Chapter Text
Ice crystals shone where late evening light dappled the January snow beneath the overgrown trees of the Forbidden Forest. They made a satisfying crunch underneath Harry’s boots as he walked, and his breath fogged the air before him. Birds weren’t calling, but occasionally he could hear the low rustle of bush or thicket as some small critter startled and fled from his presence.
He made good time, arriving at the boulder mound in less than forty minutes. The formation of stacked stone reached nearly twenty feet into the air and spread out in a rough circle nearly sixty feet in diameter. Near the Southern border, not far from where Harry approached, a section had collapsed into a vast sinkhole, leaving sheared rock at the edges. The maw gaped black and stark against the white drifts and tired winter trees, waiting like a fetid mouth, ready to devour.
“You’ve taken enough,” Harry whispered. He walked to the edge of the boundary spell Flitwick had cast, a bright blue orb that kept any hapless people or animals from falling into the cavern, but didn’t breach it. That wasn’t why he’d come. He simply wanted to remember, to see.
It had been such a small moment that started it all. They’d been talking, just their usual patter of insults and flirtation, although Harry couldn’t remember the specifics even after putting real effort into it. He’d looked away for a minute, just a minute, his attention caught by something utterly inconsequential, when the ground gave a mighty lurch behind him and the boulders trembled and the earth opened. And when Harry looked back, Draco was gone.
Just…gone.
*
A blooming red agony in his skull and spine. Scree beneath him. Pitch black all around but for the wide white oval of the sky far, far above him. He didn’t move, didn’t think he could. Breathing took effort enough.
A voice calling. Harry? Yes, that was Harry, distant and echoing. And for a heartbeat, the rich, frightened tenor of that voice made Draco’s chest ache with longing. Harry would save him, Harry would hold him close, and Draco would feel that same quiet, desperate need that Harry always brought out in him. Then this pain would fade and he would be back in the world and he would be safe once more.
He opened his mouth, tried to call, because there was panic in Harry’s voice. Draco realized that Harry could not see the bottom of the pit, could not know if he was alive. Soothe him, Draco thought. Let him know you’re alive. Do it. But no sound emerged. At least, not from his throat.
Instead, the noise came from nearby. A rustle in the dark. Movement. Something shifting.
Draco’s attention was torn between the sheer fire in his body and the scrabbling sounds off to his left. His eyes searched the darkness frantically, but he could see nothing. Absolutely nothing.
The noise got closer. It paused. It darted forward. Paused.
Harry! Draco tried to shout. He managed to shift, and pure torture burst through him. His jaw locked and he trembled under the lash of it.
The noise came again. Closer. Closer.
Something brushed his arm. If he’d been able to, he would’ve screamed.
Then pressure, terrible pressure, meaty, thick pressure, so sudden and vicious that he had no time to resist, and Draco yielded helplessly beneath it. Everything he was compressed within him. There could be no yelling now, there was no room for his voice within him, just this impossible, smothering weight. He shrank like a candle flame under breath. He was going out, going under, caving like the earth above him had. But here, there was no bottom.
Harry! Harry! Help, please help…but the pressure swelled, forcing him smaller. He shrank, folded, all but the tiniest little fragment of his mind…soul…self, whatever the word might be.
Just go.
No, Draco thought, and terror fluttered in what little of him remained. He fought, dug in, gripped with everything he had left.
Let go.
No! Harry…please…
Let me have it.
Hold on, Draco thought desperately. The pressure increased…wait for Harry…he will come…he will come...
Why don’t you just let me?
Hold on.
I’ll get everything in the end anyway.
Hold on.
You’ve already lost, little one.
Hold on, hold on.
*
The smell of the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts was as familiar to Harry as that of the Burrow or Grimmauld Place. It was potions and clean cotton and Madam Pomfrey’s soap. It was pain and recovery and safety.
And now, with Draco pale and silent between white sheets, it was waiting.
Merlin, the waiting.
