Harry had skipped dinner in favor of a nap and was now planted in the corner of the couch by a roaring fire in the Gryffindor Common Room. His Potions book lay across his lap, as the backdrop of pouring rain pattered against the window of the tower, making him feel warm and dry and safe.

Harry always waited until Sunday night to begin his homework, unlike Hermione, who had scrambled to finish all of her assignments right after class on Friday and spent Saturday morning reviewing and editing all of her work. Now she sat, curled in an armchair recreationally perusing a book about Goblin rights and taking notes on a piece of parchment. Crookshanks was nestled into a faceless ball of orange fur beside her. The top of Ron's head could be seen over the arm of the chair as he sat on the floor, also working on his Potions assignment. Harry smirked at the two orange balls of hair that Crookshanks and Ron's head seemed to make. From Harry's angle, it looked like an orange, hairy snowman and he snickered to himself.

Hermione spoke without looking up. "Harry, you're not concentrating," she said, turning the page of her book.

"Am too," he retorted.

"You're not," she said, eyes still on her book. "There's nothing funny about Potions, plus you haven't put your quill to parchment in over fifteen minutes."

Harry sighed. She was right. His mind, of course, was playing over last night and this morning, like a broken record, sticking on all the worst moments and replaying them five times, ten times, until the record moved onto the next scene.

"I was just-er, never mind," he replied, shifting in his seat. "I'm trying. I just-"

"Have a lot on your mind?" she questioned softly, finally looking up at him.

Ron's curious brown eyes rose over the arm of the chair, hoping to listen in.

Harry stilled. Maybe it would help if he did talk about it. It wasn't exactly his secret to keep, anyway. They already knew he had been drunk. But for some reason, he just didn't think he should tell them. There was something too private, too raw about Malfoy last night. It was bad enough that Harry had to witness it. It really wasn't his business. But it definitely wasn't his place to tell anyone, either, despite the fact that he owed Malfoy no allegiance and if the situation were reversed, Harry knew with confidence that the story would be all over the school in an hour and somehow even more sensationalized than the actual horrible event. Or, more likely, Harry would have just been left for dead in the Owlery.

Harry took a deep breath. "Okay. I know you guys want me to talk about what happened last night, but-" He looked at Ron's wide eyes over the armchair. "But I just don't think I can. I just don't think I should-for, for the sake of the other person."

"But, Harry," Hermione protested, "You can trust us. I know we haven't exactly been there for you, but . . ."

"That's not it," Harry said. "I know I can trust you and I want to tell you, I just don't think it would be right. I know that M-that the other person would be humiliated if anyone knew. This person is already beside himself with the fact that I know. I went to see the person today and they tried to h-well, nevermind. But they weren't happy. And the person's sick. Quite sick. It's, it's not good," he let out. "And I shouldn't tell," he added.

Hermione was quiet for a moment.

"So, it's a 'he,' is it?" Ron's eyebrows waggled.

Harry stopped. He had been careful not to use pronouns, hadn't he? "Er-no-I didn't say-"

Ron rose up onto his knees so Harry could see the rest of his face. He leaned his elbows on the arm of the chair and grinned. "You said himself."

"Shit," Harry replied. "Alright, fine, it was a he. But I'm not telling you any more than that."

"Fine, Harry," Hermione said, lightly. "I understand. Because, believe or not, we can be understanding people, Ron and I."

Harry didn't say anything. He just nodded and went back to his Potions assignment.

A tapping was heard on the window. In the rain, a brown school owl flapped about, waiting to be let in. Harry stood, glad for the escape and opened the window. The owl flew into the common room, its feathers wet and slick against its body. It stuck its leg out so Harry could take the dry, clearly charmed, envelope off of the owl's foot. His name was written on the front.

Harry opened the envelope.

Mr. Potter,

I am requesting that you please obtain all school supplies and books for the patient that you brought to the hospital wing Saturday night. He wishes for his situation and hospitalisation to remain private. As you are the only student or staff member besides myself who is aware of the situation, it would be greatly appreciated if you could help your fellow student during this difficult time, as well as keep the situation confidential. In the case that you do not keep the situation confidential, I was to pass along the message that you will be 'hexed into next year."

Attached is a temporary, medical-use password for the Slytherin dorms, with a medical excuse as to why you are there. Please keep answers vague to protect the privacy of the patient.

Thank you for your cooperation and compassion,

Madame Pomfrey.

Harry smiled grimly and patted the owl on the head. He reached into his robe pocket for one of Hedwig's treats. He broke it in half and gave a piece to the owl. He was certainly glad he had not told Ron or Hermione what had happened. While Madame Pomfrey clearly took the threat as a joke, Harry was all too certain that Malfoy would likely follow through with his promise.

The owl hooted in appreciation and flew out the open window. Harry shut the window and rubbed his arms, warming himself from the draft that he had just let in.

ooo

Draco was walking down steps. The winding stone staircase seemed never ending. The longer he walked, the dizzier he felt. He must have walked down at least fifteen stories by now. Where was he going?

He felt his body stumble as he grew more and more disoriented. He grabbed the handle of the stairs, but felt only thin air. He reached his hand to the wall to steady himself, but there was nothing there. Feeling scared he sat to slide down the staircase, but there was nothing beneath his feet. He yelled out, "Hello?" But no sound came out of his mouth. Panicking, he stood back up to run faster, but now he felt nothing below his feet at all.

"Help!" he yelled, running down nothingness, frantically. The blackness stretched on and on, but he knew that he could not turn back. He had to keep going. There was no turning back.

Suddenly he saw a room, lit up, ahead of him. It looked like a Potions classroom, but there were no desks and no chairs. Harry Potter, covered in blood, was in the room, flinging open cabinets muttering, "Shit! Shit."

"Potter?" Draco called to him, helplessly, but his voice made no sound.

"Shit!" Potter said again, throwing a bottle on the floor.

"Potter!" Draco yelled out, running faster down the steps. The faster he ran toward the classroom, however, the further away he seemed to get from it. He stopped running and stood, watching, terrified in the all-encompassing blackness.

Potter stopped searching and turned to face Draco. "Malfoy?" he asked, peering towards him from the classroom.

"Yes! Yes, you idiot, it's me!" Draco called to him, voicelessly. His heart was pounding in his chest, but he couldn't hear the heartbeats.

Potter's hands dropped to his sides and he shook his head, sadly. "I think it's too late," he said.

Draco didn't know what he meant, but he felt terrified. "Too late for what?" he demanded.

Potter just shook his head. He picked up bottle after bottle, inspected them, then threw them on the ground. Suddenly he ran forward and kicked at the cabinet. The remaining bottles slid off the shelves and shattered violently to the floor. Potter stepped backward, away from the cabinet and squinted, looking at Draco. "It's too late," he repeated.

