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Draco swung violently between a desperate, drowning cling to life, and crushing, suicidal despair. They fueled one another. In the Room of Hidden Things he worked on the cabinet until he all but passed out from exhaustion because he’d gotten so close to jumping off the Astronomy tower that morning, so close to the real thing and realized he didn’t want it, was too scared of it after all.
But each time he failed, each time the impossibility of his task loomed before him and he had a moment of clarity, of Salazar, what have I done, who else will I hurt to save my own skin, he contemplated his wand, his potion kit, the bedsheets, the lake, wondering which would be easiest.
He wondered if Potter would forgive him or condemn him, after they, the proverbial they, found his body and everything that would be dragged with it into the light. The cabinet, the necklace, the poison, the plan. He wondered if it was Potter who would find him. Potter, who seemed to be around every corner, watching him, waiting for him to mess up.
They’d always been at each other’s throats at the drop of a hat, but this year, like everything else, that had changed. His hatred of Potter had evaporated, leaving him to wonder what had fueled it in the first place. Boredom?
It had begun with some childish desire to be friends, he had realized that long ago, but the hatred had grown roots and clung to him for far too long, had informed too many of his decisions. Now he just felt sick every time he saw the black hair, the stupid scar, Potter’s eyes cutting to him whenever they were within glaring distance of one another.
Sometimes he dreamed about them. Draco would run, legs like rubber, and feel like he was suffocating as spells missed him by inches. Sometimes the Dark Lord’s green, killing light surrounded him and morphed into Potter’s eyes.
Once, when dreaming about receiving the Dementor’s Kiss, the Dementor’s foul, gaping mouth, clamped over his, had morphed into Potter’s lips. The shackles keeping him in place for the ultimate punishment became Potter’s hands, curled gently around his shoulders. He’d woken up into a horrible mixture of terror and lust.
Potter had been following him. He’d have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to notice; he could think of handfuls of adjectives to describe the “Golden Boy,” (idiotic, self-absorbed, arrogant, reckless—) but stealthy was not one of them. He always knew when Potter was around, could feel him on the air like the irritating buzz of some bespectacled, deluded insect. And Potter always seemed to know where he was, as though he’d grown some new, Draco-related instinct.
It was in the back of his mind, Potter always knew where he was.
Katie Bell was back. Draco had walked into the Great Hall, and for the space of a heartbeat he’d felt relief. He had no illusions about his allegiances; if Katie had faced him on the battlefield he’d have no qualms about fighting her, about killing her if necessary. But this was not a battlefield, and he hadn’t hurt her in a fair fight. Hogwarts was not a battlefield. Not yet, anyway, supplied the small, biting voice inside his head.
He’d become a dangerous, inept creature backed into a corner: striking at random, both desperate for freedom, and slowly realizing its impossibility.
Katie had seen him and his entire body had gone numb with fear. She remembered. She would tell, and they would find everything. It was all over, he’d been caught, he had failed. The Dark Lord would kill his parents, would take everything from him. Draco would be sent to Azkaban, would maybe even get the Dementor’s Kiss. He felt it closing in on him, the end of it all, even as he stumbled out of the Great Hall. One taped-off and ignored section of his brain was shouting that Potter had seen him, that Potter would follow him, that Potter, Potter, Potter—
But he couldn’t hear it over the blood pounding in his ears. He feet carried him to the always empty bathroom on the sixth floor and he stumbled through the door. He pulled off his jumper and gripped the edges of the sink, sure he would tip forward and shatter. His hands were shaking. His face was ghostly white, might already be dead if not for the red rimmed eyes and cold sweat, and Merlin he hated that reflection, hated that he occupied it. There had been a time when he thought he was so damn lucky to be himself, to be a Malfoy. That he deserved it all—the manor, the wealth, the friends, the infamy—because of his blood and his right to rule.
Look where it had gotten him. He deserved this too, he knew. More than he’d ever deserved any of the rest. He sunk lower, into the well of self-loathing that was always there, just under the surface.
—pathetic, less than human, don’t deserve death, not after all of this, can’t even do this right, so damn cocky, deserve every kind of humiliation—
He needed out. An escape. It didn’t matter the cost, didn’t matter what it took. He was done, he could not do it anymore. All those years of being a Malfoy, of being told he was the best, all they had done was build him up impossibly high and now he was falling, crashing, plummeting to meet that voice.
There was a rushing in his ears, his head felt like it was on fire, eyes streaming, wand in his hand before he realized what he was doing. There was a list of spells running alongside the insults, spells that cut and burned. He pulled up his left sleeve to stare at the dark mark. He was so pale it almost leapt off the skin.
It struck him how stupid it had been to assume that it would be painless, when the time came. Stupid to debate with himself over the merits of hanging versus drowning, when all along he should have known it would be this, crying like a child in a bathroom, ready to rip his veins out if it meant he would be rid of the mark. Rid of himself.
Because surely Katy Bell had told someone. If she hadn’t, she would. And if she didn’t, Potter would figure it out, or McGonagall, or Dumbledore. Or they would just kill him.
Or he would succeed.
Sometimes in those first, startling, honest moments after waking up he realized it was his greatest fear. What if he succeeded? What if he killed Dumbledore, he allowed the Death Eaters to kill students and teachers, he allowed the insanity to continue because he was too cowardly to do what needed to be done.
