Chapter Text
To anyone paying attention, it was pretty clear that something was wrong with Harry Potter. He was isolating himself, claiming to be tired and pulling away from his friends as they started to get back to their normal lives. Or the closest thing that could be counted as normal at least. It was a far cry from how he had been before the final battle, so to anyone paying attention it would have been obvious. If anyone around him were paying attention.
He couldn’t really blame them. He had expected it after all. For his friends to start dating and having less time for him, having their time split between studying for their makeup exams and their new relationship. Both of them just assumed that he was allowing them privacy to be together and figure things out on their own.
Most others gave him a certain amount of distance because of his title as The Chosen One. Treating him like he walked on water at times, and refusing to acknowledge the signs because after everything he’d done, how could Harry Potter possibly be weak, or sick? But he was, and he didn’t know what to do about it. Well, no. He had already tried to do something about it, and no one seemed able to help. Not curse breakers, not healers, not potions masters. Though the potions were certainly helping to ease the pain a bit.
He knocked on the door of the potions classroom, frowning a bit to see the professor wasn’t completely alone but didn’t pay much attention to the visitor for the time, “Pardon me sir… I was wondering if you could get me some more pain relieving potions?” He asked, keeping his voice calm and confident. He knew he was going through them a little too quickly. The ones he was given were supposed to be able to last more than a week, but he needed them. He wasn’t going to spend his last months in pain.
Working with Slughorn was proving to be increasingly difficult. He wondered if this was how the other houses felt with his late Godfather—the favoritism had always been poorly concealed but was somehow even more apparent with the Dark Lord gone. Getting on his good side was in Draco’s best interest, however, and so he continued to try, thankful to be carried a decent way by skill alone. He would need his recommendation if he wanted to secure an apprenticeship despite his surname and that reality alone was sobering enough.
The Malfoy name had always meant something, had always held weight and power no matter its convictions… until Harry Potter.
Harry, the boy who was currently interrupting one of Slughorn’s infamous ramblings.
“Harry, my boy!” Slughorn crowed, quickly moving forward to clap a hand against Harry’s shoulder. His hand slowed before making contact, hesitating in the air as if he thought better of it, and then carefully settled against the notch of his shoulder instead, patting awkwardly. “Err-–yes, I’ve just brewed a batch for Pomfrey…” he trailed off, looking around, and Draco easily saw the excuse for what it was. Harry hadn’t asked for Pomfrey. He had asked for him and Slughorn was a horrid liar.
Slughorn pulled himself away from Harry and excused himself to his supply room.
Draco remained quiet until he was out of earshot, letting his eyes drag over Harry’s form. He hadn’t missed the hesitance in Slughorn’s movements, of course. He hadn’t missed the darkening shadows under Harry’s eyes, either, or the way his body seemed to wilt under the weight of certain movements, uncertain and almost pained.
He had always been a bit… obsessed with Harry and even the war lost to that obsession.
“Potter,” he greeted quietly, eyes finally dragging up and to shadowed features.
Harry, quite frankly, looked like Hell.
He was surprised the prophet hadn’t done a number on it already. He searched his face, the question right there on the tip of his tongue—a question he would never let himself ask. Are you okay?
Instead, he called Slughorn’s bluff.
“What does Pomfrey need another batch for?”
“No idea,” he answered vaguely, shoving his hands into his pockets and leaning against the desk before thinking better of it and walking around to sit in the chair at the front of the room. Draco was staring at him like he was a puzzle to be solved, a look Harry had toward the blond often enough to recognize it. At one point not too long ago he wouldn’t have cared, but now he had something to hide and he shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. Draco was smart, and that much attention wouldn't lead to anything good.
He quietly muttered a spell to glamour his appearance a bit better and looked away from him, “ Probably people dealing with injuries from the war. Lots of people have lasting injuries,” he said, including himself in that but not saying it out right. “Maybe you should help him brew up the pain relievers though, since she’s going through them so quickly.” he suggested because giving him something to do might distract him from trying to figure him out at least.He watched Harry’s movements with a disconcerting eye, lips pressed against a smirk at the way he shifted. He was making Harry uncomfortable. He seemed to have that effect and while it certainly wasn’t the desired one, it would do. It always had before, anyway. Draco shifted, moving so that he could keep his eyes trained on the other. He nodded. Injuries with the war—it would make sense-–if he didn’t have a distinct memory of helping Slughorn bring two cases to the infirmary the day before.
“Of course,” Draco said smoothly, feeling strangely hesitant to call Harry out. “Why else would I be here?”
A lifted brow and he moved to the seat across from Harry.
“I’d say the same,” he drawled, head tilting slightly, “but perhaps we’ve all seen enough explosions.” It was instinct, that. That jab—that slight dig at Harry’s expense. Draco looked him over again, brow creasing. Something seemed different but he couldn’t quite spot it. His eyes returned to Harry’s. “The Chosen One turned Errand Boy,” he said abruptly. “Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” Another taunt, still softer around its edges than years past.
Harry raised an eyebrow in turn as Draco settled across from him, seeming far closer than he should be. He bit his lip slightly and looked away from him, shrugging a bit at the mention of explosions, “I’m pants at potions. That’s why I’m not planning on making a career out of it.” he pointed out to him, unable to keep the small grin off his face at the teasing. Honestly he wasn’t planning on any type of career anymore. If there was still one thing he could rely on with Draco it was the sass he gave, and the slightly antagonistic banter between them. He liked it. It felt normal, and with everything seemingly changing so drastically, it was a welcome relief to him. He laughed a bit at the name and shook his head fondly at him.
