… Well - Malfoy is supposed to be hiding. It would do him no good to run away and get himself caught. That’s what Harry tells himself, anyway. It’s true - but deep down, Harry knows that’s not the main reason he’s, dare he say, concerned. So what if he is a little bit worried? The way Malfoy looked when he first arrived; all pale and boney and pointy - and Harry thought that he himselfwas underfed.

As the days came and went, Harry noticed the bags under Malfoy’s eyes getting progressively darker, his eyes drooping progressively lower, and his cheeks becoming progressively more hollow. Harry would assume the arsehole was starving himself merely to make everyone feel bad for him, were it not for the fact that he appears to have been at this for months. He doesn’t remember him looking so damn pathetic last school year. Not to mention, Harry has noticed the look of annoyance on Malfoy’s face every time he catches Mr or Mrs Weasley watching him with pity in their eyes.

Harry has already checked Percy, Bill, and Charlie’s old rooms for the gitbut came up short. What he’d even say to Malfoy when he saw him, he’s not sure. He never planned that far ahead, but he doubts a casual ‘Hey, Malfoy. Care to tell me why you stopped eating and cussing people out?’ would bode well for him. He wouldn’t put it past Malfoy to break the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery just to hex him in the mouth.

Prying his eyes from the treacle tart resting enticingly on the edge of the kitchen counter, Harry makes his way over to the window that leads out towards the large expanse of grass where the Weasleys tend to practice quidditch. Perhaps, Harry thinks to himself, he’s been hiding outside all night. As Harry peers through the window out towards the dark yard, he almost immediately spots a head of platinum hair down by the shed full of quidditch supplies. It’s hard to miss him, really, what with the way his hair lights up like a candlestick even in the darkness of the night.

As Harry makes his way down the front steps and around the side of the house, he wraps his arms around himself for warmth. It’s rather cold for a summer night. If it were just a few degrees cooler, he’s sure his wet hair would simply freeze to his head. At least then it wouldn’t be sticking up in every direction like you’ve been struck by lightning, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Malfoy’s says in his head. The only reason he knows it’s not actually Malfoy is due to the lack of insulting names thrown in there. 

As Harry comes to a stop a few feet to the right of Malfoy, he says nothing. Malfoy doesn’t say anything either; he doesn’t even acknowledge Harry’s presence at all. Were it not for the slight stiffening of his shoulders, Harry would assume the other hasn’t even noticed him. 

Harry fights with his mind to come up with the right words to say that will finally get a normal reaction out of the blonde. After a few minutes of silence, he gets an idea.

“Fancy a game of catch the snitch?”

Malfoy snaps his head over to look at Harry’s face wearily. Harry can’t help but shift from foot to foot as Malfoy scrutinizes him. Reaching his hand up self-consciously, Harry tugs at the wet strands hanging from his head. Malfoy’s eyes follow the movement.

“You look as though you’re ready to freeze to death. I’d rather not have a house full of Weasleys after my head when they think I’ve gone and murdered their precious Golden Boy while they’re all asleep.”

Harry lets out a huff of air and steps closer to Malfoy, who’s seated on the ground with his back against the shed. “As if you look much better,” Harry retorts, leaning in to get a better look at the blonde who’s still watching him. “Red face, purple lips and all.”

Malfoy quirks an eyebrow at that, familiar smirk finding its way across his face. “Look at my lips often, do you? Don’t get caught or else the Weaselette might get jealous.”

Harry splutters at that, hating himself for being so easy to rile up while simultaneously feeling relief at hearing jabs come out of the git’s purple mouth that he is decidedly not looking at. Pitiful Malfoy, he can’t deal with. Arsehole Malfoy - well, that’s a different story. It’s like they were born to irk each other. Things are much easier this way.

