The Confession
For the entirety of the night, Harry had been ailing with feverish chills and an indecisive consciousness. There was a point in the evening when he also must have had hallucinations, because when a jolt of severe pain awakened him, there was an angel with luminescent skin dropping pain-relieving liquid down his throat. He could recall vaguely the same lovely phantom placing loving kisses tenderly against his temple as his consciousness slipped away again.
When the medicine would wear off, every nerve would fire up, as if exposed ends had been exposed to scalding oil. And Harry would wake up groaning but unable to move or speak much, for every slight jerk would intensify the sensation tenfold. Then the medicine would be delivered, and the pain would subside into a dull ache, throbbing intensely with a heartbeat of its own. Such was the cyclical routine, and it came to a point where the pain would even begin to disappear the moment he saw his little angel, even before a drop of medicine fell from the lip of the vial.
But what Harry deemed infinitely worse was the incessant shivering that kept him in that aggravating, indistinguishable place between wakefulness and slumber. And beside the large gash in his side, his body ached with the soreness from consistent shivering, and his jaw had been clenched so tight that by morning, he felt like a tight belt had bound it shut. Every sensation violently tortured him into staying frozen on his side for hours on end, and he did not attempt to move until he woke up late in the afternoon the following day.
His tongue felt like a fat piece of leather; that was the first thing he'd noticed when he regained his consciousness. The second thing was Draco’s voice.
"Try reaching for the cup, sir," he was saying. He spoke with nymph-like ease, a refreshing, cool breeze on a tranquil summer morning. "Lovely. Do you feel anything dreadful? Where? Oh, goodness... Yes, it looks absolutely wretched...If I should ever have such a wound, I might faint. Why are you so vexed? You act as if I'd just told you we are to rid you of your entire leg. You'll get to keep it, I assure you. And as a souvenir, you'll retain a foul scar. I pity you, sincerely, I do. A scar like that might injure my vanity, but I don't suppose you care much for yours; after all, I'd seen what you'd gone out in. No respectable gentleman would leave in those bottoms; you ought to rejoice that we had to cut through them and they're now disposed of. Worry not; somewhere there is a woman with self-respect low enough to find you decently attractive. Ah! You've spilled your tea all over me! I forgive you; of course you are still weak. Excuse me, I must return your tray."
The voice retreated, and the flap of the tent indicated that Draco had left.
"Were you fully conscious when you told him you loved him, or was that the pain talking?" asked Moody, noticing Harry's eyes had opened.
"Fully conscious," he managed; his voice was hoarse, and the dryness of his throat produced needle-like sensations.
"Well, you must've bumped your head out on the front; I've never met a person more insufferably annoying than Draco Malfoy. Sweet, sure, but insufferable. He doesn't know when to stop talking. I've had a headache all morning!"
'Forgive it, Moody. He's taken good care of everyone all night. He's just a little happy, that's all." Remus, in the bed opposite, glanced at Harry. "And you ought to be grateful; it's because of him that you still have your leg."
Moody grumbled a bit and nodded. “Yeah, alright. How are you doing, Harry?”
“Better, I guess,” he managed. The pain really had subsided, but he owed it to the drops of medicine he’d received several hours ago and dared not look at the gash in his side. “Did everyone come back?”
“Yes, they did,” said Remus. “Arthur Miller returned to Hangleton to keep watch. But everyone made it out, thankfully.”
“Three council members were killed,” said Charlie Weasley from behind him. “Snape says the others that prematurely retreated got it real bad from Malfoy.”
“Absolute lunatic he is. Did you see him snap the neck of his own? The ease implies it is a practiced skill,” Tonks added from the far side of the tent.
The tent flap opened, and Harry could hear the rattling of saucers on a wood tray. Draco set down some tea on the foot of Moody’s bed and pedantically prepared cups for everyone. His Veiled head lifted momentarily toward him, and, upon seeing him awake, he dropped his cup dead on Moody’s bandaged leg.
“Harry!” Draco gasped, clasping his hands together, ignoring Moody’s curses of pain. “How are you feeling?”
“Better, I guess,” he smiled. Draco did not reply but rushed back outside, shouting for Pomfrey:
“He is awake! He is awake! Harry is awake!”
Moments later, he returned with the matron, who removed the thin linen blanket from his abdomen and carefully unraveled the bandage. Draco was peering curiously over her shoulder, tugging nervously at his Veil. “It’s healing nicely; still a serious wound,” she said with a warm smile. “We can move you back into the house tonight for better attention.”