He was going to miss this too, he realized. He was going to miss a lot of things. Or maybe not. Who knew what was waiting on him this time? “Errand boy seems like such a waste of my potential. I’ve got all this war knowledge and nothing to do with it now.” he said softly, smiling as he leaned on the table, looking straight into his eyes. Grey and stormy like early morning rain. “I should be an auror still.” Not that he’d really live long enough to get through training. Or even have the strength for it.
His taunts weren’t the only thing muted.
Harry’s replies were, too, more amused than angry, and maybe Draco preferred that. Riling Harry up had always been fun—it always would be—but maybe there was a time and a place… and right now—well, for whatever reason, right now didn’t seem to be either of those. Draco scoffed.
“I’m sure the Ministry will be breaking down your door.” It was the truth—even if Harry was absolute rubbish at defense against the dark arts (which he wasn’t, loathe as Draco was to admit it), his name alone would hold weight. They’d find a place for him, even if it wasn’t in the field, but Draco suspected Harry would insist it would be.
Draco met his eyes with an even gaze of his own and found himself transfixed with bright emerald.
This was the most normal Draco had seen Harry look in a moment and before he could properly consider that, Slughorn returned.
He grinned at Harry and held out his hand, a small pouch settled neatly in his palm.
“Easier to carry,” he winked, passing it toward the Gryffindor.
It also hid the entirety of the packages’ contents, of course, a peculiar fact that Draco filed away for later. Slughorn turned to Draco then, his smile almost instantaneously melting away.
“Thank you sir,” he smiled at him slightly and brushed his hair back, opening the small pouch and taking one of the pain relievers before putting the empty vial back inside, “I’ll be back when I need more,” he told him, standing up again and tucking the pouch into his pocket. If there were any doubts that the potions weren’t for Pomfrey, that was all the confirmation that Draco needed.
“Ah—you. Right—” there was a crease along the teacher's brow as if he were trying to remember why Draco was there and Draco pressed his lips together, hiding a sneer. “I believe we were just about finished, correct?” Slughorn cleared his throat. “Friday, then?”
Draco nodded, straightening.
“Of course, sir,” he muttered. Slughorn wasted little time on him and instead turned to flash Harry a brilliant, sickly sweet sort of smile.
“Get some rest, Harry,” Slughorn said quietly. Draco didn’t miss how his smile softened with the farewell and lingered, easily falling into step with Harry.
Harry held the door for Draco as they left together, walking in silence for a few minutes with his gaze on the floor and his hands in his pockets. He took a deep breath and sighed softly as he glanced at him a moment later.
“Don’t tell anyone about this. Hermoine will have my head if she knows I’m still taking them.” he told him softly, putting his attention back on the path in front of him afterwards. He knew he was acting shady, and with Slughorn treating him like glass, he doubted Draco was just going to overlook it. “I’m fine. It’s just an after effect, no one needs to know about this.”
He had confirmation then. Slughorn seemed unaware. The fact that he was the Head of Slytherin never ceased to amaze Draco. He would mull that over later, though—right then his attentions were directed toward the raven-haired boy beside him. Harry was taking a pain potion. He was hurt and in the dungeons for treatment instead of the infirmary. His movements seemed to stutter at times, features pronounced and shadowed one moment and then less so the next. Pieces began to fit together and Draco began flipping through the catalog of common diagnoses in the back of his mind—until Harry spoke.
He stopped, turning to properly look at the other.
Hermoine didn’t know.
“Secrets, Potter?” he drawled, forehead smoothing. “How very Slytherin of you.” A pause, grey eyes searching green. He weighed the question before letting it slip from his lips: “An after effect of what?”
Harry's step faltered for a second at the question before he huffed a small laugh and shook his head, "yes. Secrets. You know, those things you don't tell anyone." He drawled sarcastically, looking back over at him and rolling his eyes. "Slughorn thinks I'm taking them recreationally, so don't even go off asking him about it." He gave him a serious look, his tone just as firm as his gaze. "I'm not a puzzle and my condition is none of your business so don't even try to figure it out. Just let it go."
It's not like he really expected Harry to answer, to volunteer the information so easily. But he didn't expect him to show his hand to that extent, either. He probably thought he was being clever. Taking precautions. Draco met his firm gaze with an even, unyielding one of his own.
"I imagine Granger would enjoy Slughorn's theory." It was a thinly veiled threat. He knew he could push the issue if he chose - not that it would necessarily yield the results he wanted, of course. 'My condition' was enough for the moment. After effect his arse. His face slipped into an easy smirk and he shifted closer, reaching up to absently brush some lint from Harry's tie. He let his touch linger, looking Harry over and then meeting his eyes again as he pulled back. "I think you know me better than that."
There was no way he was going to just let it go.
"Hermione thought the same thing. That's why I 'stopped,'" he said with finger quotations. He'd told her he stopped taking potions, and he had for a bit, but there was only so long he could go without the relief from the pain and the nightmares.
He frowned slightly, looking down at his hands around the tie for as long as they lasted and then looked back up at him, "I'd watch yourself Draco. You want to threaten me, know that I can do way worse than ruining a friendship or two." He warned him softly, stepping a bit closer to him, "don't think that you'll win this fight. My name carries far more weight than yours does now."
