CHAPTER THREE

Youthful Faces

Seeing children that were supposed to be dead wasn't exactly what someone would describe as having a healthy impact on the mind, nor did that count on seeing adults who were supposed to be dead; on the battlefield or in a casket, or even on a steadily building pile of other bodies that had been scavenged from the field of battle. Harry Potter was a veteran in that area of war; of battles and duels, of loss and regret, the one to have borne the brunt of it all. Not to say that no one else had suffered, too.

But, what was more was that Harry Potter had been a beacon of hope for the Wizarding World, something that the people could latch onto with a promise of assurance. He had been their Saviour, their scapegoat, their one-sided enemy even. But in the end, when the war was finally over, he had been declared their Champion; their Champion of Light (and wasn't that a mouthful?). And that title followed him around like his shadow for the rest of his life.

What a load of balderdash.

Potter was indeed a hero, a true audacious Gryffindor to the end, one that Godric himself would surely be proud of having in his oh-so-noble house. But he wasn't flawless, and he wasn't just some god that people could think of as all-knowing and perfect at everything. He was a human, and a wizard, and just a bloody kid just like anybody else. A kid that had been used as a scapegoat for when things went south, a kid that had been subjected to a war that was never meant to happen, to have everything he'd ever wanted (needed) to be snatched from his hands like he was a greedy little urchin that had taken too much from a candy jar.

So, it was for that reason that Draco found himself freezing in the middle of the Hospital Wing when the inevitable sound of a child sobbing reached his attentive ears. Brittle whimpers that painfully reminded him of his son came from the far side of the room, and his feverish eyes sought the source of the sound. They settled on the usually stringent nurse who was rocking back and forth on the edge of the bed, his eyes momentarily drifting off towards the pallid table that was carrying an absurd abundance of delicacies and other inane candies and flamboyant cards before returning back to the boy being held (this was Potter, right?) by the maiden.

The longer he stood there, not yet noticed by the two, Draco briefly went over what he could remember happening in their first year. He hadn't actually interacted with Potter after Quirrell's— Voldemort's attack. More on the fact that he was actually a little (a lot) frightened of him, loathe as he was to admit. But then again, it just wasn't normal for a kid to up and kill someone and get away with it; self-defence or not. And along with all of the rumours going around Hogwarts (a literal disease, it was) right after the word got out that stuttering Quirrell turned out to be Voldemort (or You-Know-Who) and was thereby pronounced dead by the hands (literally) of a scrawny eleven-year-old, well.

It left little evidence as to not be intimidated, fake or not.

To see what thousands of people had desperately labelled as their Saviour for surviving the Killing Curse and ridding them of the Dark Lord before just as easily and quickly turning on him by just a few misunderstandings or exaggerations, pitifully crying in the tender arms of Madam Pomfrey had his mind rolling.

He hadn't yet realised that his eyes had widened to the size of saucers, or that his skin had paled several shades more when he realised just how screwed up Potter would be when he came face-to-face with people that he'd seen die, people that he'd seen as corpses suddenly come back alive and moving. He hadn't actually anticipated for the whole time-travelling nonsense to work, to begin with, really.

Draco could somehow feel the pulsing of his heartbeat pumping in his fingers (which was seriously weird), through his body, through his legs. He struggles to take a step forward, the tip of his shoes scuffing against the cobblestone floor before he's abruptly pulled back by a sharp grip on his shoulder. He sees the curtains (now where did those come from?) being thrown across his face, the blasted fabric obscuring his view of the child and nurse behind it.

When he reaches out a hand to move the privacy curtain out of the way with the intention of sweeping back in and giving Potter a thorough shakedown to wake him up because he— because he wasn't supposed to be crying, something firm enclosed his wrist, ineluctably preventing him from even brushing his fingers against the curtains. His eyes follow the connected limb holding onto his wrist, blinking up blankly at his Head of House's disdainful face.

"Let me go," Draco demanded, his voice cold and belligerent even to his own ears. The grip only tightened more and Snape's ugly face soured further the longer he looked at Draco. The latter told himself that he wasn't bothered at the thought of Snape thinking less of him; it didn't— he didn't care what Snape thought of him. He tried to shake the man off violently, but only ended up being dragged away by the shoulder behind a different set of hospital curtains.