“I don’t- whatever, Malfoy. Are you playing, or are you going to sit there and be my own personal cheerleader? Maybe you’re just scared because you know I’ll whoop your arse, like always.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes at that and doesn’t seem to have enough decency to respond, so he simply stands up and goes to brush the dirt from his pants. Rather than succeeding, he nearly falls face first instead as darkness fills his vision and that persistent ringing sound that he’s quite familiar with now fills his ears. He would have fallen, too, were it not for Harry reaching out and catching him by his arms.

“Merlin, Malfoy,” Harry tightens his grip on the blonde’s arms then, steadying him until he seems stable enough to stand on his own. “Are you okay?”

Malfoy snaps his eyes open finally and looks at Harry in horror before ripping himself out of his grip and stumbling backwards. “Fine,” he grits out behind his teeth, brushing off his arms as though Harry stained them with his hands. Harry isn’t convinced in the slightest; in fact, he’s even more concerned now than he was before he came out here. He doesn’t voice his concerns, however, not wanting the blonde to run away before they even get a chance to fly. 

“Right,” he says awkwardly after a moment too long of silence. Malfoy determinedly avoids his eyes, instead choosing to look off into the distance as though he found the grass very interesting. Harry moves towards the door of the shed then, wishing desperately that there was electricity in here so he could bloody see. After rummaging around for a couple minutes, he steps outside again, two brooms and a snitch in hand. He quickly releases the snitch before reaching out with Ron’s broom before changing his mind. He instead hands Malfoy his own broom. He can’t imagine that Ron would take it well had he found out he let Malfoy use his.

Malfoy eyes his broom with distaste until Harry gives him a look that says ‘well?’ before he actually reaches out and takes it.

“Get ready to have your arse handed to you, Potter. Try not to break your arm this time, yeah? Lockhart won’t be here to fix it for you.” With that, Malfoy smirks at him before kicking off of the ground. Harry is quick to follow, rolling his eyes all the while.

The two of them spend some time squinting for that flash of gold. Finding the snitch in the dark is no easy task, but Harry has faith that one of them will catch it. Just as he finishes his lap around the yard from way above, Harry catches a glimpse of glitter out of the corner of his eye just as Malfoy speeds downwards. Harry wastes no time in diving down to follow, but Malfoy has the advantage with Harry’s broom. Harry barely makes it close enough to Malfoy that if he wanted, he could reach out and grab the broom, but then Malfoy bears to the right and Harry has to pull his broom upwards to avoid crashing.

Throwing a glare in Malfoy’s direction, he finds the blonde still steadfastly chasing after the golden ball with wings. Gripping his broom so tight that his knuckles turn pale, Harry swoops down, smiling at the sound of the air whooshing past his ears. He’s gained a considerable amount of speed from his dive. He easily catches up to Malfoy this time, who’s wearing a grin as his jaw length hair flows freely away from his face in the wind. Harry watches as the blonde reaches his hand out then, his fingertips nearly grazing the snitch before it quickly flits upwards and out of reach. Malfoy tries his best to pull his broom up, but Harry has far less time to react before his broom tangles into the end of Malfoy’s, causing the Slytherin to lose balance and topple over, Harry not far behind. 

Harry is grateful for the fact that they were only a few feet off of the ground during their fall, otherwise he surely would have broken his arm again. The two of them collide with the ground; or rather, Malfoy collides with the ground while Harry collides with Malfoy. They fumble over each other as their momentum carries them a bit further until Malfoy eventually lands atop Harry. Harry instinctively reaches out and grabs the blonde’s waist to keep him from falling face first into Harry’s face. Malfoy catches himself with his hands landing on either side of Harry’s head. Both boys' chests heave as they attempt to catch their breaths.

As Harry looks up at Malfoy, he finds him already staring down at him with an unreadable expression on his face. Harry’s immensely grateful for the dark, as he knows his own face is probably flushed all the way down to his neck. Neither of them move, even after they get their breathing under control. 

“Thanks for catching my fall, Scarhead.” The words come out softly, softer than what Harry’s used to hearing from Malfoy’s mouth. Harry takes a second to comprehend what he says, the blood roaring in his ears making it barely possible to make out the quiet words.