His expression soured at the remark but he lifted his chin to keep his eyes steady on his. "It also means I have far less to lose," he countered. He didn't miss the fact that it was Harry closing the distance then and the familiar push-pull of their relationship was almost comforting.
There was little Harry could threaten him with. His father was rotting away, his mother almost a leper because of her surname alone, and the majority of their assets seized by the Ministry.
He gave Harry a patronizing smile. "Really though, Potter, Slughorn is right." Mock concern colored his features. "You should get some rest. Especially in your condition ." Emphasis on that last word, smile turning to sneer. Maybe his show of concern was less ingenuine than he tried putting off but that was something he would analyze later.
He scoffed softly, stepping away and turning on his heel to walk off toward the tower. He did need rest, but hearing Draco tell him to get rest in that sardonic tone annoyed him far more than it should.
He'd regret mocking him if he knew the truth. He was almost positive about that, and if Harry wasn't so intent on keeping his secret he would have thrown it in his face just for the sake of winning their pseudo argument.
"Fuck off Malfoy." He snapped at him as he walked away, getting halfway down the hallway before starting to cough, the force of the cough knocking him to his knees as he coughed into his hand.
It had the desired effect. Harry was scoffing, pulling away and snapping. Fuck off, Malfoy. There was something weighted in the words, something that wasn't entirely lost on Draco but was, at the moment, indecipherable. He kept the sneer plastered to his face, should Harry turn around, but then there was a loud, wet sort of noise and Harry was crumpling in on himself to the floor.
His feet moved on their accord.
But he certainly did not run.
Now beside him, Draco found himself crouching down to try looking at the familiar Gryffindor. He looked pained. Miserable.
His hand didn't hover over his shoulder like Slughorn's did and instead easily came to rest there, tentative but steadying.
"Easy, Potter." The words came on their own, a low mutter, and Draco thought back to how helpless he felt during the war. His touch became more firm and dragged down, rubbing comforting circles between his shoulders, an action borne of instinct. His mother had coughing fits, sometimes. In the gardens - she had since the Dark Lord, anyway, as if his very presence had been a smoke screen in their house.
He cringed, trying to wandlessly banish the blood off of his hand and sleeve before Draco could notice it. He pulled away from him slightly, wincing as the firm pressure pressed against a bruise one of his housemates had left by being too rough with him. If there was one thing he hated about hiding his condition, it was that no one knew he needed them to be more gentle with him now.
"I'm fine," He choked out, his voice raspy and clearly pained as he took a few gasping breaths as his body fought desperately to fill his dying lungs. He shakily got back to his feet and leaned against the wall as he held around his chest. His face contorted into a pained expression as he leaned against the wall and clutched at his sides. Even with the potions in his system it was excruciating. Like when his uncle would take the belt to him, or hold him over the hob and let it burn him.
Draco didn't miss the way Harry pulled away or the slight wince, although that could be dismissed as pain; his touch softened again and he moved away to watch him try to stand. Something warm and wet sunk to the pits of his stomach at the pain across his features and Draco thought of getting Slughorn. He thought of ignoring Harry's earlier requests. He thought of mocking his weakness. He thought of walking away and leaving him there and the headlines in the paper when he was found crumpled on the floor.
Instead, Draco offered him his arm.
"There's an alcove ahead." A slight jerk of his head in the general direction, a silent command. You should sit.
"I just need to lay down for a bit." He muttered softly, his voice strained as he shut his eyes and took a few deep breaths. Part of him had been so hopeful that the diagnosis was wrong. That he wasn't going to die and that he was going to get to live a life he'd fought so desperately to achieve. That he wouldn't have to wither away in agony, getting weaker and weaker for months until his body was no longer able to fill his own lungs.
But he was getting worse.
He sighed heavily, opening his eyes to look at Draco with a sorrowful expression, biting hard on his lip as he tried to think of some excuse. Something to say other than just 'I'm sick.' Something that would convince him that he wasn't dying, and that he didn't need him mothering over him. Or at least he assumed what mothering would be like, it wasn't like he'd actually know.
Harry wasn't looking at him then and so Draco took the moment to properly survey him. He remembered the shadows of earlier, the way the dim lighting cut across him, almost through him; it was a bit like there were two of him, one overlaying the other, not quite there - not visible - but somehow still present in the lines of discomfort across his face.
When Harry didn't take his offered arm, Draco pressed his lips against a frown. It wasn't surprising. Harry had little reason to accept his help.
So Draco did what Slytherins frequently did - he ignored the other person's autonomy and instead moved to force his hand, one arm coming up to snake around his waist and draw him close.
"My room isn't far," he muttered, silently offering to shoulder Harry's weight. Something tugged at his gut at the look he was receiving, and Draco was careful to keep his expression carefully schooled. "Come on, Potter."
He said it in a way that offered little choice and to drive the point home, added, "Pick your poison. Me or Slughorn." He doubted Harry wanted Slughorn fawning over him.
He scowled, trying to stop Draco before he was basically dragged off the wall. He was surprisingly light, his arm circling his waist was much thinner than his oversized, baggy clothes suggested, but Harry always wore oversized clothes. Hand me downs from Dudley that he never bothered to replace since he never knew if he'd be alive long enough to use them, and now there didn't seem to be a point.