Draco could still hear Potter crying from across the room, Pomfrey's therapeutic voice whispering reassurances in his ears.

"What did you think you were doing?" Comes the expected hiss (the only thing that he'd been anticipating since the last hour) from the Potions Master in front of him. Draco focuses his narrowed gaze someplace over the man's shoulder, outright refusing to maintain any sort of eye contact with him. The hand on his shoulder shakes him roughly and he snarls at the way he was being manhandled, trying again to detach himself.

He opens his mouth to shout at Snape, to scream a long string of profanities at the bloody good-for-nothing Death Eater, to strike every possible nerve that he knew that Snape has, but he's reprieved from any of that (such a shame, really) when the curtains covering their initial alcove are whipped to the side. A weary Madam Pomfrey looks blankly at the two of them, her jaw taut and the lines outlining her face appearing more reticent than usual.

Her gaze brushes over Draco, searching for something that Draco knew not. Although he had the brief suspicion that she was looking him over for any injuries; he remembered doing that with his son quite often (blasted boy was always getting scratches one way or another). When she finally seemed satisfied, she turned to look at Snape, both of her eyebrows shooting up shortly before morphing back into their original furrow, albeit she still looked quite drained. Snape shook his head once, sharing a meaningful look with the maiden that Draco recognised as a dismissal.

"Do either of you mind explaining your presence within my section? Not that you're completely unwelcome, I'd only like to know why you're both hiding behind a curtain speaking to each other in hushed whispers—" Draco wanted to clarify that he was not whispering, and pronounce the fact that he was actually going to begin screaming after that, but stayed silent. "—seems mighty suspicious, you understand. I currently already have a patient that needs my utmost attention at the moment," Snape abstained himself rolling his eyes, "so unless either of you requires my assistance in anything medicinal or have something of significance to inform me about, then I'm afraid that I'm going to have to request that the both of you continue your interactions outside."

Draco wrinkled his nose at the woman but quickly draped over a look of indifference when she stared (nope, she was definitely glaring at him) at him pointedly. "Or, even better, Mr Malfoy, the bell will be ringing shortly; shouldn't you be hurrying along to your classes?" She gave him a look that made him freeze for a moment, the word 'classes' registering in the back of his head.

Oh, Merlin.

He looked at Snape then and looked down at his hands— realised how utterly small they were, and swallowed heavily. He tried to peer around Pomfrey's antiseptically white robes and spot Potter somewhere behind her, but the curtains around his bed were sealed shut. "Mr Malfoy," Madam Pomfrey moved into his line of sight, and he recoiled back to create some distance between himself and her, only to find himself smacking right into Snape from behind him.

Honestly, he hadn't felt this off-kilter since— well. Since that day. Draco had always prided himself in his natural gracefulness of being able to deal with trials and tribulations without breaking step; a gift (was it?) of inheritance from his family line, he's sure of it. There had to be some sort of reason for why his father always reminded him that he was a Malfoy every time he'd stumbled or misstepped in any sort of way while he was a child.

("A Malfoy does not whine for such minor injustices, Dragon.")

"I—" He cleared his throat with a subtle grimace at how his voice went an octave higher than he was expecting. "I was just," he paused and risked a glance at Snape who was effectively piercing a rather menacing stare right back at him (unhelpful git).

Draco wouldn't admit it to anyone, not even to himself, but he was worried. As absurd as that may sound. A Malfoy worrying for a Potter? Utterly unheard of. But here he was, shooting bullets of sweat and knitting his brows together so hard that it actually hurt for the damn man— child.

Merlin, this was going to be hard to get used to.

Concern wasn't a particular sentiment that Draco often felt for anybody except for those in his family (but they weren't here anymore, were they?), though he will concede to the fact that he had grown rather wary of Potter back in their original timeline. The man had sanctioned him the liberty of getting away with the murders of a certain group of rogue Death Eater stragglers for his own twisted satisfaction (at the time) after all, a good lot that did for him in the long run.

He could just briefly remember his mother's words.

("That you worry tells me that you love, be proud of that my little Dragon.")

His mother had been such a blessed soul; it was a wonder how his father had even managed to get his hands on her pure heart.

