27. A Ghost of what we were [Thursday, January 6th 2005]

The sixth day marked a distinctive setback in Potter's recovery. Draco had gotten up at eight and, feeling generous, made pancakes. When those were done, he went up to check on his patient.

Potter was still fast asleep, hugging his pillow (which looked somewhat lumpy despite Draco's best Reparo) with both arms and legs. His head was buried underneath the second pillow, as if to block out the sunlight streaming into his room. This seemed rather odd to Draco, since Potter could not possibly hope to notice intruders while he was buried like that.

But he was clearly breathing and also catching up on lost sleep, so Draco let him be and went back down to eat his share and put a warming charm over the rest. Potter would just have to deal with the 'screwed-up texture' of his pancakes. Something about snoozing and losing.

After reading another chapter of his current book ('Scarred for life?'), Draco went up again to find Potter lying spread-eagled on top of his blanket. He cast a precautionary Protego and then proceeded to prod Potter's shoulder very gently, firmly gripping his wand.

It felt massively anti-climactic when Potter just blinked at him and yawned extensively, and Draco had to actively tell himself to release his tense muscles.

"What time is it?" Potter asked while sitting up and stretching his arms above his head, which exposed his newest scar at the side of his stomach.

"Half past ten." Draco ended his spell. Potter didn't seem intent on attacking him, for a change.

"Shit!" Potter jumped out of bed and vanished into his clothes closet in a hurry. "What day is it?"

"Thursday," Draco said, frowning.

When Potter came out, he was dressed in black cloth trousers and a black jumper with a white shirt underneath. He was also wearing a red tie, which he had tied rather sloppily. "Have you seen my robes?" he asked and then dropped to his knees to look under his bed.

Draco eyed Potter's quite formal get-up suspiciously. "Are you going somewhere?"

"Charms!" Potter said exasperatedly, rummaging through the top drawer of his bedside table. "I can't find my wand either. Or my glasses! Why didn't you wake me earlier, Ron?"

Draco, who usually considered himself a rather quick-witted wizard, was dumbfounded. "I'm not –"

"My personal assistant? Yeah, if you were, I definitely would have fired you by now. What did you tell Slughorn?"

"About ...?"

Potter, still kneeling beside the bed, stopped searching and looked up at him as if he were dense. "Why I wasn't in Potions." He moved on to the bottom drawer.

"I think you're ill, P– Harry," Draco said. Might as well use Potter's hallucinations to his advantage now. "Why don't you lie back down and I'll get you something to eat?"

"Ill?" Potter echoed. He stopped his frantic search and sat back down on his bed. "Yeah, that's a good idea. Tell Flitwick I'm sick. No need to tell Trelawney, the 'fogs of the future' have probably already told her all about my 'unfortunate indisposition'."

Draco was unable to suppress his laughter. "Will do. Now, get back in bed."

"Nah," Potter grinned up at him. "I think I'll see what Malfoy's up to."

The smile slipped from Draco's face instantly. "Malfoy?"

Potter rolled his eyes and huffed, quite irritated. "Save it. I swear he's up to something. And he has a free period before lunch, which would be the perfect opportunity to sneak off."

Draco's heart was hammering in his chest. Potter hadn't really memorised his timetable in sixth year, right? He hadn't been following him?

He cleared his throat and managed to say, "I don't think he's up to something. Actually, I think I saw him in the library earlier."

"Really?" Potter perked up at that information. "Maybe he's doing research for whatever task Voldemort gave him." Potter must have seen Draco flinch at the name, because he frowned up at him. "Get over it already. Alright, let's see."

He took a quill from the open drawer of his bedside table and held it out like a wand. Draco quickly stepped out of the line of fire. "Accio Map."

There was the sound of breaking glass and then a piece of parchment landed in Potter's lap. He tapped it with the tip of his quill. "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

Before Draco could question any of it, letters and lines blossomed on the parchment, forming what seemed to be a map. Little black dots scurried across it like tiny ants. Draco stepped nearer and looked down at it.

Excitement spread through him like firewhisky. This was a map of Hogwarts. A map that apparently showed all of its occupants at any given moment! He found the Slytherin Dungeons, which were empty at the moment, since everybody was in lessons.

