Wound
The loss of blood, the loss of food, the loss of skin itself made him want to die, to look at him at such a weakness, he had never crossed the territory of a Malfoy before without the intention to wrench his lungs out but today—seeing him like this was horrifying, his pale fragile features white and never glowing, and his lips trembling and seething with spit—"You did this, Potter, you fuck, you fuck, you fucking you fucking you fucki---"
And it all came down.
The Gryffindors were cheering and chanting their golden names while Harry stood there and dropped the snitch that had twisted everlastingly at his palm. It dropped to the grass and tried to fly it's feeble wings but somehow, the wings seemed to be broken as they faltered.
"I didn't mean to," Harry breathed. "I didn't mean to I didn't—I didn't,
I swear, I—"
Draco twisted his head back and took in such a deep intake of his breath that Harry shriveled at the sight of him---red blood trickling into the white hairs of his strands, his robes dirtied and ashen, his face smeared with his blood, his own, pure, pure blood.
"Move Mr. Potter," snarled Madame Pince, unusually angered. "Or he might die."
Or he might die. No, he wouldn't. Of course not. No, Madame Pince was —Harry had never been, never, ever would be a murderer—no…
The lights went streaming across the sky, the Gryffindors cheering as Madame Pince hauled Malfoy off in a stretcher that levitated seven inches above ground, and he felt his foot go down on the snitch until it seemed to smash like plastic, like liquid, like Malfoy's blood.
***
"No visitors," Madame Pince announced to Harry as he stood in the doorway, struggling to peer over her head.
"But I need to—"
"No."
"But please—"
"No."
"Get out," he said, gritting his teeth. "Of my way."
"Mr. Potter, he's in a fatal condition, if you very well left it alone, I might—"
"Just two minutes," Harry promised. "Please. Just two minutes."
Madame Pince gave a look of loathing before she stepped out without an answer and left the door slammed up against the northern wall. He stepped in cautiously, the mug trembling in his hands, his arm bandaged, wrapped tightly in ivory so that it would blend in with the color of his skin---and walked toward the bed.
It shocked him. He had never seen someone so abused in his life—Draco looked as if he had been collapsed into a shredder and poured out. His eyelids seemed damaged and unused, black and pretty, his wounds were unsealed, Madame Pince had obviously not enough magic to conceal the crack of his bone at the wrist, the way his pale, and white fingers dangled from his pillow, his stomach levered, the cuts bruised but not final, purple but not ash, and his lips still bleeding.
"Strength," Draco whispered, moaning and whimpering in his sleep, his spit dribbling at the side of his mouth as his neck turned---he gave out a scream as it did—his neck seemed to be split at the corners, and heavily –oh…
Harry stepped toward and winced as he grew nearer, not wanting to see this—it made him breathless the way Draco's body was positioned, and his bare skin seemed to glower at him, look at the cuts, look at the cuts and look how you've broken my white, my flawless, my flawless white…
He set the mug onto Draco's chest, which was covered in strange proportions of white cloths and more, covering the wounds peaking out, and brought the mug to his lips---opening them with the tip of his finger.
Draco's lips felt dry and moist from the blood, both at the same time, like a heaven not reached yet, but tainted from faraway. His legs seemed to rise uncounsciously as he tipped the mug over and set the liquid down, pouring into his tongue and sizzling.
He knew what he was doing and it disgusted him---but he knew Draco would not be able to---
One thousand people, screaming their own names, their houses, and he saw Draco, how he tried to take the snitch, and he saw him and he crashed, wanting to do nothingless but to kill him, and when the snitch caught in his hand, he threw it away and pounced on Draco, punching him until he bled, his fingernails into his neck, and everyone had been telling him to stop to stop but he wouldn't listen---the comments Draco had talked about emotionlessly about his parents before they both steered for the snitch---the singing under his breath of 'Weasley is The King' his presence, his existent had brought out the worst sin he had ever owned---anger. Insane. He had acted insane, and he was insane right now, doing what he was doing…
When the mug felt empty and vacant, he tucked it shakily into his robes.
He felt weak, the blood remaining in the mug stinging, burning at the bandaged arm---the blood was now floating inside of Draco's mouth and throat—Draco breathed soothingly.
Harry reached over to check if he had swallowed---
"Mr. Potter!" Madame Pince's voice raged. "Get out, right this instant!"
Harry seemed to collapse for a second, fly, die and drown at the same second moment past years, but he pulled himself up, and still shaking, he ran out the door, clutching the mug with one hand, and he could still feel the heat that had once he had crashed into Draco lopsided, sideways, down and down below---still shaking as he went out of that door, still shaking when he felt, when he felt the vomit rising at his chords—still trying to breathe as he pictured his own blood lingering in Draco's tongue
Strength,
Strength
…and wondering what would've awakened if the tips of his fingers had held on.
***
Sick? Of course it is. Medically possible? Of course it is.
One-shot? Perhaps.