Draco was growing anxious and impatient. He didn't understand. "For what, Potter? What are you talking about? What is it too late for?"

Potter looked down and spoke quietly, but Draco heard him clearly. "For you."

Draco was breathing quickly and heavily as he opened his eyes, finding himself in a tangle of sheets in the hospital bed. His body was covered in a sheen of sweat and he was trembling, somehow cold despite being overheated.

Madame Pomfrey nodded at him neutrally as he grasped the covers, still trying to orient himself to reality.

'Strange dreams?" she asked.

Draco, wide-eyed, nodded.

She wrote something on his chart. "That's normal," she replied.

Draco swallowed hard. "Fucking shite," he muttered.

Madame Pomfrey narrowed her eyes at him, but said nothing. "Actually, Mr. Malfoy," she said, "that night of sleep did you a world of good. You're vitals are much stronger than yesterday, and your internal healing has progressed rapidly."

Draco blinked, rubbing his eyes. He was having trouble waking up fully. His eyes burned and he felt like he should go back to sleep. "What time is it?" he yawned.

"Ten thirty," she replied.

Ten-thirty? He never slept that late. "Why am I still tired?" he asked.

"Again," she added, "Normal effect of a sleeping charm. Patients often feel groggy the next day, but it's nothing to worry about. You should be feeling alert and well-rested in about an hour or so."

Draco nodded and stared at his bed-sheets. Just then Potter walked into the room, precariously balancing a tower of books in his hands. His glasses were pushed up over his nose onto his forehead.

He grunted under the weight of the pile. "Wasn't easy to get these," he muttered, dropping the stack of books onto a nearby table and exhaling. A flash of orange behind Potter caught Draco's eyes.

"Er-Potter?"

Potter cracked his knuckles. "What?"

Draco frowned. "You have a tail."

He drew his eyebrows together. "Huh?"

Draco's mouth quirked up at the corner, trying not to laugh. Madame Pomfrey glanced up at Potter with a curious look on her face.

Finally Draco laughed out loud. "Turn around," he demanded. Potter obliged, looking over his shoulder as he did. Draco laughed louder. "Why do you have a cat tail?"

Sure enough, Potter could see a long, orange and white furry tail flicking back and forth behind him. It certainly explained all of the odd looks he received when walking from the Slytherin dungeons to the Hospital Wing.

Potter blushed and shrugged, sheepishly. "Like I said," he added, "Wasn't easy to get these." He gestured towards the books and then grabbed at his furry tail, curiously.

Draco smiled with self-satisfaction at his Slytherin dorm-mates, glad for the momentary distraction. The look on Potter's face helped, too.

"Here, move your hand," Draco said, picking up his wand.

Instinctively, Potter grabbed his own wand.

Draco sighed. "I'm not gonna hex you. You have a tail, you moron."

Potter released the death grip on his wand. "Er, habit, you know? And, besides, that's not what the letter from the hospital said."

Madame Pomfrey looked at Potter but didn't say anything.

"Huh?" Draco asked.

"Well," Potter continued, swishing his tail. "Letter said if I told anyone what happened, you were going to hex me into next year."

Draco frowned then looked at Madame Pomfrey. She shrugged.

"Did I say that?" he asked her, amused.

"You did," she replied, her face serious but for a glint of humour in her eyes.

Draco frowned again. He didn't remember saying it, but it certainly sounded like him. "Well, I echo the sentiment," he nodded at himself, approvingly. "Even half asleep, I speak the truth. And eloquently," he added. Then he narrowed his eyes at Potter. "I don't need to hex you, do I?" he asked suspiciously.

Potter's eyes widened. "No! I-I didn't tell anyone," he stammered.

Draco mulled that over. "Not even the Mudblood and the Weasel?"

"Mr. Malfoy!" Madame Pomfrey chided. "That kind of language is not tolerated in this school or in my presence."

Draco shrugged, unconcerned, but kept his shrewd eyes on Potter. Potter's lips curled back over his teeth in disgust.

"No," he growled. "Hermione and Ron did ask why I was covered in blood, as concerned friends do, but for some reason, I kept your secret. And that was before I got the letter from Madame Pomfrey."

Draco considered this. "I would have told if I were you."

Potter scowled. "That's nice."

Draco shrugged. "Just being honest."

"Good to know your virtues are in place," he muttered. "Loyalty evidently not being one of them."

"Actually," Draco replied, annoyed, "I am loyal. When my loyalty is earned."

"I see," Potter replied, his voice cold. "So why should I be loyal to you?"

Draco smirked and fingered the wand in his hand. "Like I said," he drawled, softly, "If you aren't, I'll hex you. Apparently into next year."

"Mmm. So you gain loyalty through threats?"

Draco yawned, disinterestedly. "Whatever works, Potter. Now turn around." He gestured a circle with his wand.

Potter grudgingly turned, and Draco, true to his word, removed the tail without a hitch. Potter cleared his throat. "Thanks," he said.

"Yeah." Draco shifted uncomfortably.

"Um," Potter glanced from Malfoy to Madame Pomfrey. "Do you need anything else?"

Madame Pomfrey looked at Draco to answer.

Draco, uncomfortable with having to depend on Potter, or anyone for that matter, scowled. "Potter, try and step up that chicken scratch and take decent notes for once," he demanded.

Potter rolled his eyes. "You need notes?"

Draco looked at him. "Yes," he stated. "I need to know what I'm missing in class."

"Why? You've been missing class all year."

Draco's face twisted up into fury, but Madame Pomfrey caught his eye.

"Relax," she stated, simply.

Draco nodded, curtly and took a controlled breath. "And no pictures of Cho Chang catching the Snitch, please."

Potter blushed, remembering when Draco stole his notes in fifth year and, howling with malicious glee, showed his humiliating sketch to the rest of the class whenever Snape turned his back.

Potter spoke through clenched teeth. "I'll do my best."

"Well," he said lightly, knowing that his stab had bested Potter once again. "That's all anyone can hope for, right?" He flashed him a sarcastic smile and nodded. "Good day, Potter."

Potter turned and stomped toward the door. "You're welcome, Malfoy," he spat out, without turning.

ooo

For the next few days, Harry continued to deliver Malfoy's work to the Hospital Wing, taking careful notes as neatly as possible, so as not to provide Malfoy with any additional fodder to use at his expense. Oddly enough, Malfoy was sleeping, or maybe pretending, each time Harry brought him his notes. It seemed real enough, though, as he was breathing deeply and didn't respond to the insults that Harry vindictively hurled at him.

