Kidnapping
Ten minutes into hiding in Potter’s bathroom, Draco had tried (and failed) to cast eight of the strongest silencing charms he knew.
“So rude,” the mirror tutted at him when he threatened it with a Reducto. Considering his success with the silencing charms, he wasn’t sure he could actually cast anything strong enough to even cause a crack. The mirror knew it too, judging by the way it kept taunting him. Draco also wasn’t sure he was above trying to shatter it with the nearest available object.
Draco looked pointedly at the ceramic toothbrush holder sitting on the counter for the mirror’s benefit, hoping it would catch his drift. Then he was distracted by it, caught up in how utterly Muggle it was of him to still use a toothbrush. Wizarding children use them, of course, unable as they are to perform such precise magic before attending Hogwarts. But really, eighteen years old, defeater of the Dark Lord, and he still used a toothbrush.
Then again, he really couldn’t blame Potter for his non-magical habits. After all, he’d had to suffer through a few of Ron’s teeth-cleansing charms himself. If Potter’s were anywhere near as bad (and Draco guessed that they were, seeing as the only things Potter had proven he could cast well were Expelliarmus and Expecto Patronum), Draco couldn’t blame him for sticking with the option that didn’t make his gums bleed.
“Not supposed to be in here,” the mirror said in a sing-song voice. Damn. He’d almost hoped that ignoring it would make it disappear. Or shut up, at least.
“I’m trying to help him,” Draco said, glaring at his own reflection.
A beat of silence passed.
“Rather thin these days,” the mirror said.
Draco swallowed. Potter had always been thin enough already.
“Won’t drink his potions,” the mirror said.
Draco made a mental note: make Potter drink his potions.
“Those marks, too…” the mirror mulled.
Draco remembered the glimpses he’d gotten at glowing wounds peeking out from Potter’s collar and sleeves.
“Alright,” the mirror said.
“Alright,” replied Draco, letting out a breath.
He wasn’t entirely sure what his plan was, and the entire ordeal, prudent as it was, was grating on his Slytherin instinct. There was nowhere to hide in Potter’s tiny en-suite, so he sat on the floor behind the door. When Potter walked in to freshen up before going to bed, Draco figured he’d try to close the door behind him, trapping him inside and forcing a conversation.
Draco thought about all those nights spent with Potter, the easy banter they’d fallen into. Sitting at a piano bench, fingers dancing over the keys, and Potter’s magic slowly quieting around him. Carrying Potter back to his room each night, setting his glasses on the bedside table and Invisibility Cloak on the hook by the door, turning the handle to soften the sound as he shut the door on his way out.
Draco thought about the night in the piano room, the floating furniture, fire, and Potter. The panic of the moment, of the sight of Potter much too high in the air, no idea how to get him down. The sadness he felt now, faced with the distinct before and after of that day.
In hindsight, he decided that trapping himself into a small room with a jumpy wizard brimming with accidental magic wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had. This revelation was in foresight, really, since Potter hadn’t appeared yet, but there was no going back now; Draco was committed.
He didn’t move. Instead, he tilted his head back against the cool tile, felt his shoulders slump, and let his eyes slip closed.
Some time later, though Draco couldn’t begin to hazard a guess at how long he’d been asleep, he awoke abruptly to the sharp feeling of fear. Pulling himself out of his sleepy haze, he picked apart worry and loneliness from the mess of emotions swirling around him. When he put his hands flat on the ground to push himself to his feet, he gulped at the feeling of magic pulsing through the floorboards.
Potter.
Heart pounding, Draco pressed his entire body against the wall, praying to Merlin that Potter wouldn’t see him until he was far enough inside the bathroom for Draco to trap him in.
The door to the hallway creaked on its hinges as Potter pushed it open.
Was this a form of kidnapping?
The door slammed shut with a wave of magic.
Please stay quiet, Draco thought at the mirror. It twinkled menacingly.
Footsteps shuffled around the room as Potter gathered his things for bed, opening and closing drawers as he rustled through clothing.
Bloody hell, what if he comes in here naked to shower? Draco thought, not at all horrified by the idea except for the fact that Potter might not super appreciate getting pseudo-kidnapped whilst unclothed.
More rustling.
More shuffling.
Then it all stopped.
Slowly, he felt the muting of Potter’s magic as he put up his magic-blocking wards.
