Almost before she had stopped screaming, she was out of bed, through the
door and tearing down the short hallway to Draco's room. At Draco's doorway
she collided with Snape, who had been roused from his own dozing state by
her bloodcurdling cry and, fearing some sort of attack, was on his way,
wand out, to see what was the matter. He tried to grab her, but she shoved
him aside with such unexpected strength that he stumbled back and fetched
up against the wall; if the wall had not been there, he probably would have
gone sprawling.
Never slowing, Hermione flung herself onto Draco's bed, literally screaming his name. Kneeling over him, again with an adrenaline-born strength not her own, she pulled him fiercely, almost violently, up into a sitting position. Clasping him against her, one arm wrapped around the small of his back, the other hand pressing his face to her shoulder, she continued to keen out her anguish; a pain that was beyond words.
She took no notice of Snape in the doorway, staring at her aghast, or of the pounding footsteps that heralded the arrival of other adults at a run- she was too deeply immersed in her grief for that.
But what she did notice, what she couldn't help but notice, was this; Draco, with a monumental effort, raising his arms to clasp them about her waist, returning her embrace.
He didn't hold her tightly; he hadn't the strength to. But he WAS holding her- a fact which meant that he was, of course, irrefutably alive.
"Draco!" she sobbed into his silver hair, hardly daring to believe, and felt him turn his head slightly to the side, his cheek resting against the place where her neck met her shoulder. His cheek was hot and damp and sticky against her skin. And then-
"Bookworm," he mumbled dazedly, "w'sa matter?"
"Oh my god," she cried, "Draco! Oh my God, I thought I lost you. I don't understand, I don't- your wand, I thought- I was- but you're awake! Oh Draco, you're awake!"
"Course I am," he mumbled. "You were screaming...t'wake the dead."
This was more than she could take.
Intense anger welled up in her, an extension of her fear and grief a moment before, and it didn't matter that it was irrational; it was there, and so needed to be acted upon. Dropping him back against the pillows, she hauled off and slapped him across the face with all her strength. How dare he frighten her so!
Then she collapsed on top of him, sobbing hysterically into his chest.
She felt one of his hands come up and tangle itself gently in her thick hair; it stayed there until she managed to gather herself together enough to raise up and lean over him. He was looking up at her in sheer bewilderment, a vibrant red handprint glowing on his left cheek.
"I said I was sorry," he whispered, sounding for all the world like an injured child, "you didn't have to slap."
And then, before she could reply, he was gone again, sunk back into unconsciousness.
00000
Feeling a hand clamp her shoulder firmly from behind- this was definitely not Draco- Hermione, still on her knees on his bed, yanked herself away and whirled about, snarling.
Snape was standing over her, his dark eyes unreadable.
"Miss Granger," he said in an uncharacteristically gentle tone, "what on earth-"
"I'm not leaving again!" she shouted, cutting him off. "I'm not leaving him, do you hear me, I won't go and you can't make me! When his wand went out I thought- I thought he- I have to be here, right here, where I can SEE him! I don't care what you say, you'll have to Stupefy me and carry me out of this room because I'm not going! I can't TAKE another scare like that! It'll kill me, d'you hear? It'll KILL ME!" Having said all this in one breath, she drew in a long, shuddery gasp of air and dropped her face into her hands, crying weakly.
When Snape's voice next came, it was from right on her level.
"Miss Granger- Hermione- I am so, so sorry that you had such a fright."
Raising her head in surprise, she saw that he had hunkered down so that they were eye-to-eye. Before she could formulate a reply, he further astonished her by reaching out and pulling her into a fierce embrace. She stiffened for a moment, then melted into him, burying her face in his dark robes, which bore the fragrance of a hundred potions ingredients, immeasurably comforted merely by the feel of strong arms wrapped tightly about her.
He held her thus in silence for a long time, then at last said quietly, "of course you may stay here. I would not have you any more distraught than you already are. Let me modify the bed for you."
Hermione heard a disapproving little "hmmph" sound and, glancing over Snape's shoulder, saw Madam Pomfrey hovering by the door, summoned, no doubt, by her screams and looking decidedly less than thrilled with the newly proposed sleeping arrangements. The mediwitch, however, said nothing, perhaps remembering Snape's earlier fury and not wishing to see it unleashed again.
With a flick of his wand, the potions master widened Draco's bed just as Harry had done to his own bed earlier and held the covers back while Hermione crawled under them. He then settled himself back into his chair as Madam Pomfrey huffed out of the room, still without having spoken a word.