But his mother, his friends—
He couldn’t think about them right now. They’d be better off without him. Because the fact of the matter was, his existence was a problem. Any way he turned someone died, someone better than him.
Diffindo, diffindo, diffindo—
“Diffindo,” he whispered, voice shaking and still too loud in his ears, and a pink line appeared down the center of the mark. Barely a scratch.
—Useless, can’t even do this right—
“Diffindo,” he said, voice stronger, and this time it hurt, this time there was blood. He gasped and clenched his jaw shut as it began to spill over the his arm, began to cover the mark—
“No!”
He spun around, arm shaking, red smearing across his clothes and the sink.
Potter stood in the doorway, arm held out like he might be able to stop what Draco had already done.
“What are you doing?!” Potter shouted, like it wasn’t perfectly obvious. His face was drawn in horror, and some remnant of Draco’s eleven year old self wanted to smirk. Paying attention now, Potter?
“Get out,” Draco said.
Potter just stood there, staring at his arm and the spot on the floor where blood was plinking into a small puddle. It wasn’t enough, not yet. Draco raised his wand, this time at Potter.
Potter dove out of the way just in time—a stall behind him exploded.
Draco’s aim was wildly off, the pain in his arm was making his vision go spotty. He sent another curse as quick as the first, a crack echoing around the room. But Potter was just as quick, and Draco leapt out of the way just before the sink he’d been bleeding all over cracked and sent water shooting everywhere.
He sent another curse flying from where he crouched.
“Malfoy! Stop!”
“Shut up, Potter!”
Potter’s spell missed him by inches and he recognized the color and heat of it. Expelliarmus. Even if it hit him it wouldn’t do any damage. Damn Gryffindors with their stupid hero complexes, their inability to do what needed to be done.
He jumped up, jaw clenched.
“Crucio!”
Potter ducked, but the shock and fury was plain on his face. He pointed his wand at Draco.
“Sectum—”
Draco dropped his wand. It clattered on the stone floor and he made no move to pick it up.
Maybe it would be better if Potter did it. The Dark Lord couldn’t fault him for it then, and Potter wouldn’t be cruel. He never had been. But Potter didn’t finish his spell.
He lowered his wand and held up a hand, approaching slowly like Draco might bite. He didn’t. Part of his arm had started to clot, but the deepest part of the wound still bled freely. He watched the blood pool on the floor, mixing with the water from the broken pipes, dissipating into nothing. Maybe that’s what it would feel like, just a slow, slip away…
“Malfoy!”
Potter caught him before his head hit the stone floor. He was breathing quickly, panicking, Draco sprawled across his knees as he examined his wound on his arm. He swore hurriedly.
“Damn it all, what is it, what’s the spell—Malfoy you absolute idiot, why the hell would you do this—?”
Draco mumbled around his own, ragged breathing—stop—just leave it—please Potter—
“Shut up,” Potter snapped, and took a deep, calming breath. He ran his wand over Draco’s arm a few times, muttering incantations that Draco vaguely remembered from his mother’s brief healing lessons. The cut knitted itself sloppily back together, blood still welling at the edges.
Potter swore again. “M’sorry, I’m crap at healing spells.” Why did he care? Why couldn’t he just let Draco go?
Potter got an arm around Draco’s back and tried to lift him.
“Do you think you can walk? We need to get you to the hospital wing.”
“No!” he shouted. He grabbed Potter’s shirt and tugged him closer. His stupid, beautiful eyes swam in Draco’s vision.
If he went to the hospital wing, there would be a record. Even if somehow Pomfrey didn’t tell Dumbledore, and even if somehow Dumbledore didn’t owl his parents, there was no telling who might find out.
—so useless, can’t even kill yourself properly, why even try, just let Him do it for you—
But the Dark Lord wouldn’t just AK him and be done with it, no, he’d promised him to Greyback, he’d promised an excruciating, degrading death. And his mother would never stand by and let it happen, which means she would die too. Hell, even if Draco succeeded in becoming a bloody corpse on the bathroom floor and the Dark Lord found out it was by his own wand, she might be killed anyway.
It was too much, an impossible loop that was winding its way around his neck. He couldn’t get out of it.
He realized he was muttering no, no, no, under his breath, and Potter was muttering back, peering into his eyes, one trembling hand on his face.
“It’s alright, Malfoy, it’ll be alright, you’ll be okay. I’ll—I’ll make sure of it.”
He tried to lift Draco bodily off the floor before apparently remembering that magic existed. He waved his wand silently and Draco felt suddenly lighter, almost buoyant. Potter got an arm around his waist and steered him toward the door. The world was losing color. Potter’s hand gripped him tightly.
Potter hesitated at the bathroom door, then reached one-handed to his bag that had fallen to the floor in the first moments of their fight. He slung it over his shoulder and with some effort pulled out what looked like an old, faded blanket.
He looked up at Draco. Even with the few inches Draco had on him, their faces were far too close together.
“If you tell anyone about this, I’ll tell everyone about what just happened,” he said, and Merlin, what in hell was he on about? But he unfurled the blanket and threw it over both of their heads. It had gone silvery-transparent and Draco nodded. Potter didn’t want to be seen with him. Or didn’t want others to see the blood that had soaked through both of their clothes.
