"I'm scared."
Draco turns around to look at Harry who's staring at the ceiling and draws the black-haired boy closer to him.
"They expect me to win the war. Kill Voldemort or die trying," Harry whispers, not daring to meet Draco's mercury eyes.
Draco swallows the lump in his throat and tightens his grip on Harry, who curls up against him.
"Father expects me to fight with him. It's all he talks about these days, the war. Mother-" Draco falters, the fear clawing at his chest like a raven's claws and Harry squeezes his hand.
(They never need words, know that no words in the entire damn universe can change or mend anything. Word are the ones that caused the wounds after all.)
"She's dying. She eats less and less every day, keeps to her room and on nights that Father comes home drunk and angry he-. He hurts her," Draco mumbles, the words spilling past his lips like a flood of tears.
(Ironically, he hasn't cried since he was younger. Since he learned that tears don't help you and heroes don't come running to make everything better.)
Harry doesn't say anything but instead sits up and leans back against the headboard. Draco's momentarily disappointed, instantly missing Harry's warmth but his lips curve upwards into a smile when Harry pats his lap. Draco rests against Harry, a soft sigh escaping him when the other cards his hands through his hair and starts humming.
It reminds Draco of his mother and what she used to when he had nightmares and while it stings, it soothes his nerves and he finds that the lump in his throat has lessened. His eye flutter close and he waits for Harry to speak patiently.
"I don't want to die," he finally admits, and then says it again his voice cracking, "I don't want to die."
The lump in his throat comes back as he listens to Harry repeat 'I don't want to die' under his breath like a mantra, head bowed down and touching Draco's.
He can feel tears sliding down his cheeks but he's not sure if they're Harry's, his, or a mixture of the two.
He sits up slowly, his bones protesting the movement and serving the grim reminder that fear and melancholy has seeped into his bones, wrapped around his body like ivy.
Harry doesn't bother to look at him, his cheeks tinted pink with shame.
(Shame of allowing himself to succumb to the nagging doubts in his mind, he was the damn Boy-Who-Lived for fuck's sake!)
Draco frowns at that and pulls Harry close to him, until he's held tightly against his chest, protected. The way he likes to be held, the arms around him a promise.
Draco doesn't say anything, he doesn't need to because after awhile Harry relaxes and melts into his arms.
They stay like that for a long time, two boys haunted by the duty thrust upon their shoulders at to young an age.
The only sound in the room is their quiet breathing and occasionally soft humming.
Draco and Harry never needed words, not when they could touch each other and stop the nightmares, look into each other's eyes and feel heaven and earth collide.