Making Friendly with a Dragon

Blaise was furious. He wanted to get mad. He wanted to hex his friend over and over for being so stupid, because Draco knew. That idiot bloody well knew. There was no way he could have forgotten what drugs had done to him: all the fear, the close calls, the forced rehab when an itch for another hit became self-destructive freefall; all the endless, endless months of anxiety and struggling. Blaise had watched it all, helpless. Now here they were again.

"Damn it, Draco," Blaise hissed, helping the blond to his feet.

Because that was the problem. Draco was well aware of his mistake; that was why he had cried and shut himself in a bathroom stall that smelt like piss and vomit. It was degrading; it was the kind of thing Draco would never have done except at his lowest. The idiot was already beating himself up, and Blaise guessed he just wasn't a big enough bastard to pour more salt into the wound. Maybe because he also knew it was really his own fault that it had come to this.

The signs had all been there. Blaise had looked away; he had been selfish.

"Are you okay?" Blaise asked. "I can take you to a healer if—"

"No." Draco pressed his hand to his face, smearing blood and crusted tear trails. "Just—just get me out of here."

Please.

The unspoken word was a stab to Blaise's heart. He swallowed and shifted his grip on the blond.

"Alright," he said, trying for a neutral tone. "Let's get you home."

"No!"

Blaise started at the sudden vehemence. "What?"

"Not home. Not there. I can't—not like this. That stupid elf will see me and he'll—he'll—"

Something twisted in Blaise's stomach as he listened to Draco's feverish muttering. Memories they both didn't want to relive rose to the surface. "Alright," he said thickly. "Not the manor."

Draco calmed a little, though his eyes were still glazed and bloodshot. Withdrawal hadn't quite kicked in yet, but it would. It always did.

Blaise's chest tightened and in his head a string of curses repeated. He didn't know how to fix this. He'd never known how to fix this, and that scared him. Draco was such a mess. But Blaise still had to try. There was no one else. So he swallowed back his unease, his frustration, his guilt. He stuck close to his friend and used side-Apparition to take Draco back to the apartment. Ginny was sprawled on the sofa in her pyjamas, stuffing sweets into her mouth and reading a magazine. Her eyes flickered up to them and a grin curved her lips.

"You're back early," she observed. "Didn't get lucky after all?"

"Not now," Blaise muttered distractedly.

Her grin faded. Only then did she notice that something was wrong—that Draco looked rumpled and distressed and there were little streaks of blood on his face.

"What happened?" she demanded, placing the magazine aside and getting to her feet.

Blaise just shook his head and ushered Draco into his bedroom. He shut the door—shut her out—because he knew that Draco didn't want her to see this. It had been a plea in those glazed, bloodshot eyes. The state the blond was in now was only the tip of the iceberg, and what was going to follow would be ugly and messy and would leave him stripped of all dignity.

"You can stay here," Blaise said, gesturing a bit awkwardly at the room. "I'll sleep on the sofa."

Draco sat on the edge of the bed and covered his face with his hands. "Thanks."

"Are you going to be okay? Do you need anything?"

"A vanishing bucket would be good."

"Alright."

Blaise conjured the bucket with his wand and then hesitated. Draco still hadn't moved. The silence was uncomfortable, weighted with things that needed to be said. They'd been putting off this conversation for too long. Blaise had never known how to start, and getting anything out of Draco was like trying to make friendly with a dragon. It had been easier just to pretend all was well.

Except it wasn't. It really wasn't.

A sigh escaped Blaise and he turned to leave.

"Wait."

He glanced over his shoulder. He was surprised to see Draco holding his wand out to him.

"Take it," Draco said gruffly.

Blaise wasn't able to quite mask his shock. Wizards didn't just hand over their wands to people—not when it meant they would be as helpless as a baby. Not when it was the equivalent of surrendering one's own life and magic to another's hand. That Draco did so now brought home the magnitude of the situation.

"You sure?" Blaise asked.

Draco bit his lip and averted his face. "I'll probably, you know, when it—"

He trailed off, but then he didn't need to finish the sentence. Withdrawal was ugly and vicious. Draco was probably scared of what he'd try do. Without a word, Blaise accepted the wand and tucked it inside his pocket.

