"Harry. Harry! We're here. It's all right, we're here. I'm taking you to him, right now—"
"Mr Weasley! Oh, this way—oh, but it's against all regul—the lift, it's—"
"Now, woman! I don't care how, but now! Don't you see? This is Harry Potter, here!"
Ron's roaring, and Harry's nearly a dead weight against the vibration of his chest, but supported. It's a little better, the cold. He thinks it might be a little better…
He's thawing.
"Harry," and this is Ron, and this is softly, for his ears alone, as they're walking, trotting, half-stumbling along. "Harry, I know what it is to lose—it's not like that, I know it's not like that. It isn't, this time. He's an arse, isn't he? Too damned stubborn to die. And you'd know, wouldn't you? Of course you'd know, you're Harry. Harry, mate, we're almost—"
And there's a pale white Malfoy on a pale white bed, but an awake one.
"There. My compliments."
And he's released by Ron, and there's a push, maybe, at the base of his spine, and a very awkward scramble. It's all akimbo, arms and legs shifting and then Draco's wrapping arms and shins and thighs around Harry's parts as they fall apart and saying things. Warm, hot things. Nonsense, all of it.
Things like 'Idiot!' and "Of course I was all right,' and 'God and Merlin above, is that Weasley?' but the cold's gone.
The cold's gone.
"Don't," Harry growls. "Don't do that. Not ever again, don't do that."
"…No." And he looks up to see Malfoy's face is all funny looking, and his eyes are liquid. Like pools of silver water and so, so deep, and they've something to say and Harry's trying to hear and it's—
"Can you just?" Malfoy mutters, diving his nose in Harry's hair, hiding those eyes that said something—something?
"Eh?"
"Can you just stay? I'll be out of here soon, I promise. It's nothing; some weird chemical imbalance—hah! Should've listened to old Pomfrey, right? Eaten my choc—Harry, stay a little?"
"Oh…" And he's just like a balloon with no air; he's flat out with the aftermath of shock. But he's not cold, not any longer. Not deep, tucked in Draco's hospital bed as he is and Ron's already gone, gone somewhere. "Oh, fuck, Draco."
It's a hard road, and he's not chosen it, but it's there.
"Draco."
"You'll stay, then?"
"Yes." Harry swallows, and tugs fretfully at the thin hospital coverlet. "Jeezus, yes." Why is it they are so very thin in weave he's never understood. Abhorred it, but never understood. "Yes, and please, and give me some of that, wanker."
Harry means the blankets, and they're sparse. Draco's twitching them over the both of them, instantly, just the same. Seems all right. Seems...all right.
There's a little silence, and then he feels Malfoy grinning into his hair.
"Selfish."