"Malfoy... Draco , please. Stop." He begged silently, resting his weight against him regardless. "I'm okay, really. It's nothing to worry about." He insisted, then pulled a face at the threat of getting Slughorn to come fuss over him.
He sighed heavily, rolling his eyes as if he considered Draco's fussing over him to be an annoyance instead of necessary. "Fine. But I'm not staying long. Just long enough to catch my breath."
Harry was lighter than expected but Draco easily compensated for that, shifting automatically, and averted his eyes at their proximity, a thrum of something still rushing through him at the sound of his given name.
His lips twisted into a smirk at the begrudging agreement and he moved to walk Harry toward his dormitory. "Harry Potter isn't one for a sleep in," he half-taunted. "Alert the press."
It was more teasing than not - more good humor than was typically allowed in their interactions - but brought with it some sense of normalcy anyway.
He muttered the password (Avalon) when they reached the portrait hole, pointedly ignoring the thinly veiled curiosity touching the portrait's face and helped Harry inside and toward his bed.
Harry collapsed against it and groaned softly, not even bothering to take his shoes off as he curled up in the fetal position. He took a few moments where he didn't say anything before reaching into his pocket and getting another pain potion out of his pouch, "Merlin, it's like he keeps making them weaker." He complained, downing it immediately and visibly relaxing after a few seconds.
He sighed, sitting up after collecting himself, "Sorry." He said and quickly moved his shoes off the bed, toeing them off and leaving them on the floor before tucking his legs up under himself. "Please don't tell anyone..."
Lips pressed into a thin line, Draco watched as the other collapsed against his bed. His shoes were still on - something Draco noted with mild disdain - but the idea of Harry making himself at home first seemed equally ludicrous. He kept his distance, moving across the room to lean against the wall near his alcove - the meager substitution for a window. He watched as Harry downed another potion, eyes narrowing.
Slughorn wasn't making them weaker. Draco helped brew that batch himself - curiosity tugged at the back of his mind as he began trying to catalog Harry's symptoms. He had wanted to be a healer, once. An impossibility, of course. No one would trust a Malfoy to heal them.
Potions master would have to do, if he could even manage that.
Please don't tell anyone. It would be easy to use this to his advantage. It easily gave him a better hand and yet Draco found himself giving the other a curt nod with little second thought. "Careful; more than two in eight hours can have adverse effects. Lenio can act as a booster if used in moderation."
"If they keep being this ineffective I'll be taking enough to let the potions kill me first." He said sarcastically, lying on the bed with his arm over his eyes to block out the light. His waves of nausea and pain usually weren't this bad, but he supposed he knew it was going to get worse. He wondered absently if a time would come when he wasn't able to stand on his own anymore and he'd have to use a cane. Or a wheelchair. He'd never seen a wizard use a wheelchair before. Maybe there were spells to prevent that.
He sighed softly, shifting uncomfortably as he felt Draco's gaze on him and peeking at him from under his arm. "I'll be out of here soon. You can stop looking at me like that. I'm fine ." He repeated for what felt like the hundredth time already. Maybe if he said it enough Draco would start to believe him.
The sarcasm wasn't missed... nor did it distract from the fact that an almost incapacitated Harry Potter was still lying on his bed. Maybe someone had cast a confundus without his knowledge? His lips twitched. He moved to sit in the alcove, leaning so that his back was against the wall and his legs stretched in front of him to the floor, ankles crossed.
"Fine?" Draco repeated dully, eyebrows raising. He scoffed and made a self-deprecating gesture toward their surroundings. "You willingly followed a snake into his lair. Stop kidding yourself, Potter." He held his gaze, forehead smoothing, and loosely wrapped his arms across his abdomen. "Why haven't you told your entourage?" It seemed rather un Gryffindor of him, obviously. Loyalty and all of that.
"You're not so bad." Harry laughed softly at the comment, grinning despite the pain in his... Well everywhere at the moment, but that would pass soon enough. "You wouldn't hurt me, as much as you like to pretend you would. I'm safe here, I know that. Physically at least."
He sighed softly, perhaps accepting that there really wasn't anyway to get out of this without Draco finding out. He wasn't going to let it go, and part of him was feeling rather sorry for himself for white knighting his burden and keeping it to himself no matter how much it pained him, "Make a vow to me and I'll explain." He told him, forcing himself to sit up and look at Draco properly. "Make a vow that what I say doesn't leave this room."
Condition.
Kill me first.
The words rattled around his brain unwanted, the memory of his cough a dull background noise. He regarded Harry quietly for a moment, eyes dragging over his person before meeting his again. Harry was serious, that much was obvious, and Draco had a choice: he doubted it would take little encouragement to get Harry to leave, to put this all behind them and pretend his motives weren't dirtied by some twisted investment in his wellbeing - to return to how they were, quiet insults and carefully timed barbs... or he could agree and indulge his curiosity and whatever concern he would vehemently deny.
He considered his options for only a moment before nodding.
"Your secret is safe," he promised.
Harry was right, of course. He was safe there. Draco didn't want to hurt him. He didn't think he really, truly ever had.
"Not good enough. I want a vow. A real one." He held out his hand, taking out his wand as well, "An unbreakable vow." He insisted.
