Desclaimer: Not mine, although I wish on a twinkling star every night.
----------
I.
The door opens. A young man, wearing expensive, tailored robes and a heavy cloak enters. He has very light blond hair, piercing gray eyes, and the pale looks of someone just after an illness. Nevertheless, he holds himself proudly, his thin shoulders straight, and his face, though still a little gaunt, are handsome.
The room itself is obviously a hospital room, and a private one. The floor is scrubbed clean and a little worn, the curtains, drawn back from the two windows, are clean and ironed, and the crisp sheets covering the only bed in the room are the same sterile white as the walls.
Even the sun, shining merrily through the windows, cannot banish the loneliness surrounding this room.
The man sits in the stiff chair beside the bed. He folds his cloak, and after searching in vain for somewhere to put it, he just holds in his arms.
He doesn't look at the man lying in the bed, motionless, his closed eyelids covering eyes of vivid green and his unruly black bangs hiding an unusual, lightning-shaped scar.
Some time passes. Then the man sighs "I still don't understand why you did that," he says. His voice sounds rough, unused, and too loud in the room.
"Why you saved my life," he clarifies, to no one "when it was obvious how much it would cost you. How much it had cost you".
"I mean, we were hardly what you'd call friends. Not even acquaintances. We hated each other. At school, we constantly made each other's life hell".
A pause. "Well, more me than you, but that's not the point. The point- the point is, we were on the same side, yes, both of us being in the order, and yes, we fought next to one another in the last battle, but-"he frowns, struggling with the words.
"You didn't have to take that spell instead of me. I wouldn't have done that for you. I would have understood if it was Granger, or Weasley-well-" a cough.
"The point is, I don't understand why you did that, why you pushed me when that Death Eater aimed at me. What did it matter to you, if I died? Why did you think my life was more than yours?"
The man sighs again, running a fidgeting hand through his hair. "Look at me, sitting here and talking to a vegetable. And you, of all people. Well, you won't catch me here again, I can promise you that. I just wanted answers, but it's obvious you can't give them to me".
He gets up, the chair screeching unpleasantly across the floor. He crosses quickly to the door, than pauses, not looking back.
"Goodbye, Potter" he says quietly, and the door shuts behind him a moment later.
In the bed, the dark-haired man continues to breathe calmly, the rise and fall of his chest almost unnoticeable.
--------
II.
The door opens. The same man from before, now in well-cut trousers and a long coat over a golf sweater, enters slowly.
He looks healthier, not so pale, and his face lost some of its gauntness, though it is still narrow.
He stands for a minute, then sits beside the bed.
"Hello, Potter," he says.
"You still look the same. Your healer, she- she said there isn't much of a chance, that you'll get better. That you'll wake up".
He still doesn't look at the bed. "Why did you do it?" he asks again, though it's not so much a question anymore "you already defeated Voldemort for good- can't say killed, as he wasn't all that alive to begin with- the only thing left to do was round up the Death Eaters left. They weren't that many. You killed Bellatrix Lastrange and her husband already, and Dolohov we caught a while before that, and my father-"he cuts himself off, scraping the sole of his shoe on the floor.
"You had a whole life ahead of you. With your talents, you could get any job you wanted, and what your talents wouldn't have gotten you, your fame would've. You could have settled down, have a few kids- well," he corrects himself, flushing lightly "not with Ginny Weasley, obviously, but you were young. You would've gotten over her death eventually, met some other girl, had a few brats," he takes off his coat, dropping it on the foot of the bed.
"You had Granger and Weasley-" he stops again.
"I need to go," he says. No one answers him. "I have things to do- I'm helping with the restoration of the Hogwarts Library- Granger's sometimes there, too-"
He gets up, not looking back.
"Well, goodbye," he offers, grudgingly. "I won't be back".
The door closes behind him.
In the room, the man continues to breathe quietly, the white, starched covers tucked around him.
---------
III.
The door opens. The blond man, in robes again, enters, but this time, although he looks completely healed, he is leaning on an elegant wooden cane.
He sits, with some difficulty.
"Stupid me," he says "I get through the war with not much more than a scratch, and then, bam- one of the library walls collapses on me. Hermione patched me up pretty well, considering she's no medi-witch- but then, she was always good with healing spells, between the battles. Anyway, it was enough 'till the healers arrived, and then they fixed everything, but I still have to use this" he indicated his cane.
"My father used to have one, do you remember? A cane" he laughs, without much humor "looked a right ponce, what with that cane, all carved and gilded with silver, with a bloody snake's head at the top".
He sobers "threw it away, first chance I got. It's not like he'll ever use it again, in any case. Him being dead and all".
"I started repairing the Manor, yesterday. I-"he looks through a window. "When you were there, just after my father was captured and killed, and I inherited the Manor, you said it looked so cold. You said you understood, a little, why I was such a bastard. That any child will be fucked up, after growing up in a place like that, all made of ice and shadows".
