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Chapter 4: Act of Selfishness

Harry strolled through the all but abandoned manor with the youngest of Malfoys cradled carefully in his arms. Death floated behind him, seemingly unbothered by the stale smell lingering in the air, or the dust Harry's feet disturbed as he hurried towards the edge of the property and nearest apparition point available.

Draco's worn and open robes, now stained with big, red patches of his own blood, fluttered behind Harry, heavy and resigned in their dance. No one stopped them, no one was there to. The former Slytherin had been alone in that place, for who knows how long. No one to look out for him, to keep him company, to keep him from reaching that point of -usually- no return he had eventually reached. Harry's jaw clenched in fury. This was on him. He should have kept tabs on the other boy- no, man, it was too long ago since any of them could be associated with such an innocent term as 'boy'- he should have been closer to him, especially ever since his father was admitted into Azkaban. Draco looked up to his father. No matter what kind of man Lucius Malfoy was outside his home, he was still Draco's father, and the blow of losing him to Azkaban was bound to be heavy. Especially since he died in that place not long after his freedom was taken from him. Harry did not know what had happened to Narcisa Malfoy, but the state of the manor helped him make quite an educated guess.

Death followed dutifully, only occasionally stopping to scare a couple of poor spiders on her way, until Harry apparated them to the front step of Grimmault place, hidden from all prying eyes, even without his cloak, thanks to the old magics of the Blacks. She was there, though, when he commanded the front door open, waiting for him in the entrance hall. Harry barely spared her a glance as he moved to the main house, knowing full well that she'd follow him anyway.

"What's wrong with him?" He asked the entity.

Death fluttered above him, the whisper leaving the smoky lips echoing unnaturally through the corridors of the old Black mansion.

"Nothing is wrong with him. Everything is wrong about him."

Harry had heard her riddles before, too many times to find himself surprised by the vagueness of her words, but still unable to resist the annoyed glare towards the figure. She did not need any more prompting though. She, as well, knew him too well by now.

"He is an anomaly, dear Master. I warned you. He has seen. His soul has felt. The grief of loss of mortal self is too great to overcome. No matter how much the soul thought it craved the journey, it knew nothing of it. Now it does. He does. "

That stopped Harry short.

"You mean he may not recover? The damage to his soul is that great?" He dared ask, glancing towards the supposed woman made of otherworldly smoke. He didn't know if he truly wanted the answer to his own question.

"On the contrary, the soul is intact. The damage to his mind, though... That I am unable to answer yet."

Her tone of voice and eerie expression on her smoky face didn't show all that much concern about the matter, even though Harry's head and heart raced in sync, trying to process the news. A smoky hand with long, bony fingers landed on his shoulder, not touching but there all the same.

"Be brave, Master."

Death retracted his hand, his shape now changed into a masculine form, not much different than the previous one. The voice was hardly any deeper, and the body formed by the tightly coiled cloud of dark smoke was still lithe and long, albeit male. He offered a small smile, one that on any other face could be considered one of kindness, and he fluttered down the corridor towards where Harry knew to be the kitchen. He was trying to sneak up on poor Kreacher again, no doubt.

It did not take long to cleanse and clean Draco's skin and hair, the power of the Wand too great, that even simple and weak cleansing spells were almost too effective. Harry had laid the thin body on his own bed, too distracted yet to call the house elf with instructions for a guest room.

The torn robes that Harry had pealed off Draco's skin, the blood too crusted and dry for any other word to apply, now laid in a bloody pile besides the door that led to the adjoined bathroom forgotten, replaced by a pair of Harry's own clean and soft pyjamas. Harry rummaged through his cabinet and produced a handful of potions, varying from healing and nutritional ones to pain relieving ones and dreamless sleep drafts, just in case. He cradled the blond head with one hand, tipping it back slightly as he poured the contents of a couple of bottles down the pale man's throat. The empty vials were discarded with a simple wave of his wand, sent back to his alchemy station, cleaned and ready for a refill.