Draco belatedly realised that he'd been too caught up in his ruminations to notice the way that Snape had stooped down to his level in a smooth kneeling position that wouldn't put too much pressure on his bones. It was another thing that nearly made him dive back into his thoughts; of just how short he was. Mind you, he would still be considered as a tall young lad, but in comparison to a fully developed adult (and wasn't that something that grated on his nerves), he was just a boy. Not a man, but a boy.

He doesn't know how, but he manages to wedge past his dumbfounded state and achieves a stuttering sentence out of his mouth that makes him both relieved at the prospect of finding his voice again, and indignant at how it came out like. "I was just curious, that's all." And as much as he wants to launch himself away from being within such close quarters with Snape, he finds himself rooted on the spot, practically (dare he say it?) basking in the man's presence beside him.

Loathe as he was to accept it, he'd missed the man as much as he hated him.

Snape's giving him his signature eyebrow raise, as if telling him to spill the tea, you aren't fooling anyone, and then there's even that flicker of a frown that Draco can interpret as you're a Slytherin for Salazar's sake, deception is your primary weapon. And bloody hell, he knew that already!

"You were curious?" Snape's voice is incredulous, sceptical, and Draco really doesn't blame him for that. He sounded stupid to his own ears; uncertain, only partially functional in a sense. Most of all, though, he felt cornered, and he couldn't help but think back (or was it forward?) to how Potter had looked on more than one occasion. Trapped.

"Yes," he said, the words now coming out much more easily than before. With newfound confidence in his ability to keep himself balanced, Draco ploughed on. "You can't expect me not to be curious about Potter, can you? There's been rumours—" He ignored the flagrant look of disappointment that was painted across Snape's face at that moment. "—about him and all, you know. So, yes, I was curious."

Madam Pomfrey, her hands held together in front of her robes tightening temporarily before relaxing again, gave a short shake of her head and a sigh that carried out the extent of her lassitude in it. She had been expecting this sort of behaviour from Potter's friends (as they had already so graciously welcomed themselves into the Hospital Wing by the boy's bedside without even informing her of their arrival a few days earlier), but she supposed that she should have been anticipating a surprise visit (if it even was that) from the boy's rivals as well (goodness knows how many duels they've had with each other this year).

"Nonetheless, Mr Malfoy," her gaze held an edge of warning in them when she looked at him sternly, one hand situating itself on the side of her hip while the other lingered in the air while wagging her finger at him. It was difficult to refrain from looking scandalised right then and there. "You have classes to attend to just like anyone else, as I'm sure Professor Snape will be escorting you to shortly." At this, she flicked her gaze at the man pointedly, no doubt conveying a silent message that only staff members were capable of comprehending.

He saw Snape nod his head once before a hand was clasped over his shoulder again, albeit more gently than it had been before. "Follow," was all he said, nudging Draco in the direction of the grand doors leading out from the Hospital Wing. As their feet glided across the floor, Draco couldn't help but spare a glance towards the curtained off area where he knew Potter would be, crying, probably curled up in a ball and suffering from his unhinged senses being thrown around like a baby's rattle.

The doors to the Hospital Wing closed shut, and Draco could feel his heart plummeting with a heavy weight over his shoulders. Potter— Harry, will be alone. He'll be confused, frightened— troubled. And if by the way Draco's heart was stammering in a restless staccato in his chest was anything to go by, Potter would be worse.

The last time he looked up at Snape was to see the man frowning down at him pensively, charcoal eyes just as calculating as they were in his distant memories.

Draco shuddered.

Weasley— Ronald Weasley, that is to say, was a ferociously staggering visage to see again, as was the Granger girl, Hermione. He hadn't found it prudent to pry into the details of their deaths with Potter, nor was he that tactless as to bring up the other half of the Golden Trio's absence around him.

He'd known they were dead the minute he'd seen Potter on his doorstep, his face was drawn, eyes hollow and vacant of any sign of visible cognisance. Scorpio (oh, how he missed him) had tumbled into the living room with his golden hair still dripping at its strands, having just come out from his shower, and leapt into the seat that Draco had designated Potter into after having dragged him there, right onto the man's lap and arms.

("I didn't know you were visiting! Where's Ron and Hermione?")

Draco had been quick on his feet to extract his son (his dear boy, his child, his little starlight) from Potter's person, dragging Potter up by the arm and pushing him into the direction of the kitchen before pulling his son upstairs and into his bedroom by the hand.