"Here're your notes, you gutless wanker," he whispered over Malfoy's sleeping form. He noticed how much nicer Malfoy was like this-unconscious and silent. "Don't die in your sleep. . . or do! See if I care," he spoke soothingly and smirked.

Malfoy snored softly in response and turned over onto his side. "Potter," he mumbled.

Harry stepped back and grimaced. Oops.

Malfoy opened his eyes and looked at him woozily. His eyes lacked their usual piercing gaze. "Potter, it's me."

Harry frowned. "What?" he asked.

"It's me, it's Draco," he slurred, sleepily.

Harry furrowed his brows further. "Yeah, I-I know it's you. I just-I brought you your notes," he gestured to the night table.

"What do you mean?" he yawned and sat up.

"What do you mean, what do I mean?"

Malfoy's eyes widened in fear, but were unfocused. "It's not," he gasped.

Harry leaned towards him, confused. Was he still asleep? He seemed awake . . . sort of.

Malfoy put his hand to his throat and made a choking sound, tears began to well up in his eyes. He looked at Harry, pleadingly. "No," he shook his head.

Harry stepped back and gave Malfoy a strange look. Suddenly Malfoy scrambled out of the tangle of sheets on his bed and stumbled toward Harry. He grasped him by the shoulders. Harry's eyes widened in protest, but he could see that Malfoy's wand was still on the night table.

Malfoy looked at him wild-eyed. "Please don't say it," he whispered.

Harry gently unfolded the Slytherin's fingers from his robes. He was holding both of his hands when he looked to Malfoy and said, calmly, "Malfoy, go back to bed."

Malfoy squinted and blinked, confused. "Bed?" he repeated.

"Bed," Harry repeated. "You're sleeping," he guessed, but said it with authority, anyway.

"No," Malfoy shook his head and looked down at the floor. "'M'not." He kept staring at the floor. He began to sway on his feet and Harry worried that he might fall. "Can't be."

"Come on, Malfoy," he soothed, rolling his eyes and guiding Malfoy back to bed by his shoulders. Malfoy shuffled compliantly and climbed back into the bed, but he didn't close his eyes. He stared at Harry, looking concerned.

"Why is it too late?" he asked quietly, searching Harry's face for an answer.

This was odd. It was like Malfoy was sleepwalking. Harry knew that he, himself, frequently spoke during dreams, especially nightmares. But he never carried on with them when his eyes were open, that he knew of. He'd never seen anyone behave like this. It was like Malfoy was existing in his dream, but that the reality of Harry in the room had become a part of it.

"Too late for what?" Harry asked, playing along. He had nothing else to do.

Malfoy frowned hard and looked at his hands. "What you said before, Potter," he replied. "What you keep saying. Why is it too late for me?"

"Too late for you?" Harry asked.

Malfoy nodded. "You say it to me. Every bloody night."

"Every night?" he repeated.

Malfoy rolled his eyes, but tilted his head to the side. "Yes, Potter! Every bloody night. But I'm asleep."

"You are asleep," Harry agreed.

Malfoy, huffed, annoyed. "Not right now! When you say it, you idiot!"

Harry swallowed. "Have you been dreaming about me?"

Malfoy threw his arms up in disgust. "That's what I've been trying to tell you! Are you deaf and stupid, Potter?"

Harry squinted at him, hard. It was strange, very strange. Now Malfoy seemed coherent. He was throwing insults at Harry, and stringing together somewhat sensible sentences. If Harry hadn't known that he was asleep just minutes earlier, he would have never guessed that the boy was not perfectly awake, and yet, the odd, unfocused look in his eyes, and his steady, heavy breathing convinced Harry that Malfoy was, indeed, fast asleep, despite all contrary outer appearances.

"Can you tell me what happens in the dream?" Harry asked, honestly curious.

Malfoy sighed and scrunched up his face. "'S not important because you're lying to me," he sniffed and curled up into a ball on the bed and wrapped his arms around himself, shivering. Harry, feeling uncomfortable, pulled the blankets up over Malfoy and sat down in a chair.

"I know it's a lie," he continued. "Know it. Has to be. 'S not too late."

"Not too late for what?" Harry asked, now wondering if he could get some information out of Malfoy. "Not too late for what you're doing for Voldemort?"

Malfoy choked out a gasp. "Shut up, you idiot!"

"About what?"

"Th' task," he moaned covering his face with his hands. "Th' bloody task."

Harry felt guilty for taking advantage of Malfoy in his sleep in a hospital bed, but there were more pressing issues, like the state of the world, that he had to worry about. "What task?" he asked.

"Hmmm," Malfoy hummed. Then he began to snore softly.

"What?" Harry asked, pleading silently that Malfoy would respond coherently.

"Nahnah," he muttered. "Mmm. Shh. Sleep."

Harry sucked his teeth. "Shit," he muttered and turned to leave. He shut off Malfoy's light and left the room, his mind swimming.

So there was a task. He knew Malfoy had been working on something. He just needed to figure out what. Harry walked briskly to the Great Hall to meet Ron and Hermione for lunch, wishing he could tell them this new, confirmed piece of information, but knowing that he couldn't.

ooo

When Harry brought Malfoy his notes on Thursday, he entered the room apprehensively. He hoped Malfoy would be asleep so that he could try and get more information out of him. Harry tiptoed into the hospital room, but Malfoy was sitting upright in his bed, staring out the window.

"Er-hi," Harry muttered.

"Oh," Malfoy responded. "It's you."

"Brought your notes," he said, holding them up to show him, then placing them on the seemingly untouched pile of books and notes on the night table.

"Mmm," Malfoy sighed. "Thank you, Father."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Father?"

Malfoy sat up straighter. "Potter?" His face twisted in disgust.

Harry shook his head. "You just called me 'Father,'" he tried, seeking clarification.

"No," Malfoy shook his head, scowling. "I wasn't talking to you, Scarhead."

"What?" Could Malfoy be sleeping again? This was too strange.

Harry stepped forward toward the bed and looked at Malfoy. He was staring passively at the stone walls of the infirmary and picking at his fingernails.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Malfoy asked him, not taking his eyes away from the wall. "The way they all blend together, melting like that? Like time, really. The way it blends together and continues on, but never stops for anybody?" He shrugged and looked down, his gaze seeming to follow a trail on the wall that Harry couldn't see. "It's all-consuming," he added. "As beauty should be. You know, when it exists."

Harry frowned. "Are you okay?" Malfoy sounded like he was on drugs. He didn't seem asleep. It made Harry uncomfortable.