“Er, sorry. That was my fault,” he responds embarrassedly. As much as he’s tempted to look away, he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from the silver ones above him. The moon shines directly over them, hidden behind Malfoy’s head. From this angle, the moonlight highlights the blonde’s hair, making it glow nearly white. It’s almost as if Malfoy’s got a halo around him, making him look…

“Are you part Veela?” The question leaves his mouth before he thinks of the implications. He quickly opens his mouth to stutter out something stupid that surely would only help dig his grave deeper, but the corners of Malfoy’s lips quirk up before he huffs out a breathless laugh. The smile on his face isn’t anything like the sneer or smirk that he’s familiar with. Malfoy’s eyes seem to light up at the question, the tiniest bit of white teeth peeking out behind his purple-turned pink lips, little indents appearing on either sides of his mouth as he smiles down at Harry and- wait. Since when does Malfoy have bloody DIMPLES?

Harry isn’t sure how he’s never noticed them before. That’s because the git has never smiled at you before, his brain supplies helpfully. As Malfoy continues to smile down at him, hair falling downwards to frame his face, Harry suddenly finds it very hard to breathe, especially as his eyes continue to flick over to the blonde’s dimples on their own accord.

“Staring at my lips again, Potter?” Harry’s eyes immediately snap up to Malfoy’s, but any retort dies on his lips when he realizes that Malfoy still isn’t sneering or taunting him. Malfoy’s smile has relaxed into a smaller, but still genuine version of the previous; amused, and Harry thinks he could even call it friendly. 

Harry knows he should respond, but he doesn’t think he could manage saying anything other than ‘I was staring at your dimples, you git, not your lips’ so he simply huffs out a breath that he hopes passes as indignant. Malfoy raises a pale eyebrow in response.

“To answer your question, no, I am not part Veela.” One corner of his mouth quirks up again, showing off one of his dimples once more. “That would just be the Malfoy and Black blood in me. I appreciate the compliment, nonetheless.”

“It wasn’t a compliment, git.” His response sounds weak, even to his own ears. He didn’t mean it as a compliment, anyway.

“Hum,” Malfoy breathes out, still looking immensely amused and a bit satisfied. A few more moments of silence pass as Harry looks up at Malfoy’s smiling face before he wonders what he must look like to the blonde right now - wet hair surely smothered with dirt, glasses probably askew, and Merlin, does he hope his blush still isn’t noticeable. Just as Harry begins to feel self conscious under the blonde’s stare, Malfoy speaks again, somehow even softer than before.

“You could let go of me, now. If you wanted to.” Harry quickly lets go of Malfoy’s waist then, as though it burnt him, but not before noticing how thin the blonde felt beneath his hands. Malfoy’s always been a skinny guy, Harry knows, but never this skinny. Now that he’s finally realizing this, he also notices how bloody light he feels atop of Harry, almost as though he weren’t even atop of him at all.

Harry wants to make a comment about how skinny Malfoy is, about how if he doesn’t eat more, he’ll starve to death, but he’s momentarily distracted by the glittering of the snitch right next to Malfoy’s head. Surely, the blonde should be able to hear the buzzing of the blasted thing but he shows no sign of having noticed it, nor any sign of getting off of Harry even after he’s released his grip on him. Harry leans up and reaches out then, and grabs ahold of the snitch, but not before noticing the hitch in Malfoy’s breathing. Malfoy’s eyes are comically wide now, but he quickly blinks and transforms his face into something neutral as he sees the snitch in Harry’s hand when he pulls back.

“I’ve won,” Harry states as he allows himself to smile for the first time since he touched the ground again. Malfoy pushes himself up and away from him then, reaching a hand out towards Harry once standing. Harry glances at the hand and up to Malfoy’s face, but Malfoy simply stares blankly back at him, smile gone. He’s suddenly reminded of little bratty Malfoy sticking his hand out towards him back in first year. He quickly grabs onto the blonde’s hand once he notices his expression turning impatient.