“‘Course you have one of these,” Draco slurred as they left the bathroom. “‘Splains so much, why you’re, you’re always…”
“Hey!” Potter snapped, and jostled him. “Stay awake, you prat. We’ve got a ways to walk and we have to keep quiet.”
They made their way slowly down the hall. Draco floated above it all, his mind as light as his body, but as they descended the stairs one at at time, he had a moment of clarity.
“Why’re you doing this?” he breathed.
Potter huffed and didn’t answer. His arm was tight around Draco’s waist, and Draco realized that his own arm was slung around Potter’s shoulders, his hand clinging to him of its own accord. He could not remember a time they’d touched like this, not aggressive, not aiming to hurt, but to help. Draco cringed, remembering the way Potter’s nose had crunched under the heel of his shoe that night on the train.
“M’sorry,” he said, barely realizing he was apologizing. “Should have left me there, you hate me, why’re doing this, why can’t you just—”
“Malfoy,” Potter hissed. “If you don’t shut up, I’m going to leave the cloak and just levitate you down the halls in front of everyone.”
Draco stopped talking, his pride stung just imagining it.
Had the castle always been so enormous? It took years to make it down two flights of stairs, an age to make it to the long corridor near the entrance hall. Draco was sure he was dreaming, kept gasping himself back to full consciousness and realizing all over again that Potter was the one holding him. At some point he became aware that he was mumbling again, no control over what he was saying. The words disappeared from his mind the moment they came out of his mouth, and this time Potter wasn’t shushing him.
His vision went white and his head lolled onto Potter’s shoulder.
“Just a bit further, nearly there,” Potter said, and his voice was softer than Draco had ever heard it.
Pomfrey was suddenly in front of him, flapping and fussing, and Draco listened to Potter attempt to explain his ‘accident’ as Pomfrey settled him in a bed and waved her wand over the wound. It sewed itself up properly this time. The blood on his arm was dry and sticky. It had gone rusty brown where it had soaked into his white shirt.
He drank from vials she gave him and the pain disappeared. Air seemed to return to the room, even as he felt himself float up off the bed, though his body hadn’t moved. Somewhere in his addled mind he identified each of the potions—Extract of aloe and juniper, Wiggenweld potion, blood-replenishing potion. Somewhere else in his mind was panicking now that the pain was gone and he remembered that he was still alive and trapped in this mess.
“He’ll have to stay here overnight at least,” Pomfrey was telling Potter, as though she thought he cared. “And the two of you will need to explain all of this to the Headmaster.”
Draco closed his eyes. Dumbledore would tell his parents, of course he would. Maybe they would stick him in St. Mungo’s. Or Dumbledore would figure out everything he’d done and stick him in Azkaban. Except Azkaban was under His control now, and whether by the Kiss, or by Greyback, or by the Dark Lord’s wand, it would mean his death.
He was so very tired…
“Okay,” Potter said to Pomfrey, and Draco’s eyes snapped open. “Can I stay for a moment?”
Pomfrey waved an ambivalent hand. “He’ll be asleep in a few minutes, so there’s not much point.”
She disappeared into her office and Potter stood stiffly next to the bed like he was thinking about sitting on it. After a moment he pulled over a chair.
Draco stared at his bare arm. Pomfrey had spelled off his bloody sleeve and scourgified the rest of his shirt clean. The Dark Mark was prominent, unharmed. It hadn’t even left a scar.
He realized after a moment that Potter was staring at his arm too, and he hurried to shove it under the blankets. He could not identify the look on Potter’s face. He expected disgust but it was more like shock, muted horror, an edge of fear.
Draco had no idea what to say to him. He struggled to sit up straighter, not wanting to be so vulnerable in Potter’s presence.
“You don’t have to stay,” he said, unnecessarily.
“I know.”
“You didn’t have to do anything for me.”
Potter’s eyes narrowed. Pomfrey hadn’t bothered to scourgify his clothes. His sleeves and the front of his shirt and trousers were streaked with Draco’s blood.
“Of course I did, you were bleeding out.”
“Which was none of your concern.”
“Why can’t you shut up and accept that I just saved your life?” Potter’s voice had an edge to it.
Draco rolled his eyes. “Of course that’s what a Gryffindor would get from this. Congratulations, another life saved.”
Potter folded his arms tightly.
“Fine, take the Slytherin view of it then, if I stood back and did nothing while you died I would be in trouble. They might even say I killed you.”
“Why didn’t you?” Draco’s head swam.
Potter looked shocked. His arms folded somehow tighter, like he was trying to reign himself in. “Why didn’t I kill you? What the hell is wrong with you? Is that really where your head’s at right now?”
“You could have. You should have.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You hate me.”
Draco didn’t know why he was saying these things. His tongue had taken on a mind of its own. The combination of potions made him feel warm and far too comfortable, like he was drinking butterbeer by the fire.
Potter just stared at him, not confirming or denying.
Draco cleared his throat, felt like his mouth was full of cotton. He realized for the first time that they were completely alone.
“I tried to crucio you—”
“Because you wanted me to hurt you, because you’re suicidal.”
That word sounded too loud in the otherwise silent hospital wing, reverberating around them. Potter seemed strangely affected by it. He took a shuddering breath and put his head in his hands.
“I almost did,” he said into his palms. “I almost—I don’t know what I was going to do.”
