"I meddled in things that man must leave alone."
-- The Invisible Man

* * *

A thick silence hangs heavily in the air, much like the residual spellwork wafting through the large hospital wing. There's a hint of unpredictability to it, a bit of danger. And so you let it be, working from one end of the wing to the other, flourishing your wand silently while your mind races ahead, concentrating on counter-jinxes and wrist movement.

In the absence of sound, your ears suddenly detect an even more absolute sense of quiet and you realise that there is no ruffling cloak, no shuffling shoes, no swishing wand. Draco has stopped moving, and in the blink of an eye, you spin on your heel, your wand pointing out into the expanse, prepared to counter any number of strangled curses. But your heartbeat slows to normal as your eyes slide over his body, lying unmoving in a perfectly straight line on the marble floor. His eyes are open, staring to the ceiling above; he seems unaffected by your show of fear and doubt. And your throat constricts, guilt seeping down the back through the scratchy walls.

You tuck your wand into your robes, and lie down next to him, your hands stretched down the sides of your legs, reaching towards your feet, elongated and endless. You practise being perfectly still -- no movement at all. And it is unnervingly difficult, to lie this way, unprotected, next to a man who was prepared to deliver you to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named just a few hours ago. But you force yourself to breathe through your nostrils, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Someday, this will be second nature to you and you will swear that you've been lying next to him your entire life -- who else could there have been? But now, you feel vulnerable.

"I'm not proud," his voice comes from your right. "I did what I thought I had to to stay alive."

"Me too," you say.

And you place your right hand on top of his left gently, sliding up the sleeve of his robes, and take hold of his arm. Part of you cannot believe it; the other feels somehow victorious, as if it knew all along: the skin on his arm is smooth and pale. You rub your thumb over his wrist and feel him shiver. He was never a Death Eater. Only a pawn.

"In war, people do unspeakable things. Maybe," you shake your head, "maybe one day we'll be able to talk about them." And you're right, you will. But not today. "Until then, we'll just..."

But your thoughts melt away as he smothers your words with another kiss. And you know this is going to change your life.