Was this how Potter had evaded detention all those times? How he had found Draco in that bathroom? That had been a rather large coincidence, one which Draco had had a lot of time to think about in the Hospital Wing.

Where did Potter get this map? Draco's imagination went wild, picturing what he could have done with it. Maybe it was for the best that Draco had not had it. Definitely for the best.

"Sorry, Ron." Potter said excitedly. "Malfoy's not in the library. As a matter of fact, he's not even on the Map. He's definitely in the Room of Requirement."

"Wha- how can you know that?"

"Come off it, mate!" Potter said, still studying the map. "You know it doesn't show the room because the Marauders didn't know about it."

"The Marauders," Draco said flatly. He was clearly missing crucial inside information.

Potter just shot him a look, but didn't explain. "That's weird. The corridor is empty. Maybe he couldn't get Crabbe or Goyle to keep watch?"

Draco had to sit down. Potter had known about that too? About his task, the Room, the Polyjuice? He had been much closer to finding him out than Draco had thought.

If only he had. Dumbledore had offered to protect his family, but there had been no time to really consider the offer. Maybe if he had found out earlier, without an army of Death Eaters already in the castle? If only there had been time to think about it. Would Draco have agreed to do it? Would Dumbledore really have been able to hide them away from Him? He had managed to keep Potter safe, mostly – barring the times Potter had run off on his own accord. But Potter was the Chosen One. The most important wizard of their time and age. The Malfoys had most definitely not been. Still weren't and would never be.

"Alright, wish me luck," Potter said, getting up. He pointed his quill at the map and said "Mischief managed," which wiped it clean.

"Wait!" Draco said, getting up as well. "You can't just wander the corridors; you're supposed to be sick."

"I'm not daft, Ron," Potter said, grinning and clasping his shoulder. "I'm taking the Cloak, of course."

Draco's mind was working overtime. It would certainly not do to have an invisible Potter running around the house while under the influence of Confounding Concoction. What he needed was a distraction.

"What about Quidditch? You're our Captain and you haven't even decided on a strategy for our match against Slytherin yet. The team is getting nervous."

Potter looked at him flabbergasted and ruffled his hair. "I completely forgot about that!"

"Well, better get to it, then!" Draco said enthusiastically.

He grabbed Potter's arm and guided him into the sitting room. Potter didn't choose his usual chair in front of the fireplace, sitting down on the couch further away from it instead.

"Alright," Potter said, putting the empty map down on the coffee table. "I need a quill. Did you bring one?"

Draco pointed at the one in Potter's wand hand. "You've got one right there."

Potter looked down at it as if seeing it for the first time. "Oh, I do. Thanks."

And then he leaned forward to scribble something down on the parchment. Draco managed to snatch it away just in time, and Potter's quill left some ink on the very expensive coffee table instead.

"Not that one; that's my homework," Draco said, pocketing the map. He slid one of his own empty parchments over to him. "Here, take this one."

Potter drew seven tiny stick figures at the top and another seven at the bottom, and then labelled them. At least Draco supposed he did, because his handwriting was completely illegible, and not just to the usual extent. He wasn't even sure there was a single real letter on the parchment.

As his quill was no longer a wand, Potter was unable to charm his players into moving. He settled on drawing a collection of very confusing lines, which somehow reminded Draco of the London tube map.

"Hey, how tall are you?" Potter asked suddenly. His cheek was smudged with ink and his hair resembled a bird's nest more than anything else. Albeit a very cosy one.

"What do you need that for?" Draco asked, trying to evade the question. How should he know how tall Weasley was? He couldn't exactly say, 'Taller than Draco Malfoy.'

"I wanna find out how far you can reach when you're dangling from your broom by your ankles."

"Are you mental?"

Potter rolled his eyes at him. There was some ink smudged across his cheek, which diminished the effect somewhat. "Come on, Ron. We talked about this!"

"I have no memory of this conversation whatsoever," Draco insisted.

"Well, I do. It was the Sunday before last, when Gin scored three goals in a row."

"That must have been quite embarrassing," Draco commented blankly.

"Nah, don't worry 'bout it, mate," Potter lied. Draco wondered if Weasley usually believed these remarks obviously meant to spare his very fragile self-confidence. "Gin was just in peak form. But then you saved the next one upside down. It was spectacular."