“I’ve done other things,” Draco said. He’d done things Potter wouldn’t be able to forgive him for. “I’ve hurt people. I almost killed your chaser. I almost killed your—I poisoned the weasel.”
“I know.” Potter didn’t even look up. Draco stared at him. His hair was everywhere, a stray lock was glued into a point with Draco’s dried blood.
“Then why haven’t you gone to Dumbledore?”
Potter looked at him then, his face a bit red. “You think I haven’t? Believe me, I’ve told anyone who will listen that you’ve taken the Dark Mark, that you’re planning something, that you’re dangerous, but they all just keep telling me I’m wrong, that I’m the one whose gone nutty, that I’m obsessed with you and need to just leave it be.”
His face went even redder.
Draco didn’t know what to do with the thrill in his stomach. It quickly soured to smug satisfaction, then to anger, fear, bitterness. It didn’t matter what Potter meant. The days he’d once thought he would make it out of this unharmed were long gone. This would end with one of them dead, and, though he’d never say it, Draco would prefer it be himself. He shoved his left arm under Potter’s nose.
“Then it's a perfect time to compile evidence.”
Potter stared at the Mark.
Draco didn’t want to talk anymore. He leaned his head back against the wall, the force of his little outburst draining his remaining energy. Potter, however, was vibrating with it.
“Why didn’t you come to me, you idiot? Or Dumbledore? Or McGonagall?” What was Potter on about?
He closed his eyes. “Why on earth would I do that?”
Potter lowered his voice and Draco could feel him lean closer, as though they might be overheard in this empty room. “You told me in the hallway that you wanted out. That much is clear from what you tried to do, but you have to know that’s not your only option. You have other ways out of this.”
“I certainly did not tell you that, and I certainly don’t feel that way.”
Potter groaned in frustration and leaned away from him.
“And people say Gryffindors are stubborn.”
A moment later he snapped his fingers in front of Draco’s face and Draco opened his eyes automatically.
“Look at me,” Potter said. “I can help you. We can talk to Dumbledore together. He’ll understand, and he’ll know what to do.” He leaned towards Draco again, intensity all over his face. Draco had seen that look before, on the Quidditch pitch, in DADA classes, periodically aimed at Ginny Weasley.
“You’re too good,” Draco said, and promptly fell asleep.
—
Harry left the hospital wing, baffled by what Malfoy had just said. He was too good? Too good to help him or just too good in general? Was it a jab? An insult? He couldn’t think of a single time before today that Malfoy had ever said something nice about him.
And then there were the other things, the things Malfoy had mumbled, his soft breath on Harry’s ear as he’d stumbled down the halls—they played on repeat. Harry couldn’t turn them off. Every few minutes he would remember the things he’d said and he’d feel like the floor had dropped away.
It’s always you, Potter, always you, even in my dreams. You hate me but I don’t hate you, not anymore. I dunno what happened, but I don’t.
He cast a quick scourgify on himself in the corridor outside the common room, but the blood had been dry for awhile, and he wasn’t particularly good at scourgify. His sleeves were still blotched with rusty-pink stains. Instead, he pulled his jumper out of his bag and hoped it would hide the worst of it.
Ron and Hermione were waiting for him by the fire. They’d seen him rush out of the Great Hall after Malfoy. He shrugged and lied the best he could; Malfoy had gone down to the Slytherin dungeons, and Harry had gone back up to try to break into the Room of Requirement to no avail.
It was clear from the way they glanced at each other that they knew something was wrong, but neither of them pressed the issue. This, in itself, ignited the Malfoy-is-up-to-something-and-no-one-will-listen frustration that had become so familiar. Did they think they knew what had happened? Did they think they knew better than him? Did they think they knew what Malfoy was going through?
Did Harry even know what Malfoy was going through? Sure, he’d watched Malfoy’s slow progression from the snobbish show-off he’d always been, to the silent, brooding ghost he’d become. It had never occurred to him to be concerned about Malfoy’s wellbeing—whatever happened to him he would have brought upon himself the moment he’d taken the Dark Mark.
But Harry had seen Voldemort living in Malfoy Manor, torturing his father, screaming at his supporters. How much of a choice had Malfoy had in the matter? He was living in the manor with Voldemort, could he really have refused the madman anything he wanted? Perhaps he could have said no to the Mark and to whatever mission Voldemort had given him, but there was no way he would survive the refusal.
Harry was too distracted to study, or to follow Ron and Hermione’s conversation, and he disappeared upstairs as early as he felt he could get away with.
Maybe I should let him kill me, Malfoy had said. Doesn’t matter if it’s Greyback or the Dark Lord or you, Potter. The outcome is the same. Maybe I should. It’s an out. I just want out.
Harry sat in the dorm window and watched the last light of the day disappear over the mountains.
I’m so selfish, Potter, I am. You’re right about me. You always have been.
He took out the map and watched Malfoy’s familiar dot, unmoving in the hospital wing. If he died, the dot would disappear.
I dream about you, he had said, and Harry told himself it didn’t mean what he thought it meant. Why had his mind even gone there? Why was his mind still going there? He shook his head. If it wasn’t like that, then what had Malfoy meant? In what way did Harry show up in his dreams? And if it was like that…
He tried to turn his brain off, but the thought slipped through like a whisper—what was it like?