Malfoy shrugged. "Fine, Potter. Just . . . thinking." He looked up at him, his eyelids heavy. "Madame Pomfrey says I'm getting better," he offered, coherently. "Shouldn't be much longer now."

"Until your task?" Harry asked, guessing he was asleep.

"Task?" Malfoy narrowed his eyes, suspiciously. "What are you on about?"

Maybe he was awake. It was impossible to tell. "Er-your homework," he pointed to the pile of books next to the bed. "Potions, er, task."

"Oh." Malfoy stared at the wall.

"Haven't you even touched your work?"

Malfoy sighed. "I apologize, sir."

"Sir?"

Malfoy sat up straighter again. "Father. I apologize. I will have all assignments completed and ahead of time, sir."

"Draco?" Harry chanced his name, then regretted it, wondering if it would play into Malfoy's dream.

"Yes, Father." It did.

"Your-you—" This was too weird. "Your father is in Azkaban, remember?"

"Yes," he narrowed his eyes at Harry, his gaze cold, but hazy. "How could I forget? Since we both know who put him there."

"Uh. . ."

"Get out, Potter," he snarled, facing Harry head-on. "Now. You're making me angry. You're ruining my recovery. I don't want to be here!"

Harry jumped back, startled. "Okay, okay," he agreed, aware that Malfoy was not making sense. "Goodbye."

"Bye," Malfoy stated. "Thank you."

"Uh," Harry stammered, backing away, "yeah . . ."

He backed out of the infirmary, watching Malfoy the whole time, but the blonde sat with his back to him, continuing to stare at the wall. Harry shook his head and tried to find Madame Pomfrey. She was working at her desk near the entrance.

She looked up. "Hello, Mr. Potter," she said lightly, continuing her work.

"Uh, hi," he said. "Madame Pomfrey?"

"Yes, Potter?"

"I have a question."

"Yes, Potter?"

"About Malfoy."

She put her quill down. "Yes, Potter. Go ahead."

"He's been acting really, er, strange, the last two times I've seen him. Like, he looks like he's awake, but he's not making any sense. He just called me 'Father' and carried on talking like I was his dad."

She narrowed her eyes. "Go on."

"And talking about melting walls and stuff. But then-then sometimes he seemed to make sense. He told me you said he was getting better, that he might be out soon. That's, uh, that's good."

"Yes," her voice was clipped, suspicious. "Yes, I said that. Tell me more about his behavior, please."

"You don't, you don't think it's serious do you?" he asked. "I know it's not really my business, but, it's not brain damage or anything is it?"

She cleared her throat. "No, I don't believe it is." She stood up then and began walking back toward Malfoy's room.

Harry wasn't sure if he should follow, knowing it wasn't his business, but his curiosity got the best of him. He trailed behind Madame Pomfrey and walked back toward Malfoy's bed where he was still gazing dreamily at the wall.

"Mr. Malfoy!" Madame Pomfrey barked at him.

He turned toward them and blinked, twice. "Yes?"

"Who is in this room right now?"

He narrowed his eyes and shrugged. "I can't be bothered," he stated. "Roundabout questions."

"What's a 'roundabout question?'" she asked.

Malfoy laughed then and shook his head. The laugh didn't reach his eyes, which were still heavy looking. "All of them," he muttered, waving his hand in the air. "Go on."

"Go on?" she asked, stepping closer to him.

"It's what I said, before," he yawned and blinked. "Oh, Potter. Back again? Lovely. Please, do come in."

Harry exchanged a look with Madame Pomfrey. He stepped forward. Malfoy laughed again and put his head in his hands, trying to stifle it. Then he raised his hand, looking affronted. "Forty points?" he asked. "But, surely, Professor, you realize that he did it on purpose!" He glared back at Harry. "Happy now, Potter?" he hissed.

"Um, Malfoy? I didn't-what are you talking about?"

"Oh, yes, play dumb, Potter," he smiled, leering at Harry. "But I guess it's not too much of a stretch for you, is it?"

"Mister Malfoy," Madame Pomfrey interrupted. She pointed her wand at him. Malfoy's eyes widened. "What-?"

"Ennervate!" she declared. Harry watched as Malfoy's eyes changed from glassy to clear. He tensed up, his eyes growing further in shock as he seemed to just realize that Harry and Madame Pomfrey were in the room with him.

"Mr. Malfoy!" Madame Pomfrey scolded. "What do you think you're doing?"

He blinked groggily, looking annoyed. "I'm not sure I know what you mean."

"Are you mad?" she demanded, sounding more hysterical than Harry had ever heard her. "Are you absolutely touched in the head?"

Malfoy glanced up and scowled. "Well, seeing as you just woke a patient from sleep, I feel I should be asking you the same question."

Madame Pomfrey sucked in a sharp breath, then seemed to remember that Harry was in the room. "Potter!" she nearly shouted.

"Uh-" he began.

"Go!" she yelled.

Harry looked to her and then back at Malfoy who was sitting disheveled and disturbed on his bed. He turned and left without a word.

What just happened? What had Malfoy done?

ooo

After Potter had left the room, Madame Pomfrey laid into Draco.

"Self administering a sleeping charm! Of all the irresponsible and foolish things I've seen a student-no, a patient do . . . do you want to get better, Malfoy? Do you?"

Draco felt too exhausted to answer. He had just been torn out of a peaceful slumber to find Madame Pomfrey raving about the room and stupid Harry Potter standing around like some limp giraffe, head bowed, waiting for a treat.

Madame Pomfrey took a deep breath and strode up to Draco, looking at him closely. "I find it hard to believe that you would intentionally knock yourself out in the middle of the day, yet the amount of poison you consumed to get yourself here in the first place is highly concerning." She softened her voice. "I don't understand, Draco. Are you trying to hurt yourself?"

Draco felt physically uncomfortable and was clearly bothered by the intense scrutiny he was receiving. He frowned and turned his head to look out the window.

"If you are," she added, "we can find you help-we can-"

"No, alright?" he shouted. "No."

"No what?" she asked, peering at Draco, skeptically.

"I-I wasn't trying to hurt myself, okay?"

She nodded, folding her arms. "What were you trying to do, then?"

Draco thought fast. "I-heal myself," he muttered.

"I beg your pardon?"

He breathed heavily. "You told me that the more I slept, the better it would be. So, since I couldn't just fall asleep and I wanted to get better. . . I thought I'd just try the charm during the day. You know, double my chances, speed my recovery."

She looked at him closely and nodded slowly. "But you heard what I said . . . about misuse. About abuse? Dependency on the charm can begin after only a few uses!"

He nodded slowly. He'd conveniently forgotten that detail. "Yeah, sorry," he offered. "I guess I wasn't really thinking."

