He falls through time and space and lands on his knees, vomiting until there's nothing left but acid and cold. Draco coughs, spitting blood on the grass. He doesn't dare open his eyes. The world is spinning too fast and all it'll do is tip him over. Something frozen wet soaks into his pyjamas, cold air whistling through his hair. When he can finally breathe again, it's fresh on his tongue.

Palms flat on the ground, Draco squints.

Outside.

Evening time.

Not the Manor.

Panic sparks.

Not the Manor.

There is nowhere in the grounds where the grass is this long or this soft, and his heart thudders as he remembers the man in his bedroom. Who'd appeared from nowhere with a dragon in his hand. Who'd saved him.

Saved him.

The sight of the shock on his father's face burns behind hid his eyes. He would've thought it was a dream if this world wasn't so real.

"Malfoy?"

Draco jerks, twisting, falling backwards onto his elbows.

The man with black hair and green eyes, the man who saved him, is on the ground too, a little way away, round glasses crooked on his face; eyes wide with nothing but concern. He crawls the length of a pace towards him, and Draco recoils.

The man stops immediately. "You alright?"

He can barely put meaning to the question, let alone find an answer.

"Just sit still for a moment, okay? Apparating always makes me feel sick, and then time-travel on top of that—"

"Time-travel?" Draco whispers.

The man grimaces. "Oh, yeah, right. Look, let's head up to the castle and I'll explain everything. And get you fixed up too."

Draco touches his jaw, the ache still sharp and new. He knows what he must look like.

"I have to… I have to go back. I have to go home."

He scrambles up, wobbling, the world pitching him back onto the ground.

"Careful now,"

He skitters away from the man's hands, there trying to help.

"Where am I? Where'd you take me?"

"Hogwarts. You're at Hogwarts. You're safe here."

"Hogwarts?" He sees it now, the dark silhouette above the trees, as real as the grass between his fingers and the snow soaking into his pyjamas. "No. I can't be here. You have to take me back. You have to take me back!" He doesn't realise he's leaped at the man, doesn't know he's grabbing at his robes — robes? — until there are hands on his shoulders, holding him back. "Please," Draco begs. "Please. I'll be in so much trouble."

"You're safe here," the man says again, like it's a promise, like it could possibly true. "This is the safest place in the world. That's why I brought you here."

"Who are you?"

"My name's Harry Potter—"

"No it isn't," says Draco at once. "No you're not. Harry Potter's my age, and you're—" But the man pushes back his hair and the scar is stark on his forehead, and the sight of it takes all of Draco's breath and words away.

"You know what this is?"

He nods.

"My name is Harry Potter," the man says again, "and I want to help you. Please, let me."

Draco's lip goes between his teeth. He wants what is offered so badly it hurts but, at the same time and more real, he knows it can never be true. There is no such thing as a safe place, not one out of reach of his father. Even Hogwarts. And no-one can help him. Not properly. Not permanently. Maybe for a moment, but it never lasts and it's always worse. Better to just put up with it and not antagonize. Better just to accept—

Draco thinks of the belt dangling from his father's fist and shudders.

This is a bad idea. He knows it's a bad idea. It's bad and stupid, just like him, and he's a fool if he thinks it could ever end any other way because his father always wins always—

But—

Please let me.

But he wants it.

One Christmas wish.

Draco nods.

The boy's hand is frozen in his own, and Harry can feel him shivering the whole walk through the forest and up to the castle. It is, after all, the middle of winter and he is only dressed in a thin pair of pyjamas, already half-soaked through. Even after he drapes his own cloak around the boy's shoulders, it makes no difference. Cold is only a small part of it anyway. Harry knows what panic feels like, looks like, fear of the known versus fear of the unknown. He knows exactly what is coursing through the boy's blood right now, and it has little to do with the wind-chill.

Fuck being forbidden to Apparate inside the grounds.

There is no plan, at this point, other to get inside and into the warmth. The rest can wait. He doesn't want to think about a stupid reckless thing he has just done, snatching a child from the past right under his father's nose, can't even begin to think about the consequences.

They don't matter. To hell with them.

He knows, beyond any reasonable doubt at all, that there was nothing else he could've done.

No way.

Hogwarts is a sight to behold, rising up out of the dwindling evening light, and Harry sees it all through the boy's eyes like new.

