Walls
The four days since the accident with Potter had been brutal. As the only patient in the infirmary, Madame Pomfrey was able to focus all of her attention on him, constantly performing diagnostic spells, lecturing him about sleeping enough, and prying for information on the accident. Draco was about to go mad.
Throughout the whole ordeal, Draco had stayed steadfast, refusing to tell her, Headmistress McGonagall, and Professor Slughorn any more details, despite their persistent attempts to convince him otherwise. He was now very thoroughly aware just how much they considered him “equal to every other student” at Hogwarts and how disappointed they were that another student had “played vigilante” after he had already been tried and sentenced by the Wizengamot.
Draco was a Slytherin to his core, so he did nothing to persuade them that this hadn’t been an unjustified attack on a poor, reformed Death Eater. He didn’t want their pity, but a little extra protection from the faculty could never hurt.
That protection could come in handy soon, as there were words Draco needed to have with one Harry Potter about the appropriate circumstances in which it was acceptable to avoid someone that cares about you. These were not appropriate circumstances.
The instant that Madame Pomfrey approved his release from the hospital wing, Draco had gathered his things and left, ready to be rid of the oppressive white walls and stale air. He nodded along dutifully as she demanded that he return once daily for checkups, accepting scrolls filled with physical therapy exercises.
Draco had barely made it to the end of the corridor of the hospital wing before he was nearly run over by a wild-haired, out-of-breath Hermione Granger. His eyes widened as he stumbled back, immediately a bit wary of the fierce look in her eyes. She stopped and put her hands on her hips, confirming that this was the end of her search for him, not a chance run-in that he could duck away from.
“Draco,” she said, sounding relieved, reminding him exactly why he had avoided her as much as possible. After the lengthy apology he’d given her for all his past mistreatment on the first day of the term, she had forgiven him graciously, going so far as to metaphorically wipe the slate clean between them, calling him by his first name and nodding hello whenever she saw him.
Draco hated it. He knew that he didn’t deserve any of it. If anything, even the cautious acceptance of his apology from Potter a day later was too much. Weasley, when Draco had apologized to him, had given him a hard stare before turning on his heel and walking away. That’s more like it, Draco remembered thinking.
Granger’s kindness was off-putting, if he was being honest. He didn’t know what to do but tirelessly work to avoid it, especially when he caught her looking at him as if he were one of her difficult Arithmancy problems to solve. Everything in his life may have gone to shit, but he didn’t need Hermione Granger to fix it for him.
“Hello, Granger,” he said, trying to straighten his posture. He pretended like it wasn’t obvious that she had been looking for him and tried to step around her, wanting to escape. She blocked his path.
“It’s Hermione.”
Draco let out a long-suffering sigh. “Hello, Hermione.” He tried to step around her again, but was blocked once more. He looked at her. She looked back. “Look, it’s been a hellish couple of days for me and I’ve got an appointment with a soft bed in my dorm room for the next twelve hours, so whatever you have to say, please just say it.”
Granger looked at him with that puzzle-solving look. “Harry won’t talk to me.”
Draco tried not to roll his eyes. “I’m not one of those Muggle relationship counselors, Gra-Hermione. You and the Chosen One will have to work that out on your own.”
“I mean,” she continued as if he hadn’t said something remarkably clever and scathing with a bit of Muggle knowledge thrown in, “He’s talking to me, but he’s not talking to me. He had been a bit distant from me and Ron, sure, but he had been getting better. Moving on, and happier than I’d seen him in months.”
“I still don’t see why I am involved—”
“He had been getting better until four days ago,” Hermione cut him off. Draco closed his mouth. “That’s what I thought. Since then, I don’t think he’s gotten a wink of sleep. No classes, no meals, no quidditch. He’s been disappearing at weird times.”
Draco thought about the few times that he’d felt Potter’s magic prickling at the edge of his senses, as if Potter were hovering outside the door to the hospital wing, unwilling to come in, but also unwilling to leave. “And you were gone. You were already hard to find, but you didn’t even show up to classes and the teachers weren’t questioning it. But I didn’t put two and two together at first, even when I kept catching him staring at that goddamn map all day like it was his only saving grace. And then—and then— out of nowhere, five minutes ago, he’s the most alive I’ve seen him in days, begging me to rush down to the hospital wing and make sure that Draco Malfoy, of all people, is alright.” She folded her arms, raising an eyebrow questioningly.
Draco looked at her helplessly. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to explain Potter’s behavior to himself, much less explain it to her. He shrugged.
“Well, are you?” She asked.
“Am I what?”
“Harry wanted me to see if you were alright,” she said again. “Are you?”
“Oh,” he said, and was going to reply that he was just fine, thank you, when his arms gave out and dropped everything he’d been carrying. Great timing, he thought as he stooped to try to pick it all up. There wasn’t much—the scrolls from Pomfrey with exercises, his wand, an indestructible vial with a potion he had to take every few hours—but his fingers refused to cooperate, unable to close around any of the items.
Granger was suddenly crouching beside him, gathering his things easily. She stood, then offered a hand to him. He stared at it a moment then tried to accept it, cursing himself when his arm froze halfway up. It just started shaking when he tried to force it the rest of the way. He gave up, letting it fall limply to his side.