Perhaps he was being paranoid, insisting on something this serious and extreme. But he didn't want this to get to the press. He didn't want anyone realizing what was going on and then ending up stuck in the hospital wing, or worse Mungo's for the few months he had left. He wanted to get through as much of the year as possible, to enjoy his time with his friends and not feel like everything had to be about him dying. He didn't want the fuss.
Draco raised both eyebrows at the demand, intrigued by the way Harry's eyes sparked. He remained where he was for a long moment, studying him. He knew the consequence of an unbreakable and swallowed against the wry observation that Harry seemed to be putting more stock in Draco's current sense of self preservation than he perhaps should.
He straightened, withdrawing his wand as he stood, and gave Harry another nod.
"Very well." It was said casually, as if they were discussing how they liked their tea. He moved to take Harry's hand, eyes steadfast on his. He wondered if Harry realized the vow itself would be weaker without a third party to assist in its casting, but made no suggestion to invite a third. This was Harry Potter - maybe he was the exception to this, too.
Harry took his hand, walking Draco through the simple vow of keeping his secret and never forcing him into the hospital wing without his consent. There was the familiar wash of magic, twisting and heavy, and Draco tucked his wand away after. He let go of Harry's hand but otherwise remained where he was, practically able to smell his shampoo and the lingering scent of the pain potions. Once finished they put their wand away and Harry looked at him, his green eyes dull as he stared for a few seconds before opening his mouth to admit the truth.
He shut it again suddenly, unable to admit to this as easily as he thought possible and then looked away. How on Earth did anyone ever manage to admit this? How was anyone expecting him to be able to tell his friends when he couldn't even tell Malfoy of all people?
"Sorry... This is just... Harder to admit than I thought. Maybe because I'm still struggling on accepting it myself. It's different when you have months of it instead of being expected to walk to it and then it be over in an instant. Just a flash of green and then done. This... This is way worse."
There had been a time Draco would have made some offhanded remark about helping Harry along with that. Death. But they were quickly stripping themselves of pretenses, it seemed, and so instead he remained quiet to let Harry stumble through an explanation. He kept his expression in its usual indifferent mask, eyes searching his.
He reached out, linking his fingers with Draco's as he searched out some time of comfort, even if it wasn't really being offered to him. He needed it all the same.
One way or another he needed to be able to choke out the words, so with a tight squeeze to his hand, Harry started talking. "There's nothing anyone can do, so before you even try that I'll let you not waste your time. I've tried healers, curse breakers, potion masters and nothing. I'm sick, and I'm not going to get better. I'm going to get worse. I don't know what exactly I got hit by, or who hit me with it at the battle, but I've been told it's akin to a wasting curse but far slower. "
It was when Harry reached out and linked their fingers together that the gravity of it all seemed to settle around him. Whatever was going on - it was serious. Not only was it serious - deadly so, by his demeanor - but Draco would be one of the first to know. He looked down at Harry's hand against his, focused on the weight of it, and met his eyes as he talked.
His mind was reeling. No one held back during the final battle (except him , maybe); there were hundreds of curses it could be, spells buried under time and power that would have once been marked unforgivable but were now essentially forgotten. Add to that the conviction behind it, the purity of lineage, and it was possible only the person who cursed Harry could break it.
And they were likely dead or in Azkaban.
Draco focused on Harry again. He twisted his hand in his and found himself giving it a deliberate squeeze. His expression softened, however marginally, and he hoped Harry knew he understood.
Because then he was forcing a smirk and cockiness he no longer had.
"Sounds an awful lot like a challenge," he drawled. A scoff and the bravado slipped away again. His voice softened. "Is that all you're taking?" There was a possibility he could make it more manageable for him, at least. He felt safe in assuming Harry had kept things quiet between those that tested him. Maybe even obliviated them, if he wasn't such a Gryffindor... Although hiding all of this from those who loved him felt much more cunning than loyal.
Harry pulled a face at the sarcasm, pulling his hand away. He nodded a bit, looking away from him. "Yeah, I suck at potions and can't make anything for myself and I mean... Can you imagine what would happen if I told Slughorn?" He sighed softly, pulling his knees up to his chest
He hated this, hated the pitying look that Draco seemed to be giving him. Hated that the potions weren't working like he needed them to anymore. Hated that he was dying and that he likely wouldn't make it to graduation. Tears welled up in his eyes and he took a deep breath as he tried to blink them away, "Sorry. I'm not going to ask you to like... Help me with this. It's my burden. You have your own things to worry about. Everyone does."
Even when Harry pulled away and seemed to draw into himself again, Draco remained where he was. Can you imagine what would happen if I told Slughorn? His nose wrinkled at the answering imagery, a flash of the prophet rushing through his mind. He focused on Harry again, a bit put out to see his eyes glisten. He wasn't particularly good with crying, be it his own or another person's - crying was weak and a Malfoy wasn't weak. Still, he thought to sixth year and the cut of magic across his chest - of Harry's voice, pained and desperate. He moved to sit beside Harry, body moving again on its own accord.
He reached up to lay a gentle hand against Harry's back for the second time that night, hoping he didn't look as stiff as he felt.
"A Malfoy pays their debts," he said simply, quietly. He thought of the fiendfyre and the dizzying sensation of falling into heat. He looked at him properly then. He could sense Harry wanting to push back and he gave a slight shake of his head, eyes fixed on him. "I insist."