“Good game, Potter,” Malfoy says before releasing his hand and turning to walk back towards the house, leaving Harry to put away the brooms and snitch.

When Harry walks through the front door of the burrow, he’s hit with the smell of sweets and is immediately reminded of the treacle tart waiting for him on the kitchen counter. He’s surprised and secretly delighted to see Malfoy leaning against the counter with his legs crossed, spoonful of apple pie and vanilla ice cream in his mouth. Harry quickly plates some of the treacle tart and downs it as fast as his tired, aching body will allow him to. Once finished, Harry glances up to find Malfoy watching him with a disdainful expression on his face.

“Have you never heard of manners? Merlin, Potter,” Malfoy sighs before handing him a napkin and immediately leaving the kitchen. Harry can’t even bring himself to be offended; he’s much too tired and satisfied, he thinks, as he drags his body up the stairs and towards Ron’s room. Maybe tonight, he’ll actually be able to get some sleep.

…

He can’t. His body feels as heavy as lead and he can hardly keep his eyes open, but still, sleep refuses to come. It’s not so bad, he supposes. The few nights that he actually does manage to fall asleep, he’s always awoken by nightmares. He sees Sirius nearly every time he closes his eyes, his face staring back at him before he’s pulled away and into the void. Some nights, he still sees Cedric’s limp body falling to the ground, Voldemort smiling at him with his nasty teeth before raising his wand to kill him.

Harry sighs into the darkness of the room. Ron’s snores are thankfully being muffled by his pillow, and all else is quiet. Harry isn’t sure how much time has passed - at least an hour or two, but not enough time for the sun to be up yet. Harry’s thinking about how he’ll have to ask Madam Pomfrey for some dreamless sleep potion when they get back to Hogwarts when Malfoy suddenly bolts upright from his curled up position on the floor with a gasp before turning to the side and dry heaving. 

This isn’t the first time Harry’s been spooked by Malfoy’s nighttime fits. Every time the blonde gasps awake and chokes, Harry tries his best to ignore him and pretend to be asleep. He knows he’s not the only person that has nightmares, but Malfoy having nightmares? It makes something coil unpleasantly in his stomach at the thought. What could have traumatized the git enough for him to wake up and nearly spill his guts everywhere?

“Malfoy?” Harry questions quietly, cautiously into the darkness of the room. He squints hard enough to be able to make out the blurry form of Malfoy curled in on himself, head between his bent knees.

“M’ fine,” he mutters hoarsley in response. Harry finally sits up then, and slips his glasses onto his nose.

“Sleep in my bed,” Harry says after a moment of hesitation. Malfoy’s head quickly snaps up and he looks at Harry as though he’s grown two heads.

“Er, I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Why?” Malfoy finally questions after staring Harry down.

“Well, I don’t really sleep at all, if I’m being honest.” Harry guiltily looks away from the blonde then, hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck sheepishly. “Might as well put the bed to good use by having you actually sleep in it. ‘S probably cold down there.”

Neither of them say anything for a while then, so Harry decides to stand up. He takes his blanket with him and goes to the corner that Malfoy is sat in before sitting down next to him and gesturing towards the bed.

“Go on, then.” Malfoy blinks bewilderedly before standing on shaky legs and making his way over to the bed. He hesitates before lying down on it, but once he does, he nearly melts into the soft cushioning of the mattress. He closes his eyes then, his nightmare forgotten and replaced by thoughts of how bloody good the bed smelled. Wet grass is the first scent that comes to mind. Something very sweet and cozy, Draco also notices. Treacle tart and pumpkin juice. Surprisingly, Draco has a calm rest for once. Instead of dreaming about his father and Bellatrix, he dreams of lying in a grass field with someone by his side, although he can’t see who. All he knows is that their presence is comforting, and that’s more than enough for him.