ii
He remembers vaguely waking up before; some flashes of Healing Spells and Diagnostic Charms, ashen faces and strained expressions, quick wand-movements and Levitating Charms and drawn-back bed curtains, bedsheets stained red with blood, the swish of robes, furious portraits, and, in-between, darkness.
And then there’s light.
And Draco blinks his eyes open, miraculously still alive.
There is a strange sense of disappointment following immediately after the surprise of waking up at all, irrational bitterness at the world, yet again having failed him. Failed his (small, unconscious, suppressed) hope that, maybe, this time, it’d finally be over, that this would be enough to—
He forcefully drags his mind out of the direction it’s going, because he knows it’s dangerous, he knows what this kind of thinking does to him, and it’s really not something he’d like to deal with right now.
Especially not when he blinks again and yes, the white curtains drawn shut around his bed and the steady beep and pepper-y smell of a Medical Monitoring Charm leave no doubt that he’s in the Infirmary, and that’s just—unacceptable.
He swallows, tries to sort his mind, get his thoughts in order, but there’s memories missing, something he knows he should remember but doesn’t, and really, he needs to get his bearings if he wants a chance at explaining this away as easily as he’s done it all these other times he was left with little choice than to actually go to the Infirmary, but it’s hard to even think at the moment, let alone plan something like this with the carefulness it requires.
Just being in Madam Pomfrey’s proximity usually is enough for him to be able to secretly heal most of his own injuries—showing her only the small cuts and bruises, nothing drastic, just something to serve as an explanation for why he’d bother to be here with her in the first place (reminiscent of a time where he made a greater deal of a scratched-up arm than it really was). But no matter how many suspicious looks she’d give him or how many exasperated sighs she’d heave, she’d quick become his favorite member of staff. After all, she’s the only teacher to do more than only tolerate him, so it’s an easy choice to go to her and let her fuss over him for a bit despite the deep-rooted guilt blossoming each time he abuses her good nature and easy trust, rather than put up with glares and cutting side-remarks from the rest of the Hogwarts’ staff.
But as Draco now fumbles for his wand, entirely in the mind-set of how these things usually go, he finds that yeah, moving is a really bad idea, fuck, that hurts, and also where the hell is his wand? And he remembers that pretty much nothing about this situation is usual, because he hasn’t been able to heal the worst of it by himself, hasn’t been conscious to make sure that the nurse doesn’t catch a glimpse of something she really shouldn’t, and there’s no way that that particular secret would remain secret for much longer.
Draco’s hands shake; the Mark itches. The healing cuts on his torso itch almost worse. Only almost, but almost is enough to lead his thoughts into a different direction altogether, and that’s an escape he’s all too eager to take. He’s never been really good at being left alone with his thoughts for too long. It never leads to good things.
The cuts on his torso itch, and there’s a hint of dittany in the air, and Draco wonders whether or not the marks will truly heal this time, wonders how exactly it is that he still lives even though Snape isn’t here any longer; not physically at least. (But it, unsurprisingly, turns out, even portraits don’t seem to like him very much anymore, and he’s been hoping in vain to stumble upon the painting of his godfather in the abandoned corridors.) He wonders who it was, then, the poor lamb to walk in on Garmetti Cursing the fuck out of Draco, to get to him just in time and actually be able to do something about it. To want to do something about it.
There’s the flash of an unruly mob of black hair in Draco’s mind’s eye, and his thoughts rush back to Sixth Year and that disastrous night in the bathroom, and Draco theorizes that maybe, even after everything, Garmetti just has’t meant Sectumsempra as much as Potter did back then, and Draco doesn’t know where the thought comes from, but it is there, at the forefront of his mind, and he finds he can’t truly deny it.
It’s nice to know that Potter still hates him best.
And despite the original irony of the thought, there’s that stubborn kernel of truth in it that just keeps rubbing Draco the wrong way, chafing with its simple but epiphanic realization.
It’s the steady hatred practically oozing from the git whenever he’d caught sight of Draco that has been the one constant in this strange new life after War, after all, and Draco’s clinging to it with rather more force than he’d ever bother to admit. It’s infuriating.