Harry had brought Draco here with Flitwick and McGonagall’s help (summoned with an emergency Patronus) simply because Hogwarts was closest. He’d left Hermione and Madam Pomfrey debating whether or not to move Draco to St. Mungo’s. Harry simply didn’t know enough about healing to offer an opinion, and he trusted Hermione’s opinion and skills.
As they murmured to each other, Harry caught fragments of sentences. Broken back…skull fracture…internal bleeding…increased heart rate…abnormal response to magical interventions... Then he tuned it out, unable to hear any more.
Ron arrived, out of breath and flushed, and he came immediately to Harry’s side. He blanched at the sight of Draco—still blood-stained and dirty from the fall at that point—and turned to wrap Harry in a hug.
“He’s a tough bastard,” Ron muttered. “He’s survived a hell of a lot worse than this.”
“I know,” Harry said, unable to repeat the things that he’d heard the witches saying.
Ron pulled back and studied Harry. “You look exhausted. How long have you been here?”
“An hour, maybe.”
“Tea? A sandwich?”
The thought of food or drink made him want to vomit, but Ron looked so eager to help that Harry shrugged agreement. Ron paused to squeeze Hermione’s hand and receive a tired smile, then disappeared back into the hall. He was back rather quickly, and he set down a loaded tray, only to move it away when Harry apologized softly and shook his head.
Finally, the conference between the witches ended. Hermione came to where Harry sat beside Draco’s bed and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. When he and Ron were listening, she murmured, “He won’t survive a move to St. Mungo’s, so I’m going to firecall them to consult with some of my colleagues. We’re going to do everything we can, Harry, I promise you.” She paused, and when she spoke next her voice wobbled. “There’s a definite chance he’ll recover, Harry, but I’m not…”
“I understand,” Harry said, numb and choking and still. He patted her hand, because he did understand. How could he not? Draco was not calm in injury; his blue-tinged lips moved as if he were trying to form words, his fingers twitched constantly, his eyes moved manically beneath his shut lids. Harry knew just how close they strayed to an unbearable ending.
Until then, it was waiting.
Waiting on the next panting breath to lift the chest, the next flutter of lashes that came to nothing, the next clutch of his fingers that subsided. Waiting with mingled hope and dread.
“Hold on,” Harry whispered, smoothing silky hair away from a high, noble forehead. “Don’t leave me. Just hold on, Draco.”
*
Two years and three months before the trip to collect potion ingredients in the Forbidden Forest, Harry walked reluctantly into the first session of Malfoy’s six-week-long series of potions lectures at the Ministry. He nodded at Dean Thomas and got a friendly smile in return, but sank into a chair beside Ron just inside the door to the conference room.
“I thought proximity to an exit in the event of impending Gryffindor-on-Slytherin murder would be a good idea,” Ron said.
“And they say Hermione’s the brains of your particular operation,” Harry replied.
“Well, she’s a freak that way,” Ron admitted. “But she’s my freak.”
Harry smiled half-heartedly; his mood had been shitty ever since Marrow, the Head of the Auror Office, had explained that Harry’s enrollment in Malfoy’s little course was not open to negotiation. There’d been an upswing in potion related accidents and attacks lately, suggestions of a virulent potions ring developing, and the Ministry had decided to take action to prepare its staff. If it had been anyone but Malfoy teaching, Harry would’ve been in full support of the initiative. But despite Malfoy’s very low profile since the war—not to mention his considerable contributions to the field of beneficial potions since he’d attained his Mastery—Harry still felt strong enmity at even the mention of the git’s name.
Harry and Ron chit-chatted a bit while the conference room slowly filled. Other Aurors nodded greetings or stopped to talk while they waited for the lecture to begin, and soon the low hum of conversation filled the air. This fell abruptly silent when Malfoy entered at five till the hour.
After all, Ministry-ordered lecture or not, reformed or not, Draco Malfoy’s skin bore the Mark, and this was a room full of wizards with sharp, suspicious natures. So it was that Malfoy walked to the front of the room in painfully alert stillness, with full attention on him, Harry’s in particular.
Harry was a little taken aback at his first look at the blond, for the simple reason that in the interim between the war and the present, Malfoy had grown into his full adult masculinity.