"I don't know if you weren't thinking or if you weren't listening."

He shrugged and folded his arms. They were quiet for a moment before Draco said in a small voice, "How did you know?"

Her face reddened momentarily and she cleared her voice. "Actually, it was Mr. Potter who called it to my attention."

Harry Potter. Of course. Of course it was. His blood began to boil with rage but he kept his face neutral. "And he knew-"

"Mr. Malfoy," she interrupted. "I have some work to get back to. But, look at me."

He did.

"Promise me that you will not use that Sleeping Charm on yourself for the rest of your stay in this infirmary. Is that clear?"

He inwardly smiled at the loophole she had just created for him. "Crystal."

She held his gaze for a moment, then looked at his pile of untouched homework assignments. "You really are improving quickly. You'd better take a look at some of those assignments."

He nodded again.

"Keep yourself busy, maybe you can wear yourself out the natural way. By doing work." She raised her eyebrows at him, then turned to leave.

Draco sighed. Well, it was a nice break while it had lasted, anyway. He felt cold and bored and lonely. The cool October sunlight shone brightly through the room. He could see the dust particles floating in the air in front of him and felt a headache coming on. He wished he could take a nap.

No, he wished he could use the Sleeping Charm, but it would be more than obvious now if he did. Had he been acting strangely? He didn't think so, but he couldn't remember. It felt like he had just been sleeping. Maybe it was because he had been sleeping so much that Madame Pomfrey became suspicious. She knew that he had been extremely anxious upon arrival. I guess it would seem odd that that trait would simply disappear. But it had, and it was so nice when it had.

And, of course, Potter had ruined everything by being a Gryffindor tattle tale.

Draco reached for his Charms textbook and brought it onto his lap. He'd thought enough about Potter. The lanky loser had been haunting him in his dreams and in real life. Why couldn't he just go away? Ever? This year it felt like the git was positively stalking him. Everywhere he went, those piercing green eyes in those horribly embarrassing frames were following him. When they weren't, Draco could hear the unmistakable swish of Potter's Invisibility Cloak (he wasn't stupid) and knew he was being followed. But he was quite certain that Potter still didn't know what he had been working on in the Room of Requirement, or of the task he had to complete for the Dark Lord to spare his family's lives and receive his place of honor amongst the Death Eaters. If he could do it-no, when he did it-no one would ever laugh at him again. He would be the Dark Lord's youngest servant and bring fear and respect back to the Malfoy name. He would be branded with the Dark Mark, the youngest to be marked. He could do it. He had to do it. If not, he would lose everything.

Draco remembered the terror he had felt as he knelt before the Dark Lord in August, swearing his loyalty and being forced to offer his family as collateral. The Dark Lord had brought Draco to his feet and grabbed him from behind the neck, pulling him within inches of his white snake-like face, and those inhuman red eyes. Draco could smell him, and he even smelled of death, like a musty, mildewed dungeon. Cold, nauseating. He forced himself to stand straight, trying not to recoil in disgust and fear. He kept his head bowed as a dagger was dragged lightly, slowly across his throat.

"Is your loyalty worth more than your life?"

"Yes, my Lord." Draco stared at his feet, intently, as his heart pounded in his ears, trying to will his knees to stop shaking. He vaguely wondered why he had not worn his dragon-hide boots.

"Is your loyalty worth more than your parents' lives?"

His father had trained him to answer this question. "My loyalty to your service comes before all else, my Lord. My life is yours with which to do your bidding." The words felt hot and misplaced on his tongue, despite how many times he had rehearsed his answer. His voice, strong, sounded far away to his ears but did not reveal the fear he truly felt. His voice did not shake, did not falter, even though he could feel himself shaking, faltering.

"Is it, young Draco?"

He swallowed. "Yes, my Lord."

Draco suddenly felt a sharp pain and intense heat slowly make its way across his throat as the dagger cut through the skin of his bowed neck. He dug the fingernails of his hands into his palms and tried to place his focus on something else-Anything else. He stared at the floor and watched as one, fat drop of blood fell onto his the toe of his boot.

Glad I didn't wear the dragon-hide boots, after all, he thought. Suddenly he wanted to laugh. Not good, not good. He bit the inside of his cheek and tried to clear his mind completely. He thought nothing. He was nothing, at least, not anymore. Now he was His.

The Dark Lord grabbed the back of his neck roughly, then, and threw him onto the stone floor. Draco could hear his knees crack against the stone as he crumpled into a pile at the feet of his new master. He tried to scoot himself into a kneeling position, his fractured knees protesting in pain and his head swimming in hot fear and confusion.

"You will serve me well, young Draco," The Dark Lord whispered.

"Yes, my Lord." It sounded choked, strained.

And as Draco stared at the feet of the Dark Lord, trying to steady his breathing, focus his mind and ignore his fear and pain, his first task was explained to him.

And he fell apart inside all over again.

Draco arched his back in the hospital bed and tried to get a full breath. He rubbed his groggy eyes and was surprised to find his face covered in sweat.

He couldn't keep doing this. That day in August was when he stopped sleeping. That day in August was when he began to tremble without reason, when his heart began to pound in his chest in the middle of studying, when he would find his hands dripping with sweat and his shoulders curled inward as he tried, desperately, to get in control of himself and of his weak emotions. That night, pathetic tears had stained his face and his shaking hands had erratically grabbed for his potion-making kit. He'd brewed his first stores of the Draught of Peace and had been drinking it steadily ever since. Two months of this mental hell was draining him. He had to complete his task. He had to do it quickly. He couldn't take much more. And Harry fucking Potter was trying to ruin it all. Draco needed to keep him away.

Except now he was kind of at the hero's mercy. He had to trust that Potter would keep his word and not tell anyone what happened. He needed him to keep bringing his notes and work. Draco had to carry on like everything was normal and fine as quickly as possible and, ironically, he needed Potter's help to do that.

No, what he needed to do was his homework. He opened up his Charms textbook to the chapter on Incomplete Charms and began to read. And as he read, an idea began to form.

ooo

In class, no one seemed suspicious about Malfoy's absence. When Harry had retrieved Malfoy's books from the Slytherin dorms, no one questioned his excuse about Malfoy having the flu, and no one seemed to question why Harry was the one helping Malfoy. He had quietly muttered something about Pomfrey making him, and the rest of the Slytherins just kept their distance, assuming Harry was contaminated with Malfoy's flu virus.

"Hey Potter!" Pansy Parkinson demanded one day, stopping him in his tracks.

He looked at her for a moment and said nothing. She sneered at him.

"Okay, nice talking to you, Parkinson," he said, and turned to leave.

"I'm not finished, you moron," she said, nastily.