"Hermione," he said softly, just as her eyes began to drift shut.
"Huh?" she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper, as she snuggled into Draco's warmth.
"Tell me again, now that you are calmer, just what made you believe that Draco had died."
She winced at the word, then her eyes opened, a look of consternation on her face. "I don't understand," she said. "I was watching his wand. I had put a Lumos charm on it so that it would shine continually-"
"You were using the wand to monitor Draco's condition?"
"-because I know that though a wand will respond, to some degree, to any witch or wizard who is holding it, it is bound, from the moment it's purchased, to the magic and the life-force of its owner. It would obey me and stay lit, but only as long as Draco was alive. If he died, the wand would no longer respond to me, or anyone else. It would go out, and I wouldn't be able to relight it. And it did- professor, it did go out! So I don't- I don't understand."
Studying his face, she caught the pained expression that flitted briefly over it- it was there one second and gone the next but, as she had spent over a year in love with a man who was equally adept at hiding his emotions, Hermione was not fooled for a minute. The pain had been there; it had been real.
"What's going on?" she asked, pushing herself into a sitting position. "There's something you're not telling me. Something bad. Draco's alive, but something's still wrong, and I have a right to know, I love him!"
Snape sighed. Under his breath, barely audible, she thought she heard him murmur "damn you, Lucius, damn you to hell. Your own son. To think I ever counted you a friend." Then, turning his full attention back to Hermione, he said, "there are two events, Miss Granger, that can cause a wand to permanently cease functioning. One is, as you have said, the death of its owner. Do you know what the other one is?"
"Yes," she said, clearly not understanding, even now, "I've read about it, but it's really rare, it hardly ever happens, it-" she broke off and swallowed hard, her face a mask of horror as comprehension dawned. "It can't be. No, professor. No."
Snape's face was suddenly tight, as though he were struggling to maintain control of his emotions. When he spoke, his voice was constricted. "When Draco was hanging by a thread, all I asked was that he live. As long as he pulls through and lives... I am content. But this- this is going to be a heavy blow for him to bear. I can't even begin to imagine how he will react."
He saw in Hermione's eyes the silent pleading for him to tell her that this was some misunderstanding, some mistake- and what wouldn't he give to make that be the case. But he would not lie to her; she had been through enough without being lied to and she did have a right to know, as she said; she did love him.
"Draco has lost all of his magic, Hermione. I don't know how, but it's gone. I lent him enough of mine to survive on, but though it kept him alive through the most trying time, it will not respond to him as his own inborn magic would have. Whether his magical ability will ever return, I can't say, but as of right now, for all intents and purposes... he's a Squib."
00000
Harry lay flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling, which looked very far away. Which WAS very far away, considering that he was sprawled flat out on the floor between his own bed and Hermione's.
It had happened when she had pelted from the room screaming, of course. Harry, awakened suddenly from a sound sleep, without time to remember where he was or why he was there, had reacted without thinking, throwing himself out of bed in a panicked attempt to go after her. Unfortunately, the moment his feet had hit the floor he had collapsed, his legs unwilling to support him, his body still weak and in pain.
Repeated attempts to pull himself up and back into bed had failed.
He absolutely refused to yell for help. He couldn't stand the thought of being found here, lying on the floor in a state of complete helplessness. No, he would keep trying until he got himself up, damnit. Right. So. Again.
Mustering all his strength and determination, he pushed himself up into a sitting position. His entire ribcage screamed in agonized protest, but this was the most progress he'd managed since landing himself in this predicament, so he was pleased. Only for a second, though; then, before he could grasp the side of the bed in order to haul himself up, he collapsed backward, into a half-sitting, half-lying position against the nightstand, hitting his head hard on its edge in the process.
Raising one hand weakly to his head, he groaned- just as the door flew open.
"Harry!" cried Sirius.
00000
He was at Harry's side like lightning, kneeling over his grimacing godson, his hands on Harry's shoulders.
"Harry, what in the HELL-?"
Harry looked up at his godfather, trying to focus on his face without the aid of his glasses, hatinghatinghating being found like this.
"Sirius," he said hoarsely.
"Christ, Harry, why are you on the floor? Are you all right?" Sirius paused and shook his head. "Stupid question. Let me help you up."
With Sirius's aid, Harry was soon sitting on the edge of his bed, arms pressed tightly over his aching ribs, breath coming in short little pants; it still hurt to breathe deeply. Miserably, he turned his face away from Sirius. It wasn't that he was not happy to see his godfather- he was. It was just that he hated being caught by anyone, especially someone he looked up to this much, in a moment of weakness, and he was afraid that his face betrayed the pain he was in.
