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Draco wants to murder everyone, starting with that bitch Pansy who’d convinced him that the office rafting trip wouldn’t be so bad. “Honestly Draco, you’ll just need to pretend to bond with your co-workers while looking pretty. Just like Friday after-work drinks at the pub, only with more nature.”
Except she’d forgot to mention the bit about how he’d have to get into a puffy boat and float down an actual river—in the most terrifying version of the word “float” Draco would ever experience. She’d also neglected the bit about how he could be thrown from said boat along with his most annoying colleague while everyone else continued on.
So now he’s sat near the river’s edge, completely soaked, with a half-drowned, unconscious Potter sprawled across his legs. Potter's lost his glasses, probably when his head hit the boulder that’d caused his current state, and he looks younger and somewhat fragile without them. If they both don’t make it out of this relatively unscathed, Draco will not be held responsible for whatever happens next.
It isn't as if Draco cares personally whether Potter dies, no matter what the office betting pool says (odds are currently two to one that they’ll kiss by the end of the month). It’s just that they have a presentation for Gilderoy Lockhart next week, and there’s no bloody way that Draco is going to be shut in a room with that man alone.
So yes, he has a vested interest in Potter not dying today.
Draco attempts to shift the prat into a better position and swears as Potter’s head lolls to one side, thunking heavily against a tree trunk. Great, could the day get any worse?
As if in answer to his query, the wind picks up and the sun disappears behind a cloud. No worries, it’s summer; they’ll be fine. However it’s summer in England, which means they're both shivering in a matter of minutes. At least Potter is making quiet, distressed sounds and rocking restlessly. Not exactly awake, but a hell of a lot better than the corpse impression he’s been doing since Draco dragged him out of the water.
With a lot of grunting, Draco finally manages to wrestle Potter into a mostly upright position. They end up somewhat tangled together with Draco leaning against a tree and Potter braced between his legs. Draco finds the weight of Potter’s shoulder against his chest strangely comforting, and he pulls him closer, nearly chest to chest, wanting more of his warmth.
The heat of their combined bodies seems to be helping Potter, as he burrows closer, slipping his arms clumsily around Draco and practically nuzzling his neck.
A pleasant swooping feeling settles low in Draco’s belly. As much as he’d like to just sit here with Potter in his arms and wait for rescue, he has an uncomfortable sense that if Potter were truly aware, he would not be okay with what’s happening right now.
Draco sighs deeply. “Potter,” he makes himself say, shaking him gently. Potter makes an unintelligible sound, so Draco tries again. “Wake up.” Nothing. Then, “Potter,” a little louder, and finally, “Harry!”
At this, Potter rocks his head back and looks up at Draco. Without his glasses, his eyes seem somehow more green.
“Draco?” He says, confusion clear, “Am I dreaming?”
Draco snorts. “Do you often dream about me holding you?” He's doing his best not to dwell on how adorable Harry—no, Potter, bugger it—looks as he frowns, apparently baffled.
“Well, yes." Harry stares at Draco, touches his cheek, asks, "Is this the part where you kiss me?”
That swooping feeling is back and Draco's face feels flushed. He wages a fierce internal battle, and decency wins out. “Not just now, Harry, but I’m guessing soon.”
“Okay,” Harry agrees affably, and snuggles back into Draco’s chest.
Draco tightens his hold around Harry and waits for rescue.