He cringed with renewed embarrassment that he’d told Malfoy he was ‘obsessed’ with him. Surely that wasn’t what Hermione had meant when she’d said it. Maybe Malfoy wouldn’t remember it, hopped up on all the healing potions Pomfrey had given him. Or maybe he would remember it and lord it over Harry until the end of time.
Had he been serious about his offer to help him? Of course he had. But now the thought of advocating for Malfoy, of the looks on Ron and Hermione’s faces as he attempted to explain it all made his stomach burn.
He stripped off the sweater and looked at the remnants of Malfoy’s blood on his shirt. Malfoy was desperate and alone. His face when he’d turned around in the bathroom, tears running down his face, hair messed up, blood gushing from his arm… It didn’t matter what anyone thought, Harry had to try to help someone who felt that way, even it was Malfoy.
Especially if it was Malfoy, because he suspected he was the only one who would. And also because, well—his stomach thrilled sickeningly—he dreamed about Malfoy too. He dreamed they were playing quidditch, just the two of them, battling it out on the pitch. He dreamed about the night Malfoy had broken his nose, the hatred in his face. He dreamed about following after Malfoy, always a few steps behind him, never able to catch up.
It’s always you, Potter.
He laid down but sleep wouldn’t come, his mind too busy racing with everything that had happened. It seemed impossible that just a few hours ago his thoughts were full of horcruxes, vague plans to break up Ginny and Dean, and, overwhelmingly, his certainty of Malfoy’s guilt.
And now? Now everything felt a thousand times more complicated. Malfoy hadn’t looked like he could hurt anyone, not really. Whatever Voldemort was making him do, he wouldn’t be able to accomplish it. Which meant that Voldemort would kill him. Harry was suddenly absolutely sure: he wasn’t going to let that happen.
I dream about you.
He brought out the map again and watched Malfoy’s dot for what felt like hours, turning it all over in his head.
The little name was unmoving, until suddenly it wasn’t.
—
Draco needed to get out. They would be coming for him come morning, Dumbledore, Pomfrey, Potter, maybe even the Ministry. Potter had seen the Dark Mark, so had Pomfrey. How could he have been so stupid? He paced the length of the hospital wing, blinking quickly, hands twitching. The combination of potions Pomfrey had given him was still making him see spots, still making him tired, but his anxiety had won over his need for sleep.
Something creaked and he spun around, but the door was shut. Nothing was there. He kept pacing. He didn’t need paranoia on top of his lightheadedness and mounting panic.
I can help you, Potter had said. But Potter was an idiot. There was nothing he could do to help Draco, there never had been.
He had to leave before they could stop him. Where would he go? It didn’t matter, he would figure that out later. Right now he had to get his things and stop the room from spinning. Perhaps he could summon his trunk from his dorm? Perhaps he could steal some pepper-up potion from Pomfrey’s stock?
Before he could attempt either, Potter appeared out of nowhere, right in front of him, and Draco jumped.
“Sorry,” Potter whispered, throwing off his invisibility cloak, and Draco had the absurd impulse to laugh. Potter was still wearing his blood stains. Why on earth hadn’t he changed?
He had a sudden, inexplicable fantasy about the two of them running away together—the beloved golden boy of the Order of the Phoenix and the total fuck-up of the Death Eaters. They could go to America or maybe South Africa, just step neatly out of the war, continue peacefully hating each other on a new continent.
“What are you doing?” Potter said, and the bizarre fantasy shattered.
“What are you doing, Potter?” He crossed his arms tightly around himself, self-conscious of his bare feet and messy hair.
“I felt like you were about to do something stupid.” Potter bundled the invisibility cloak under one arm and gave him a challenging look.
“So you’re a long-distance legilimens now?”
“So you were going to do something stupid?”
Draco rolled his eyes and started pacing again, back and forth in front of Potter, trying not to look at him. Potter was looking at him though, seemingly fascinated by his bed-head. “I said nothing of the sort, Potter, I’m merely stretching my legs.”
“Okay then, swear to me that you won’t try to hurt yourself again.”
Draco snorted. “Didn’t think you’d be one to trust the word of a Slytherin.”
Potter shrugged and put his hands in his pockets like they’d started nothing more than a casual conversation.
“Eh, maybe one or two. I quite like Tonks’ mum, and Slughorn was a Slytherin, so you can’t be all bad. You’re right though, definitely can’t trust you.”
There was something light in his voice, a hidden smile.
“So what’s the point of making a promise you won’t believe, and I won’t keep?” Draco said, loftily.
Potter’s eyebrows knit together. He looked almost hurt.
“Why do you want to die?” He said it quietly, seriously, but Draco shrugged it off.
“I don’t, particularly. But at this point my death is the most convenient outcome for everyone. Including you, I’m sure. How much time have you wasted this year being ‘obsessed’ with me, as you put it earlier?”
Even in the moonlight Draco could see Potter flush red. At the same time, though, his eyes went steely.
“And you think that’ll change if you’re dead?” he said. The moonlight glinted off his glasses. “If I can’t stop you from doing this I’ll never forgive myself, I’ll obsess about it for the rest of my life.”
“Not exactly a compelling argument against,” he muttered. Potter glared, hands in his pockets going rigid. “So what, I’m supposed to stay alive, battle my way through this mess, watch people I care about die, so you won’t feel bad?”