"What do you want?" He rolled his eyes.

She narrowed hers. "How is Draco?" she asked quietly.

Harry took a deep breath and kept his face neutral. "Fine."

She squinted her cow face further. "How do I know you aren't lying?"

He turned to leave. "Couldn't care less if you thought I was."

She trotted up beside him. "Stop being a prat, Potter. Is it really the flu?"

"What makes you think it isn't?" he looked at her, coldly.

She curled her lip in disdain. "I didn't say that. And if I had, I'm not likely to tell you." With that, she turned on her heel and strode away with her nose in the air. Harry resisted the urge to hex her.

Ron came up alongside Harry then. "Was that Pansy Parkinson talking to you?" he asked thickly, chewing on a Chocolate Frog.

Harry rolled his eyes and nodded.

He balked. "Why?" he asked, a disgusted look on his face.

Harry shrugged. "Nothing better to do, I guess."

They made their way towards the Great Hall. Harry's messenger bag was packed full with both his work and Malfoy's. He hoped Ron wouldn't notice.

"That cow," Ron commented. "What did she say?" He passed Harry his Chocolate Frog card. Another Dumbledore card. It was a running joke in Gryffindor to give Harry all of the Dumbledore Chocolate Frog cards, since everyone knew he was Dumbledore's favorite student. Harry had protested at first, but after Fred and George Weasley had littered his bed with about a hundred Dumbledore cards after a party one night, Harry had given up and just started collecting them, finding it funny.

Harry slipped the card into his messenger bag and smiled, wryly. "Thanks," he said. "You know, she called me a moron and a prat, that sort of thing."

"Bitch," Ron muttered. Harry nodded in agreement.

"Listen, Ron, I'll meet up with you in an hour."

He nodded then stopped Harry. "Why?"

"Just need to-something I need to check."

Ron shook his head. "Leave Malfoy alone, Harry."

Harry's breath caught in his chest. "What?"

"Stop following him around, Harry. You're getting in over your head. It could be dangerous."

Oh. Right. Ron was talking about how Harry had been trailing Malfoy since the start of the school year. "I just-"

"Just be careful."

Harry nodded. "See you, Ron."

"See you," he waved and continued walking.

Harry turned and headed toward the Infirmary.

When he entered the Infirmary, Madame Pomfrey stopped him. "Mr. Potter," she said.

"Hi," he replied, waiting.

"Mr. Malfoy is doing much better. I'll be sending him home tomorrow with instructions for at-home care."

Harry nodded, wondering if he was supposed to say something. "That's good," he offered. "Well, I-" he gestured to his bag of books and she nodded.

"Thank you for your help, Mr. Potter," she stated sincerely.

"It's fine."

"I just wanted to say it in the likely event that Mr. Malfoy does not. You were a huge help, to both of us, but mostly to him."

Harry shifted awkwardly. "It's okay."

"Thanks to you," she said. She smiled a little sadly. "I know you two don't exactly get along,"

Harry snorted then caught himself. "Sorry, er-no, not exactly. Loathe seems to be the most appropriate term."

"Hmm, yes." She gave him an odd look. "Well, for someone you claim to loathe, it appears you value him greatly."

Harry shrugged. "He said he'd hex me if-"

"I know what he said. But he never told you to express your concerns about his health to me, over and over again throughout the week."

Harry didn't know what to say to that. "Well, I just thought-"

She shook her hand, dismissively. "Just-thank you, Potter. From both of us. You can go see him now."

Harry wrinkled his face in confusion. He had just done what anyone would have done in his situation, right? He had just done the right thing. Sure, maybe Malfoy wouldn't have done it for him but that was because Malfoy was a git. Anybody else would have. Sure.

Harry walked in the room. Malfoy was sitting up in bed with a Potions textbook sprawled across his lap.

Harry walked across the room, awkwardly. "You awake, Malfoy?" He figured he'd better be certain this time.

Malfoy didn't look up from his book, but Harry could see the sneer spread across his face. "No, Potter. Fast asleep, reading."

Harry shrugged. "Well, it wouldn't be unusual for you. Your state of consciousness has been up for debate all week."

Malfoy frowned and met his eyes with an intense, piercing gaze. Harry felt pretty confident that Malfoy was awake this time. "What do you mean?" he demanded.

Harry opened his messenger bag and began pulling out the extra notes and necessary books and supplies for Malfoy. A green knit hat fell out of his bag. Malfoy recognized that hat immediately and his eyes widened in rage. "You filthy thief!" he hissed.

Harry could feel his blood begin to boil. "What did you call me?"

Malfoy slammed his Potions book shut and pointed at the hat on the floor. "That's my hat! You stole my hat! Give it to me!"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Of course. Typical. That would be the first conclusion your sick Slytherin mind would come up with." He snatched the hat off the floor and threw it in Malfoy's face.

"My hat is in your bag! What other conclusion should I draw from that?" he huffed, his gray eyes blazing. "So sorry if you haven't enough money to afford nice things, Potter, but when someone lets you into their room when they are sick, the first assumption isn't that the person is going to be a bloody pirate and go nosing through their personal belongings pilfering whatever they think is going to help hide their hideous, hopeless, hairstyle-"

"Get a grip!" Harry yelled, kicking the side of the bed. The Potions book fell onto the floor. Malfoy balked, his mouth gaping open.

"How dare-"

"I didn't steal your ugly hat! I brought it for you, you insane moron! You think if I was stealing from you, I'd just keep it mixed in my messenger bag with your school notes?" Harry was livid. "Or that I'd steal your hat? I'm sure you have plenty of items worth a lot more than some stupid piece of knitwear!"

"How should I know what a professional thief does? But thanks for the tip! I'll make sure to double check my room when I get back to see what else your thieving hands snatched up!" He paused. "Wait," his face twisted up, confused. He took a deep breath. "You brought it for me?"

Harry grunted something that sounded like "yeah" and looked away.

"But-why?"

Harry rolled his eyes and scowled. "Don't know. Really don't know. It was a mistake. I shouldn't have."

Malfoy peered at him curiously and softened his voice, somewhat, though he was still looking at him skeptically. "You really brought it for me?"

Harry felt humiliated. He swallowed down the heat and adrenaline that had risen in his throat and he felt himself blushing. "Yes," he mumbled, crossing his arms and glaring at the floor.

Malfoy took the hat off his lap and held it. "Why?" he asked again.

Harry was quiet for a moment, embarrassed and angry. This was what Madame Pomfrey was talking about. Why did he bring him a hat? It didn't make any sense. No one else in his position of self-proclaimed loathing would have done it.

