As he'd rounded the corner, leaving the unit, he remembered the process he had endured to get to that point. He'd encountered denial, confusion, anxiety... but in the end he had beat them all down, and faced what he needed to do. It had taken more than one attempt to get his words down on paper, and even more than just one slip of paper. He'd crumpled it up in his hand on the way, considering throwing it away for all that it was worth. A piece of paper with 'sorry' written on it just didn't feel like enough.
He had thought about talking to Malfoy when he was awake, but his nerves had gotten the better of him, there. That aside, it was better this way - while he was asleep.
Harry remembered inspecting him, just a once over to make sure he wasn't still dying. More self-reassurance than anything. His stomach had churned upon seeing him, laying there with his eyes closed, with a death-like peace tided over him. Even with dittany, the scars were still large and grotesque, etched into his skin, which had been stretched and torn, pulled tight across his already thin frame, reddened - no, more than just 'reddened' - it had been purpled, and bruised, the marks pulling taut from the tops of his exposed legs, around his sides and his sunken abdomen, his hips jutting out.
When was the last time he even ate? Harry thought, recalling how frail Malfoy had been.
The sourness of guilt in his mouth overwhelmed him, thinking of the aftermath. Some of the gashes had healed into scars, and some had still been in the process of doing so, riddling his arms and sides with half-healed holes, sores the size of Harry's fist, recovering layer upon layer of skin over the crimson muscle beneath, white blood cells coagulating and a sort of jelly forming just under where his skin - once fully healed - would be. Some scars resembled slash wounds, others deep, violent stabs.
He swallowed, his throat going dry with remorse.
Harry thought then, of the dittany, and - oh - how much Draco must have screamed when it was tipped over him, sizzling his skin, stretching it over his muscles, pulling together his scars, some of them ripping back open... He had been able to smell the intense, aggressive pungency of the dittany, that medicinal scent hitting him as he had entered the room. He heard the sound of Draco's screaming in his head, loud and blood-curdling, and it was enough to make him cringe away, his eyes welling up as he turned a corner in the general direction of the common room.
Was he going to cry? Now?
Harry clenched his jaw, drawing in a deep breath, keeping his head held high as he walked, soon releasing a long sigh. No. Not now. Not here.
He didn't need that sort of attention right now. Didn't want that sort of attention.
Draco floated to the front of his mind again.
Keeping up appearances so that the others don't spot the little lamb in the wolf's business suit. For so long, Harry had been strong enough to not let other people get to him. He had stood his ground, and then, when delving so much as an inch into Draco's world... for the first time, his knees had shook under the weight.
He noticed how much Draco had changed. He looked back towards the past, to their first year, and to the pale, tall, and somewhat sprightly boy in Madam Malkins, waiting for his Hogwarts robes. He had sunny white hair, and glittering silver eyes that held the secrets to all kinds of mischief.
...And then to the present day, to the paler, taller, eldritch wraith that impersonated him, with far too little grandeur, haunting the places that the real Draco used to grace with more of a nervous shuffle than a proud stride; with hair faded to the colour of a rainy sky; eyes now dark, swirling with the treacherous, blistering winter that threatened the walls he had build up around his mind; and those eyes were encompassed by deep, puce rings of exhaustion, likely from nights spent twisting and turning beneath his sheets, fists balled into his hair. The only thing that identified him as the youngest heir to the Malfoy estate, now, was that ever present expression of bitterness and contempt for those around him, and all that encircled him. If anything, the expression had only intensified.
As much as it confused him, Harry wanted to see Draco back on his own two feet. Not because it was the noble thing to want, but because of something else. Something he couldn't put his finger on, but felt strongly akin to comfort. The way things should be.
He wanted the happy Draco back. The one that would have duelled him in an instant, pushed him to a challenge. The one that kept him on his toes, and - in some strange way - encouraged him to do better.
Harry wanted to see the Draco that insulted everybody he laid eyes on, the one that didn't give a damn what people thought, the one that was as majestic as an eagle and yet as utterly flamboyant as one could ever hope to achieve. Harry wanted to see normal Draco.
Not this ghost that sauntered past every now and again, as soundlessly as the mist across a mountain.
He was so different, now. The more Harry thought about it, the more it terrified him to realise just how long he had been wasting away beneath the mask. Every so often his cover would crack, even if only marginally.
He soon realised how close he was to the common room, his body having gone into autopilot mode, and decided that it was time to put on a brave face again.
Just like Draco Malfoy.
Cringe with guilt.
The Fat Lady didn't let Harry's dejected demeanor go unnoticed, but as he promptly muttered the password, she swung open, clearly understanding that he didn't wish to be bothered.
An hour later, in the common room, he was faced with a rather cross Hermione Granger.
"Well, I won't say I told you so." She pursed her lips, folding her arms and passing him a knowing glance. Because clearly Hermione knew all about everything that had happened in his head in the bathroom. Clearly she knew everything about acting on impulse, and how controllable it was.