“I told you I would help you, and I meant it. Dumbledore will understand, he’ll be able to protect you and your mum, whoever.” He paused, and looked a bit shifty, glancing at Draco’s bare feet, then back up at his face. “Your girlfriend too, if you’d like.”
Draco raised an eyebrow. “Girlfriend?”
Potter watched him. “Aren’t you and Parkinson…?”
Draco laughed and stopped pacing, coming to a halt a few paces away from where Potter was watching him more intensely than he thought the light turn of the conversation warranted.
Of all the topics Potter could have stumbled upon. Any other time Draco would avoid it more adamantly than talk of his Dark Mark, but now he was leaving. One way or another, he would never see Potter again. What did it matter? What did any of it matter anymore?
“Believe me, my parents dearly wish I would date Pansy. Or any Pureblood girl, really. Or show any modicum of interest in girls at all.”
Draco thought he’d been a little heavy with the implication, but it still took a moment to dawn on Potter’s face. He stared at him, wide-eyed. Draco smirked, happy he could at least scandalize someone without potentially dying for his efforts.
But Potter recovered rather quicker than he’d expected. “Fine, a boyfriend then?”
Draco shook his head, remembering what they were talking about.
“Look, it doesn’t matter who,” Potter said. “Dumbledore, the Order, they’ll—”
“What about you?” Draco said, unable to stop himself.
Potter went red again. “W-what?”
He shrugged. “Is it the boy-Weasel or the girl-Weasel?”
“Don’t call them that,” Potter snapped automatically, then looked at the floor. “And that’s a ridiculous question. Ron’s my best friend, and Ginny…Ginny’s got Dean. And you’re just trying to change the subject.”
It wasn’t a yes or no in either direction. Draco resumed his pacing, trying to be nonchalant, though his pulse had sky-rocketed with the continuation of this conversation. “Thomas, huh? He’s quite fit, I suppose.”
“Everyone seems to think so, yes,” Potter said, sourly.
Draco rolled his eyes, then couldn’t help but shoot Potter a smoldering look through his eyelashes. “Don’t worry, Scarhead, you’re a bit alright yourself.”
Potter stared at him, a bit slack-jawed. It took him a moment to recover. “I—I can’t tell if you’re taking the piss or not.”
Draco smirked. “Good.” He checked his watch, trying not to let himself blush. It was going on two in the morning. “Not that this line of questioning isn’t fascinating, Potter, but I have to be going now.”
“You’re not leaving,” Potter shook his head, eyes wide behind his glasses. “Not when I don’t trust you not to hurt yourself, and not when you have another option.”
“Are you going to stop me?” Draco said. He could have flirted a bit, he supposed, tried to make Potter squirm, but it didn’t come out that way. It came out quiet and deathly serious.
“If I have to,” Potter said, and squared his shoulders. His seeker’s shoulders, well-shaped but rather narrow, made for speed, not strength.
Draco wanted to laugh, but there was really nothing funny about it.
“Where are you even going to go?” Potter said, taking a step forward. “You know you won’t last a week out there with him after you. You won’t be able to use magic without having them track you, and I can’t imagine you know a thing about surviving in the muggle world.”
Draco took a step forward as well. The door to the hospital wing wasn’t far, but Potter was fast, and Draco was still healing.
He sighed like it was no big deal. In a way, it wasn’t. Some cold part of him had long accepted that. “Either I’ll figure it out on my way out of the castle, or I’ll pitch myself off the Astronomy tower. Either way, I’m gone.”
“Don’t joke about that.” Potter glared at him.
He took another step forward and felt his ironic coolness abandon him. “I’m not joking, alright.” He looked down at his bare feet, only another step or two from Potter’s dirty trainers. “Look, I—I appreciate what you did earlier, I do. You were right, that was pathetic, that was no way to do it properly. I would have regretted what everyone thought of me. This is better.”
“You are being ridiculous,” Potter hissed, eyes flashing.
“Maybe,” Draco says, vaguely, watching Potter’s face. He couldn’t help but smirk. Potter practically crackled with tension and energy. “You’re never going to see me again, Potter, so if you want to hit me, now’s the time.”
Potter’s scowl deepened. “I don’t want to hit you, you idiot, I want to make you stay here and not let you do anything stupid.”
“And how are you going to do that?” Draco knew he was goading him, but he couldn’t help it. One way or another, he was going out the hospital wing door. Might as well start the process now. He walked toward Potter with purpose, keeping their eyes locked, and Potter stared back, his scowl morphing into something like awe, mouth half open like he might answer.
Draco wasn’t sure what his plan was here, he was making it up as he went along. He stopped, bare toes touching Potter’s trainers, their noses inches apart.
“How are you going to stop me?” Draco said, very quietly. Potter blinked, looked entirely overwhelmed. Draco leaned in a bit, just to see what would happen, just to give Potter something to think about. He was never going to see him again, and in these last moments he felt the rules that had always existed between them evaporating. Potter swayed a bit where he stood, eyes going impossibly wider, breath hitching—
—And Draco stepped smoothly away, sliding past him.
Potter spluttered for a moment behind him.
“Malfoy!”
Potter’s hand clamped around his arm but Draco threw it off, walking purposefully towards the door. He needed shoes—another thing he could summon?
“Hey!”
He refused to acknowledge the slap of Potter’s trainers as he ran up behind him. Until, of course, Potter slammed into him with the force of a bludger, and sent him sprawling on the floor. He had apparently underestimated the impact of those bony shoulders.
