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Harry Potter is a self-sacrificing idiot. Draco should have known that loving Harry would mean worrying about the git every minute of every day. After all, they are fighting a war. No one is safe, least of all Harry. Loving him makes it worse.
But sometimes his love for Harry is the only thing that keeps Draco upright, the crucial difference between him and the Death-Eaters whose mask he wears. It’s what Draco clings to in moments of loneliness and doubt, when he’s disgusted with the things he did and can’t form a clear thought over the screams echoing in his mind.
“Are you sure you are alright, Potter?” Draco can’t not ask.
Harry said the mission was a success, goal accomplished and no injuries, but Draco knows him well enough to recognise the signs. Harry is hiding something.
“Whatever happened to ‘The less I know, the better’?” Harry’s tone is sharp enough to make Draco flinch. He did indeed say that, and Harry didn’t like hearing it, refusing to acknowledge what it means.
“That’s not fair, you know it isn’t. You can’t risk telling me much and I know you hate that—”
“What I hate, Draco, is that you insist on risking your life like that!” Harry goes on yelling, about how much it hurts to never know how much longer Draco will go undetected, if he’ll be there at their next meeting.
As if Draco needs telling. As if Draco doesn’t know, isn’t acutely aware of the thin thread his life hangs on, the danger Harry is on virtue of his name alone. And yet Draco has no more of a choice than Harry does.
This isn’t the first time they fought about this. It won’t be the last, either.
Draco hates it. They get little enough time as it is, he doesn’t want to spend it fighting.
But Harry is furious and Draco is too tired to interrupt him.