Harry gestured to Malfoy's head. The red scar had lightened to a less-angry looking pink, but the chopped hair and buzz spots looked a bit more ridiculous than they had earlier that week, sticking out in every direction in the middle of an otherwise perfectly groomed coif.

"Your," he cleared his throat. "Your. Uh. Head," he grunted, keeping his eyes on the floor. "So, you know. When you leave tomorrow. . ."

Malfoy's mouth curled up like he had tasted something sour. "Are you serious?"

Harry swallowed his humiliation. "Whatever." His voice was almost a whisper and his cheeks were flaming red. "It was stupid."

Malfoy played with the hat in his hands. "No," he said, quietly. "It was nice."

Harry glanced up at him quickly. He wasn't sure if he heard him correctly. "What?"

Malfoy glanced at him oddly and tossed his head to the side. "I wouldn't have done it."

No, Harry knew, he wouldn't have. Harry shrugged.

Malfoy pulled the hat over his head and raised his eyebrows. Then he folded his arms over his chest and sat up straighter.

Something about the self-righteous look on Malfoy's face while he lay pale and gaunt with that green hat on his head and his pointy nose turned up in the air made Harry want to laugh. The corner of his mouth twitched up and he bit his lip, trying to stifle it.

Malfoy frowned. "What?" he asked, and adjusted his hat.

Harry shook his head. "It's-nothing," he lied. Then he cracked and covered his mouth as he snorted into his hands.

"I'm sure I don't know what could possibly be funny right now. I happen to know that this hat accentuates all of my best features," he bragged, but the corners of his eyes appeared amused. "Except my hair, of course," he added.

Harry laughed harder. What was going on? He wasn't even laughing at Malfoy anymore, just at the hilarity of the situation in which he found himself. And the fact that he couldn't stop laughing made him laugh harder.

ooo

Draco was laughing, but he didn't really know what was so funny except that the image of Potter laughing uproariously in front of his hospital bed just struck him as completely out of place, inappropriate and hilarious.

Madame Pomfrey walked by then as the two boys roared with laughter. Potter had his head in his hands, wiping away tears, and Draco pressed the palm of one hand against the bridge of his nose, shoulders shaking noiselessly. She shook her head, smiling herself at the odd scene and continued on.

Draco, of course, was the first to break the laughter. "So," he spoke neutrally now, but his eyes were still squinted in merriment. "What did you mean about my state of consciousness?"

Potter took a deep breath, trying to compose himself and plopped down in the chair. "What?" he asked.

"You," he coughed. "Before, you said that my state of consciousness had been up for debate all week. What did you mean by that?"

"Oh," Potter said, now met with Draco's neutral mask. "That."

Draco raised his eyebrows, indicating for Harry to continue. "Yes, that."

"Well," Potter began, seemingly reluctant to end the lighthearted moment. He spoke slowly, as if Draco was a snake, ready to strike. Which he was. The laughter had been nice, though, finally cutting through the tension that lay between the two boys, thick as molasses, for so many years. But it could mean nothing. No truce. Just an extremely odd and unexplainable moment. "The last few times I came here you were sleeping."

Draco nodded, knowingly. "And what is so debatable about that? Seems pretty obvious to me."

"That's just it," Potter said. "It wasn't always obvious. You-I thought you were awake. You'd be just, sitting there, talking to me, like normal."

Draco began to grow uneasy of where this conversation was going. "We never talk 'like normal,'" he commented.

"That's just it," Potter scoffed. "You'd be nice, for a minute."

Draco smirked.

"But then-then you'd be crying and . . ."

No.

"And asking me why it was 'too late' and . . ."

Too late? No!

"Demanding to know why you just lost forty house points and then calling me "Father" and . . ."

He'd called him Father?

"And then looking back at me again and calling me 'Scarhead' and 'idiot.'"

Well, that was okay.

"But it was just, really weird, because I never really knew if you were awake or not. Sometimes you'd make sense and then a second later you'd be grabbing at my robes begging me-"

"Okay! That's enough." Draco's cheeks were burning and bright red. "I don't want to hear anymore."

Potter shrugged. "Okay." He stood up to leave and Draco began to panic. What had he said to him? What had he told him about that stupid dream he kept having? And about his father? And, oh Merlin, what if he told him, what if he told him, what if he told him . . .?

Draco suddenly realized Potter was peering over him. "Uh, are you okay?" he asked.

Draco was sweating profusely and his heart was racing. He stared past Potter, wide eyed. "Oh yes!" he clipped. "Perfect. Yes, everything you saw or heard was intentional."

Potter frowned. "Should I go get-?"

"Just another clever rouse, Potter, to throw you off my trail!" Draco was clutching his bed covers, desperately.

"You-you're hyperventilating."

He clutched at his throat. "Intentionally, Potter! Intentionally." He gritted his teeth as his body began to itch.

"Jesus," Potter muttered. "Settle down!"

"Don't! I-" Draco choked. He couldn't remember how to be angry. What did he say? What did he say? He needed to know. He had to know, even if it killed him. Which it might. "Sit down!" he yelled, his voice embarrassingly high-pitched.

Potter backed up a step and complied, not really sure why. "Okay . . .? I'm sitting. What's the matter with you?"

Draco took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He spoke slowly and in a controlled voice. "I need you," he began through clenched teeth. "To tell me everything I did or said over the last few days. Everything." He looked at him then with pleading eyes. "Please. Even if I tell you to stop, or shut up, or threaten your life or run screaming from the room. You have to tell me everything. Everything, or, or I'll-"

Potter put his hands up. "You don't need to threaten me, Malfoy. I'll tell you everything I remember."

Draco swallowed hard and nodded. Right. He was a Gryffindor. They didn't need a reason to agree idiotically and blindly to lending a helping hand to those perceivably in need.

Potter cleared his throat and began. "Well, the first time, I woke you up. But-not really, since you weren't actually awake. You looked at me and said my name, so I figured you were. And then you said, 'It's me, it's Draco.' And I'm thinking, yeah, obviously."

Draco swallowed the lump of embarrassment in his throat, but strongly suspected that this was not the worst of it. He stared at Potter's tattered red trainers as he spoke.

"And then you started asking me why I kept telling you it was too late. And then you jumped out of bed and grabbed me and started, er, crying, sort of and calling me a liar. And then, uh," Potter paused, as if carefully choosing his words. "Then you started moaning about some, uh, some task." Potter stopped and chanced a look at Draco.

The color had drained completely from Draco's face. He looked as white as the sheets of his hospital bed. His eyes widened and his face looked horrified. "A task?" he choked out, his voice barely a whisper. He felt like he was going to be sick.

"Yeah, but- but right after you mentioned it, you fell back asleep. All the way, that is."