"No. No. This is exactly why I didn't tell anyone. I don't want the fuss. I don't want anyone to be burdened by me. Too many people lost their lives fighting for my cause already, I'm not letting lose more time trying to save a lost cause." He pulled away from the touch, moving away to look at him seriously.
"You don't owe me anything. There are no debts to be paid, nothing you have to atone for." He insisted, "you're trying to pursue a mastery. If people find out you were giving me potions before I died? You'd end up in Azkaban. They'd blame you, regardless of what the truth is. You know it's true. "
The push back that came was expected and true. He had a point and Draco thought of pointing out there was a chance they'd blame him regardless. The savior of the Wizarding World dying prematurely while at Hogwarts with a known Death Eater? The headlines wrote themselves.
Instead, Draco feigned happiness and touched a dramatic hand to his chest.
"Absolved by our savior , lucky me." The words were carefully barbed and dripping with disdain. His hand fell to his lap and his fingers curled against his palm, body resisting the urge to reach out again. "I'm sure I'll be put away for less." Truth lined his words but he exhaled slowly, expression softening. An impulsive part of him wanted to tell Harry he didn't need to do this alone. The Gryffindor might not think Draco needed to atone but he knew otherwise. He wanted to do otherwise. He had spent too much of his life doing what he was told to without question. While some beliefs held true - he firmly believed there were some pureblood traditions that held weight - blood purity wasn't one of them.
"... I never wanted to be the savior. I would have been fine just being me, without that stupid prophecy. Without losing so many people I loved and cared about because some jackass decided I was a threat to him when I was a one year old." He said softly, looking down at his feet. His socks weren't matching, and they were well worn. It was cold in the dungeons, he wondered how Malfoy could stand it. Or maybe he was just always cold now. He hoped not, it reminded himself too much of his cupboard. It was drafty in the winter time.
"Rest here," he said instead. He leaned in a bit to better look at him. "When you need to... get away." He was referring to Granger and the Weasel then. They were bound to notice the changes in Harry eventually, no matter how wrapped up they were in each other or their own grief.
Harry smiled a little at the offer, looking up into Draco's eyes. How different would things have been if he hadn't snubbed his offer of friendship all those years ago? What would their relationship be like then? Instead of jabs and barbs would Draco be nicer to him? Would he be more genuine toward him, willing to say those little things that he wouldn't but Harry was still sorta picking up on. Would Harry have told him at all if he considered him a friend?
"I have my own room, you know. And Hermione and Ron appreciate when I 'give them space.'" He quoted in the air and sighed a bit, "I'm starting to think that if I play it right, I'll be able to just fade out of their lives completely before it happens. Find somewhere comfortable no one will find me and just die on my own so I don't hurt anyone. They can think I became a hermit or something. Merlin knows I thought about it enough. Getting away from all the fame by just disappearing."
He was becoming frustrated. He was trying to help but seemed to be doing it all wrong. Of course it could simply be because Harry didn't want his help - to be honest, Draco was a bit out of his element here. But he doubted, somehow, that Harry was really eager to go at this all alone. Without the fame and paparazzi, yes. Without his friends? Doubtful. He wasn't about to argue that point though and pretend he knew him.
"France is nice this time of year," is all that he said instead.
Maybe in a different life he would manage to say more. Maybe he would be more convincing. Less scared. The acknowledgement burned and Draco pushed himself from his bed, physically forcing distance between them by returning to the alcove after grabbing a nearby book.
Harry could see himself out.
Harry laughed softly at the suggestion, "Is it nice at Christmas? I'm thinking I've got about until then." He said softly, watching him go back and grab a book. His face fell as his disappointment rose. So that was it then, he knew a dismissal when he saw it. He'd become rather used to those. The ones where people were clearly finished talking to him and wanted him to leave, but never said outright because he was their savior, and that was rude.
He sighed and stood up, pulling his shoes back on and checking his glamour in Draco's mirror to make sure he still looked alive enough not to cause much concern. "Thank you... For helping me. And for the suggestion. And agreeing not to tell anyone." He said rather awkwardly, standing in the doorway for a minute and looking back at him, ".... Okay. Bye." He finished, feeling a bit stupid for saying anything at all before he left the room.
Opening his book to the marked page, Draco kept his eyes fixed on dark print as Harry rambled out a goodbye. He made a noise of acknowledgment in the back of his throat and didn't look up until he left. He remained where he was, staring at the space the other had occupied moments before for a long while before closing his eyes and leaning back against the wall.
He was too slow. The way Harry had lingered - continued on - he suspected he was right, then. Harry didn't want to go through this alone, but a part of him must have felt he had no choice. Draco thought back to their conversation, picking it apart, trying to predict Harry's motives and moves. I don't want anyone to be burdened by me.
Somehow Draco had missed it.
He really was rubbish at this. He had never really needed to make friends. His name had always been enough - well, until Hogwarts. Until Potter.
~
Three days passed before the opportunity presented itself. A jolt of their shoulders in the hall, a deliberate tilt of his books to the floor. A well timed glare and a scoff of a noise. "Watch it, Potter. "
And a note slipped into his hand, its message brief.
The offer stands.
Christmas is lovely.
Draco pulled away with a sneer and continued down the hall.
Harry opened his mouth to apologize, withholding the grimace of pain as he was knocked into. Even though it wasn't the most rough of brushes, he knew it was still going to bruise. Before he could say anything, Draco was scoffing and making it seem like it was Harry's fault which only annoyed him and he kept his mouth shut, no longer wanting to grace him with the apology.