Sirius sank down on the edge of the bed, facing away from Harry, as though sensing his discomfort. With his elbows on his knees, he dropped his face forward into his hands, sucking in a deep, shaky breath. At this, Harry finally turned his head towards him, taking in the older man's stooped posture, his obvious worry.
"Sirius?" he asked tentatively.
Sirius looked up at him then, and smiled- but his smile was as shaky as his breath had been. "Harry," he said. "You really delight in these sadistic strains on my blood pressure, don't you?"000
"Sorry," Harry whispered.
"No. Don't be. You did what you had to for your friend. I understand that- I do. When I was your age- hell, now too- if this had happened to one of my friends, I'd've done the same. It's just that- the message I got...Christ, it almost scared me to death."
Harry shook his head. "Don't worry about me. Hermione and Malfoy are both hurt a lot worse than I am."
"Bollocks," Sirius said succinctly. "I spoke to Madam Pomfrey. She said you almost died."
Harry's jaw went tight, his eyes filling with a pain far deeper than the physical ache in his ribs. "I should have died," he said, looking away again. "Ron took that curse for me. It should have been me. He should be the one here right now."
"Supposing he had been," Sirius said quietly. "Would you have wanted him to destroy himself over that fact?"
"No," Harry said, then, "I don't know... bloody hell... I'd've wanted him to feel something though!" Abruptly, he lashed out, the immense amount of grief that lay just below the surface morphing quickly and easily into anger- anger directed at Sirius simply because he was there; a handy target.
"What the fuck are you trying to say anyway-" his voice was rising with every word- "that I should just forget about it and move on? Don't waste another thought on Ron, he's yesterday's news- is that what you're telling me? Fuck you, Sirius, you have no fucking idea- you can't even begin to imagine- I feel like- like-"
"Like you'll never be whole again," Sirius supplied gently. "You want to remember who you're talking to, Harry. I know the pain of losing my best friend. And the pain of feeling that it was all because of me."
"Oh God," Harry whispered, stricken. "God, you're right." He raised his eyes to Sirius; they were all the more brilliantly green because of the tears that were leaking slowly, steadily from them. "Help me, Sirius. Please help me. I don't think I can bear this."
He dropped his face forward into his hands, shoulders hunching, a shudder ripping through his body from head to foot, totally stripped, now, of the fierce, defiant pride that had caused him to resent Sirius finding him on the floor a moment ago- all that was left at this point was an orphan child in a staggering amount of pain, in desperate need of comfort.
Without a word, Sirius gathered him into his arms, pulling him tight against his chest, rocking him slightly. He held him thus for a long time, as Harry continued to shake; not saying a word, just offering the simple, yet powerful physical comfort that Harry had had so little of in his life.
Harry, for his part, sobbed silent, wracking sobs into his godfather's chest, his hands fisted in the material of Sirius' robes, letting his pain and grief and guilt and horror wash over him in waves like sickness until that was what it all became- and suddenly he was wrenching himself away from Sirius, leaning far over the edge of the bed, his head down between his knees, retching violently, and still Sirius was supporting him, one arm wrapped firmly around him to prevent him from collapsing entirely onto the floor, the other hand rubbing soothing circles on his back.
Only now did Sirius speak again, murmuring, "that's all right, Harry, that's just fine, you're doing fine... the grief you'll have to live with, but the guilt is like a disease, it'll poison you if you let it, so just go on and get it out... get it all out."
When Harry had retched himself dry, Sirius helped him settle back into the bed again, and vanished the mess with a flick of his wand before turning to hand Harry- who was propped up on his elbows , looking like hell warmed over, yet refusing to lie back all the way- a glass of water to rinse the foul taste from his mouth.
Once he had drunk it all down, Sirius took the glass from him and, putting one hand flat on each of Harry's shoulders, pushed him firmly down amongst his pillows.
"Rest," Sirius said, in a tone that brooked no argument. "You need to rest. I'll stay right here."
"Sirius," Harry half-whispered, half-croaked, looking up at his godfather, his eyes vivid green windows into a soul that was drowning in sorrow, "I feel like I'm dying every minute. Am I gonna feel this way forever?"
Sirius bent over him, running a hand with astounding gentleness through that characteristically messy black hair. "I'm not going to lie to you, Harry," he said softly. "The pain is always going to be there. For a while it will be right on the surface, every minute of every day. Then it'll sink to just below the surface... in a few years, who knows, you might get through a whole day or more without so much as a whisper of it... but it will still surprise you, at the oddest moments, and with enough force to knock you flat. It's never going to go away, it will merely become... endurable. But you will have something to help you, something that I never had."