"Let me know if you need anything else," he murmured.

"Yeah, alright."

All the cues said it was time to leave. Blaise didn't move. His feet didn't want to listen to his brain, never mind that this whole situation was awkward as hell and he really should just go so Draco could try to scrape together some dignity. Guilt had Blaise stuck.

"This isn't your fault, you know."

The words slipped out of him, clumsy like a drunk ballerina. Draco barely twitched.

"It's not," Blaise repeated, sensing that the blond didn't believe him. "I shouldn't have made you go to the club. I should have paid more attention." He made a frustrated sound and ran a hand through his hair. "I'm an idiot."

"You don't need to apologise," Draco said in a flat voice. "You didn't make me take the Fairy Dust. I'm the one who fucked up."

"Draco—"

"Don't! Don't try to dress this up as anything but what it is! I know what I did, Blaise!" He made an odd sound—not quite a hiss, not quite a laugh. It was strangled and sounded far too broken. "Do you know right now there's a voice in my head telling me to get more?" His hands trembled and he balled them into fists. "This is what I am, Blaise. This is what I fucking am!"

Blaise said nothing. A lump of what might have been words got stuck in his throat, but they would have taken no form even if he had let them out. He didn't know what to say to make this better. He never had.

Suddenly, the door burst open. Both men flinched as Ginny marched in, walking right past Blaise—and his attempt to stop her—until she was in front of Draco. The blond stiffened and stared up at her as if she was an executioner come to decapitate him from her life; his shame was so thick it was a tangible thing filling the room. Yet even then Draco struggled to put the walls up, to repair his pride, to save face in front of her. Except he couldn't. Fairy Dust had made him fly; it had also shattered him when he'd hit the ground. There was nothing left but weakness and disgrace. He had a drug problem, and everything about his appearance said as much.

Get out! those glazed eyes screamed at her. Get out and don't look at me! Don't fucking look at me!

Ginny didn't look away. "You're too loud," she said bluntly.

Then she hugged him.

A breath escaped Blaise's lips as he watched. Draco had stiffened so much from the contact it looked like his back would snap, but Ginny didn't let go. She held him tight in her arms—held him until the tension slowly started to ease out of his muscles and then his head was curving into her shoulder. Even in this moment, the petty tang of jealousy stung Blaise's tongue. He swallowed it back, refused to let even a drop out. He'd done enough damage with his selfishness tonight.

"I'll just be in the living room," he murmured.

Not waiting for a response, he left the two embracing and closed the door behind him. Blaise had never known how to help Draco get off the knifepoint upon which the blond had been balancing, but maybe Ginny did. Maybe she could. Blaise had to let her try.

oOo

The next two days were hell. Draco was moody, violently ill, demanding, and just plain impossible to be around. Even with Blaise and Ginny sharing caretaker duties, all three of them ended up with bruise-like circles under their eyes. It was exhausting. Sometimes, Blaise was tempted to wash his hands off the whole affair—just leave the blond to his withdrawals and his foul moods and be done with it. Blaise wasn't a healer; he wasn't qualified for this. But Draco was his best friend. Plus, even Ginny kept at it without complaint. Blaise wouldn't let it be said she was the better friend, even if she did have a knack for getting Draco to calm down more than him.

"You look like shit," Ginny said cheerfully as she joined him in the living room.

Blaise scowled at her.

"Now you look like Draco."

He flipped her off.

She laughed and handed him a cup of tea. "Here. Just how you like it."

The offering mollified him enough to make him tilt his head and quirk his eyebrow at her. Ginny stretched her arms above her head and collapsed on the sofa, legs sprawling everywhere with zero attempt at lady-like grace. Her baggy T-shirt was stained and there was a hole in the knee of her pyjama bottoms. The red, greasy thing she called hair was pulled into a lopsided topknot. For someone who said he looked like shit, she wasn't doing much better. Just looking at her made him want to drag her into a shower, wash that disgusting mop on her head, and force her into some proper clothes. Still, Ginny didn't seem to care. She let out a jaw-cracking yawn and shifted into a more comfortable positon, smiling like a contented cat.

"How do you do it?" Blaise asked in wonder.

