Disclaimer: I do not own any recognizable characters or the song This Is the Best Day Ever by My Chemical Romance.
This fic was previously posted on the site, but taken down due to a violation involving my use of the lyrics of the song that inspired it. While cleaning out my desk, I found an old copy of it. So here it is again, minus the lyrics. Hope you like it!
Harry sat groggily by Draco's bedside, the only remaining visitor at St. Mungo's and the young man's only companion.
He laid his head on the coarse hospital sheets, wondering when, if ever, Draco would wake up. It had been nearly three weeks and he was consumed by constant worry. He could see that the doctors had already given up. Draco should have awoken long ago.
Yawning, Harry took hold of his boyfriend's thin, limp hand and resituated himself so that he could see his face better.
"Come on, you're supposed to be awake," he mumbled sleepily. "They said." He looked at the expressionless mask that had taken over the face he knew and loved so well. "God, three weeks without sex! You're asleep, you don't know." He managed a weak smile and then chuckled uncertainly to himself. Then, "I miss you…"
He sat up in his chair and carefully smoothed the silver-blonde hair from Draco's forehead. "You're stupid, you know that?" His voice was thick with tears. "You had to go and be noble—had to be Dumbledore's spy. You idiot."
He woke with a sharp cry, drenched in a cold sweat. He lifted his head, looking for Draco, then realized he was in the waiting room. Still trembling from the nightmare, he stood and made his way down the hall.
There was a group of doctors in Draco's room. Harry didn't even have to ask anymore—they simply gave him a look that told him how pathetically hopeful he was and shook their heads. Sighing, he decided to go home for a bit and take a shower.
As he stood beneath the hot stream of water, he found himself closer and closer to tears. Draco wasn't going to wake up. He never would. Any day now the doctors would tell him that there was nothing left to do, that Harry needed to make the decision that should have been made two weeks ago.
Harry didn't think he could do that—decide to let Draco go. He knew it was the right thing to do, but he didn't have the courage.
Still fighting back the tears, he dried off and got a change of clothes. Back to the hospital. He stepped into the fireplace and arrived at St. Mungo's a few seconds later.
Draco was still comatose, of course. Harry sighed and slumped into the uncomfortable chair that had become his home, watching the nurse as she checked Draco's vitals, the look on her face telling him very plainly that nothing had changed. She left with a brief, pitiful glance his way, and Harry moved to take her place, gripping his boyfriend's hand.
"Wake up," he demanded. "I'm ordering you."
No answer.
"Fine, then. I hate you." Harry fell silent and laid his head down, closing his eyes even as he fought back sleep. He hated it when he dozed off. Even at night he couldn't escape the sight of Voldemort, his cold, red gaze laughing as Draco fell, hurt and unconscious. But in reality the Dark Lord was dead and everyone was celebrating. But Harry felt so very dead inside.
"Mr. Potter?"
He looked up to see yet another doctor, a smallish man of no particular interest. He was plain-looking and unattractive, a very nondescript man whom Harry had come to hate.
"What?" he asked, more sharply than he intended.
"We need you to make a decision." He nodded toward the bed.
Harry felt the rage building. How dare this man treat Draco like that? How dare he act as though he wasn't important, as though he was just some inconvenience? "No change?" he asked quietly, managing to contain his anger. He already knew the answer.
"None. At this point…he may never wake up."
Tears suddenly blurred Harry's vision as he looked at Draco. He lost himself for a moment in the pale face he had come to love, finding the familiar beauty in his now wasted, sunken features. Sighing, he looked up at the doctor.
"Give me some more time," he mumbled, trying not to cry.
He never left Draco's side over the next three days, holding his hand, begging him to wake and praying for a miracle. There was no change, and every day the doctors came to him, and every day Harry asked for more time.
"You can't leave me," he told Draco more than once. "I love you. And you're only eighteen—that's far too young." He kissed the man's forehead gently and pulled away. "And I still hate you," he sniffed.
And then one day the doctor came in to look at the charts and examine Draco. He turned to Harry when he was finished, a perplexed look on his face. "It's looking better," he said quietly, as though he didn't understand it. "He… I don't want to get your hopes up, but you never know…"
And then, a week later, he woke. His silvery eyes opened, blinked up at the ceiling for a moment, and finally settled on the sleeping man at his bedside. "Harry," he croaked, gripping his boyfriend's hand in a weak fist.