It probably was his fault though, or at least Harry would have thought so if Draco hadn't shoved the little note into his hand, leaving him even more confused and irritated than before. Surely there were easier ways of talking to him or passing notes that didn't involve shoulder checking him in the halls.
The offer stands.
He was having trouble remembering what exactly it was Draco had offered in the first place. That he could spend time in the dungeons maybe? That sounded familiar enough. So despite his reservations, he found himself down there again, cursing himself for not grabbing his winter cloak to stave off the cold and knocking on Draco's door after dinner.
Harry's arrival at his door confirmed his suspicions. Misery loves company . He opened it quietly, gesturing for Harry to come inside, and shut it behind him, eyes dragging over his person. Was he wearing a glamour? He looked different. Less shadowed.
"Shoes off," was Draco's greeting, as much of a make yourself at home as he could manage as he brushed past - with considerably more care - and further into his room. He glanced over his shoulder, wondering how Harry was feeling but not so desperate as to ask. He doubted the Gryffindor would appreciate it anyway. I don't want anyone to be burdened by me, rang through his mind and Draco settled in the alcove, wordlessly leaving his bed for the other.
"You know a hello wouldn't go amiss," he sassed back immediately, rolling his eyes and toeing off his shoes by the door obediently. "And I did apologize for that. Forgive me for collapsing while coughing up blood. I didn't ask for your help." He pointed out, sitting on the edge of the bed and watching the Slytherin for a few seconds.
"So what was the note about? And could you not run into me like that. There's got to be ways for you to talk to me without giving me a bruise." His eyebrows furrowed and he touched his shoulder lightly, "Just coming up to me for example? I take a lot of walks by myself. If you're so worried about being seen, just find me during one of those."
Draco turned to look at him as he toed his shoes off; he sat much like he had a few nights prior, legs outstretched in front of him, a small crease touching his forehead at the biting reply as Harry sat. There he was. Making a mess of things again. Draco pressed his lips against a frown.
His eyes were drawn to Harry's shoulder and back to a green gaze. There was a stab of guilt, quick and faint, that encouraged him to let his expression soften, however marginally. He had heard honesty went a long way in instances like this.
"Hello," he huffed out finally, pausing before adding, "and that wasn't my intention." It was as close to an apology that he could manage in the moment. He glanced down at his book, running his fingers idly over its spine, before letting his eyes settle on Harry again.
Honesty.
Right.
"Misery loves company," he answered carefully. He lifted his chin slightly, feeling a bit defensive, and tried grappling with his courage. "And... you don't have to go through this alone." His voice was quiet, a low drawl, and he fought against the urge to look away. "You're not... a bother or a burden." It wasn't exactly the reassurance he had laid out in his head, but it was a start, he supposed. He blew out a sharp breath through his nose and he steeled himself against the confession: "I want to help. Even if it's... just this." He made a vague gesture around his room and to himself with one hand before opening his book as a distraction.
There had been a time, once, where Draco would have taunted Harry. Told him he would enjoy watching him waste away. But he was trying to strip himself of those pretenses, trying to peel back his layers and make amends, if only with himself.
Absurd. That was the only thing he could think at the moment. That this was nothing short of absurd. Draco Malfoy of all people trying to offer him companionship during this. Less than two years ago he was almost certain the blonde would be celebrating his impending death.
"Forgive me if I have a hard time believing you're not doing this for selfish reasons. So what's your goal then? Being able to rub it into Hermione and Ron's face that you knew? That I spent my months dying with you at my bedside instead of them? Or do you feel like you're atoning for something by letting me burden you with this instead of dealing with it on my own?" He challenged him, annoyance clear in his voice as he stared him down.
"I'm not miserable. Perhaps you didn't realize this, but I've been destined to die to this war since I was a baby. I've come to terms with it. It's not the first time . It's just the slowest." He snarled at him, his glare carrying a heat that he couldn't act upon, "and you're not the person I'd go to for comfort. I might not be keen on the idea of dying alone again, but I've accepted that it's the best way for everyone."
There was static in his chest at the flash of Harry's eyes. He wanted to lash out, to riot and rage in kind—he was trying. Draco was trying and it was more than he had managed in a long while and it still wasn't enough for Potter. He still wasn't enough and none of it came as a surprise. He went for the obvious entry, eyebrows raising as an almost amused smirk touched his lips.
“ You've accepted it's the best way ,” he repeated with a nod of his head, voice almost patronizing. “I'm sure Granger and Weasley will agree. They'll be so thankful you spared them, Potter. One final act of heroism – is that what this is?” The words fell on their own accord. He didn't give himself time to analyze them—not then. He scoffed, almost grinning. “ You've come to terms with it but you're refusing to give them the same chance.” His book was discarded beside him and he was shifting, leaning forward, eyes glinting. His arms came to rest against his thighs.
“Is this how you assuage your guilt?” A slight shake of his head, smile creeping and dark. “You're not doing this for them. Stop acting like this is some last selfless act borne of love. You're taking the coward's way out.”
A pause, another shift – away then. Draco drew himself back against the wall, straightening some.
“I would know.”
It was a reckless, delirious confession, acidic in his mouth. Another scoff.