“Splendid idea, madam. Let me graciously volunteer my room. There’s an unburdened hush that would calm his nerves and provide a perfect respite from his torments. I’ll look after him there, madam,” began Draco earnestly. “Harry, don’t you wish to stay with me?”
Harry could not help but smile at the eagerness posed by his beloved; he nodded. Madam Pomfrey sighed. “It’s settled then. I’ll have two people transport you back inside by stretcher. Come with me, Malfoy. We need to set up your room to accommodate him.”
Draco gasped and followed her out with airs not entirely dissimilar to that of an overexcited puppy.
“So now what?” asked Charlie Weasley after a momentary silence. “Are you two officially dating?”
Harry blushed. His heart burst with strange emotion and profound happiness. “No… All I’ve done is confess. I don’t know what he wants.”
“Sounds like he wants you in his bed,” said Tonks, laughing and then gasping at a sudden pain in her leg. “Only Harry Potter can throw himself before the councilmen and then confess to an heir in the same day.”
Harry smiled; his confession was a vague but clear memory in his head. He’d remembered it clearly; the tranquil sadness that looked so divine on Draco’s face, but his pain and delirium forced him to question if it had taken place at all. And to understand that now Draco was knowing lifted the notion of oppressive weights from his shoulders. In the truest sense, despite the physical agony, Harry felt that everything had gone precisely as it should; that he could breathe in summer’s air and it would give him breath; that his heart could give him blood, his tongue would give him taste, and his nerves would give him touch. All that was necessary to live deeply, to go beyond perception, to sufficiently consume an individual, was all there again.
Harry had scarcely the strength to pull himself from the bed, so it was the duty of the lively twins to hoist him onto the stretcher and back into the house. They teased him incessantly about the rash confession; their jests were directed at Draco’s evident excitement and pleasure.
“He’d been in the tent all night,” said Fred. “But once, by morning, when he’d expected you to wake up, he’d gone back into his room. Snape thought he’d fallen asleep because he didn’t return after ten minutes. So he went to check, and apparently Draco had changed his clothes, fixed his hair, and applied a little color to his cheeks so that when you saw him, you’d think him lovely.”
George snorted. “But you didn’t wake up until seven hours later, so he’d done it for nothing.” Harry’s smile was stolen from him by a sharp jolt of pain in his side as they roughly carried him through the back door. “Harry’s back!”
His two friends leapt to their feet and rushed to his side as he was being carried up the flight of stairs. “Harry, it looked wicked,” said Ron. “The nastiest gash I’d ever seen in my life. I nearly fainted; I did.”
“I don’t think he wants to hear about that,” Hermione scoffed. “Seriously, Ronald, do you ever read the room?”
“Let me know when there are words flying about, and maybe I just might,” he snorted.
“Harry, really, how are you feeling?” Hermione asked, pushing open Draco’s door as they passed through.
“I feel great.” It was not completely a lie. He could do without the unrelenting sensations of knives, but he was being carefully placed upon Draco’s bed, and the excitement alone seemed to palliate the pain. The pillows smelled of Draco’s hair—osmanthus fragrans; Harry breathed it in deeply. It had come to him again, so much more than he’d remembered, like he’d finally understood him fully.
“We were so worried, Harry,” sighed Hermione as she adjusted the sheets so that he may lie comfortably on his side. “But we all can breathe knowing you’re safe.”
“You won’t be rid of me that easy.” Harry smiled.
Hermione rolled her eyes. “You two always find ways to be stupid in serious moments,” she scoffed as she stood, folding her arms over her chest. “Dinner is being made; when it’s done, I’ll have someone bring it up. Then Draco will come up for your medicine. I’m sure you’ll want to speak with him privately.”
Sirius met Draco on the lawn just before the tent. Being under the impression he was to stay with Harry for the entirety of the night, he stopped him and inquired after his godson.
“He is doing fine,” said Draco in a hushed voice. “He’s upstairs getting rest, and when he’s finished dinner, I will give him medicine. Until then, I will look over the rest.”
“Are you not exhausted, Malfoy?” asked Sirius, observing the boy’s unsteady step. “You’ve dutifully attended to them all; allow me to take your place in the tent. You’ve done beautifully.”
“No,” said Draco. “I must continue as I have.”
“Why?”
“It serves as a good reminder of the sort of faith I have the audacity to retain. I hope, in due time, you all might forgive me.”
Sirius had not expected such an answer. The small ounce of bitterness he’d possessed for the boy—for his relation to the council leader that violently condemned his brother—disappeared completely, and it was as if he’d been standing before his younger self when he found himself in the agonizing middle between desertion and loyalty. He gestured for the young boy to follow him, and the two of them walked slowly along the border of the grounds.
