Fiancé's and Friends
Draco knew he must have gone back to The Manor from the ache in his arms and face,
but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember a thing.
All Draco knew, was that one moment, he was in the foyer, donning his cloak on his way
back to The Manor, and the next, he was stumbling through an apparition, blood on his hands and face. Who’s? He didn’t know, or more accurately, couldn’t remember.
The loud thudding must have alerted the rest of the household, as Draco looked up to see the Blaise, Dymphna, Harry, Weasley, and Granger as they stared at him with alternating looks of shock and horror. Draco tried to take a step forward, but ended up falling shoulder-first into the wall, as his vision spun rapidly in circles.
It felt like dancing, almost. Like he’d spun too fast without spotting. His chest heaved, in exhaustion, panic, or a genuine need for oxygen, he again, didn’t know.
Draco clutched at his throat, trying to force more air into his lungs, but he could already feel the encroaching black at the edges of his vision. He reached in the direction he had last seen Blaise, grateful when his palm touched cashmere robes, the exact kind his finacé loved.
“-aco? Draco, you need to calm down.”
He took another stumbling step forward, his forehead coming down to touch something he intrinsically recognized as Blaise.
“Draco? Draco you need to breathe-” He could hear the panic leak into Blaise’s voice, but honestly couldn’t find the effort or energy to listen.
With one, final, gasping breath, Draco succumbed.
—-------
Harry watched Draco’s legs give out, slumping into Zabini’s arms.
Zabini reacted near immediately, picking Draco up and practically slinging him over his shoulder. He began walking back into the hallway, jerking open random doors until one opened into a plain room with well-stocked cabinets.
“What’s wrong?” Harry asked, rushing into the room beside Zabini and his mother, “What’s happened?”
Zabini laid Draco out on the bed, gentler than Harry had seen Zabini do anything else. Instead of answering, he prodded at Draco, examining every bloodstain.
Finally, he stepped back, only giving Harry, Ron, and Hermione a passing glance, “He’ll be fine, it’s not his blood.”
Harry heard Hermione choke, though she covered it last minute with a cough, “Well, that’s . . . good?”
Zabini remained unimpressed, turning back to where Draco laid on the bed, “Yes. It is. I’ll come find you when he’s awake.”
It was obvious Zabini didn’t want them there, but Harry had only recently told Draco he wanted to be friends, about a week ago, and he wasn’t about to give up so soon. What was the point if he made no effort to help Draco like he would Ron or Hermione?
So, Harry sat himself down in one of the old armchairs by the bed, “No need, I’ll stay too.”
Ron blinked in surprise, but no one seemed more so than Zabini. He turned to Harry, every inch of his face covered in Slytherin condescension.
“Why? Afraid he’s up to something, even asleep?” Zabini said coolly.
Harry huffed, pushing down the urge to snipe back. Zabibi was only concerned about Draco, just the same as Harry, “Can’t I be concerned for a friend?”
Zabini outright glared at him, “A friend, maybe. But we both know you and Draco aren’t that close.”
Hermione looked between them, biting her lip, before she put her hand on Ron’s arm, “Let’s go,” She said, “Let them sort it out themselves.”
Zabini turned to them, even colder than before, “Yes, let’s all avoid the uncomfortable fact that your golden boy gutted my fiancé like a pig.”
Hermione looked away, but Ron only clenched his jaw.
Harry flinched, “He told you?”
“Did he tell me?” Zabini snarled, “Did my fiancé tell me that he had nearly been murdered twice in the same day?” He laughed, though it was empty and cold, “No. No he didn’t.”
The slytherin sat on the edge of Draco’s bed, “That’s the awful part, isn’t it? He didn’t tell me anything past that fact he’d gotten into a fight, and didn’t win.”
Harry opened his mouth, before closing it again, well aware of the limits Draco had given him in their ‘deal.’
But surprisingly, he found he had no trouble pulling the words to the surface, “He-” Harry cleared his throat, “I thought he would have told you.”
Zabini looked at Harry, gaze now more tired than angry, “You would, wouldn’t you? But no,” He inhaled, shoulders rising and dropping, “Even after everything, he wouldn’t name you.”
It shocked Harry to his core. After everything, some part of him expected Draco to throw him to the dogs and drag his reputation through the mud. The only question was why.
“That’s what your lot don’t get,” Zabini continued, “That we have any sort of loyalty. That we hate this as much as you do.” Zabini closed his eyes, “They have kids, they have families.”
“Who?” Ron asked.
“The Death Eaters.” Zabini responded readily, “You think a bunch of proud old men enjoy being glorified servants for some young upstart?”
Hermione furrowed her brow, “Did you just call You-know-who a young upstart?”
“That’s what he is. He’s only about, what, 70? Just a speck on the map. He’s not even a true pureblood.” Zabini answered flippantly.
This time, Harry choked, “You know about that?”
“How couldn’t we?” Zabini sniped, “Do you know how far our family histories go back? If there was anyone even remotely matching his description born to any pureblood families in Europe, we’d know.”
So they didn’t know his name, or at least Zabini didn’t. Harry honestly felt some smug satisfaction at knowing something they didn’t.
“And they still follow him, even knowing he’s not one of them?” Hermione continued.
Zabini sighed, “Just because they are old, and proud, does not mean they are smart. They liked his politics, and how he made them feel, and by the time they realised it was much more serious than a simple social club, it was too late. He had them under magical contract, and he knew their homes, and families. Now, none of them could leave if they wanted to. There's no incentive. If they defect, The Dark Lord kills their families, and ends their legacy, and your side brands them slippery cowards who are only looking to save their own hide. If they stay, The Dark Lord gives them wealth, acknowledgement, connection. What would you choose?”
Ron wrinkled his nose, looking at Zabini with contempt, “I would choose not being a raging bigot.” The words were obviously Hermione’s, but Ron said them with absolute conviction.
Zabini laughed, and again, it was cold and empty, “There it is, you’re only proving my point. You’re so quick to assume everyone not in your little club is an evil neerdowell that deserves to die, can you imagine why our lot are so hesitant to throw it in with you?”
Ron didn’t have an answer, and neither did the rest of them. Harry remembered everything he’d ever been told about slytherin, about dark wizards. He was hesitant to completely revoke his earlier views, not after everything he’d seen and had done to him. Harry knew full well why dark wizards had such a bad reputation.
But he knew what it was like to have the whole of society brand you a monster.
Harry bit his lip, “I get it.” He said finally.
Zabini’s head whipped towards him, “Do you, Potter? No matter what, you've always had people who believe the best in you always. For fucks sake, you mauled Draco and he still trusts you enough to be here. He still trusts you enough to let you keep your secrets.”
“Really? That’s what you think my life is like?” Harry tried to push down the rage he felt, “I didn’t always have that. I was alone too. Remember second year?” He turned away, “And I know that I don’t deserve Draco’s forgiveness.” The idea that Draco would trust him like Zabini said was absurd. It was Draco they were talking about.
Zabini snorted, “Well, as long as you’re self aware.”
It was the most obviously sarcastic sentence Harry had ever heard. Harry, for once recognising a fight he wouldn’t win, simply sat back with a huff. Hermione looked like her mind was spinning with what Zabini had said, eyes a million miles away.
Ron spent a few more minutes glaring, but seeing Hermione so obviously distracted, trudged his way out of the room, leading her away.
There was a clock ticking somewhere. It’s even tick-tock tick-tock both soothing and irritating in the same measure.
So Harry and Zabini sat, waiting for Draco to wake up.