Fucking absolute fuck. Draco’s mind raced. What was he going to do? Was Potter actually going to go to bed without brushing his teeth? All images of a naked Potter were banished from his mind, replaced by yellowing teeth and smelly breath.
Focus, Draco, he thought, reminding himself that Potter currently had much larger issues than brushing his teeth. His rogue magic, for instance.
As the last of Potter’s wards sealed in place, Draco found himself still frozen with indecision. What now?
“Go on,” the mirror whispered. “Go fix him.”
Draco hesitated for another moment, unsure. His already frustratingly stupid plan had failed. He could… try to trap Potter in the bedroom itself if he blocked the outside door? Potter’s bed was to the left of the bathroom, and the door to the right. It would work.
He stepped deftly around the bathroom door, then, without even a glance at the bed, he dashed to the door, throwing his back against it and arms out wide, preparing wildly for any kind of resistance to come his way.
Instead, the room was dark, and he was met with utter silence. Had Potter left somehow without him realizing? He squinted into the room, trying to make Potter out on the bed. He couldn’t see clearly. After another moment of stillness, he cautiously abandoned his post by the door, walking towards the bed with soft footsteps.
It was empty. He cursed in his head. How had Potter known he was there? Why hadn’t he said anything?
Something rustled behind him and Draco spun immediately to face the threat. At first, he couldn’t see anything, but then he directed his gaze downward.
Potter lay dead asleep on the floor in the corner on the other side of the room, all the nearby furniture pushed away from him. He had only a pillow and a threadbare blanket covering him.
Now that Draco was looking, he wondered how he hadn’t sensed the bubble of magic surrounding Potter. It was so thick around him that Draco could see the edges of where it was contained by Potter’s wards.
He was halfway to Potter before he knew what he was doing, pausing at the edge of the wards. He reached a slow finger out to poke at the boundary. Instantly, he felt the rush of magic and feeling that he was so used to feeling around Potter. Draco withdrew his finger and shivered. Now or never, he supposed.
Draco stepped into the wards—designed to keep magic in, not keep people out— with a quick glance to make sure that Potter was still asleep. He almost stumbled under the immediate crushing weight of Potter’s magic, thick in the air. Gaining his balance, he crossed the last couple steps to Potter’s side. Draco sank to the floor beside him.
“Potter,” he whispered, dismayed. Potter was in tatters. Sunken cheeks, scraggly hair, too-bony limbs, and brows furrowed even in sleep. He was curled into himself. His fingers twitched. Every now and then, he shivered against the cool stone floor.
“What have you done?” Draco asked Potter quietly, unworried about waking him. He’d always been such a deep sleeper (or very good at pretending), never waking once as Draco carried him back to the dorms after their piano sessions. Besides, Draco could simply monitor Potter’s magic instead.
It would be all too easy, considering how concentrated Potter’s magic was. There was so much; Draco hadn’t realized it was possible for a wizard’s core to even contain this much magic in the first place, let alone to have this much seeping out without killing the wizard.
Although, by the looks of Potter, it was killing him.
Draco felt horribly guilty. Why hadn’t he come sooner? Why hadn’t he realized how bad it had gotten? Why hadn’t he pestered Ron and Hermione more, gotten them to check on Potter?
Unthinkingly, Draco reached for Potter’s hand, holding it between two of his own.
Wait. Was that—? Draco turned Potter’s hand over, examining the back. A brightly glowing mark dashed across the entire back of Potter’s hand. Draco leaned closer, staring at it. Here was where Potter’s magic was coming from! Well—not just there, since his magic was coming from all over him, but here, on the back of his hand, Draco could sense it bleeding out in a steady stream.
Draco thought about the similar marks he’d seen on Potter’s neck, the way Potter had worn long clothing every day that term, no matter the weather.
After a moment of consideration, Draco brushed a gentle finger along the edge of the mark, then covered the entire thing with his hand. Stop the bleeding, he thought.
He could feel the flow of magic below his fingers began to slow. Excited, he pressed harder on Potter’s hand. The magic subsided to a trickle, then stopped completely. He pulled his hand away, then gaped at the results.
The mark was entirely gone.
Draco had—he’d touched the mark and it had disappeared, just like that. The magic seeping out, Potter’s deplenishing core, Draco had stopped the effects. All of Potter’s marks—the pain that Draco suspected he was in because of them—all of it could go away if—
“Draco?”
Horrified, Draco dragged his eyes away from the unmarred skin of the hand he still held in his own. Potter’s eyes, vivid green even in the dark, stared back.