His arms may not work, but his legs still did, so he pushed himself back up to stand, avoiding eye contact with Granger.
“So that’s a no, then.” Her voice was gentle. He let his silence answer for him.
No, he wasn’t alright. At first glance, he looked fine. Skin unmarred, all limbs and digits intact, and no limp in his gait. Upon closer inspection, though, it would be obvious that something was wrong. Madame Pomfrey’s initial assessment and prediction was correct: his arms were far from fully healed.
The “squishy stuff,” as Pomfrey called it, was easy to repair; the muscles, nerves, skin, and blood vessels were easily replaced or mended with a few potions, hardly a scar in sight.
The bones were another matter altogether. The heat fractures caused by magical fire made them much more difficult to heal. Each bone was technically all in one piece now, no longer shattered, but the magical heat fractures persisted, showing up as silvery cracks whenever Madame Pomfrey performed her diagnostic spells. While his muscles were healed, the magical fractures resisted, keeping them from attaching to his bones like they needed to. Draco could hardly use his own arms.
His hands had taken the brunt of the damage since they had been where the fire connected first. The bigger muscles in his forearms and upper arms had less trouble attaching, and he had gained some control over them.
But while he had been able to cradle his few belongings in his arms, he could barely make his fingers twitch.
“Be patient, Mr. Malfoy,” Pomfrey had said. Patience didn’t come easily when Draco thought of Potter and his out-of-control magic and the piano.
Granger was still looking at him. “It’s my arms,” he finally offered. “It doesn’t hurt, but he—I mean, I can’t— I just need—” He closed his eyes, unable to finish whatever it was that he was trying to say.
“You need some sleep,” Granger replied eventually. “Wouldn’t want to be late for that appointment with the soft bed in your dorm room, would you?”
Draco peeled his eyes open gratefully. “Exactly.” She nodded, then tilted her head towards the staircase and began walking. He followed.
Half an hour later, he wasn’t sure whether he should be embarrassed or feel grateful for Hermione Granger. She had gotten him back to his room, set his things down, then pointed her wand at him and told him to trust her. He wasn’t sure what else he was supposed to do, unable as he was to even pick up his wand if he wanted to defend himself, so he nodded. She cast a series of cleaning and freshening charms, transfigured his clothing into a pair of soft pajamas, and sent his shoes flying to the proper place on the rack. She hadn’t asked him a single question, waiting until he’d sat on his bed to speak again.
“Draco… For what it’s worth, I’m sorry that he did this. He’s always preaching about the war being over, but this, I can’t believe him—”
Draco felt the strange urge to laugh. Even Potter’s friends thought he’d attacked Draco. “Hermione,” he silently congratulated himself on using her first name on the first attempt, “This wasn’t his fault. Make sure he knows that, will you? The only thing he’s guilty of is being a self-sacrificing, noble git that’s avoided me for the last four days.”
He only realized after she left that he’d implied that other than the last four days, they’d been doing the opposite of avoiding each other. Draco wasn’t sure if Potter had kept their nightly rendezvous a secret from the rest of the Golden Trio, but he supposed that sending Granger down to check on him was a clear enough clue that something was going on.
Draco lay in the dark for a while, hating Potter for not having the guts to be the one to come down and check on him himself, missing Potter’s jokes as they made their way to the piano room, wishing that he could have the strength to carry a sleeping Potter back to his room in his arms.
At the first tickle of Potter’s magic, Draco sprang out of bed, stumbling as he tried to disentangle himself from his bedsheets without his hands. He swore as he stubbed his toe on a bedpost, hobbling the rest of the way to the door. Gritting his teeth, he stared down at the door handle, wishing his hands would obey his command to reach up, turn it.
Potter was standing right outside his door now, his magic overwhelming in force. It swirled with guilt, self-loathing, regret. Draco leaned his forehead against the soft wood, closing his eyes. “Harry Potter,” he whispered, relaxing in the presence of the tumultuous magic dancing around him.
He imagined Potter standing on the other side, staring at the door and somehow looking worse than he had that first morning in the hospital wing. “Door, Potter,” Draco said, loud enough to be heard. Potter’s magic stuttered at his voice, going blank with surprise. “Please, Potter, open the door,” he said. He may be a Malfoy, but he was not above begging, not now.
Draco asked again and again, but the knob never turned, the door never opened. He kicked at the wood a couple times, asked nicely, tried focusing and doing wandless magic, shouted a bit, called him some colorful names. Nothing. Draco gave up eventually, and they stood there, on either side of the door, silent and stuck.
It’s not your fault, Draco thought, then decided to say it, even if Potter had already heard it from him and Granger. “It’s not your fault.” Potter didn’t reply.
He stayed near the door even after Potter left, listening as he opened the door to his own room, right beside Draco’s. Draco focused on the feeling of Potter’s magic, still detectable through the walls. He made his way back to his bed, climbing into it and arranging the bedding over him as best he could.
When the feeling of Potter’s magic became muffled, Draco thought about the list of magic-containing wards on Potter’s nightstand, and the destroyed bed that he’d seen that first night, and the glowing marks that peeked out from Potter’s collar. Another spell joined the first, and another, and within minutes, Draco couldn’t feel Potter’s magic at all.