Everyone has gone home for the holidays. It is Christmas break. This somber Friday morning, Draco sits alone in the Slytherin common room, fire roaring. He's picked a comfortable pair of soft cotton pyjamas to lounge around in.
Though it's nearing Christmas, Draco feels utterly alone. He had decided that staying at Hogwarts buring break was a good idea. His mother had wanted him home, but he could not bring himself to set foot in Malfoy Manor after Voldermort's presence had contaminated the warm, safe atmosphere it once was.
It's been months since the war, but Draco still has nightmares. They are horrible, causing him to scream in his sleep often. The other Slytherins have been none too supportive, except for Blaise.
He's been at Draco's side almost every night Draco has woken up screaming bloody murder. He doesn't bother to ask Draco what he'd drempt; Blaise knows it'll only upset him further. So instead he offer a sense of comfort with soothing words and the occasional rubbing of Draco's back.
He doubts Blaise would or could ever guess what his most common nightmare is. It is Potter. That day, the final day of the war. Voldemort returned from the Forbidden Forest with his Death Eaters and had announced that Harry Potter was dead, but this time it was real.
Harry lay lifeless on the cold ground, dried blood on his face. Death Eaters inflicting horrible curses on the corpse of the wizarding world's saviour. In the dream, Draco drops to the ground, and sobs. He doesn't even realize when the fighting erupts around him once more, he just keeps crying.
His mother and father are no where to be found as Death Eaters murder his teachers and classmates. He doesn't know when he moved over to Potter's body, but he doesn't care. He can't help but let the anger overwhelm him as his tears flow freely. He shakes Potter, hits him, and even screams through his sobs; trying in vain to wake the boy.
Soon he has no will for anything left and he slumps over the body of his former arch enemy, rival, and even at one point, possible best friend. He knows now that there's no hope left in the world and doesn't even bother to look up when Voldemort approaches. He doesn't have to see his face to know that the Dark Lord is digusted by his actions, but he can't help feeling slightly relieved as the wicked man hovering over him mutters the all-too-familiar words of the killing curse.
"Avada Kedavra!"
Draco shudders, he knows Potter is alive and kicking and that Voldemort is dead and gone for good, but that doesn't diminish he pain he still feels from the nightmare and the war itself. Draco curls into himself on the sofa, slender arms embracing drawn-up knees as he glares into the flames flickering brightly in the hearth.
Finally sleep claims Draco. Once again dreaming of things he'd rather forget. He twitches, whimpers, moans, and writhes fitfully. In a sudden thrash, he sends a glass cup plumetting from table to floor. He also simultaneously slips off the sofa with a loud thud. Draco jerks awake, bleary-eyed and groggy, barely aware of anything.
He notices he is laying on shards of glass, and it isn't until he hoists himself onto his hands and knees that he feels a sharp pain in his thigh. Draco looks down to see that there's a large piece of broken glass buried in his leg. There's a hole in his pants and blood weeping from the edges of the wound. Without really thinking, he pulls the glass from his thigh, causing intense pain to shoot through his body and more blood to flood out of the now unblocked wound.
Draco desperately covers he wound with his hand, trying to staunch the blood flow. There's too much blood, way too much. It's soaking his pant leg, dripping on the green carpet, and coating his hands. The glass must have severed a vein, he only hopes it not a major vein. Draco can't stand, he can't hardly move. The pain is too much. He fumbles for something - anything. He finds a Slytherin scarf, his, he thinks.
He releases his hold on his leg to tie a touriquet around it. He ties it tight, which helps a bit, more than his hands anyway. He silently curses himself for not knowing any decent healing spells. He manages to pull himself backwards onto the sofa. He winces as he does, more pain shooting through his leg. 'Hospital wing' is all he can think as he tries to stand.
He finally limps over to portrait hole and stumbles into the corridor. With a hand pressed firmly against the stone wall for leverage, he slowly moves along. Pain searing his leg with each step he takes. The tourniquet is helping, cutting off circulation, but it's still bleeding profusely. His pant leg and sock are soaked and he's leaving nice little bloody tracks. Well, atleast he'll be able to find his way back, he thinks sarcastically. The sun is fading for the day and the sky is tinted orange and pink. Draco notices as he struggles down the halls. He had apparently slept all day. He's about halfway to the hospital wing, and God does he hurt, when he hears footsteps coming around the corner. Oh, bloody hell!
