*** Day 40 - Draco ***
Draco yawned, stretching out over the arm of his chair. The curved leather pressed pleasantly against his spine, and he felt some of the tension in his muscles ease with each soft pop of his vertebrae. Another day gone—another day wasted.
"Hey, Malfoy?"
Draco's head turned lazily, acknowledging Potter with a gesture rather than with words. Potter was sitting in what Draco had come to subconsciously call his "usual spot", his legs folded neatly beneath him and his hands loosely gripping the bars.
"How close were you and Snape?"
The pang that shot through Draco's heart was as harsh as it was sudden. Slowly, he pulled his limbs back into the confines of his chair, determined not to drop Potter's gaze even though it was the last place he wanted to look. It had been a long time since he'd heard anyone speak that name aloud.
"I remember seeing you and him together a lot our sixth year, and I suppose…I assumed…"
Their sixth year? Draco felt a frown pull at his mouth and fold into the lines on his face. That seemed so terribly long ago now. So much had happened since then.
The silence stretched on until it was thin and taut between them, and Potter began to grow uneasy with it. His fingers thrummed against the bars. "I guess…someone I know died yesterday and it got me thinking about a few things. I just, um…I wasn't sure if you knew, but I was there when Snape died."
Draco felt his throat tighten, making it hard to breathe. No one had ever told him anything about where, when, or how Snape had died. All he knew was that it was by the Dark Lord's hand—the Potion's master had left for a meeting, and never came back. "You…how…" Draco choked on the words before they even met his tongue. He clenched his teeth together, willing the heat behind his eyes to go away.
Potter's eyes in the candlelight were like two fields on fire. "Do you…do you want to know what happened?"
All Draco could manage to do was nod his head.
"Vold—" Potter paused, grimacing, "You-Know-Who set Nagini after him because of the Elder Wand—he thought Snape was the master because he killed Dumbledore. It wasn't…a slow death."
Something liquid and sour found its way into the back of Draco's throat. Of course it wasn't a slow death. The Dark Lord had always taken a strange pleasure in Snape's suffering—maybe because Snape had been the only one who'd been able to take it.
"By the time I got to him, it was too late. He'd lost so much blood and I—I'm not even sure if I would've saved him if I could have…after what he did…"
After what he did for me, Draco wanted to say. And for you. But the words wouldn't come.
Potter's brows pulled together in some brooding thought. "He gave me some of his memories just before he died. I don't know why though—I never got a chance to look at them. Hermione still has them I think…if she's still alive."
"She is," Draco said, so quickly he barely realized he'd spoken.
Potter's entire body gave a small jolt, and his grip on the bars tightened. It was the closest thing to hope Draco had seen in him in a long time.
"I…" Draco shook his head, pressing his back deeper into the chair. "I shouldn't have said that."
"I won't tell anyone if you won't," Potter smiled softly, and Draco very much wished that he wouldn't—Draco wasn't sure he could handle the guilt that accompanied it.
Turning away, Draco pulled air deep into his lungs. His hands were shaking. Why were his hands shaking? "Why did you ask if Snape and I were close?"
The following silence seemed to last a lifetime.
"I guess it helps me to remember that I'm not the only one who's lost people that I love." Potter said. "And no matter what my feelings were towards Snape, I'm not stupid enough to believe that there weren't—aren't—people who cared for him."
Draco took a deep, shuddering breath. "I didn't just care about him," he whispered, almost to himself, hot tears spilling over his cheeks before he'd even realized they'd formed. "I loved him." He'd never said the words aloud before. He'd selfishly held them in, thinking they were stupid and childish, and his damnable pride had stayed his tongue even when the words had put an ache in him so deep that he'd felt sick with it. And now it was too late. It was too late, and he would never…
"Malfoy," Potter's voice was feather soft, and Draco felt himself pulled like a magnet towards a pole. "I'm sure he knew."
Their eyes locked. And, really, Draco didn't understand why Potter was the only one who'd ever seen him cry.
"I'm sure he died knowing he was loved."
The words were like a wire tripping in Draco's brain. He looked away again, hoping his face hadn't given anything away before he'd had the chance to hide it. Blood pounded fiercely in Draco's ears, and it had grown uncomprehendingly difficult to keep his breathing even and steady. He couldn't fall apart like this…not in front of Potter. He couldn't show him how much those words really meant.
How had the world grown so small in such a short time? This room was all there was left of it anymore, and everything outside of it was just a dream that he used to live in. The last of whatever life had been left in his heart had died with Snape. That's what he'd told himself—for months there had been nothing but death and the void in his chest that he'd never hoped to fill again. So then why now, here in this dark place, did he feel the first stirrings of a heartbeat behind his ribs?
Draco didn't want to think about what it meant. He couldn't. If he'd been wrong about Potter…if this whole time he'd been on the wrong side…Draco bit his tongue and shoved the thought away.
