Chapter Text
"C'mon," Ron said to Harry and Hermione; they seized three sleeping bags and dragged them into a corner. - Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, JK Rowling
The candles all went out at once. The only light now came from the silvery ghosts, who were drifting about talking seriously to the prefects, and the enchanted ceiling, which, like the sky outside was scattered with stars. What with that, and the whispering that still filled the hall, Harry felt as though he were sleeping outdoors in a light wind. - Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, JK Rowling
Harry's eyes felt heavy, but he knew sleep wouldn't come tonight. He heard Ron breathing heavy on his right, the consistent snores a comfort as Harry started counting the stars above. A shift on his left caught his attention just as he was nearing eighty-six.
"Scared, Potter?" Malfoy whispered. Harry turned, seeing how Malfoy's eyes almost sparkled like the enchanted ceiling. Though the light was dim, he could make out that Draco's face wore one of concern, opposed to malice.
Harry exhaled, and turned his body on its side to face the blonde-haired boy.
"Can you please just tell me what you know?" Harry pleaded in his quietest voice.
Draco nodded his head. This had gone too far, and Harry's life was seemingly on the line.
"My Mother, did you know she's from the Noble House of Black?" Draco started.
"I'm sorry, what? Is that some kind of royalty?"
"Erm, not exactly. Have you heard of the Sacred Twenty-Eight?" Harry just shook his head. "Right, well there are 28 Brittish families that are truly pure-blood, and the Noble House of Black is one of those. So are the Malfoys. Actually, Weasels on there too," Draco added.
"Malfoy, you know it doesn't matter if someones pure-blood or half-blood or muggle-born," Harry inserted.
"Well, my family values it's importance a great deal," Malfoy refuted, his voice raising a tick.
Harry and Draco stopped speaking, listening to confirm the silence remained around them.
"So, Black, he's, erm, related to you?" Harry resumed whispering
"His lineage is connected to my Mother's, yes. I believe he is a son of my Great-Aunts."
"Tell me what you know, Malfoy," Harry's voice was low, and Draco could feel anger pulsing off of him.
"Not much. My mother doesn't like to talk about blood traitors," Draco added.
"Blood traitor? Merlin, why does this matter so much to you?" Harry rolled his eyes, annoyed that their conversations always led back to this.
"Tradition is important to my parents," Draco shrugged, resting his hands on his stomach, staring at the artificial sky.
He had overheard endless talks from his parents and their friends about the sanctity of Wizarding magic. Their fear rested in the fact that if Magic became too muddled, it could disappear forever. The sacred twenty-eight, (well, not so much the Weasleys) had dedicated themselves to making sure magic would remain in their core for generations to come. Draco knew when it was time, he would be forced to choose an offspring of one of these families, and deliver an heir It was expected of him; Draco had accepted his fate long ago.
Draco felt a brief jolt of pressure as Harry nudged him in the arm. The bandage was still wrapped tightly around him, hiding the gash that was fading slowly. He turned to look at Harry.
"I know he killed. I know he's on the run," Draco whispered.
I know he knew your father, ran across Draco's mind, but he bit his lip. Harry had a nasty habit of running headfirst into danger. Draco had witnessed him running directly towards a troll their first year. Of course, it was to save Granger, one of his chosen. Malfoy could practically see Harry jumping out of his sleeping bag, barefoot and in his Gryffindor pyjamas, running out of the hall towards Black.
No, that would not do. Especially since he seemed to have Harry's attention all to himself for the moment.
"Yes, well I gathered that much myself," Harry muffed.
Draco turned again to face the ceiling.
"Well then, Potter, if you don't need me once again, perhaps I'll just go to sleep."
"No, wait," Harry whispered, grabbing onto Draco's wrist.
Draco shifted, feeling the heat of Harry's hands on his arm, but he didn't pull away.
"Hows your, erm," Harry questioned, rubbing his thumb against the bottom of the fraying bandage.
"You mean my wound from that bloody beast?" Malfoy gritted his teeth. "It's fine." The pain was tolerable as one of Madame Pomfreys potions had finally breached the pus-covered incision. The soft caress of Harry's thumb wasn't displeasing either.
"Good," Harry acknowledged. "Are you excited about the match?"
"I'm excited to beat you, if that's what you mean," Draco laughed snidely.
"In your dreams, Malfoy," Harry chuckled.
The boys discussed Quidditch, brooms, their favorite competitive teams well into the night. At some point, Harry had let go of Draco's wrist, but his hand remained pressed against him, knuckle to knuckle.
It wasn't until three in the morning, when Dumbledore came in, that both boys closed their eyes and pretended to be asleep. Harry heard the Headmaster discussing the search findings with Percy and Snape, listening attentively as Snape expressed his concerns about Blacks entrance into Hogwarts. When Dumbledore left the hall, Harry glanced quickly to his left. Draco's eyes remained closed, his breathing steady, the stars above reflecting across his pale skin.
Harry glanced sideways at Ron and Hermione. Both of them had their eyes open too, reflecting the starry ceiling. "What was that about?" Ron mouthed. - Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, JK Rowling
--
Draco had felt terrible when Madame Pomfrey still hadn't cleared him for flying by the weekend. Flint had marched right up to the medical wing during his latest visit, yelling about forfeiting their first match of the year, until he saw the unwrapped arm of his star Seeker.
The skin below his bandage was shriveled and pale, almost translucent, except for an angry welt twisting from his elbow to his wrist. Malfoy clenched his teeth as drops of potion sizzled on the infection, burning off patches of bubbly black puss.
"He has at least one more week of treatment, Marcus." Madame Pomfrey stated as she applied more potion. Draco pinched his eyes closed, unable to watch as chunks of his arm seemed to crumble off.
"I'll speak to the Headmaster about moving the schedule around," she offered. "No forfeiting will be necessary."
Flint seemed relieved, but Draco was furious. He wanted to be back in the air, back on the broom, back chasing the snitch with Potter. Against Potter, he corrected himself. The Gryffindor/Slytherin game was the most important one of the year, and Draco had been practicing all summer for this. It's not as if I had anything else to do, Draco reminded himself glumly as he thought back to those empty hot months, flying alone above the grounds of Malfoy Manor.
--
Malfoy assumed he'd be thrilled that those insufferable Gryffindors finally lost a game. The rain was pouring down, whipping around all of the students that gathered in the stands. It hadn't infiltrated the trio's umbrella, but Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle were still freezing, eyes watching the brooms and bodies collide throughout the game.
Draco couldn't take his eyes off of Harry; he was soaked within minutes of entering the field, his scarlet robes clinging to narrow frame. Harry's hair, which usually stood with wild abandon, was plastered against his cheeks. Hermione had spelled his glasses dry during a time-out, allowing Draco to follow unencumbered emerald green throughout the field. Thunder clapped and lightning forked around them as Draco murmured small prayers that the game would end quickly.
His breath caught in his throat as he watched Harry's hands slip, sliding haphazardly against the drenched broomstick.
"NO!" Malfoy screamed, his voice pounding through the rain. He ran out from underneath the umbrella towards the dark body that was careening towards the ground floor.
It was then that Malfoy felt the Dementors.
His mouth was agape as hundreds of them appeared, sliding freely through the freezing water. Draco felt the emptiness starting in his toes and rising upwards as emotions of fear, loss, and ache drained out of him. The empty feeling was almost a relief as he watched Harry, the Boy who Lived, fall surely to his death.