Anger and stress overwhelms him and he leans back against the wall before sliding down it into a sitting postition. He shudders as pain ripples through his body once again. He hears the footsteps getting closer, and he's not surprised at all to see that it's Harry bloody Potter. A soft growl erupts from Draco's throat - it's always Potter. Though somewhere deep inside his subconscious, Draco is secretly delighted - for many reasons. The most prominent is that someone is here to help him, albeit he's never admit that, or even fully acknowledge it himself.
Harry stops dead in his tracks upon seeing Draco huddled on the floor and bleeding.
"Malfoy!" He gasps. "What the hell happened?" He asks, alarmed as he drops down beside Draco.
Draco gazes warily at Harry for a moment, "I... fell on some... broken glass." He grunts.
Harry looks shocked and horrified. He shifts so that he can reach behind Draco and hoist him up.
"What do you think you're doing, Potter?" Draco hisses as he's jostled about into a standing postition.
"Taking you to Madame Pomfrey." Is all Harry says.
Harry has wrapped his arm around Draco's waist, while holding Draco's arm across his shoulders. They're side by side. Draco wrinkles his nose as his face begins to heat when Harry holds his waist.
"Can you walk?" Harry asks, turning his head slightly to gaze at Draco with concerned eyes.
"Yeah," Draco says, just staring at the stone floor.
Harry begins to walk at a slow pace, supporting a very injured, disgruntled Malfoy. They trudge along, in-step with eachother. All the while, Draco is hissing and whimpering every few seconds from the pain. Harry tries to walk as smoothly as possible, to avoid causing Draco more pain. He is successful for the most part.
"Why are you helping me, Potter?" Draco quietly asks.
Harry is caught off guard by the genuinely curious question. Probably because there were no sarcastic undertones. Draco was being sincere.
"Hero complex?" Harry chuckles humorlessly.
Draco rolls his eyes, but says nothing else. He knows Potter has a reason for helping. Potter always has a reason. Maybe he has an agenda or an ulterior motive, but whatever the reason, Draco is internally grateful. They speak no more for the rest of their walk.
They reach the Hosptital Wing and Harry gently pushes the door open with his free shoulder. He carries a heavily-limping Draco to an empty bed. Draco is relieved as he hits the mattress. All the weight is taken off his wounded leg and he sighs as the pain eases. Harry gives him an apologetic look before turning toward Madame Pomfrey's office.
A few minutes later, Harry returns with a very worried-looking Pomfrey. She's at Draco's side within seconds of laying eyes on the poor boy. She doesn't bother to ask him what happened, seeing as Harry has probably already told her. She removes the improvised-tourniquet, then pulls her wand from a pocket in her medical robes. Draco sharply inhales as a new wave of pain courses through him. She casts a wordless charm on Draco's leg to stop the blood flow and ease the pain.
Draco flinches slightly, but says nothing. Harry is watching the whole procedure just a few feet away. Though the wound isn't healed completely, it's much better. It's very deep and she can't mend it with a simple healing charm. Pomfrey bustles off to her office to retrieve a vial of Flesh Sewing potion. The name sounds horrid. Draco glares at the innocent looking vial, dreading having to drink the vivid orange liquid inside.
"Here you go, Dear. Down all of this. It'll help." Pomfrey says, handing Draco the vial.
He wrinkles his nose in distaste, but drinks it anyway. He coughs at the lingering bitter taste as he hands her back the vial.
"There. Now you'll have to stay overnight for observation, but I reckon you'll be good as new by morning." She says offering a small smile, before returning to her office and bidding them a good night.
Draco gets comfortable and pulls a white blanket over himself. He's about to close his eyes when he notices Harry just standing there... waiting.
"What?" Draco snaps.
Harry shakes his head, "Nothing."
Draco rolls his eyes, "Well, as you can see, I'm not going to die. So you can go now."
Harry gives Draco a withering look, "You sure you'll be fine?"
"Yes! You can stop playing the hero now." Draco drawls and rolls over, so that his back is to Potter.
Draco should know by now that it takes alot more to scare Harry Potter off, but it was worth a shot. He's not even surprised when he hears Harry drop into the chair next to his bed.
They don't speak for a long time, until Draco says, "Thank you."
The words are so quiet Harry's unsure if he's heard them at all, but he knows he has. A smile creeps onto his lips. It must have been hard for Draco to say that.
"You're welcome," Harry utters back.
Draco smiles too. He's grateful Harry didn't make a big deal out of it. Silence ensues again, but it's neither awkward nor strained. It's peaceful. They know what to expect from one another, they know from many years and an unspoken bond. Neither one moves ot talks, but they don't need to.
They're comforted just by the mere presence of the other.