He takes a deep breath "you said it was a shame there were no flowers, in the gardens. Just trees and old statues and pruned shrubbery. Well, mother grew roses, but they were ruined, in the beginning, and they never bloomed that well, anyway".
A long silence. Then he says quietly "I asked Hermione what flowers you liked. She said you liked happy flowers, what ever that meant. Wild flowers and bright flowers and the such. She said you probably would've liked lilies. Because of your mother".
He smoothes his robes "so I planted all these, sweet-pee and daffodils and anemones and poppies. And a fourth of an acre of lilies, every sort I could find. I thought," he hesitates "that you would've liked to see them. If you could, that is. Maybe that's something worth waking up for".
He glances at a golden pocket watch he takes out "I'm late" he says. "I had to be at the ministry fifteen minutes ago. I'm starting to work there, as a full time auror".
He gets up, pauses at the door. "I won't say that I won't be back," he says, "because we both know it'll be a lie. Goodbye, then".
The door closes behind him.
In the room, the sun creates patterns on the face of the sleeping man.
-------
IV.
The door opens. The blond man comes in, holding a vase and a bouqui of flowers, wrapped in a blue plastic wrapper. He is wearing muggle clothes again, and his cane is gone.
"I brought you some flowers," he says. "Completely platonic, of course. Just thought your room could use a bit of cheering up, since you're- you're going to be here for a long time, or so your healer says. You would've liked her" he tells the unmoving man as he places the vase on the small table beside the bed, spells water into it and puts the flowers in. They're lilies, white and red.
He sits "she has black hair, the healer. A pretty face, as well- looks a lot like Cho Chang, that Ravenclaw who was a year above us and you were mad for all along fourth year and some of fifth year, too. Until you started dating Weasley, in seventh, I though you would end up together, eventually".
"She fawns over you terribly," he confides "all the time, telling me how nice it is that I'm visiting you, when no one else is coming-".
His face turns serious "you shouldn't be mad at Hermione," he says "it's very hard for her. She came once, but, well, she cried so much, even after, at work... with the both of you, like this- she visits Weasley, a lot. But then, the healers say he's likely to wake up any time now".
"She loves you" he continues. "I think she's a little mad at me, that you're the one lying here and not me. But than, I'm a little mad at you, too. Always doing the heroic thing, you were, always acting from your heart, and not from your logical thinking. Thinking wasn't your forte".
"And now I owe you" he says, a little roughly. "Now I have to get on with my life, knowing all the while that it should've been you, living them. It's a great burden you gave me, along with this gift. It's as if I have to live two lives now, mine and yours. Or, rather, that I have to live yours".
He sighs, looking sad "even now, when you are practically dead, I'm in your shadow. I think I will always be in your shadow. When we were in school, it was the shadow of you outdoing me, and now it's the shadow of your life, the life that you should've lived, the life that you gave to me".
"I need to go" he gets up, the plastic wrapper scrunching in his hand.
"Goodbye, Harry" he says. The door closes behind him.
In the Room, Harry's nose twitches.
---------
V.
The door opens. The man enters, another buque of flowers in his arms. Again, they are white and red lilies, although the wrapper is green this time.
He throws the flowers in the vase away, changes the water, and puts the new flowers in.
"Morning, Harry" he says, looking at the sleeping man.
"You know, it's so strange to think you're not even twenty. When we graduated you were almost eighteen, and the war started about a month before that. You're here more then three months already, and the war was a little more than a year. It's absurd to think that the fate of the entire wizarding world rested on the shoulders of an eighteen-year-old boy. After all, you were barely eighteen when you defeated Voldemort. You're not even nineteen now".
He sucks in an angry breath "no one's life should end at eighteen" he says harshly. "All because of a stupid prophecy, and Dumbledore, with those ideals he drilled into your head- about morals, and right and wrong, and ethics- but then, you had sort of a break-up at the end of fifth year, didn't you? Because of your godfather. Hermione told me. Still, you were pretty down when he died".
"Me, I never liked him that much anyway, though of course he was better than Voldemort. Anyone's better than him".
There is silence for a while. The wind breezes in from the window, open despite the cold. The blonde gets up and closes the window, muttering about making Harry's condition worse. He sits back down. There is silence again.
"Hermione doesn't want me to come here anymore" he says suddenly. "She says it's not healthy, to live the rest of my life like that, feeling in debt to you, just because you saved my life. She says it was just the way you were. She says I need to face my life, that I can't hide behind you".
He scowls, his thin mouth twisting "bullocks. She's the one talking about facing life, but she can't even face you. She says she busy, and 'today isn't a good day, maybe tomorrow' and 'Draco, stop nagging', but I can see she's just afraid. To face you, that is".
Draco frowns, childishly "she's already got used to the fact that you're gone. That you're not coming back. I think that she thinks that if she will come here, and see you, it will be like loosing you all over again".
"She says it sick, what I'm doing- that you're not here, never will be here, and I need to stop coming. And she calls herself your friend" he huffs "I'm not leaving you here, like an old statue, to collect dust".