“So go ahead and judge me, Potter, but at least I'm being honest—“ a slight tilt of his head, a twitch of his brow, and another confession, almost amused, “— for once .” A slight shrug of his shoulders; he could almost laugh at the absurdity of the moment but pressed on, leaning fully against the wall behind him again, head cocked back, chin tilted up. He kept his eyes on Harry as his smile melted away. “You say I have nothing to atone for, but that's not your decision to make. I'm trying . Not giving up – like you.”
"I get it! You disapprove, so it's a good thing you can't say shit huh?" He snarked back immediately and bristled at being called a coward. "Cowards way out?" He asked, his hand clenched tightly around his wand like he wanted to hex Draco for the insult.
His grip loosened as he continued and Harry scoffed and looked away from him, "Maybe it is selfish.... Do I not deserve that though? To be able to face this how I want to? I've given my entire life to other people, always having to consider their wants and needs over my own. Why can't my death be mine ? Why does that have to be a spectacle where I'm considering how other people feel about it even still?" He asked softly.
"I'm dealing with all of this on my own because at least I get to be honest with myself about how I feel about it. I don't have to worry that someone is going to be mad at me about the things I think I'll miss or the things I'll regret missing out on. I don't have to deal with strangers offering to carry on the Potter line so it doesn't die off before I can have children that I'd never even meet. I don't have to see the disappointment in Molly's face when she realizes that she has two less sweaters to knit every year." He took a deep breath, wiping roughly at his eyes to get rid of the tears.
There . A familiar spark set to flame—there was a fire in the other as he spoke—until there wasn't, until the spark faded back to an ember before it was really ablaze.
He stood up again, grabbing his shoes but not bothering to put them back on. "Yes. I'm being selfish for once. And part of that is not letting you use me to soothe your own guilty conscience."
Draco was careful to control his features as Harry softened, deflated against the weight he was carrying. The static in his chest pulsed with the beat of his heart, pressing out and in and in and out all at once. Of course Harry was allowed to be selfish. Getting him to admit it had been Draco's goal because he knew all about that, too. If Draco had been less selfish—if he had chosen differently—maybe they wouldn't be having this conversation.
He kept his expression almost bored as Harry talked; he didn't miss the way the torchlight caught against his face or how his eyes were glistening as he moved. He thought back to his eleven-year-old self and the moment of weakness he had allowed himself that first night—the crumple of his face in the mirror as he let out a frustrated cry and tears came, unbidden. He hadn't realized how badly he had wanted Potter's friendship—approval—until it was firmly out of reach.
Draco had grown up on stories of Harry Potter, the boy that managed to save them all— or doom them —it really depended on perspective.
Harry had his shoes in hand then and Draco pulled himself from the wall and to his feet in a single, graceful movement. He kept his eyes trained on his as he neared. The static intensified, jittery and loud in his ears, and he thought of the events after—he thought of his father towering over him, demanding to know how both a mudblood and a half-blood best him—wand in hand—the flash of light and ripple of magic. He thought of the darkness and his mother whispering outside of the door.
Draco stopped in front of him. He had the sudden impulse to tell Harry about those nights—to share how, in later years, he had almost prayed to him—silently begged him to win—to end everything.
It was easy to resist.
Instead, Draco parroted his words, his voice low.
“Guilty conscious?”
A deliberate pause, a twitch of his mouth.
“I forgot caring was out of the question for someone like me.”
His voice was quiet and felt uneven in his throat. Hard.
He held Harry's eyes for another moment—a brief, fleeting moment—too exposed to watch the words sink in, and brushed past him to the door. He opened it without looking at the other boy again, ignoring the tension flooding the movement. He managed to give Harry a final, pointed look, before turning back to return to his alcove.
"Caring about me is out of the question. You can't undo years of bullying in a few days. I'm having trouble believing this isn't some sick amusement for you honestly." He told him, though he didn't really believe that. He was lashing out, refusing to allow himself the comfort of another person. Even if that person was Malfoy.
While his reasons for it were somewhat selfish, he hadn't been lying when he said he didn't want to burden people. He'd seen his neighbor die of cancer as a child, the slow decline as his wife had to take care of him. Bathing him, assisting him around, spoon feeding him when tremors in his hands were too bad to do it himself. He didn't want anyone having to do that for him. His own pride refused it.
And he didn't deserve it. Too many people had lost their lives to his cause, without the comfort of loved ones at their side, without being able to say those goodbyes. Friends, family, strangers, ghosts that haunted his nightmares with screams of agony and betrayal. Ghosts of people that might still be alive if he had just done his job a little faster.
"There's too much history here," and too much potential that he didn't want to address. Maybe once they could have been friends, maybe, though Harry was a bit scared to admit how he felt about boys in general, there was a chance they'd have been even more than that. But right now, he was having trouble with the hot and cold signals and it was just pissing him off.
Draco would always be that cold pompous prick he'd always been, and while that was a comfort in itself, it also wasn't what he wanted. What he needed right now. What he craved as comfort. It wasn't Hermione's hugs or Ron's insistence that everything was going to be okay because they wouldn't leave him alone again. It wasn't Molly's cooking or George's little jokes. It wasn't Neville bringing him little flowers with magic pollen that gave you better dreams. It wasn't comfort, it was just familiar.
He walked past him taking the dismissal and only refusing to slam the door behind him because he didn't want to disturb the portrait and have them upset with him too.