And it’s why he jerks upright in bed when voices start drifting in from the hallway (or so he tells himself); Madam Pomfrey’s gentle lilt, explaining something or another about his condition, and then Potter’s rough voice, “But is he going to be fine?” It’s angry, almost, and raw with more emotions than just pure simple hatred, complicated and hurtful things, and Draco isn’t the only one surprised by it, judging by the harsh breath Potter draws in a split-second later, and the quiet gasp of surprise coming from the school nurse.
Draco swears. His whole body is throbbing with pain, his head aches something fierce, and he’s pretty sure that that’s blood seeping through his robes, where his abrupt movement might have cancelled a healing spell or two.
The doors fly open. “Mr. Malfoy!” Madam Pomfrey exclaims in that loud, worried no-nonsense voice of hers as she makes a beeline for his bed, immediately starts fussing with various spells and potions and strange-looking machines. “What are you even—you shouldn’t be moving, for Merlin’s sake! Why are you even awake?” She doesn’t expect an answer, and Draco doesn’t try to give her one, just lets her do her thing, the way it’s always been on his visits here, though the wrinkle of concern on her forehead is rather deeper than the last times. “I was so sure I gave you the right amount of Dreamless Sleep, you ought to be healing, after all, not hopping right back out of bed the moment I leave you alone.”
She’s only muttering to herself, doesn’t really expect him to be listening, but that doesn’t matter to those new instincts hard-wired into him. Draco jerks a little; he hasn’t expected to have been caught at that, but then again, he’s always underestimated the innocent-looking ones. He shudders at the flood of unpleasant memories, and his thoughts start spiraling out of control; she’d given him strict directions last week, after all, rules to follow and to abide by, and he’d gone against them the moment she’d turned her back. He swallows, feeling lightheaded; wonders why she hasn’t try to punish him for that earlier, why she hasn’t come after him and—
“Oh, my boy,” Madam Pomfrey stops what she’s doing and just looks at him, her voice gentling. “I know how you students are like, always eager to escape my boring old presence and not at all happy with having to lie around and do nothing for so long. Dear Mr. Potter is a prime example of that, you know.” She smiles a little wistfully, but doesn’t look upset.
Still, Draco searches for an excuse, his mind racing now, pulse pounding in his ears, just adding to the head ache. “Well, I—I had a really important Potions Essay due, and I had to finish at least another six inches before—”
“You’d just broken seven of your fingers, Mr. Malfoy. Do you really think that’s the best excuse you could come up with?” The nurse raises a single eyebrow, skeptical.
“But it’s the truth!” Draco blurts out, and his heart is fluttering in his chest as though it wants to escape; his vision going dark around the edges, blurring with what he hopes aren’t tears. He knows there’s a panic attack lurking just around the corner, the memory of punishment for his lies; heavy hands and red, red eyes, an evil laugh and slithering, and he stumbles over his words as he repeats them in a rush. “It’s the truth, I swear! I’d written it already, a whole fifteen inches more than necessary, but then they—” He bites his tongue, swallows down the words, but it’s too late. He’s been so, so careful, and now he’s ruined it all.
The expression on Madam Promfrey’s face grows heavy and sad; the line around her mouth tightens, and her eyes go cold as she stares into the middle distance for a moment , lost in thought and what appears to be memories, before she shrugs herself out of it. There’s a determined light in her eyes when she looks at him again, her expression softer, and—if he didn’t know better—almost caring. The silence stretches. Draco’s mouth twitches, his eyes sting, but he forces his own expression to stay flat. Blank. Unreadable. (He’s had good teachers for that, at least.)
“You must have been in excruciating pain,” she says at last, just as carefully neutral in her statement, and Draco shrugs. He chews on his lower lip, stops it as soon as he catches himself at it, only just manages to keep himself from making a comment about how he’s really bloody used to it by now. It doesn’t really help, because he’s sure she can read the truth in his eyes, even if not in the rest of his face. Madam Pomfrey has always been an exception like that, he isn’t sure why. But for the fact that he’s survived the last however many months with the Dark Lord living in his house (because it’s not a home anymore), he’s really bad at disguising what he thinks when it matters—or maybe it’s just because he’s just been sliced open by his godfather’s own creation and he’s in a hellish amount of pain, but then again, that’s hardly an excuse—or at least, that’s what his father wouldn’t hesitate to tell him, would he be here.