"W'sat?" Harry asked, his voice sleep-slurred, his eyelids beginning to drift shut despite his best efforts.
"Someone who's been where you are," Sirius replied, "who knows exactly what you're going through, and who will help you every step of the way. Me, Harry, you've got me, and you always will. Always."
"Th'nksS'rus," Harry mumbled, his eyes now completely shut. And with a sigh, he was lost to sleep.
Sirius sat for a while in silent thought, then flicked his wand over Harry, whispering the words of a spell that would have much the same effect as a good-sized draught of Dreamless Sleep potion. He then stood, pulled Harry's covers up to his chin, placed a quick kiss on his godson's forehead, and, as there were no chairs in this room, retired to Hermione's bed, where he propped himself against the headboard, stretched out his long legs, pulled the latest edition of the Daily Prophet, which he had nicked from Madam Pomfrey's office, out of a fold in his robes, and began to read.
MAYHEM AT MALFOY MANOR, proclaimed the headline; MANY CONFIRMED DEAD.
00000
Draco was dreaming.
It was a strange sensation, because he knew he was dreaming- yet, at the same time, it felt far more real to him than any other dream he'd ever had- or remembered having, at any rate. Certainly there was a different feel to this dream than there had been to all of the pain and fever induced dreams he had been experiencing since having dragged himself back to Hogwarts.
In the dream, he was standing at the top of Hogwarts' great staircase; the sweeping marble stairs that led down into the school's entrance hall.
With Ron.
Both of them were wearing the standard-issue white pajamas of the hospital wing, just as they had been when they really had stood here all those many months ago, on the night of Draco's resorting. He didn't get the feeling that he was reliving that memory in this dream, though. He felt as though he were planted firmly in the present. Ron, for one, looked the way he had looked just hours ago, the last time Draco had seen him before they had parted ways in the manor- and not the way he had looked that night so long ago. He had grown taller since that night, his hair a little longer, grazing his white pajama collar.
This was definitely present-day Ron, not a-year-and-more-ago Ron.
Ron had been flicking casually at some nearly invisible dust particle on his white sleeve, but now he looked up, his cobalt eyes meeting Draco's without the faintest hint of surprise, just as though he were keeping a long anticipated appointment. When he spoke, it was with calm assurance, his voice quiet, yet clear.
"She didn't give it to you," he said.
"Give what to me?" Draco asked. He didn't need to ask who 'she' was.
"The message I gave her for you," Ron said, "when I met her between. I can understand it slipping her mind; she hasn't been well, and neither have you; the two of you haven't had much time to talk. But it's an important message, and since she didn't give it to you, I have to tell you myself."
"So, what is it then?" Draco asked a bit snappishly; he was feeling somewhat thrown off by Ron's unruffled demeanor, as though the redhead had been standing around and waiting all day for him to show up, as though he had single-handedly engineered this little rendezvous- everything from the setting to the attire.
Had he?
"Do you remember what I told you the last time we stood here?" Ron asked mildly, "as Harry and Hermione went down the steps ahead of us, arm in arm? Do you recall what I said?"
Draco, still a bit put out, wasn't in the mood to play games, so he did not beat around the bush. "You said if I ever hurt her, you'd rip off my balls and feed them to me," he answered curtly, his eyes locked on Ron's somewhat defiantly. "It that what this is, then, Weasley? I don't deny that she's in a world of hurt, and all because of me. Did you summon me here to make good? Go on, then-" and he spread his arms wide; an invitation- "do what you need to. Nothing you can do to me could hurt as much as the knowledge of what she's been through, simply because she's unfortunate enough to be loved by me."
Ron took a step forward, closing the distance between them, reached out, and grabbed a fistful of Draco's pajama top, right in the middle of his chest. He yanked him forward until they were nose to nose, doing battle with their eyes, both boys suddenly breathing hard through clenched teeth.
"I'm not going to do anything to you Malfoy, because that would only hurt Hermione more," Ron ground out, "and she is very- fragile- right- now. All I'm going to do is warn you to stop being such a goddamn selfish bastard before YOU hurt her beyond repair- I don't think you understand how close she is to losing it altogether... and here you are seriously considering leaving her once and for all. Do you have any idea how completely and utterly that would destroy her? Would rip apart not only her body, not only her mind, but her very soul?"