“Do not torture yourself over what you have not done,” Sirius began. “The love of my life is in that tent, suffering from a nasty puncture wound to the lung, and I have never been tempted to look at you with antipathy. Not once has it crossed my mind that you are responsible. There’s not a soul on these grounds that holds you accountable for what has happened.”
“But you’re wrong. Aren’t I a soul? Every inkling of pain upon their brow is a wave of shame upon me. I’d have never forgiven myself if Harry had passed away. And perhaps he does not know it yet, for his pain is too great. But I’m afraid he will come to terms with it when he gets better.”
“A bad habit of yours, Draco: blaming yourself for everything that you had absolutely no control over. It’s the same with the Podgers situation. And you do so because the doctrine you’ve grown up under has removed misfortune as a natural course of events, but as a consequence to something wholly unrelated and unchangeable. That’s your mindset, and that’s your personal lie. It was mine too, but I’ve been liberated.” Sirius said. “Your decision is entirely your own, and I know how terribly suffocating it is to be given that freedom after having lived and breathed according to verse; but if you’d just separate yourself from crimes committed and view yourself independently, you’ll attain a head clear enough to make every necessary decision.”
Draco was silent for a while, sullenly listening, and then nodded his veiled head after seemingly digesting Sirius’s spoken words. “Did you suffer greatly after leaving?”
“Yes,” admitted Sirius. “But it remains the best decision I’ve ever made. The happiness I have attained could not have possibly been actualized if I had not made that sacrifice. There is a scar there; there will always be one. Sometimes, the mind will resurface the pain, sort of like when an amputee feels sensation in the prosthetic; even if it has ceased to be a part of me, I feel it bitterly. But it is a fleeting moment, and when I look at the man that I love, it fades away like the passing of a bad dream. Now, take my words lightly, for they will only be relevant should you take my course. If it is something you consider, I want you to understand that it happens gradually. You don’t have to check off a box on a formal document one day. You’ll address muggleborns the same, and it will not bother you. Perhaps in a month, you will read a brilliant novel authored by a muggleborn. The next month will come, and you will disagree openly with the Book. Then, as time goes on, you’d color yourself anew. Unfortunately, you may not have the luxury of time as I did not. The decision remains the same, though the process is more painful.”
Draco looked over his shoulder several times, stepped forward, and whispered in a barely audible voice, “I cannot breathe under the Veil.”
“Then come up for air,” said Sirius, giving the young boy a gentle smile. “I know your pain, and even more so, I understand that you are more than capable of forgiving it. And please, have Harry tell you, over and over, that he remains dutifully yours.”
Draco took one step back, but before turning to leave, he whispered a ‘thank you.’
Sirius bowed his head.
Draco returned in an hour to ease his pain. He wore his thin nightshirt, the same one he’d wear when he appeared in Harry’s dreams. A conservative piece with long sleeves and the end reaching mid-calf. There was something about how loosely fitted it was that Harry found perverse and provocative; how easy it would be to remove it all in one swift motion. And Draco would lie exposed beneath him, smiling with tokens of his untouched shyness.
“It is time to sleep, Harry. Let me lay you down.” Draco whispered, taking a step forward. The shift of the thin fabric framed the contour of his forward thigh. Feverish chills, not from the injury, consumed Harry entirely. “Don’t worry, your wound will not reopen. Severus—bless him—has conjured up an exceptionally strong batch of dittany. Such that cannot be bought out in town, I hear. Let me help you.” Draco grabbed his shoulders and twisted his body so he could lie on his side, but he was unpracticed in this and had been much too hasty. Harry’s entire side lit up with a jolt of pain so violent it stole his breath entirely. “Did I hurt you? Oh, goodness.” Draco stepped away immediately; his hands went to his face, horrified, as if he had just murdered someone as a man with a conscience. “Harry, are you alright?”
Harry rested his head against the pillow to take in slow breaths, concentrating on the pain that still braced him in its bitter vigor. Sweat accumulated on his brow, and the shivering started up again. “I’m fine,” he said hoarsely. “Don’t worry.”
Draco did not seem wholly convinced. “Here.” From the sideboard he produced the same vial he'd been acquainted with several times over the course of the last evening and poured the liquid into his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’d been too quick in moving you. The matron does it with such ease.”
“She’s been doing this for years, Draco. It comes easy to her,” said Harry as the pain began to subside. “Thank you.”
“It’s the least I could do,” said Draco as he turned to the door again.