He can't help but grin, glancing down at the wide, entranced eyes and the open mouth, all hungry and awe-struck; the little fingers an iron grip on his arm.

There is no-one outside, thankfully, too late and too cold for most students, but as the doors open up for them, light and warmth and life flood out.

He feels the boy balk and Harry takes a pause on the threshold.

"It's alright. I know it's a lot. Stay close."

A beat of hesitation, and Draco slips a little closer to Harry side, allowing Harry's arm around his shoulders as they step inside together.

"I don't know why you expected to find anything but Butterbeer down there," Draco says, inspecting the label on one of their stolen bottles five landings above the entrance hall. "Really, you do have the worst habit of setting yourself up for—" He glances back to where Theo stopped ten paces behind. "Theo."

"What?" Theo tears his gaze away, frowning and distracted. "Oh, yeah, right."

"What did I say?"

"Something about Butterbeer."

Draco sighs, stalking back to join his friend, trying to see what has Theo so distracted.

"Stop."

He freezes, then frowns. "What's the matter with you?"

"Go back to the dungeons. Here—" Theo pushes his own armful of butterbeer at him. "Get started with Pans. I'll be there in a minute."

"Where're you going?"

"There's just… There's something I've forgotten."

And before Draco can ask anymore questions, he wheels and runs back down the stairs.

It's exactly how he has always dreamed Hogwarts would be, and Draco can't stop staring. He doesn't even want to try. He wants to drink it all in and make it real and keep it forever, the warmth prickling on his skin and the rush of noise from all the people and the sound of the stairs moving above them like they have minds of their own and the eyes of the portraits following him, pointing, muttering.

He presses closer to Harry Potter, hiding in his side.

He doesn't like people looking at him, even pictures.

He has to trot to keep up. Harry knows exactly where he's going and he seems to want to get there fast, almost rushing him along, so quickly there's a breeze in his hair, too fast to catch anyone's eye.

Maybe that's point.

Maybe he's a secret. Maybe he has to hide to be safe.

But they don't go into an empty room with no windows and a door that locks, Harry leads him to the end of a long corridor three floors up that opens up into a huge, bright room lined with clean, white beds.

A hospital.

Draco freezes.

His head aches, right behind his eyes, and it feels like a bad idea all over again.

Most of all when the woman dressed in maroon and white comes stalking towards them.

"Potter," she says in an angry voice that closes up his throat. "What have you done now?"

And then her eyes fall to Draco, and far more than safety he wants the ground to swallow him up. This doesn't feel like safety. Like Hogwarts.

"Potter, is that—"

"Yeah. It is."

She stoops, trying to peer into his face. "Mr Malfoy?"

Draco holds tighter to Harry.

"What happened, Potter? A potions accident? I know you and Mr Malfoy have had your differences but this is really—"

"No, it wasn't an accident. Not really. Look, I'll explain everything, I promise, but will you just take a look at him? He's freezing cold and he's in pretty rough shape, and— Just look at him, please. The rest can wait."

She straightens up, unimpressed, then beckons to him. "Come with me, Mr Malfoy."

He doesn't know how she can know him, doesn't know what she's going to do and Father hasn't given him permission to be healed and if he goes home all fixed up, he'll know and he'll be angry, and he doesn't want her to see, doesn't want anyone to see, and he still feels sick from the travelling and the confusion and—

"Come on. Come and sit down before you fall over." Her voice grows softer and Harry's hands on his shoulders guide him to the nearest bed. They all have curtains around them, and as soon as he's perched on the edge, she pulls them around to block out the rest of the world.

Draco jerks to his feet. "Harry—"

"I'm here."

"You can go, Mr Potter. I'll take it from here."

"I'm not leaving," Harry snaps. "Not if he's asking me to stay."

Harry Potter is the pillar holding everything else up. As little as he knows anything right now, Harry Potter is the one certainty and if he's here, it'll be okay. No-one's ever stood up to Father and won before.

And, likewise, if he leaves—

"Don't go," Draco begs, refusing to sit. "Don't leave me."

Harry Potter smiles down at him. "I'm not going anywhere."

The boy is only calm as long as he has a grip on Harry's sleeve.