And it was surprisingly affecting.
Bad enough that he’d gained a couple more inches in height—no surprise, as Harry had as well with the dregs of puberty, topping out finally at five foot eleven. While he couldn’t help thinking that this meant that Malfoy’s eyes would be on a level with Harry’s mouth, he refused to make anything of this fact. Harder to ignore was the realization that those extra inches had contributed to a long, lean body that moved with easy athleticism as he neatly crossed the room, a leather briefcase in one hand. Interestingly, that body was clothed in a perfectly-tailored Muggle suit rather than robes—gray pinstripes with a matching waistcoat and Windsor-knotted navy tie. His hair was expensively cut and styled.
More disturbing, Malfoy had grown into those pointy features, and now he possessed a rather stern, hollow-cheeked beauty that emphasized a soft mouth and slightly-tilted gray eyes. His cheekbones were high, his skin perfectly clear and pale, and his jaw firm. He’d become downright striking really, Harry admitted angrily.
Worst of all, somewhere along the way Malfoy had managed to get rid of the smug sneer; what remained was politely approachable, professional, and direct. The boy he’d been was only barely visible in that face, for all the similarity in their features. Malfoy seemed a new creature entirely, one almost unrecognizable, and Harry had to remind himself that this was not a brutally attractive man before him; this was an enemy.
Fucker, Harry thought, feeling a strong pulse of interest pooling in his belly. He took this rather personally. Fucking rat bastard. Of course you couldn’t just be as pinched and snotty as you were before. You little shit.
“Good morning,” Malfoy said, surveying the room with those eyes as he set his briefcase on the table beside the podium. “I’d like it if we could go around and introduce ourselves so I can begin to learn your names.” As the Aurors spoke up, one by one, Malfoy studied their faces, clearly committing them to memory. His gaze neither lingered nor skipped over Harry or Ron. He gave the assembled group a polite nod when they’d all finished, and used his wand to levitate thick packets of paper to each student. Harry caught his and flipped through it. He found himself frowning resentfully at impressively professional diagrams and formulas for countless potions and passages of (Harry noted with irritation) well-written text.
“We’ll be covering a wide array of legal and illegal potions in this lecture; some of it will be revision of topics covered in school. We’ll be talking primarily about how to identify and treat obscure and dangerous potions, and this will require a large amount of practical study. Any of you who’ve studied under Professor Severus Snape will no doubt be more than capable of the basic brewing exercises we’ll be undertaking with just a little polishing up of your skills.”
None of this—the mention of Snape or Malfoy’s clear respect for the man—made Harry any more inclined to forgive Malfoy for becoming attractive in the six years since the war. While Harry’s unpleasant associations of Snape had been largely muted by the professor’s role in the war, he still didn’t enjoy the reminder of dozens of humiliating interactions in the dungeons when Snape and Malfoy had teamed up to make Harry’s life hell.
But as the lecture proceeded, Harry was forced to admit that Malfoy had approached his commission with laudable efficiency and gravity. He struck a good balance between giving the Aurors their due as intelligent people with some experience with dangerous substances and ensuring that everything was explained thoroughly. He allowed discussion when there was more than one way to handle a particular brew, and he answered questions without a hint of his patented Malfoy superiority.
Harry was starting to think he might be possessed.
Afterwards, Harry remained in his seat as the others filed out. Ron gave him a questioning glance when he saw that Harry wasn’t leaving. That glance turned admonishing and wary when Harry jerked his chin in a silent order to go. Finally Ron did, shaking his head.
Malfoy had turned to face the blackboard, and stood perfectly still as Harry slowly rose and headed to the front of the room. He eased up behind the other man, coming up on his left, and noticed with surprise that Malfoy’s eyes were closed tightly. His hands were shaking on the quill he gripped, and he blew out several long, slow breaths. Harry took this in with still more astonishment.
Malfoy had been nervous. He’d covered it so well that Harry had never suspected, but the evidence was incontrovertible at the moment. It made sense in retrospect; a former Death Eater, walking into a room full of Aurors, put in a position where he would have to face the potential for outright hostility and hatred while still attempting to do his job. It would make anyone shaky. Despite this, he’d been cool and impressively collected.