"Leave it, Hermione." Ron snapped, angrily, and for once, Harry was immensely grateful for Ron, even if in the back of his mind, there was a nagging little voice telling him that Hermione was just being like this because she was worried.
He didn't say anything, though, and probably for the best. He was too stressed out to engage in any more arguments. Things were serious, now. It wasn't all shits and giggles about diving in a lake, or collecting a shiny cup. People had died, he'd seen people die, and someone was about to die, unless he intervened somehow.
Harry hadn't gone to dinner.
He'd had no appetite at all, especially after seeing what had become of Draco in the hospital wing. McGonagall had confronted him, too, before that calling him out of the common room just to spend fifteen highly unpleasant minutes reinforcing what Snape had said in the bathroom, and seeming to wholeheartedly support his decision. Whether it was to be admitted or not, Harry hadn't really been listening to her, at the time, his only shaken thoughts being of Draco. Where was he? Has anyone visited him? Is he alright? How does he look? How does he feel? Is he even awake?
Those thoughts were the ones which had been on repeat in his brain, blaring and monotonous like a muggle police siren, or those megaphones that Miss Piggy used to communicate with the school last year.
Hermione couldn't stop herself. She continued, "I told you there was something wrong with that Prince person," she paused, looking between Harry and Ron, like a mother scolding two children, "And I was right, wasn't I?"
Harry's blood boiled.
She must get off on being 'right' all the time. This is her fucking thing, isn't it? Rubbing how 'right' she is in people's faces-
"No, I don't think you were." Harry had finally had enough of being quiet, too annoyed and too stubborn to deal with neither Hermione's lecturing, nor anybody else's input into the situation. Harry just wanted to go to bed... Or go back to the hospital wing to see if Draco was awake yet.
No, he wanted to go to bed. The day had been too intense, what with moaning Myrtle doing what she does best and moaning what had happened to everybody who would listen. Hermione really wasn't helping him.
"Harry, how can you stick up for that book when that spell-"
Snap.
"Will you stop harping on about that book!" Harry burst, "The Prince only copied it out! It's not like he was advising anyone to use it! For all we know, he was making a note of something that had been used against him!"
Hermione couldn't believe what she was hearing. How could Harry be so irrational? The book was very obviously dangerous, not to mention that it didn't follow the conventions of potion making-
"I don't believe this," Hermione's face turned redder, "You're actually defending-"
"I'm not defending what I did!" Harry barked, quickly, "I wish I hadn't done it, to be honest, Hermione, and not just because I've got a dozen detentions. You know, I wouldn't have used a spell like that - not even on Malfoy-" His name hurt to speak, and felt like an icy knife in his gut, "but you can't blame the Prince. He hadn't written out 'try this, it's really good'," His voice cracked, "he was just making notes for himself, wasn't he... not for anyone else..."
"Are you telling me," Seethed Hermione, "That you're going to go back...?"
"Yeah," said Harry, forcefully, looking her directly in the eye, "Yeah, I am, actually. I'm going to go back and get the book." He gritted his teeth, "Listen, without the book, I'd have never won the Felix Felicis..."
That was where Hermione stopped listening. Was winning a stupid potions competition all he cared about? Getting good grades and rewards that he didn't even deserve? By work that wasn't even his own?
She snapped something nastily, in return.
"Oh, give it a rest, Hermione!"
Both of them were suddenly shocked out of their antisocial bubble by Ginny Weasley.
"By the sound of it, Malfoy was trying to use an unforgivable curse, you should be glad that Harry had something good up his sleeve!"
Harry smiled at her appreciatively, but it was only with half of his heart, and even less of his mind. While he admired her bravery and loyalty to him, he didn't completely agree. Sectumsempra was anything but good, and - in her defense - Hermione had every right to chide him.
"Well of course I'm glad Harry wasn't cursed," Hermione repeated, a little more softly, and clearly stung, "But you can't call that spell good, Ginny, especially looking at where it's landed him. And I'd have thought, seeing what this has done to your chances in the match-"
"Oh, don't start acting as though you understand Quidditch-" Ginny snapped, and Harry instantly liked her less by the array of hurt that suddenly betrayed Hermione's composure. "You'll only embarrass yourself."
That was mean.
Harry stayed quiet, and was quite grateful when their dispute ended, the two girls sat facing away from one another.
Hermione could be a bitch when she needed to be, as it was only in Harry's best interest, but for Ginny to suddenly snap at Hermione?
It didn't sit right with him, though Ron seemed pretty comfortable.
Was Ginny usually as snappy as this?
Harry stood, bewildered for a moment, before putting on a smile.
"Right," He clapped his hands together, "I'm off to bed."
His tone was more cheerful than he'd anticipated, and - as he walked away - he felt that for perhaps the first time in a long while, he had given the wrong impression. Given Ginny false hope. More guilt, as he ascended the steps to the dormitories...