But he’s not, and Draco’s really fucking glad of that fact. He doesn’t know what to say.
His eyes stray, weary under the nurse’s steady gaze, and eventually, they meet Potter’s. Pulling a grimace comes instinctively, though he knows that the sneer lacks bite. He can’t quite work up the energy for that. Apparently Potter’s slunk in behind the nurse, unnoticed, judging by the stern look she gives him now, and his head’s bowed a little, hair falling into his face, but his eyes are bright and fierce where they rest on Draco’s face. He doesn’t look away, though; and then neither of them does for a while.
Until Madam Pomfrey coughs delicately, at least, snatching their attention back to the matter at hand.
“Do you remember what happened, Mr. Malfoy?” she asks while she’s pouring a potion into a glass, keeping one eye on Draco as she’s doing so.
He nods, then shakes his head. He eyes Potter again, not quite knowing what to say, or what it means that he’s here. In the end, he settles for the kind of half-truth he’s learned gives him the most leeway when he uses it right. “I’m not sure. I tripped, I think, somewhere on the third floor when I was walking down from the Owlery. I might have hit my head a little?” He gives a dry chuckle. “Or maybe a lot. It sure feels like it.”
A second passes, then Potter laughs, startlingly loud and unhappy in the quiet of the Infirmary. Madam Pomfrey sends him a warning look, but doesn’t say anything as she hands Draco the potion. He swallows it down without tasting it, or without even questioning what kind of potion it is.
Potter’s glowering at him still, but his voice is flat when he says, “Oh, that’s what you call it now? They fucking slashed you open with Sectumsempra, Malfoy. That’s not tripping.”
Draco sneers at him, his mask slipping, “Well, what’s it to you?” and he suddenly remembers why he really doesn’t like the git, and then he wonders how he could even forget in the first place.
Madam Pomfrey holds up her hand before they can derail into a proper argument, though. Her voice is deceptively calm when she says, “He saved your life, Mr. Malfoy,” as though that wouldn’t turn his whole world upside down once again.
Draco’s hands shake as he lifts them to rake his fingers through his hair, tugging sharply. The scars on his torso pull and sting. He wonders how many of them there are now, and whether or not Paulo Garmetti has managed to erase Potter’s markings on his body.
He hopes not, and the realization is almost enough to tip him over into the panic attack that’s lingering just at the edges of his consciousness, and he knows it’ll hit him squarely the moment he’s alone, and he wonders vaguely how long it’ll take this time until he can draw a proper breath again, and whether maybe this time he’ll actually suffocate, and, and—
His chest feels tighter by the second as his thoughts race and spin in circles, and then they come to an abrupt halt because Harry fucking Potter saved his life. Again.
“He did what?” Draco asks eventually, when the silence stretches on and he can’t bear it any longer; the weight of it almost oppressive on his chest, stealing away the air to breathe.
“Vulnera Sanentur,” Potter intones quietly, and though he, too, remembers the rusty tang of blood on a bathroom floor, the terrifying reality of death hanging just above their heads. “I’m not entirely useless in Charms, you know?”
Draco laughs even though it hurts in his throat, and his chest, and his head. He’s really fucking tired, suddenly. “I guess not,” he says, and in those precious few moments just before consciousness eludes him once again, he can admit to himself that he’s known that for a really long time now, just as he knows so many other things about Potter that he doesn’t like thinking about properly. Not in daylight, at least.
“Come on now, Mr. Potter,” is the last thing Draco hears when Madam Pomfrey drags the git away from Draco’s bed. “You can see him again in the morning. He’ll be fine.”
And then the world fades away, leaving Draco wondering what in the hell happened to make Potter look that reluctant to step away.