If nothing saves us from death, at least love should save us from life.
Pablo Neruda
Draco dreams of water and song.
He dreams of deep blue and impenetrable black, of the thrush of current and an ever-encroaching pressure from all sides. He dreams of music, dark and discordant yet beautiful in its strangeness. He dreams in odd shadows and impossible shapes, in visions that warp and twist and ripple.
He dreams until he wakes up to a sudden crash and noise from all directions.
"Draco! Draco!"
He is cold and heavy and disoriented. There are hands on him, indistinct voices, the sound of alarm. He does not move. He is not sure he can.
"Draco, oh, God – Professor Snape!"
He should open his eyes. Why can't he open his eyes?
"Professor Snape, please—!"
"He's in a bewitched sleep."
That certainly explains a lot.
"Stand back, let me…"
There's a cool press of wood to his forehead, and a moment later the hazy paralysis shatters around him like glass. The need for air comes screaming back all at once and he jerks, dragging in a harsh, grating breath.
"Draco, oh, my God—!"
Someone is embracing him tightly. Draco blinks open his eyes and away the water running down his face, and his mind races to catch up with what he's missed. Facts come in rapid fire, as do the connections—
Outside – lake – cedar and soap – Harry – Professor Snape – audience – cameras flashing—
"It's the Second Task," Professor Snape says a moment after Draco's already worked it out, crouched in front of him in the grass. "Don't be alarmed."
Draco is too busy catching his breath to respond.
"Are you all right?" Harry asks him, pulling back to look him in the eye. He's just as soaked through as Draco, dark hair slicked back across his head, glasses covered in beads of water. When Draco can't manages a response, he says, "Draco! Are you all right?"
He manages to nod. The bewitching comes off in fits and starts, uneven layers of delirium stripped away one by one. He is still regaining his center when Harry closes the distance to kiss him.
Draco was already mostly breathless to begin with, but that kiss steals away any lingering hope that he might ever catch up with it. In the periphery he can hear muted words and hear flashpots bursting, and not only does he not care, he does not care aggressively, because he feels like he nearly drowned and now Harry is kissing him and anyone who has moral qualms with it can choke on their own outrage.
He returns the kiss as best as he can, but it doesn't last as long as he would have liked. A moment later, Harry is pulling away and turning to Professor Snape.
"I have to go back," he says. "Gabrielle is still down there."
"Harry," Professor Snape begins, "the timer—"
But Harry isn't listening, clearly. He produces Draco's specially-brewed gillyweed extract potion from the pocket of his soaked robe and throws back another mouthful. "I'll be back!" he says, before taking off in a run and diving back into the lake.
Draco stares after him. If he had more control over his muscles he probably would have tried to stop him.
"The Task—" Draco manages, but Professor Snape cuts him off.
"Yes, Draco, you did indeed misinterpret the clue the egg gave."
Draco swallows thickly.
"Harry's most precious possession was not his invisibility cloak."
Draco is in no shape to be analyzing that idea too deeply, but he can't stop the slowly-spreading warmth that starts in his stomach and heats him from the inside out.
He is a hopelessly sentimental Gryffindor fool, and Draco has never wanted to kiss him so badly in his life.
So of course he had to swan off and put himself in danger to save someone else. Gryffindor bastard.
"Let's get you dry," Professor Snape says, helping Draco to his feet. Draco knows that he will wait however long it takes for Harry to come back. He will drag and drain the lake if he must. At that moment, he is aware, in a very serene and uncomplicated way, that he will joyfully and enthusiastically kill anyone who is a threat to Harry, that he will die for him, and it is the most terrifying and unambiguous certainty he has ever known.