Disclaimer: I obviously do not own Harry Potter.
A scowl twisted thin lips and a pale hand tangled itself in white blond hair as Draco Malfoy paced in the boy's lavatory. Despite his calm, collected, arrogant persona at school, the return of the Dark Lord had thrown Draco's life into utter turmoil. He was a fifteen-year-old boy, for Merlin's sake! He didn't want to join a cult of dark wizards bent on the destruction of Muggle-borns and practically the entire wizarding world! He wanted to play Quidditch, and hate school, and date! But, no...that was never going to happen. Not for Draco Malfoy.
He whipped around as someone came bursting into the lavatory as if an angry Hippogriff was on their tail. He just barely caught sight of hideous glasses, unruly black hair, and flannel pajama pants in Gryffindor red before the figure dashed into a cubicle and the sounds of retching reached the blond's ears.
Potter. Of course. Just what he needed.
Draco leaned casually in the doorway of the cubicle, a sneer on his angular face. "Feeling a little queasy, Potter?" he asked.
Potter wiped the corner of his mouth on his sleeve. "What's it to you, Malfoy?" he replied, his tone biting. It was very obvious that Draco was the last person he wanted to see. That, however, didn't deter the Slytherin one bit.
"Still have nightmares about your little boyfriend? About Cedric Diggory?" He said the name slowly, letting each syllable drip off his tongue like acid.
Potter glared, but Draco could see the lingering hurt and guilt behind the expression. The events of the Triwizard Tournament had done quite a number on the boy, and something in the back of Draco's mind prompted him to be worried, rather than insulting.
His smirk twitched, then fell.
"Oh, don't give me that look, Potter!" he said, plopping cross-legged onto the floor with a frustrated huff. "Yes, you're a bloody wonder boy and you have so many problems, but sooner or later you're going to have to get over it and stop being such an arse, wallowing in your damn self-pity!"
"I am not wallowing in self-pity!" Potter shouted, cringing at the sound of his voice echoing off the cold stone walls. "I'm not..." he repeated, and this time his voice was hushed. He looked down at the floor.
"But you are," Draco said simply. Not polite, Merlin no, but not angry or bitter, either. "You're the bloody Golden Boy of Gryffindor and everybody loves you. Sure you're some 'chosen one' or something like that, but other people have bigger problems, Potty-wotter. Stop whining like some damn banshee."
Potter opened his mouth, as if he was going to respond, but Draco knew there was nothing he could say to that. He could see it in his eyes. He knew Draco was right, but he most certainly wasn't going to tell him that. He was far too proud.
He stood, wobbling a bit, and then strolled past Draco with an air of indifference. The Slytherin sat there on the floor of the lavatory until he could no longer hear his footsteps.
There he was again, the next morning, hunched over the porcelain throne. Draco was beginning to wonder if he wasn't actually ill.
"Back to puke your guts out again, wonder boy?"
"Shove off, Mal-" Potter began, but he couldn't finish his sentence. He started to dry-heave. Draco cringed in sympathy. He knew how much that hurt. Potter rested his forehead on the edge of the toilet seat, unconcerned about the myriad of diseases that thrived there. He coughed quietly.
Draco felt his smugness dissipate. This was wrong. Very wrong. For some strange reason, he absolutely hated seeing Potter so...defeated. The Potter he knew was not constantly throwing up, made physically ill by mere nightmares. He wasn't broken or weak. Potter was meant to be strong and persistent, everlasting and courageous. That was practically the definition of Potter.
Then again...perhaps that was it. Maybe this wasn't Potter. This was Harry. Harry was just a fifteen-year-old boy...just like Draco. Harry didn't ask for all the fame, for the weight of the world to be placed on his shoulders. Harry was just a scared teenager who'd seen more horrors than any teenager should ever have to bear witness to.
In a moment of clarity, Draco Malfoy realized that he and Harry Potter were very similar beings.
"Go to the infirmary, Potter," Draco snapped, but Pot-Harry...Harry ignored him. Draco could almost feel the Gryffindor's stomach churning. His face paled and he puked, and he spent a few long moments panting before he finally settled.
"Shove off, Malfoy..." he growled, and Draco sighed. It was just no fun teasing someone who looked so positively pathetic.
"Can't move?"
Harry looked at him, meek, but trying to keep up some semblance of their rivalry through a tired glare. "No..." he muttered at long last. "Too nauseous..."
Draco rolled his eyes and crouched down. "Get on my back..." he mumbled reluctantly. He didn't want to be nice to Harry, exactly, but he saw no problem in helping him to the infirmary. He wasn't complete scum, after all. "I'll carry you..."
There was a long moment of tense silence, then Draco felt Harry climb weakly onto his back. He looped his arms around the blond's neck, and Draco hooked his elbows under the boy's knees.
Draco deposited Harry in the infirmary ten minutes later, and left moments before Madame Pomfrey bustled in to tend to the bloody Boy-Who-Lived. He didn't return.
At least, not until the next day.