Pomfrey crouches before them and reaches for the boy's bruised chin, gently tilting his face towards her. Malfoy doesn't resist, but Harry feels the tense energy coiled all the way through those fingers. Her expert gaze sweeps over him, taking in the damage to his cheek, the cut on his lip, and the yellowing-purple beneath his eye, all impassive, refusing to be shocked.

"Is there anywhere else?" she asks.

The boy winces, breath catching in his throat, and forces a nod.

"Show me."

She is asking too much, too quickly, Harry thinks. He brought the boy here to recover and heal, not be bullied and interrogated. Draco is trembling, badly, battling with his instincts — between obedience and fear — the hand not holding onto Harry reaching mechanically for the silver buttons of his pyjama shirt, unable to disobey an adult's command.

Harry stomach gives a sickening lurch the moment the shirt slips from the boy's shoulders.

Draco Malfoy's back is a mess of scars, crisscrossing over his skin, shoulders to hips, new and old and everything in between. Some bear the distinct mark of a buckle.

Exposed, he sits very very still besides Harry.

Pomfrey is still also, her expression unfathomable. Then she rises. "Okay. Stay there."

Like they were going to go anywhere.

"I'm in trouble. I-I knew I was in trouble." The smallest voice, barely a breath. Harry looks down. Draco is staring after Pomfrey, tears gathered in his eyes. He scrubs them quickly away then, on a deep shuddering breath, falls into his hands. His whole body contracts with the effort of not crying.

"No, you're not." Harry pulls the boy close and holds him tight, acting purely on instinct, knowing what to do only from what he knew he would've wanted. "I promise you. No-one's angry. You're not in trouble. You're safe here. Just like I said."

"Potter's right."

Pomfrey is back, her expression grim but kind..

"Here," she says, offering a beaker filled with a clear liquid Harry is sure isn't water. "It'll give you the good night's sleep I know you need. It's been a big day for you, Mr Malfoy."

Harry feels the boy go weak with relief, reaching almost eagerly for the potion, needing to just not be for a while.

He raises it two-handed to his lips, then looks up at Harry. "You'll stay?"

"I'll be here until you fall asleep," Harry Potter promises. "And I'll be here when you wake up."

Draco nods, searching his face for the lie and finding none. Then he does as she ordered and pulls his legs up, settling back against against soft pillows. He is tired. Bone tired. Sick from it. But his head… It's going a hundred miles a moment and feels like it'll never stop.

She returns with a beaker and the contents tastes like water on his tongue.

Harry catches it as it slips from his fingers, asleep before the last drop. He shifts back against the pillows, letting the boy's head rest on his arm and takes a moment to just look at him, trying to see him as the Draco Malfoy he knows and loathes.

It's impossible.

I don't understand.

Most of all, he doesn't understand what the hell he is supposed to do now.

"Can you fix him?" Harry asks on the other side of the curtain.

Pomfrey assesses him, deciding if he can take the truth. "It will take time," she says eventually. "Time I don't know we have. We will…" She sighs. "We will do our best with what we have but I doubt it will be enough."

"I know I shouldn't've done it, but I couldn't—"

"I know, Potter. I'm just not sure anyone else will."

Harry's chest tightens. He pushes his fingers hard through his hair. "I need to talk to Dumbledore."

Pomfrey catches his arm as he starts to turn, stopping him gently. "You need to rest," she says, "just as much as he does. The rest can wait until tomorrow. Dumbledore included."

Harry smiles at her, exhausted and grateful. "Thank you."

"Potter."

Harry turns at his name and sees a boy his own age frozen in the door way, vaguely familiar in Slytherin robes. Nott, he manages after a long while. Theodore Nott. And by the look on his face—

"Wait," says Harry. "I don't know what you saw—"

But he knows exactly what Nott saw, and the pieces clicking into place.

"Don't tell him," Harry begs. "Not yet."

Nott looks at him warily. "That's Draco in there. Who I saw you with in the Hall."

"Don't tell him."

"Can I see him?"

No, is Harry's automatically defensive response. "He's asleep."

"Please."

A please coming from a Slytherin, from one of Malfoy's cohorts, stalls him, and Nott uses it to his advantage. Pomfrey doesn't try and stop him.

Nott draws back the curtains and stares down at the sleeping boy, taking in the sight of him, the damage still blatant despite the ointment.

Then, softly, "Thank you, Potter."