Malfoy turned, then, and startled when he saw that he wasn’t alone after all. Harry caught the exact moment that Malfoy realized Harry had seen his nerves; his mouth tightened and annoyed embarrassment played briefly on his features. Then he swallowed it back, and his gaze returned to even professionalism.
“Potter. Is there something I can do for you?”
Harry was completely flummoxed. He had no idea who this person in front of him was—where was the tempestuous, spoiled brat? Where was the pomp and pride? Where had this careful control and maturity come from?
“Be you,” Harry snapped.
Malfoy gave a tiny, resigned nod, as if to say of course. He resumed packing up his briefcase. “Anything else?”
“What is this? What are you trying to prove?”
Malfoy’s jaw flexed. “I’ve a meeting,” he said politely. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Harry put a hand on Malfoy’s arm, stopping him leaving. “I want an answer.”
Malfoy looked down at Harry’s gripping fingertips, and for a second Harry caught a glimpse of real anger rising to the surface. The storm gathered and for a brief, gleeful moment, Harry could see that Malfoy was tempted to go for his wand. Then that impulse too was shuttered behind a blandly civil expression. “Not only are we at work, which makes this conversation ill-timed,” he said calmly, “but as I’m not under suspicion of any current crimes, I have no obligation to answer any of your questions. Please take your hand off of my arm.”
When Harry didn’t move, a hint of steel entered Malfoy’s voice.
“Release me now, Potter. Or this conversation will become an altercation, and it will be entirely of your own making.”
Harry had to admit that the last part of that sentence would be entirely true, and he slowly released Malfoy. He watched as the blond man eased around him and silently headed for the exit.
“I’m not falling for it,” Harry called after him.
Malfoy completely ignored the comment, and the door slapped closed behind him.
*
“Wait. I don’t understand, Hermione,” Harry bit out. “What is it, then?”
“We don’t know,” Hermione replied helplessly.
Distantly, Harry could hear the shouts and bustle of students in the halls, moving between classes. The afternoon sun shone through the windows, giving the Hospital Wing a cheerfully bright look completely in contrast with Harry’s current frame of mind. Ron and Madam Pomfrey wore similar pinched expressions of worry and confusion.
Harry scrubbed a hand at his forehead. He’d slept perhaps an hour over the last two days, and it wasn’t helping his ability to think clearly.
“But…he fell,” Harry said. “That’s all. It wasn’t a magical accident.”
“There’s something else at work,” Hermione said. Her hair was bushier than ever and she’d barely taken the time to bathe; in fact, if it hadn’t been for the necessity that she be able to focus, she wouldn’t have slept at all, either. “There’s no reason he should be responding like this. But until we know what it is, we can’t treat it.”
“What exactly is happening?” Ron asked.
“He’s running a fever,” Madam Pomfrey said.
“An infected cut,” Harry suggested.
“No,” The Mediwitch replied flatly. “We’ve given him the standard regimen for that, and any open wounds that could result in sepsis have completely resolved. We don’t know why his temperature is elevated, but it isn’t responding to spells or potions. His various organ systems continue to flirt with complete collapse. We’re holding those at bay, but as soon as we get his lungs stable his kidneys begin to buckle. We fix that and his heart goes into tachycardia.”
Harry noted absently that Madam Pomfrey looked exhausted. She looked old.
“If this were a strictly normal accident, he would be up and walking by now,” she continued. “Clearly, that is not the case, which means something else is interfering. The worst part is that he’s swiftly reaching a saturation point; there’s only so much magic the body can absorb before it ceases to respond. We’re trying to limit our treatments to only the most necessary, but there’s a chance that at some point in the next forty-eight hours, our interventions will cease to work.”
They all paused to look at Draco, jerking and gasping in the bed beside them.
“He’s dying,” Harry said numbly. “That’s what you’re saying.”