Draco translated that to mean that Weasley had slipped on his broom and hit the Quaffle purely by accident. He had a feeling Potter knew this too.

"And I agreed to do that again? What did Granger have to say about that?"

Potter frowned up at him and Draco suddenly realised that he had used her last name.

"We agreed not to tell her, obviously. Listen, you don't have to do it if you're not comfortable with it," Potter said, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Maybe I should try it. Could also work for the Snitch, right?"

"Neither one of us should do it," Draco said promptly, even though they were just pretend-strategizing and Coach Greyson would talk Potter out of it (Draco hoped) if he did end up remembering any of this later.

"Did you tell Hermione about this?" Potter asked suspiciously, as if that was the only explanation for Weasley to advise against this whacky endeavour.

"No, I didn't. I'm just a little worried about, you know, falling off and dying."

Potter furrowed his brow. "Dying? Because of Quidditch?"

"It's not that far-fetched. Did you know the Falmouth Falcons' Seeker died during a match just a few months ago? You would think he knows what he's doing, right?"

"Well, I won't fall, so don't worry," Potter said with conviction. "Flying just feels natural, like the Firebolt is part of my body."

"You still fell off your broom in our third year," Draco reminded him harshly.

"You know that was because of the dementors," Harry pressed out. "You try flying while Voldemort murders your parents and your mother pleads for your life."

Draco felt his stomach drop through the floor. Not once during his school years had he wasted a single thought on what Potter heard when the dementors got near him. He simply had not cared, content to gloat in Potter's weakness. He felt like a right arse about it now. Potter's mother had died protecting her son, just as Mother would have done for him. Both her and Potter had said so during the trials. He could not imagine having to listen to her last moments, over and over again. No matter what their relationship was like now.

"I'm sorry," Draco said silently. "I didn't mean it like that. I'm just concerned about you."

But Potter wasn't ready to be appeased – he seemed rather enraged. The parchment was crumbled up in his hand and his quill looked close to snapping in two.

"I'm sick and tired of everybody trying to protect me. It doesn't work, alright? I know everybody wants me to be the Chosen One who saves the Wizarding world from Voldemort single-handedly. But I'd much rather die up in the air than –" Potter shook his head, as if trying to shake a painful memory, "– than all alone in a dungeon! Or poisoned by a Basilisk! Getting swarmed by dementors. In a graveyard next to Cedric's body, who I persuaded to be there in the first place! Leading my friends to their deaths in the bloody Ministry! Or whatever shitty thing is going to happen this year!"

There was a loud snap and Potter threw the broken pieces of his quill onto the coffee table, jumping to his feet at the same time. His fists were clenched and he was shaking with anger, though he seemed to be in control of his magic.

Draco got to his feet automatically, not wanting to cower before Potter. He felt completely useless – he did not know what Weasley would say in this situation. Talking about feelings was considered to be in very bad taste, so pureblood families never did it. Well, at least the proper ones didn't.

Draco wondered if Weasley had ever gotten the chance to say anything, or if Potter had always kept those things locked up. He did not seem like the type of person to talk it out. And how could anyone deal with trauma like that?

He needed to focus, think like a Gryffindor. What would a Gryffindor do? Ironically, the first thing that came to mind was that there was no way to think like a Gryffindor, because Gryffindors did not seem to think much before acting. They just did.

So Draco did too, even if he didn't really know how to do it. He embraced Potter, squeezing him tightly. He told himself it was to convey a sense of security, but part of it was definitely to ensure that Potter had no room to punch Draco in the face. Potter tensed up for a moment, taken by surprise, and then hugged him back just as fiercely.

"Sorry, mate," Potter croaked. "Guess I blew a fuse."

"Don't mention it," Draco said, patting his shoulder awkwardly. He really was no good at hugging – it just felt like a horrible invasion of personal space, especially considering Potter assumed he was hugging Weasley.

Draco let go of him immediately – he had resolved to stop preying on Potter's confusion, for fuck's sake! Why did he always end up in these completely inappropriate positions?

Draco cleared his throat and gestured to the door. "Let's go down and see what's for lunch."

Draco supplied Potter with a steady flow of pancakes and encouragement while the latter resumed his Quidditch preparations at the kitchen island. He refrained from challenging Potter's more adventurous moves – it wasn't like he would really utilise them.