The words slipped free before he could stop them.

Ginny opened one eye to look at him. "Do what?"

"How do you stay so happy all the time?" He furrowed his brow. "I knowyou're tired; I know you must be as sick of this as I am, but you're just so—so—" he flailed for words and settled for making an awkward gesture with his hands.

Ginny snorted and sat up straighter. "Of course I'm tired. Draco has been a total arse. He knows it as well."

"Then why? Why even bother? No one asked you to do this."

She shrugged and curled one knee against her chest. Her topknot seemed to get even more lopsided. Blaise wished he knew what was going on in her head. She was surprisingly difficult to read for someone so blunt and unapologetic.

"I just want him to get better, I guess," she said after a moment. "It sounded like he was going to give up on himself."

"That's it?"

Her fingers tugged at the threads fraying from the hole that bared her knee. "Mum did say I liked to collect strays as a kid."

"So, it's just a pity thing?"

She shrugged again. "I dunno, Blaise. Why are you asking me all this now?"

Blaise supposed he was being nosy. He just worried. Petty and possessive as he was, he had recognised that Ginny could give something to Draco that he could not. The wounded dragon that had always snapped its teeth at him had become docile under her touch. Almost dependent. That was a problem if she wasn't planning to stick around.

"You're involved now," Blaise said, his voice uncharacteristically grim. "Draco isn't a stray you can just look after for a while and then send on his way."

"I'm aware of that."

Her tone was dry. She thought he was being an idiot. Blaise wished he was.

"Listen," he said, placing the cup of tea and saucer on the table. "This isn't the first time Draco has relapsed."

"I gathered as much."

"Then you should know that this—what he's going through—it isn't going to be an easy fix." Blaise shook his head. "Frankly, his drug issues are the least of his problems."

She rested her chin on her knee. "What's your point?"

"My point?" he echoed, a bit at a loss. "Isn't it obvious? You said you want him to get better, right? Well, what if he doesn't?" His eyes sought hers. "Are you prepared for that? Are you prepared for the fact you might not be able to fix him? Because if you're not—if you're just going to decide he's too much work—then you should back off now."

Ginny twisted her lips in what might have been amusement. "Blaise, I'm just trying to help a friend; it's not like I'm planning to marry the guy."

Except he has feelings for you, Blaise wanted to say. Not that he did. Draco would kill him.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just be careful. He's more fragile than you think."

A hint of humour flickered in her eyes. "I don't think he'd be too happy to hear you call him fragile."

Blaise gave her a look. Ginny held her hands up in an appeasing gesture.

"Alright, alright," she said, getting to her feet. "Consider me warned. I'll be sure to treat the princess with the utmost delicacy and care."

His lips twitched despite himself. "Princess?"

"It's my new nickname for him. Suits him, no?"

Blaise couldn't help but chuckle. "I'm surprised you're still in one piece if you've been calling him that."

"Oh, he hates it," she agreed with a grin, "but it's not like he would actually do anything to me. He's all bark and no bite."

Blaise didn't correct her. He knew that Draco's bite was, in fact, much, much worse than his bark. Ginny just had never had to deal with that side of the blond. For whatever reason, Draco had been completely smitten by this woman.

She stretched her arms above her head with another yawn. "Anyway, finish your tea and then you should get out and do something—have a break. You really do look like shit, and we can't have that." A dimple appeared. "Your pretty face is all you've got going for you."

He rolled his eyes but said nothing as he watched her head back into the bedroom where Draco was sleeping. Ginny Weasley always did as she pleased. Blaise just hoped she knew what she was doing this time.

oOo

Draco woke to find Weasley crouched on the floor next to him. She had her elbows resting on the bed and her chin propped on her palms. He blinked slowly. The image didn't change.

"Weasley," he said, unsticking his throat. His head was still throbbing dully, but the worst of his symptoms had calmed. "Has anyone ever told you it's creepy when you sit really close to a person and watch them sleep?"

"Nope." She popped the P on the word and grinned at him. "You're the only one I like to watch sleep like a creeper. Feel special?"

He rubbed a hand over his face. "Sure. It's a real honour."

She laughed and uncurled herself from the floor. "Get up. You've been lying in that bed for too long."

