iv
When he opens his eyes again, the nurse is gone, and in her place there’s Potter.
He looks exhausted. There’s dark shadows under his eyes, his mouth tugged down into a frown, hair disheveled even worse than usual, shoulders slumped and skin pale.
Draco feels a strange tug in his stomach at the sight of him, and he’s talking before he even realizes he’s opened his mouth. “Did you let a Kneazle make a nest in your hair tonight, Potter?” he sneers, though even he has to admit that there’s an astounding lack of bite in his words.
Potter looks up, abruptly, and Draco realizes he hadn’t noticed he’s awake yet. But then Potter’s eyes light up a little, and there’s something like relief flitting over his expression, before he quickly steels it into the familiar grimace of pure loathing that he’s worn all his life whenever he’s been around Draco.
Only this time, Draco doesn’t buy it.
He doesn’t know what exactly it was, but something has changed between them, since last night. A shift of sorts, something to put them off-balance, that will take their lives in a different direction. Draco’s not sure how he knows it, but suddenly he’s sure of it: things will change, and for the first time in his life, it might actually be for the better.
So Draco lets himself grin at Potter’s scowl, and there’s something warm and fluttery in his chest when Potter blinks, frowns, and then grins back.
Of course, that’s when the rest of the Golden Trio has to storm in and ruin it all.
“Harry! Harry, where are—” Granger cuts herself off when she catches sight of him and comes to an abrupt halt, and Weasley’s going too quickly to stop in time, toppling her over and they both land in a heap on the floor.
Draco laughs, and then he groans, because fuck, his ribs hurt, and he thinks there might have actually a bit more kicks involved yesterday than he’d quite realized. But it’s difficult to keep up with other sources of pain when you’re under Cruciatus, so, he’s really not at fault for not remembering.
Potter’s brows are furrowed and he worries his lip between his teeth when his gaze lands on Draco again, he blinks and mouths a ‘Alright?’ at him, ignoring his friends’ bickering for the moment, and Draco can only nod, not enough breath in him to actually say anything. It seems as though Madam Pomfrey has found a pain potion that still works on him, and now that the effects are wearing off he begins to feel the whole brunt of his injuries. (Nothing less than what he deserves, then.) Draco swallows, trying to get rid of the suddenly dry feeling in his throat and failing, and he has to avert his eyes from Potter’s green ones, swallows again. Well, fuck. This is bad, and it’s going to hurt.
“But what are you doing here, mate?” Weasley asks with a mistrusting look at Draco when he eventually manages to untangle his limbs from his girlfriend’s and proceeds to brush off his robes (‘as if that’d help any’, Draco doesn’t sneer). He’s just glad for the distraction, now.
Granger tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, frowning. “Madam Pomfrey told us at breakfast that you’re in the Hospital Wing, and really, Harry, we were worried.”
The Weasel exchanges a look with Granger, and adds, “You know we’ve been worried. Why haven’t you just told us what—” he cuts himself off, suddenly whirling on Draco. “And what are you even doing here, you fu—”
“Ron!” Harry says. Potter, Draco scolds himself. It’s Potter. Get a fucking grip. “It’s not his fault!” he pauses, frowns, says, slowly, “Well, in a way, it sort of is, but it’s definitely not what you think.”
“Oh?! And what do I think? Because from the way I see it, the bloody Ferret has somehow managed to land you in the Infirmary all over again, and I’ll be damned if I just let—”
“Ron.” Granger’s voice is quieter when she tugs at her boyfriend’s arm and interrupts his rant. “I think it’s really not like that,” she says, and points at the bed, where Draco’s lying in, and Potter’s sitting next to.
Weasley pauses, and his head is still bright red with rage, but his eyes are big in surprised shock when he takes in the situation for the first time. “Oh,” he says again, quietly. His forehead wrinkles and he screws up his nose. “Well. That’s… good, then.” Draco really doesn’t know what Granger sees in him.
“Ron!” Granger scolds him, and there’s an apologetic look thrown Draco’s way that puts him off-balance, suddenly feeling wrong-footed. This whole situation is bizarre, and if there wouldn’t be pain emanating from where he’s digging his fingernails into his palm in an attempt to keep quiet, Draco would be convinced that this is just some really fucked-up dream. Not a nightmare, because in these last months he’s learned what nightmares are like, and this is much too painless for it to be one. At least it’s painless if one doesn’t count the awkwardness and cringe-worthy feeling to the whole thing as pain. Which Draco really, really doesn’t.