He turns his head away, suddenly unable to face the boy in the bed. "Besides, it's not true, what she said, that I come here because I feel guilty. Although I do, of course. I-"
He stared at the wall, looking very young, all of the sudden. He is. Barely nineteen himself, after all.
"I like coming here" he confesses. "I- like seeing you, even if you're not talking back. I can't shake the feeling that you'll wake up any second, and ask me what I'm doing here. 'Malfoy,' you'll say, 'why are you sitting next to my bed?'" he smiles, then stops as something else occurs to him "but, then, of course, you'll tell me to fuck off, and to call Hermione and Weasley on my way out".
He gets up, looks at the sleeping boy, then, very quickly, smoothes his hair. He hurries to the door, then stops. "I thought you'd like to know" he says, not turning around "that Weasley opened his eyes today. They're transferring him to the temporary ward. They say that if everything is fine, he'll be out in a week or two".
The door closes.
Behind him, Harry's eyes scrunch, and his left foot twitches, the fingers curling and uncurling a few times before they stop.
--------
VI.
The door opens. Draco comes in, and again, he is carrying flowers. The same red and white lilies, and today, around the plain red wrapper, there is a large, red bow. He changes the flowers, leaving the bow awkwardly on the table, too.
"Hi" he says. "I missed you".
His nose is red, and his hair wet, matted to his face. It looks a soggy gold, now, not whitish-blond. "First real rain" he says. "A bit early, really, as it's not even December yet".
He dries himself quickly with his wand.
"I saved your wand, you know" he tell Harry. "When you fell, I took it. Don't know why. I'm glad I did- when-"he bites his lip and corrects himself "-if you wake up, you won't have to get a new one. You'll have your old wand. Wouldn't that be nice?"
He sighs "it's so frustrating, to sit here, and talk to you, and you're not answering. And I feel these things-"he falls silent.
His clock ticks, from somewhere inside his shirt pockets. Time passes. A car honks outside.
"I-"he tries again "when I smoothed your hair, last time, it was nice. Very nice. And I found myself thinking-"he closes his eyes, blushing and looking mortified "I found myself thinking, what it would be like to kiss you".
He opens his eyes. No thunder, no lightning, no pretty healer bursting into the room to kick him out. No Harry answering, either.
"Can I kiss you?" he asks. No answer, of course. He smiles, a little, very nervously. "I guess you're not objecting, at least".
He leans close, studying the sleeping boy's face. "You've got a nice face, you know. Nicer than mine, anyway. But you look so strange, with your eyes closed and your glasses off" the glasses are on the table next to his bed, after someone found them and brought them here. One lens is broken.
"So, here goes" he says, screwing his eyes shut, and leans close. His lips press on Harry's mouth for a few moments, and then he jerks away, jumping to his feet.
"God, what am I doing!?" he hisses, and bolts out the door, slamming it behind him.
In the bed, Harry smiles.
-------
VII.
The door opens. Draco enters, holding the flowers, and a big, fluffy teddy bear. He changes the flowers, settles the bear on the foot of the bed, and sits.
"I'm sorry" he says, "that I ran out like that. I guess I just got frightened. It scary, to realize you're in-"he pauses.
"Weasley got released today," he says, instead. "No permanent damage, except for a slight limp- better than most those who survived. He was devastated, I heard, when he found out about your... condition. He went down in the same battle you did, but before, remember? I guess you do. He was your best friend, after all. Me" he sucks in a breath, face closed "I wasn't even your best enemy".
"He and Hermione are getting married. They were planing it before- but I guess you knew that- but than Weasley got hit, and you... Anyway, now that he's awake, they want to do at as soon as possible. I'm invited, of course- Hermione invited me, though Weasley wasn't so enthusiastic. He wanted to hold the ceremony here, so you'd be present, too, but Hermione refused. She said it was sick. She uses that word a lot, lately".
"Anyway, I'll tell you how it was. They're a bit young to get married, in my opinion, but that's what people do after wars, get married young and have lots and lots of babies. Or so I'm told".
He puts his hand on Harry's face, his thumb tracing circles on his cheek "why won't you wake up?" he asks, almost desperately. He buries his face in the crook of Harry's neck "this is crazy" he mumbles, his words muffled by skin and cloth. "Hermione was right, this is sick. I should stop coming. I should have stopped when she told me to. I should never have came at all. But then, I've never been able to turn away from you".
He bites back a sob, but a drop of moister lands on a Harry's collar "this is crazy. I'm falling- I've fallen for you. I'm in love with you. This is hopeless. They say you'll never wake up. I fallen in love with you, and you'll never wake up, you'll just continue to sleep and waste away, while I'll have to watch you".
He kisses him, the gets up and heads to the door. Without turning, he whispers "goodbye, Harry. I'm not coming again. I'm sorry. Goodb-"
He wipes his eyes, almost angrily, and closes the door behind him.
Behind him, in the room, Harry opens his eyes.