“No,” Hermione said, her voice tight. “We’re saying that we’re running out of medical options, and that will be true for as long as we don’t know what’s going on. But there’s something that might help. We need to investigate where he fell. He came into contact with something there that’s doing this.”
“I’ll go,” Ron said instantly.
“Mate,” Harry said, his chest immediately tight with gratitude and fear. “Thank you. Really. But whatever it is that’s doing this might…I don’t know—”
“I’ll be careful. I’ll take Flitwick and Gorrette. If we get there and we aren’t enough to get it done, I’ll call the office and get some Aurors out there. It’ll be perfectly safe.”
Harry knew that Ron had listed the two best professors for the task—Flitwick could do almost anything, and Liza Gorrette, the DADA professor, was more than capable in her own subject. But the thought of losing Ron was nearly as excruciating as the idea of losing Draco. Nearly.
For a moment, Harry considered going himself. But he was a wreck, he could admit it, and he’d be likely to miss something. Besides, Harry trusted Ron with his life—indeed, in this moment, he would be.
And if Harry weren’t here and Draco died…alone…he would never, ever forgive himself.
“Watch yourself,” Harry murmured. “And I appreciate it. You don’t know how much.” He took Ron’s hand in a rare show of affection, accepting the responding squeeze with a nod. He stood aside as Hermione kissed Ron and gave him a whispered order to use the utmost caution. Then Ron swept out, his freckled face bearing the same grim, steadily competent expression it did on dangerous missions.
Harry wrapped his arms around himself and drifted back to Draco’s bedside. Sinking down into his chair, he was vaguely aware of Madam Pomfrey and Hermione muttering to each other, bustling around casting occasional diagnostic spells and arranging for new potions to be brewed to replenish their rapidly-dwindling stock. He couldn’t hold Draco’s hand; the long, clever fingers were too jumpy. Instead, he touched Draco’s thigh through the single thin sheet. He could feel the heat of Draco’s fevered skin burning through the fabric.
“We’re going to figure it out,” Harry whispered.
*
Have you had enough yet?
Hold on.
The pressure continued to build. Slower now, but steady, immense, overwhelming.
You’ve been quite impressive, but you can’t win this. Why not let go? Just…be at peace.
Harry will come.
No, he won’t.
He will. He will. Hold on.
*
Four hours later, Ron returned.
Harry leaped to his feet, almost skidding over the floor in his haste. Hermione wasn’t far behind, with Madam Pomfrey in the rear. Harry’s breath was lodged in his throat, but it didn’t take more than a few steps before Ron’s expression registered.
“No,” Harry choked out.
“I’m so sorry, mate,” Ron managed. His eyes were red-rimmed, the pity clear on his face. “There’s nothing. We tried every single spell we could think of. But it’s just an empty hollow, just a sinkhole like any other. Magically null. Not a sign. I went over every inch of that fucking place, Harry, I swear, and there’s…nothing.”
*
Three days after Draco’s fall into the sinkhole, he suffered a grand mal seizure. His arms and legs thrashed, knocking vials and a box of tissues off the small tray at his bedside. He bit his tongue badly enough that blood colored his lips. He made terrifying grunting sounds. Madam Pomfrey cast the appropriate spells while Hermione used her small frame to keep Harry (shuddering and panicked, unaware that he was begging Draco to stop) on his feet.
Madam Pomfrey’s quick action subdued the seizure in less than a minute, and for the next six hours, Draco lay as if dead. Even his twitching stopped. At first, Harry found this a comfort, but then he realized that if the benefits of these spells—and the subsequent stillness—had outweighed the risks posed to that saturation response they’d been talking about, Madam Pomfrey and Hermione would’ve cast them earlier.
“You need to sleep,” Ron said at one point, and Harry allowed his friend to coax him into the adjacent bed.
“Wake me up if…”
“Of course, Harry. Just rest for now. I’ll be right here.”
Harry felt fingertips brush through his hair, and if he’d been more alert, this might have scared him; Ron was not given to comforting touches like that, and it was a sign of the strength of his fear. But Harry’s body was on the verge of collapse, and he couldn’t hold off sleep long enough to worry over it.