“Merlin’s beard, what is the matter with you—?!” he shouted, but Potter landed heavily on top of him and he yelped as an elbow sank into his back.
Draco tried to jump up and away, but Potter grabbed his shoulders, legs scrabbling to catch on the floor. Draco flung his arms every which way, trying to turn onto his back, trying dislodge him, but Potter got an arm halfway around his shoulders and pinned one of his legs to the ground.
“Stupid Gryffindor,” Draco grunted, trying to shove him away. “Can’t handle things diplomatically to save your life, can you—?”
He managed to flip himself onto his back, but his shoving only succeeded in opening space for Potter—who didn’t seem to care about being smacked in the face by flailing limbs—to pin down his shoulders. He locked his legs around Draco’s thighs and tried to hold him still.
“We’ve been through all the talking options,” Potter growled at him, “and you don’t listen, you arse.”
Potter was smaller than him—he could probably throw him off if he wanted to, if he really tried. He scrabbled at Potter’s forearms and bared his teeth, as though this would help. Potter rolled his eyes and leaned down harder.
“Would you cut it out!?”
But Draco hated feeling like a caged animal, like his choice was being made for him. He let go of Potter’s arm and smacked him across the face. Potter stilled and blinked in shock.
“You’ll have to kill me if you want to win this,” Draco said, and there was a bite to his voice, angry with rising desperation. “Because I’m not giving up. I’m leaving here, and there’s nothing short of AK that you can do to make me stay.”
“Well I don’t accept that!” Potter shouted, his jaw red from the slap, hands tightening on his shoulders. “I’m sorry that I assumed so much and didn’t try to think about what your life is like right now, but…I was wrong about you.” He looked a bit shocked at the words, and Draco wanted one of those stupid little muggle image-capturing devices so he could look at that wide-eyed face forever.
“You weren’t,” he said. “You weren’t wrong, I’m a bloody Death Eater, Potter.”
But Potter shook his head. “I always thought you’d do anything to save your own skin—”
“That’s the thing, Potter, I would.”
“But you couldn’t really hurt Katy or Ron, because you didn’t really want to. You know how closely I’ve been watching you, you think I don’t know what you’re capable of if you put your mind to something? Whatever you’re up to, if you really wanted to succeed, you would.”
“I don’t know what you’re playing at, Potter, but I’m not this person you seem to think I am.”
“I finally see you,” Potter said. His eyes were crazed but Merlin, that look could level a city, and Draco couldn’t think of a better way to spend his last night in Britain, possibly in the world, than lying on a cold stone with Harry Potter on top of him. Draco’s breath hitched, trying not to think too much about it.
Potter leaned down just slightly, that reckless intensity back on his face. “What if I told you that right now, I would go with you anywhere you wanted to take me. If you took me straight to Voldemort, I wouldn’t stop you,” he said, and somehow Draco knew this would be true. Potter played Quidditch like a gambler, sacrificing almost anything—his body, his sanity, his bloody right arm—if he thought it would help him win.
“What would you do?” he said.
Draco thought about it. Somehow it had never really occurred to him. What if he just brought Potter to the Dark Lord? Potter would die, of course, perhaps in a painless instant, or in a horrible, drawn out spectacle, and then it would all be over. The take-over would commence in earnest, the Dark Lord would have control over the Ministry and would turn his gaze on the wider, Muggle world.
And Potter would die. Harry Potter would die having trusted Draco, having been utterly betrayed by him. Because Potter was an idiot. But, then, so was Draco.
He looked up at Potter, hovering over him, still tense, arms propped up against Draco’s shoulders. “Why are you doing this?” he said softly.
Potter’s jaw slackened a bit. It wasn’t often that his Gryffindor bravado was questioned.
“I—” Potter’s face suddenly flared red as he looked at Draco, seeming to realize the intimacy of their position. But he took a deep breath and leaned down further, eyes going steely as though unwilling to lose a bet with himself. “The things I’ve been wrong about in the past have gotten people hurt, and that could have happened again. And it would have been my fault again.”
Potter was so close. There were specks of brown in his eyes. He had Draco’s shoulders pinned to the floor but Draco’s arms were free. One of his hands was wrapped around Potter’s wrist like it might try to shove him away. The other wasn’t sure what it was doing, hovering in the curve of Potter’s neck, thumb over the pulse of his throat. Potter’s heartbeat was still elevated from their fight, thumping and not slowing down, and his eyes were roving all over Draco’s face, daring him to disagree with his words, with the look on his face, with whatever was happening right now.
In a final moment of recklessness—feeling like he was throwing everything of himself into a void, even more so than when he’d had his wand over his wrist or when he’d leaned so far out over the Astronomy tower he nearly lost his grip—he slid his hand to the back of Potter’s neck and pulled their mouths together. Potter seemed to lose his hold on Draco’s shoulders, bringing them even closer as he fell onto his forearms in shock.
Draco kissed him slowly, hand roaming lightly over his neck, his jaw, his hair, not even looking for a reaction. It didn’t matter. None of it did. This was the last time Potter would ever see him, so why not. He would either hate Draco and let him leave, or…not. And that was enough. Potter had gone completely rigid above him, lips pressed tight and quivering.