"I did?" he whispered. He looked up at Potter, trying to fight the suspicious look that he felt creeping onto his face. If he had said anything about the task, Potter was not likely to tell him. Draco could threaten him all he wanted, but all Potter had to do was lie. He squinted. "That's-you're sure that-" He stopped and composed himself. "I didn't say anything else about this, uh so-called task?"

"No," Potter said quickly. "Just told me to shut up about it. And then you said 'Nahnah, sleep.'" He smirked.

Draco's mouth tasted like sandpaper. "Glad you're enjoying yourself at my expense, Potter."

"Oh, I am." Potter retorted, smiling.

Okay, Draco thought. So Potter had woken him up and he babbled a bit in his sleep. And apparently jumped out of bed. That didn't sound so strange. He shouldn't have woken him up in the first place. "And the next time?" he dared to ask, still staring intently at Harry's dirty-looking trainers.

Potter cleared his throat. "The next time I walked in and you were sitting on your bed staring at the wall. I don't know if you knew exactly who I was. You kept switching between calling me Potter and looking disgusted and annoyed and calling me "Father" and "sir" and acting apologetic for not doing your homework."

Draco's face contorted and he looked like he was going to cry, but he stayed still and listened. "Go on," he rasped, pressing his lips together into a thin, hard line.

"And then you starting going on about the walls melting."

Draco looked up at him sharply and met his gaze. "I talked about that?"

Potter looked sheepish and embarrassed. Draco couldn't imagine how Potter could possibly look embarrassed right now. Or how anyone else in the world could possibly feel as mortified as he felt.

"You went on and on about it," Potter offered meekly. "About how beautiful it was and just about beauty in general and how it's all-encompassing and-"

The color had returned to Draco's face and spread to the tip of his ears. He held his hand up for Potter to stop.

"You said not to stop," Potter protested.

"I know what I said."

"Okay, then, um."

"I really said all that?" Draco mused aloud, mostly to himself, knowing that if Potter was repeating it then he had definitely said it.

"Why, do you remember thinking it?"

Draco nodded, his eyes back on the shoes. "Yeah. I remember it being fascinating at the time," he said in a tiny voice.

"I imagine it must have been, the way you were carrying on about it."

Draco scrutinized Potter's face to see if he was laughing at him, but there was no hint of mirth in his voice or his face. He looked like he meant it. Draco didn't know what to make of that.

"I started to worry you were on drugs or something."

"Drugs?" Draco asked, confused.

"Uh. Drugs are like, er- like hard potions or something."

"Oh." Draco nodded, knowing his guess wasn't too far from the truth. "Right."

"And then," Potter continued. "Then you seemed to snap out of it and recognize me again and you told me to get out, that I was making you angry and ruining everything. So on the way out, I saw Madame Pomfrey and then it occurred to me that maybe when you hit your head you did some-some damage there or-"

Draco didn't mean to laugh but he did. "Brain damage?" he muttered.

Potter shrugged. "I didn't know. You were acting so weird. So- I don't know. She seemed to know, though, and looked really pissed and then we came back in and you were accusing me of losing you house points and then she brought you, uh, out of it. I guess."

Draco nodded slowly and looked up at Potter. "Is that it?" he asked him.

Potter nodded, holding his gaze. "Pretty much."

"Hm," Draco nodded in finality. "Okay. I can see how my state of consciousness might have been up for debate."

Potter's mouth quirked up. "Uh, yeah." He cleared his throat. "If you don't mind my asking-"

"I do." Draco cut him off in a hard voice.

Potter let out an exasperated sigh, but continued. "What was that all about? What were you on? Was it a spell? Do you always act like that when you sleep?"

Draco scowled. "No, I don't always act like that when I sleep!"

"Well, then?"

Draco huffed and crossed his arms. "Well then, what?"

Potter just stared at him.

Apparently the hero felt like he was owed some sort of an explanation for having had to deal with it all. As if he was the one whose private thoughts were put on display in such a humiliating manner. Typical Potter. Thinks the whole world is his business.

Draco rolled his eyes and exhaled, defeated. "Sleeping charm," he admitted.

Potter's eyebrows raised. "What-really?" he asked, surprised.

"Yes, really," Draco huffed. "Couldn't take any potions, now could I?"

Potter shook his head and cast his big owl eyes at the floor. "No, no I guess not. But a sleeping charm? Isn't that really, uh, controversial?"

"Well, I guess we can all see why, can't we?" he retorted. He was quickly growing tired of this conversation. He didn't owe Potter an explanation. He didn't have to defend himself. It was his sodding hospital room! Potter was the intruder, from the very start.

"And I'm guessing Pomfrey told you not to do it," Potter said. It was a statement. A statement from an irritating know-it-all.

"She did it for me first," he said through gritted teeth.

"And then you did it on your own?" Potter asked.

Draco had had enough. "This is none of your business, Potter. Stop asking me irritating questions. Thank you for stopping by. You can leave now."

"That's really dangerous," he muttered. "From what I know about them, they're really addictive and-and—"

"And, and? Mind your own business. Do you really think a Malfoy would be addicted to a sleeping charm like a common criminal?"

They both stopped talking, the unspoken thought lingering in the air between them. Draco realized what he just said and was glad for Potter's sake that the prat didn't make a comment about Azkaban and how his father was locked up like a common criminal at that very moment.

Potter stood to leave. "Just," he faltered. "Just be careful," he murmured quickly as he turned to exit.

"Oh, Merlin!" Draco was shouting, but didn't know why. "Why do you act like you bloody care?"

Potter flipped around, his eyes looked surprisingly furious. "I don't know!" he yelled, kicking the chair in the room. It screeched across the stone floor, skidding to a halt next to Draco's bed.

They both stared at each other, not sure what to make of that.

"I," he repeated, breathing deeply and getting in control of himself. "I don't know."

Weird. He wasn't denying that he cared about Draco. He was agreeing that he did. It was very unsettling.

Potter turned away then and started storming off.

"Thanks for the hat," Draco muttered, instantly regretting it and hoping Potter hadn't heard him.

Potter stopped and turned around, peering at him curiously.

"What?" Potter asked.

Not listening, as usual, Potter? Well, a Malfoy never repeats himself. Too bad. "Go fuck yourself," Draco sneered.

Potter narrowed his eyes. Good. Things were back to normal.

Potter stared at him for a moment. "You're welcome," he spoke slowly, a smile ghosting the corners of his mouth.

Shit. Draco rolled his eyes and pulled the covers over his head, wanting to die or disappear. He stayed that way until he heard Potter's footsteps exit the infirmary. Why and how did Potter always have to witness his most embarrassing moments?