"What in the bloody hell are you talking about?" Draco spat out.
"You're thinking of GIVING UP!" Ron hissed with savage anger. "You think I can't tell that, Malfoy?! You're thinking about how nice it would be to slip into the darkness, to let it close over you like cool water... to just rest for a while- like how about a fucking eternity! You're slipping away from her, and you justify it by telling yourself that you're the cause of all her pain and that she's better off without you... so I'm here to pop your delusional little bubble, Malfoy, and tell you that you had better not dare leave her, because she isn't better off without you... without you, she's WORSE THAN DEAD! Do you fucking hear me?! And if you show up at MY doorstep, I will not hesitate to kick your ass all the way back to her, where you belong. She needs you, and I'm going to see that she has what she needs. I still love her, Malfoy, and I'm still looking out for her, and I always will be, and don't you ever fucking forget it. Now... Are. We. Abso- fucking-lutely. Clear?"
For a long, spiraling moment, they just stood there, Ron's hand still clenched in the fabric of Draco's shirt, both Draco's hands clenched into fists at his side, glaring at each other, gray eyes warring with blue, Draco sheet-white except for two bright fever-spots of rage burning high on his cheeks, Ron flushed with anger, his freckles standing out in bright, startling relief against his livid face.
Finally, Draco took a decisive step backward, yanking himself out of Ron's grasp, disengaging from the battle of wills.
He drew in a long, shuddering breath, and abruptly the fight seemed to go out of him. "Relax, Weasley," he said quietly; dully. "We're clear. Crystal."
He raised a hand and ran it through his silver-white hair, a simple gesture that spoke volumes of weariness and defeat, and took another step back, increasing the distance between himself and Ron, who still looked mad enough to spit nails- and found suddenly that there was nothing solid beneath his foot- he had backed off the edge of the steps- and he teetered for a moment, trying desperately to regain his balance, but in vain; he fell backward and down, thinking in that instant, here we go again, when will it ever be enough?
He saw Ron's eyes widen and the red haired boy lunged for him, but it was too late; he hit the steps with a lightning flash of pain and tumbled all the way down them, thinking, I really ought to wake up right about now- when you fall in dreams, don't you usually wake up before you hit bottom?
No such luck this time. He slammed down on the marble floor of the school's entrance hall and lay there, sprawled on his back, his feet resting on the bottom step, dazed and gasping shallowly for breath, bringing one arm up from where it was flung out beside him- a Herculean effort- to hold it protectively against his side, which was screaming with pain. Funny, he thought, the fall should have caused all sorts of new pain for him, but it hadn't... all it had done was bring into sharp focus the agony in his side, which had previously faded almost entirely from his consciousness.
Then Ron was there, on his knees bending over him, no longer looking angry at all; just pale and anxious. "Malfoy," he said, gripping Draco hard by the shoulders, "Malfoy... Malfoy?"
"S'okay, Weasley," Draco slurred, "s'just... my fucking side...ow. I thought it was... going away. But it's back now. And do you know... that's the third bloody staircase I've fallen down today?" His forehead creased, then, in thought, and he added, "or has it been more than a day? How long's it been anyway, Weasley?"
Ron shook his head. "That doesn't matter. Time has little meaning here. But Christ, Malfoy, I'm sorry. That wasn't supposed to happen."
Draco, still flat on his back, gave a one-shouldered shrug, and winced. "I never liked stairs much. When Hermione and I get a house, it's going to be one... bloody... storey."
Ron smiled at that. "Just make sure there's room for a library, Malfoy."
Draco grinned back weakly, then attempted to lever himself into a sitting position, hissing through his teeth as he did so. Ron helped him, pulling him up with an easy strength that Draco couldn't remember whether he had possessed in life. Not that it really mattered now.
A moment later they were sitting side by side, both leaning back against the large, ornate marble pillar that served as the bottom of the stairs' banister, their shoulders touching. This was, Draco reflected, the most companionable they had been in a long, long while- perhaps ever.
After several moments of such companionable silence, Draco asked abruptly, "this isn't a dream, is it? I mean, not in the traditional sense. You're not just a figment of my imagination, are you? You're... really you."
"Yes," Ron said simply, "I'm really me, Malfoy."
Draco mulled this over for a moment, then said quietly, "in that case, Weasley, you really ought to think about paying Potter a visit like this. He's hurting bad, mate. He's hurting really bad."
Ron didn't answer this directly. Instead he sighed, ran a hand through his coppery hair, and said, "you ought to be getting back, Malfoy. Hermione really does need you, more than you can possibly know."