Except there was a third option, wasn’t there. He’d said it himself: Potter was too good. He wouldn’t let Draco go just because he didn’t want to kiss him, he would get all apologetic, he would try and fail to hide pity and disgust, he’d tell him sorry but he just didn’t like boys that way, and Merlin’s beard Draco should have just stunned him the moment he’d showed up in the dark hospital wing to cause trouble, because kind rejection was so much worse than a long walk through the dark.
But Potter gasped and pressed tighter against him, kissed him back open-mouthed and heated, taking control of the kiss like it had been his idea in the first place. Draco wanted to cry for a moment with a feeling like that buoyancy spell, like he was going to float right up off the floor with Potter balanced on top of him.
Draco’s hand tightened in his hair, tongue found its way into his mouth. Potter’s legs squeezed around his hips and he made a little noise in the back of his throat, like his mind had just caught up with his body and realized what was happening. Potter ran a hand through Draco's hair and panted something into his mouth, something that sounded like please, please. Draco’s breath hitched because Merlin that sounded far too much like the things Potter sometimes said to him in his imagination.
Draco stilled, making himself take a breath before he did something unforgivably stupid like grab Potter’s arse or pull off his blood-stained shirt or roll their hips together like his body was begging him to do. He settled his hands safely on Potter’s shoulders. Potter stilled as well, and gently broke the kiss.
“Stay,” Potter said, softly against his mouth. “Please stay. I promise you, I will figure this out.”
Draco rubbed little circles into Potter’s shoulder blades, unable to stop himself. His hands were shaking. So were Potter’s, he could feel them on either side of his face.
“The promise of a Gryffindor, how noble,” Draco said, trying for sarcasm, landing on something a little too sincere.
Potter pulled back and looked at him, examining his face for a moment, trying to read beneath what he’d just said. He leaned back in and gave Draco a long, close-mouthed kiss, then sat up, sliding off of him to sit cross-legged on the floor. Draco joined him, leaning his back up against a bed post and stretching his long legs out next to Potter, whose eyes ran down to his bare feet and up again.
“Quit blushing,” Draco said, his own face bright red as well. Potter looked electrified, full of some quiet, inaccessible energy he didn’t know what to do with. His eyes were all over Draco’s body, like the last little ripple between them had finally smoothed out and he could see him for the first time. It felt like Felix Felicus, being looked at like that.
Draco had taken Felix Felicus just once, on his eleventh birthday, a gift from Bellatrix. Everything felt sunny, heightened, like there were butterflies in every part of his body. To his father’s annoyance Draco had sat out in the garden all day, not particularly interested in talking to his family members gathered in the parlor, or in the cakes that were too sweet, or in the racing broom that went too fast and took him too far from home. For once he just wanted to sit, surrounded by color, and exist.
It was before the pressures of Hogwarts, before Bella had plunged headfirst into the void that the Dark Lord had brought back into their lives. It was long before He had moved in, before the garden was full of werewolves, before the parlor was a place of nightmares, curtains forever drawn, house elves never quite able to scrub the blood out of the floor.
Potter blinked and tilted his head, like he could feel the shift in Draco’s thoughts.
“What are you going to do?” Potter said.
Draco swallowed. “You’re asking now, are you? You’re not going to tackle me this time?”
“I think we’ve moved past that,” Potter said, a shyness on his face but not in his voice.
“Oh, have we?” Draco said, grinning shakily, unable to leave it alone. He couldn’t quite gauge Potter’s reaction to what had just happened, needed to prod a little to see what he’d do.
What he did was fix Draco with a look, all the shyness melting away.
“What are you going to do?” he said again.
There was something about being asked, not told, not yelled at, not tackled, that erased all Draco’s previous answers entirely.
“I don’t know,” he said, in their absence. It was like he’d forgotten all of his options, his mind instead filled to the brim with Potter’s face, hands, lips, voice.
“What do you want to do?” Potter said, and Draco had to look away, had to turn off that small wild part of himself that immediately conjured fantasies of Potter saying those words under very different circumstances.
What did he want to do? He didn’t want to go home. He didn’t want to see the Dark Lord ever again. He didn’t want his mother to die. He didn’t want to have to make any more difficult decisions. He didn’t want to die. He wanted to be sixteen.
“I just want to live,” he said after a moment, and he knew Potter understood he meant that he wanted something more than mere survival.
Potter nodded, and hesitated only for a moment before taking his hand. His face was determined. His hand was warm, square, a bit smaller than Draco’s.
“You’re going to live,” he said, like it was an order. Draco considered scoffing at him, but found he didn’t particularly want to. “I’m going to make sure of it.”
Draco had to smirk at that. “Oh yeah? And how are you going to achieve that?” he drawled, as though they weren’t holding hands after kissing on the hospital room floor.
Potter looked him over, then scooted across the stone to sit next to him. Their legs barely touched, hands resting loose on their thighs. He thought it over for a long moment, letting his head rest against the end of the bed, and Draco finally allowed himself to just look at him, to stare at his face in the way he was never allowed to before. His delicate nose, a bit crooked from the break that Draco wanted to apologize for again and again. His disastrous hair that Draco wanted to mess up even more. His sharp jawline that Draco wanted to cut himself on. His red-bitten lips that Draco wanted to kiss and bite even more.
Potter’s eyes fell slowly shut.
“I’ll figure it out,” he said. He smiled slightly and squeezed Draco’s hand. “I always do.”
*