("Harry needs a little time by himself, starlight.")

("Oh, but why, dad? I wanted to—")

("Never you mind about that.")

Potter had made more visits after that, if only to appease the devouring feeling of loneliness and grief, spending his time either discussing the captures of the last remaining Death Eater stragglers that were hiding around ("Knockturn Alley seems to be their hideout.") the place, or engaging with Scorpio in a game of chess or Quidditch. (Draco had decided to ignore how clingy the two had gotten after that).

Seeing Weasley and Granger again but younger (and dear Merlin were they young) made the ubiquitous feeling of disorientated bewilderedness and baffling alleviation grow even more in the centre of his chest. He wasn't even sure how to act around them anymore; the usual spitting remarks that were (loath as he was to admit) so reminiscent of the dour Potions Master were abnormally absent from his mind. Every time they'd look his way, a scowl always plastered on the weasel's face and an inquisitive look from the bookworm was enough to make him duck and burrow his face into the closure of his arms. Hiding.

Nott had sent him a few odd looks between classes, even nudging his shoulder at one point when Draco had found himself staring up at the ceiling with a faraway look in his eyes. McGonagall was the same as ever, though she appeared to be significantly morose during the lesson, like a child deprived of their favourite toy or snack for a week. It was a desperate and petty thing to do, but Draco just figured that she'd thrown up a hairball or something before the class had started.

But no, it was because the Golden Boy was in the infirmary, recovering.

Recovering.

His body was itching to bolt out the door by the time History of Magic came around; his knee would be kicking up and down under the desk, he'd clench and unclench his jaw from time to time, tap his fingers against the wooden surface, and he even played with the thought of casting a sleeping spell over himself to make the time go faster. If it could just go faster—

"Draco," someone hissed at him by his side, a hard bump nearly sending him toppling over his seat and onto the floor before he was able to catch the edge of the extending table and forcibly yank himself back into position. He turned around towards the person next to him with the full intention of cuffing them on the back of their head for their complete lack of manners (having Scorpio had really changed him, didn't it?) before the familiar — and painfully youthful — features of Blaise Zabini faced him head-on, the boy having the audacity to glare at him when his mouth gave a poor impression of a goldfish.

When Draco didn't say anything that would go against the boy's sibilated whisper, his long and slanted eyes narrowed at him before flicking to the front of the class where Professor Binns had been droning on about some tangent of the Goblin Wars before focusing back on him. "Is it true?" The boy asked him, a single eyebrow shooting up when Draco didn't even bother to hide the utter confusion on his face.

"What?"

Blaise rolled his eyes dramatically (which was just downright unnecessary), and Draco was seriously reconsidering his earlier notion of smacking him upside the head before the boy looked back at him with a curl growing at the end of his lips. "Potter. They're saying you went to the Hospital Wing with Professor Snape. Did you see him?" The contempt in his voice didn't go lost on Draco, nor did the mild curiosity that was carefully masked over his disgust over saying the Gryffindor's name. But what made Draco blink at Blaise was the fact that someone saw him— he supposed he should've expected that.

But dear Merlin! Were all kids this nosy in other people's business?

"No," he sneered. "I wasn't in there for long, and it was in the morning! How did anyone even—" Cutting himself off with a wave of his hand, Draco shook his head and sighed wearily as he ran both of his hands over his face. "Nevermind."

Really, he should have known better; he had still been in Slytherin territory at the time, and their house was known for their number of early-risers in the Great Hall, right next to Ravenclaw with Gryffindor having next to no one (except Granger) and Hufflepuff being an off and on group depending on the day. There'd always be a snake or two lurking in the shadows in the dungeons. Literally or not.

Blaise was staring at him now, wearing an expressionless mask that Draco had already long accustomed himself to during his time in the House of Snakes. Now that he thought about it, he wasn't all too certain of where Blaise ended up after the war was finally over, whether or not he too had ended up taking the mark on his arm. The phantom touch of a sizzling burn along the inside of his forearm was enough to make him jump in his chair slightly, Blaise simply cocking an eyebrow up before furrowing his brows together pensively.

"Just pay attention to the lesson." The dark-skinned boy turned his attention back to the board at the front of the class, eyes hardening as he scribbled down his notes without even moving his eyes down to the book below him.

Draco sighed.