Harry slept for thirty minutes before waking in a near-panic, certain that Draco had died. As promised, Ron was there, and he hurried to reassure Harry that nothing had changed. Neither of them was surprised by Harry’s reaction: these short naps were all he could manage since the accident, and most of them ended with this wild terror making him bolt upright in bed. Ron brought him tea and soup from the Hogwarts kitchen and made meaningless small talk about ordinary subjects until he was able to calm somewhat.
Over the past four days, Harry had begun to exist in a kind of waking coma; it was far easier to let his brain fill with cotton and exhaustion than face the very real—and growing—certainty that Draco was going to die. And soon. His thoughts continued to focus on tiny, utterly stupid worries: Draco had used the last of the Marion berry jam that he liked at breakfast the day of the accident; Harry had not thought to wash Draco’s sweater, the gray one Mrs. Weasley had made for him on Christmas last year because she said the color brought out his eyes, and he would’ve liked to have the sweater here for Draco as the Hospital Wing sometimes got cold at night; Harry still had not fixed the shingle on the roof that kept thwapping at night when it was windy, and it was only a matter of time before Draco hurled something at his head for forgetting yet again despite promising to take care of it.
He would take those worries, and a hundred more besides, if Draco would just wake up. If they could just go back to that day. Harry would gladly suffer the fight that would come when he refused to let Draco go to the Forbidden Forest for potions ingredients. He would take the label of ‘controlling bastard’ if it meant undoing all of this. If it meant having Draco warm in his arms, breathing soft and gentle in natural sleep, or with his lips caught in a smirk when he found something amusing, or even spouting one of his incisive, too-honest observations of Harry or the world.
Harry would give anything to have Draco bending and writhing beneath him, lost to pleasure, clutching Harry close, those long legs wrapped around his hips. And after, wrapped cozy in the afterglow, the only time when Draco was truly soft and fond and affectionate, when he would kiss and nuzzle and murmur sweetness for the five-to-seven minutes (Harry knew the window well, because he had timed it) that it took for him to recover from orgasm.
Draco didn't love him. Harry knew this. Sometimes, in weak moments, he tried to convince himself otherwise by reminding himself that they lived together, that they had over two years invested in a relationship, that Draco was happier with Harry than he likely could be with anyone else. These things were all true, but that didn't change the fact that Draco had never said the words, and wouldn't have meant them anyway. He always kept a part of himself back, something that Harry couldn't quite reach. Harry had, for the most part, resigned himself to it. But however much his feelings might not be returned, Harry had no illusions about his own. Draco was the one.
Anything, Harry prayed. I’ll give anything. Just give him back to me.
Early the following morning, not long after Madam Pomfrey had gone to rest and left Hermione to watch things, Harry began to drift off in his chair. He woke briefly when Ron coaxed him back into his own bed, and was awakened not long after by a loud cry. He rocketed upright, pulse pounding, and saw that despite the thick coat of anticonvulsant spells, Draco was thrashing madly.
*
Nearly done now. You’re sure this is the way you want to play it?
Harry. Please.
If you insist, little one.
Hold on.
*
Malfoy’s second lecture—three days later—went much the same as the first. Harry watched balefully from the group of students and Malfoy spoke with assured competence. Even Harry had to admit that Malfoy knew his stuff, although he supposed someone didn’t attain the rank of Master with anything less than excellence.
Once more, Harry lingered after, but this time he remained in his seat, watching the blond man pack up. He propped a foot up on the back of the chair in front of him, and let his heel bounce as he waited. This was a technique of intimidation that was incredibly low-effort, and he’d used it to great effect in the past on missions. Being watched by a subtly antagonistic authority made most people cringe if you just waited long enough.
Malfoy ignored him, and moved without haste or comment. But as he passed by, Harry caught a whiff of Malfoy’s cologne. Expensive stuff, no doubt, but what really stood out was that it violated everything Harry had already come to expect about Malfoy’s new image. His suits, manner, haircut, and expertise were all professionalism at its best. All business.