“You’re not staying here?”
Draco shook his head sweetly. “My bed is entirely yours, Harry. I dare say you will sleep better with sufficient room.”
“Lay down next to me for a moment,” said Harry. Draco set down his candle and lay down beside him, half reclined on the excess of pillows. With the pad of his thumb, Harry slowly traced his lips and jaw. “Look at me.”
“How can I?”
Draco’s face, previously prettified with the bloom of his cheeks and unclouded happiness, was hardened by the inward tremor of doubt.
“What’s the matter?”
“Please,” he began, looking away immediately toward the window. “Do not think me so vain when I speak of this, but I wonder if the marvelous words you’d spoken yesterday would hold true if the event had carried out differently.”
Harry removed his hand from Draco’s face and listened carefully. “Go on.”
“Upon my head was the Veil when you’d told me of your feelings, and so easily could those words be produced when your side had not suffered a casualty. Hypothetically, should it have happened that death fell upon one, perhaps your most cherished godfather, you’d have called me to your bedside not to adore me but to spit in my face.” Draco blushed. “And in some preoccupation with morality, everything that could regard me as agreeable would disappear at once; some involuntary change conjured up entirely by the bitterness of deprivation would change your mind entirely. Pray do not believe that I undermine your sentiments, but I base my worries on empirical evidence that faith could in fact dictate one’s affections.” Draco spoke these words with measured tones, and, despite his clear unease, his resolution remained firm in his pursuit of reassurance and honesty.
“I disagree,” said Harry. “I don’t think faith could dictate one’s affections. Whether it is acted on, yes, but not whether it exists.”
“Ah, yes. I suppose that is what I’d meant, but even then, soon the prolonged inaction would dilute affection into a mere acknowledgment,” Draco said. “I can sit perfectly still, but know that my entire soul trembles before you. I have become a little weary, forgive me, and unsure of my own standing under the influence of time and my deliberation. Will you ease my mind, Harry?”
“I’d have maintained what I said even if the Veiled had burned down the world and everyone with it. I don’t see you as one of them, Draco.”
“But aren’t I? Have I not been but a mouthpiece attributing excellence to blood status? And have you not suffered severe mortification at my tongue?”
“You’re not one of them.”
“I am.”
“Proudly?”
Draco shuddered and cast another glance at the Veil that lay at the foot of his bed. “I must appear entirely attached. But I’m not so sure anymore.” He suddenly stood and gave him a weary smile. “Well, have a good night. Forgive my intrusion.”
“Sit down,” said Harry. Draco was seated again, on the foot of the bed this time.“You’re so far away; do I make you nervous?”
“Yes,” Draco whispered. “I’m afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Of what I shall do in the event that I lose your affection, or even if I should, I keep it.”
“Do I have yours?” Harry asked. His heart thundered wildly in his chest. He had yet to hear it from Draco and naturally came the anxiety preceding an answer.
“Forever,” Draco answered firmly.
Harry smiled and held out his hand for Draco’s. Once he’d possessed it, he pressed it to his lips and kissed him tenderly.
“Come back to bed,” said Harry. “Come close.”
“Why?” Draco asked, smiling playfully.
“Because I said so.”
“You’re too demanding,” said Draco cleverly. “You tell me to lay down, to come back to bed, and now you want me to get closer? What if I say no? Will you be terribly vexed?”
Harry smiled, still kissing his hand. “I love you…” he whispered.
Draco’s smile only widened, his gray eyes glittering with unimpeachable gaiety. “Tell me again, Harry.”
“Lay down and I will.”
Draco obliged, waiting for his favor with such impatience. “Go on.”
“I love you dearly,” whispered Harry, his hand moved from Draco’s face, trailing his touch against the length of his porcelain neck, his shoulders, his arms, his waist, and to the upper part of his leg. Draco instinctively monitored Harry’s hand with airs of being on the verge of protesting. There was no objection.
“Say it again,” Draco requested breathlessly.
“I love you, Draco.” Harry observed, in the boy’s gray eyes, tears emerging and falling down his smiling face. “Why are you crying?”
With a quick hand, Draco dried his tears and shook his head. “Because I love you. And while I am afraid, I am also so happy, so profoundly happy.”
Harry placed a gentle kiss on his forehead, knowing he could not say anything that could palliate the boy’s fears, for they were very real; it hung over them, watching their every move. But the Veil hung lazily on the foot of the bed, and Draco seemed to have forgotten all about it and allowed for Harry to keep his hand there on his waist for the entirety of the night; there was nothing in the world that would remove it.