"So, what's a fuse?" Draco asked as the plates scrubbed themselves in the sink.

"A Muggle thing for electricity. If there's too much tension, the fuse is tripped, killing the electricity. It's to prevent fires," Potter looked up from his notes, a crease forming between his eyebrows. "I think that's how it works. I don't think I ever got a real explanation."

They spent the afternoon in the sitting room again. Draco was reviewing his notes, searching for a revelation, but there did not seem to be one. Maybe he would have to find another Healer to partner with? Then Draco could act as the test subject and his colleague could do the spells.

It was a good idea – in theory. Problem was, Draco did not want to share his research. This was his calling and he wanted his name connected to it, and nobody else's.

He felt Potter's gaze on him and looked up. Potter's eyes were darting between the scroll of parchment in his own lap and Draco, who was sitting opposite him. Draco looked at him questioningly.

"Hey, Malfoy? Why am I writing an essay on the Patronus Charm?" Potter was rubbing his arms in an absent gesture.

"I thought it a bit cruel to assign History of Magic," Draco replied smoothly, quietly impressed Potter could apparently read the hieroglyphs on his parchment. "Also, I didn't want to have to dissuade you from procrastinating all afternoon."

"Let me rephrase that. Why am I writing an essay, period?"

"Because you're sixteen and still in school, of course."

Potter groaned and dropped his head on the backrest of the couch. "How long have I been out of it?"

"It's been close to eight hours now," Draco said, glancing at his watch. "You're really making the most of this potion, I'll say."

Potter just groaned some more and looked back down at his three scrolls of parchment. "You'd better give me top marks for that one. Or else."

"Hate to disappoint you, Potter, but I can't read any of that. You'll have to tell me what this ominous 'else' entails."

"Are you telling me I just wrote all of that for nothing?"

"That's as much your fault as it is mine," Draco replied smoothly. "I asked for one scroll, the additional two are on you. Who would have thought you were such an overachiever?"

Potter chucked a scroll at him, which hit Draco squarely in the chest. "You take that back right now!"

"Can't if it's true," Draco said, tossing the scroll into the fire.

"It's not! I just happen to like Defence."

"'Like'?" Draco scoffed. "You don't start an extremely illegal underground club for something you just like. I was pretty sure you would try for the teaching position after the war."

Draco didn't mention that his first guess had been that Potter would become an Auror. Knowing what he did now, Potter would not have made a good Auror. He was distrustful and unpredictable, and the stress of the job would surely have done disastrous things to him.

Truth be told, Draco was actually rather impressed that Potter had not just pushed all his issues aside and followed his hero complex down this doomed path.

Potter snorted and leaned over to the next sofa to retrieve his blanket. "Spending practically all year cooped up in the castle with a bunch of teens? No thanks."

"I'm pretty sure you don't actually have to stay there. Nothing stops you from Apparating home at the end of the day. Some of them just seem to have nowhere else to be, which is rather pathetic if you stop to think about it."

"Wow. That's even sadder than I realised," Potter said thoughtfully. "But still, I'm not going to deal with homework for the rest of my life. Imagine having to read fifty essays at once, all of them on the same topic, year after year."

"You may have a point," Draco agreed, stacking up his own parchments.

"Believe it or not, I actually wasted a thought or two on what I want to do with the rest of my life."

"Consider me converted," Draco said with a smile.

Now that Potter seemed alright to be left alone for a moment, he was free to leave the room and return the map to its place. Finding it was easy – the fourth door, the one he hadn't opened until now, stood ajar.

It was a study. On the wall hung a pinboard full of children's drawings and photos. There were several of friends and family and also a snippet from the Prophet – it showed Felicity McCarthy getting hit by a Bludger and crashing into Potter. A small banner above the pinboard read 'Harry's Happy Wall' in a neat, cramped handwriting that couldn't be Potter's.

Upon the otherwise empty desk lay a picture frame, the glass smashed to pieces. Draco placed the map inside, repaired the glass and righted the frame.

"Malfoy? I'm hungry! Come downstairs so I can teach you how to make pizza!"

"Coming!" Draco shouted, leaving the study in a haste. He wasn't really sure if he was even allowed to be in there in the first place.