His cologne was pure, unadulterated sex. Raw and vicious. The scent went straight to Harry’s cock, and for a split second, all he wanted was to spring up from his chair and shove Malfoy against the wall.
Then he was gone, and Harry got busy rationalizing.
He did not want to fuck Malfoy, he told himself. What he wanted was what the cologne stood for, not what it offered. It was an incongruent detail; it was a crack in the foundation. Proof that the rest of it was a façade. Harry wanted the secrets underneath. He wanted to know that Malfoy wasn’t up to his old tricks, just with a far more effective disguise.
He did not want to fuck Malfoy.
Really, he didn’t.
*
The thrashing was violent. Draco nearly threw himself out of the bed, and Harry caught a senseless backhand in the face trying to hold him down. He barely noticed; he was far too distracted by the quiet, pain-wracked cries spilling from Draco’s mouth as he writhed.
“Draco,” Harry managed. “It’s all right. It’ll be all right. Breathe, love. Just keep breathing.”
Madam Pomfrey and Hermione were just standing there, watching with identical drawn expressions, and Harry barked, “Fucking do something!”
“Harry,” Hermione said, her voice trembling. “He’s reached magical saturation. Anything else we cast or give him will just damage his system further. There’s nothing we can do.”
The thrashing went abruptly still and became an arch as Draco’s spine lifted from the mattress in an obscene angle. He collapsed back from the spasm but immediately began to contort again, his arms limp at his sides, until only head and hands and lower legs touched the bed. He collapsed and began to lift once more. This time the arch was so severe that several vertebrae popped, and all of this was accompanied by a terrible, wheezing cry of agony.
Harry stumbled back, hands pressed to his mouth, tears streaming. “Oh, God, Hermione, fix this, please, please, fix it. Stop it. Please.”
She was crying too, hands wringing at her waist. Ron caught him, a strong presence at his back, held him close.
The mad arching abruptly stopped. Draco’s breath hissed out in a long, rattling sigh.
For a moment, Harry thought it was done, thought it was all over.
He tossed Ron aside as if he weighed nothing and launched himself to Draco’s side. He touched warm skin with trembling fingers, moved swiftly down to let the steady rise and fall of Draco’s chest move beneath his palm.
“Draco,” he whispered. “Draco. I love you. Hold on. Hold on.”
For long, aching minutes, they waited, wondering if the life in front of them was fading. But Draco’s breathing evened. Within twenty minutes, his temperature began to fall, and his lips lost the blue tinge.
Harry sank into his chair and shook like a man with palsy. Hermione and Madam Pomfrey frowned worriedly and refused to talk about what the broken fever might mean, but as neither the convulsions nor the terrible arching came back, Harry preferred to imagine that it might be a suggestion of recurring health.
Harry’s body gave out from fatigue not long after; he woke to heady dusk in the adjacent bed with a vague memory of tunnel vision and Ron catching him before he hit the floor. He sat up and took in Ron’s face—lined and tired, but somehow lighter than it had been in days. A rustle of fabric sounded, and then Hermione stood beside him, hands clenched at her waist.
“What?” Harry asked, his voice a croak.
Hermione reported, with apprehensive awe in her voice, that Draco’s kidney function and liver function were somehow normal.
“That’s…what? Normal?” Harry asked. He glanced over, saw Draco as still and quiet as ever, and struggled to make sense of it.
“It’s a good sign,” Hermione said. Her mouth worked once. “We have no idea what’s changed, Harry. I don’t know if we can trust this or if it’s a temporary improvement, but it is a good sign. I really thought…but it’s a good sign.”
As night thickened and midnight approached, Draco’s cardiac enzymes stabilized. Less than an hour later, the remaining fluid in his lungs responded to a small spell.
Harry sat in his chair, gripped Draco’s hand, and watched as the gray cheeks became merely pale, and then, in the dim light of his Lumos, even began to flush with health. Draco shifted, letting out a soft sigh, but these were the movements and sounds of normal, gentle sleep rather than seizure and illness.
Harry began to hope. Truly hope.
Draco would come back to him.
*
Mine.
*
Twenty minutes after dawn, Draco opened his eyes.