He groaned. The thought of facing the world was not appealing. In truth, it was still a bit awkward just being around her. Draco was the type who liked to impress the girls he fancied; there was nothing "cool" about a relapsing addict experiencing drug withdrawals. She'd seen him make friends with a vanishing bucket, seen him suffer from diarrhoea and stomach cramps, seen him rage and cry and threaten when the cravings got too much. It was humiliating. She might have faced it all without flinching—had even hugged him on multiple occasions—but Draco still felt too raw and exposed. It was like his chest had been opened and there was his heart all vulnerable and squishy for her to step on as she pleased. He didn't much like that feeling.

Weasley's hands found his. "Come on." She tugged him up with surprising strength; he didn't know where she hid it in that tiny body of hers. "I'm not taking no for an answer."

Draco met her gaze and saw all the warmth and brightness that had first captivated him. Damn him for being such a lovesick fool; there was no way he could resist. He sighed and resigned himself to her manhandling. Before long, he was sitting on one of the stools in the kitchen and she was demanding to know what he wanted to eat.

"I know you haven't had much appetite these few days," she said in a shift to a more serious tone, "but you've got to eat something." Then she propped her elbows on the bench in front of him and smiled in a way that made his stomach flutter. "So, what'll it be?"

He swallowed. "Oh, er, I dunno."

Weasley's brow furrowed. "What? The princess has no demands this time?"

His lips pursed with all the rapidness of sucking on a sour lemon. "I told you not to call me that."

"I know."

Her tone suggested she didn't care either. Draco's temple twitched.

"Oh, relax," she said, ruffling his hair in that careless way of hers. "I'm only teasing. You're such a stiff sometimes."

Draco patted his hair back into place, wondering why she always insisted on touching him. His hair, his hands, just his person in general. Weasley could never keep to herself. The lovesick part of him wanted to believe that meant something; the more pragmatic part told him he was a pathetic sop grasping straws. There was absolutely no reason for this woman to care about him in that way—especially not after his relapse.

Weasley started humming as she used her wand to direct pans and pots to the stove, along with slicing up fruit and toasting bread. At his stunned look, she explained that since he couldn't decide what he wanted, she'd just make him a whole bunch of food and he could pick and choose as he pleased. More butterflies stirred in his stomach. That was annoying, too. It was just food, but those fluttery swoops acted like she'd made a declaration of love. He wished.

"Why are you going to so much effort?" he couldn't help but ask.

It was something that had been bothering him these past few days. He and Weasley had never been particularly close, much as he'd hoped for otherwise.

Weasley stilled with her back to him. "Isn't it obvious?"

That was a question loaded with meaning. He wished he could see her expression. Then she did turn to face him, but all he got was an impish grin.

"I'm gathering favours." She gave him a light flick to his forehead. "You're going to be my slave forever before the end of this."

Draco made a scoffing noise and swatted her hand away. She laughed in that free, easy way of hers and carried on cooking, but it was a moment before his heart was able to settle back to a more natural rhythm. That jumpy little organ whispered in its quickened beats that she'd been flirting with him just then. His more logical mind pointed out she was like that with everyone.

Don't read into what doesn't exist. She probably just pities you and wants to spare your feelings.

Right. That made a bit too much sense.

Draco exhaled heavily. Pity was something he did not want. Still, as he listened to Weasley hum and prepare food for him, he couldn't help but indulge in a fantasy—just a little. He told himself she'd spent the past few days helping him get back on his feet because she genuinely cared. He told himself it was attraction, not simple playfulness, that made her touch and tease and get closer to him than others dared.

He told himself it didn't matter if he was a piece of shit junkie with baggage as big as the manor he called home.

Of course, that was where the fantasy ended. He knew that no woman in her right mind would want a guy like him except to use him for his money. Weasley wasn't exactly a Galleon digger either. Draco sighed. Weasley kept humming.

I don't think I've ever written a Draco who is so sickeningly in love. It's weird, haha.

Anyway, this chapter is full of aaaangst, but can't really help that when Draco has got issues. I promise cute DG interactions are on the way!

Also, I'm too sleepy to edit this properly. Point out typos and I'll go fix them later.