So. He’s confused, unsure, out of his depth. He lashes out, if only verbally due to the… situation.
“Well, isn’t that interesting?” Draco drawls, eventually, because, yes, he’s still Draco, and he really can’t help himself. He opens his mouth, wants to continue, to bitingly comment on just what he thinks of these Gryffindors, but then there’s Potter’s hand on his arm just out of his friends’ sight, and Draco’s teeth clack together painfully from how hard he snaps his mouth closed again, and the flutter in his chest grows to uncomfortable levels.
Granger ignores him. “But really, Harry, what are you doing here?” With him, goes unsaid.
“I—just—” Potter stammers, raking a hand through his hair, and isn’t that interesting?
“I’d really like to know that, too, Potter,” Draco says, and this whole thing is almost worth it for the dumbfounded look that the Weasel now gets on his face.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t serve to fluster Potter further, too. Rather on the opposite, actually, because suddenly the look in his eyes grows fierce and angry, almost reminiscent of the way he’d used to look at Draco, but the burning emotion behind it doesn’t seem to be directed at him.
Or maybe it is, because Potter’s next words definitely are, and they’re not happy. “Me too, Malfoy, me too. What the fuck were you thinking? Because you do remember, don’t you, and I just can’t imagine why you’d—” he breaks off, takes a deep breath, tries again. “How long has this been going on?”
Draco stills. His heart stops in his chest, and then resumes its beat, so much harder than before. He can’t know. He can’t.
His breath gets stuck in his throat as he stares at Potter, and Granger’s “What are you talking about, Harry?” sounds as though it comes from far away, under water maybe, or like when you’re riding on a broom and the wind rips the words from your lips, and then he’s falling and there’s fire licking at his heels, and he can’t reach Harry’s hand and he’s falling and the fire’s consuming him, skin and hair and bones, the smoke doesn’t let him breathe, and he can’t breathe—
“Malfoy. Malfoy! Draco!”
Draco gasps, and there’s air, and it doesn’t smell of smoke, but Harry’s here, right next to him, and Draco clings to him for life when a sob tears itself from his throat. Harry says, “Get out,” and Draco’s breath catches in his throat as something in his chest clenches, pulling taut, (hurts,) and he tries to let go of Harry, of Potter, to make his fingers loosen and let go of Potter’s robe where they’re clenched tightly around the rough fabric, and he tries to shove away from him, to get out, do as he’s asked because he really can’t—
But then there’s strong, warm fingers threading through his sweat-slick hair and Potter’s voice against his ear, saying, “Shhh, no, not you, I didn’t mean you. Stay, come on, Draco, relax, and breathe for me, okay? Breathe. It’s okay.” He chokes, swallows, says, “It’s going to be okay.” and Draco really wants to believe him, but he’s not sure he can, because his father’s in Azkaban’s and his mother’s confined to the Manor, all alone, and he’s here, and it’s Hogwarts, but it’s not the home it used to be, and really, Draco can’t imagine this is ever going to be okay again.
But Harry has called him Draco, and he’s here, and his body’s warm, his arms strong, and maybe he can actually hold Draco up for just a little longer. Just long enough so he can breathe again, so the fog in his mind lifts, the pounding headache dulls a little, as his thoughts grow clearer and less frantic, and he breathes, and it doesn’t hurt as much, and his racing heart calms a little, the next breath goes down deep enough so the numb tingle in his fingertips stops, though that might also come from how tight Potter’s holding him, and has he really just called Draco by his given name?
He relaxes, bit by bit, even as confusion washes over him and he asks himself not for the first time what the fuck Potter is actually doing here, with him.
“It’s going to be okay,” Potter says, again, and Draco wonders if maybe, he can believe him. Harry has defeated the Dark Lord once already, after all, so maybe he can do it all over again, even if it’s just the one left behind in Draco’s head.
“Is it really?” Draco mumbles against Potter’s shoulder, and he’s glad when his voice doesn’t shake. Potter’s arms tighten around him for a split-second, so much so it’s almost painful, and then he carefully lets go of Draco without really letting go, his hands still on Draco’s arms as he holds him at a small distance, to properly look him in the eye.
There’s that determined glint in these green, green eyes, the one that Draco’s always been a little jealous of, and Potter’s face is almost grim when he keeps holding Draco’s gaze for several long moments until he nods, and says, “I promise.”
And Draco finds that yes, he does believe him.
He just wonders what it might cost them both to keep that promise.