All the Master of Death could do now was wait.

And how ironic that the man who bore eternity would be so jittery when patience was required.

He made himself comfortable on the armchair across the big bed, took a deep breath, and braced himself for the wait. He was too worried of what was yet to come to leave the Slytherin's side.

At some point Kreacher showed up, startling Harry awake, with a tray of food in his hands. It contained food for two, so Harry could only assume that either Kreacher was too light on his feet when he popped up earlier, or Death had taken a strange initiative to inform the elf of the guest. The earlier seemed both more probable and more based on reality. Death cared about nothing. He devoured his meal, leaving Draco's share on the nightstand under a preservation charm in order to keep it warm. It'd last for a few hours so he wouldn't have to worry about that. He was both impressed and thankfull of the house elf's consideration of Draco's health, because plain soup would be the only thing his neglected and weak stomach would probably be able to handle.

Soft whimpers and rustling of sheets steered Harry awake, his eyes blinking to adjust to the hazy moonlight that glowed through the worn curtains. He saw movement and was up in seconds, one hand to the switch of the light on the nightstand and the other to the pale form that writhed on his bed, his sleep plagued by demons unseen to Harry. The dull, silver eyes of the man were wide open, focused on nothing, as he keened and arched from the bed in pain, Harry's hands scrambling to grab him and hold him down before he hurt himself.

"Draco." The blond's hand shot up and curled around Harry's wrist, knuckles white with strain. "Draco!"

The body pinned beneath Harry shaked with each sharp exhale, fragile enough that Harry's body weight was enough to restrain him despite his frantic writhing.

"Snap out of it, Malfoy!"

Draco stilled. His strained body went boneless, the muscles on his back relaxing suddenly, like a switch got pulled, as he fell back down on the tumbled sheets. The only sounds left were their heavy breathing, their faces close enough for one to share the other's exhales.

"Potter...? What..."

The voice was weak, and small. Not unlike a lost child's.

Harry released him, slowly, his eyes never living the blond's.

"Shh. It's okay, you're safe, Draco. You're at my place." Which obviously wasn't all that much reassuring, really, since Harry doubted Draco remembered much of the previous day.

The former Slytherin's silver eyes slowly took in his surroundings, from the dimly lit space above and besides the bed, to the shadows that danced along the still curtains. Harry was momentarily lost in the glimer of the light in those eyes, but the find voice brought him back before he did anything stupid.

"I... died." Draco said. "I remember, I...I...did it myself." His breathing, only barely evened out, picked up again and eyes full of panic suddenly turned and locked onto Harry's. "Why am I not dead?"

Harry's heart shuttered. Why, why did Draco sound so desperate...? His eyes welled up with unshed tears as he grasped the limp, pale hand in front of him firmly, fingers locking onto it, afraid that if he let go it'd slip away and fade.

"I'm sorry." He whispered. "I'm so sorry. I couldn't let you do that."

But Draco probably didn't hear. His eyes were drooping, exhaustion welling from deep within his being to drag him down with it. Harry hastily wiped his eyes to his sleeve and let go of the hand in his hold in order to lift Draco's head and help him drink the dreamless sleep draught he had fetched earlier. He didn't move from there, not daring to take his eyes off the blond man. Not until his the pale face softened and the rattled breathing calmed as sleep claimed him. And even then he stayed, holding the pale hand in his, a reassurance for both Draco and himself.

Notes: Hey look, I'm alive! :D *holds up SWAT shield to deflect carrots*

This time the chapter is not proof read, but I couldn't wait any longer before posting. I admit it's kinda small, but I hope you enjoyed it nevertheless, even after, what half a year of hiatus...? (It's one, self. One year.) *dances the dance of shame, pirouettes included* ehehe...hehe...eh...

Cheers!

p.s. For slightly faster updates, more works and other stuff, check out my AO3 and/or my tumblr accounts. You can find links to everything on my profile. :)