Draco turned his head toward him. "You know what happened to her." It wasn't a question.
"Yeah," Ron answered quietly. "I almost wish I didn't; it hurts to know. But yeah."
"How?"
"I'm dead," Ron said flatly, as if this explained everything. "I know what I need to know."
"What about my father?" Draco asked. "Do you know about him?"
"He's... not where I am, Malfoy. I'm sorry. I know that must be hard for anyone to hear about a parent... no matter that he brought it on himself."
"Not as hard as you may think," Draco said grimly. Then- "and my mother?"
"She's not where I am either," Ron said simply.
"But is she-"
"Look, Malfoy, you've gotta get back. She'll be waking up in a minute." Ron stood and extended a hand to pull Draco up as well. When their eyes met again once they were both on their feet, Draco saw in Ron's an incredible depth of sadness.
"I truly am sorry, Malfoy," Ron said. "You don't deserve what's happened to you. It's shit, pure and simple. But you have to remember Hermione- no matter how bad things look to you, think of her, and how much she's going to be depending on you to help her heal. You can't take the easy way out, Malfoy, no matter how appealing it looks. You can't leave her. Swear to me."
"Wait," Draco said then. "Wait just a damn minute here. What the hell are you on about, Weasley? What's wrong with me?"
But the dream was already spinning away, the school's marble entrance hall and great staircase spiraling lazily and fading into blackness, and all he could see any longer were Ron's eyes, his sad blue eyes, and all he could hear in his mind were Ron's words; "don't you leave her, Malfoy. Don't you dare leave her, no matter what; don't you dare...."
"Weasley!" he shouted, "Weasley, wait! Wait! What's happened to me? Goddamn it all, what's WRONG with me?! WEASLEY!"
00000
"What's wrong with me?" He whispered the words aloud as his pale eyes opened with a snap.
He was breathing hard, his sugar-white hair pasted to his head with sweat, and he would have shot up into a sitting position, had it not been for a warm, sleep-heavy weight lying across his left side.
Hermione, he realized. She was in his hospital bed with him, fast asleep, her head resting on his left shoulder, one arm and one leg flung possessively over his body beneath the blankets they shared. He might have smiled at finding her there, except that now the words
what's wrong with me what's wrong with me what's wrong with me
were running ceaselessly through his head, a terrible, foreboding mantra. Even wide awake now, he never questioned that his session with Ron had been real, and
what's wrong with me?
this fact meant that he had to uncover the meaning of Ron's parting words. Ron had seemed to think that
what's wrong with me?
there was something so terrible amiss that Draco might actually lose his will to live when
what in the bloody hell is WRONG WITH ME?
he realized what that something was. He didn't understand, though; he felt all right, all things considered; he had regained some of his strength and the pain in his side had subsided to a dull, albeit persistent, ache. The only real discomfort he was in at the moment was due to thirst. His mouth was miserably dry- felt as if it had been coated in sandpaper.
Carefully, so as not to wake her, he shifted Hermione off himself and, with a monumental effort, sat up, stifling a groan as he did so and leaning back heavily against the pillows, his head suddenly swimming.
Once his vision cleared, he scanned the room and saw that Snape was asleep in a chair in the far corner; the darkest corner- looking absolutely haggard. He saw also that the water- both pitcher and glass- was on the bedside table beyond Hermione. He was unwilling to call out to Snape, and unwilling to lean over Hermione- he didn't want to wake either one of them.
No matter, though; this was a problem easily solved.
"Accio," he murmured, extending his left hand toward the half-full water glass.
Nothing happened.
His forehead creased into a frown.
No. No no.
"Accio," he said again, his voice stronger, more commanding.
Still nothing.
He found that his breath was coming faster all of a sudden, his heart beating harder, panic mounting in the corners of his mind. He looked to the nightstand on his own side of the bed and saw his wand lying there; picked it up and pointed it at the water glass, realizing as he did so that his hand was shaking.
what's wrong with me?
"Accio glass," he said, his voice cracking, his heart in his throat.
Nothing happened.
The wand fell from his fingers.
No. No no. No no no no no no no nonononononoNONONONONO NO NO NO NO
And he didn't have to ask what was wrong with him any longer.
He knew.
00000
(A/N: 400 reviews- WOOHOO! Thank you guys so much!!! Well, long enough chapter for you? Twice the length of the last one... but it will have to do for three weeks, because two weeks from today I will be in NY for the first of my three summer trips there (and I live in CA, so it's not exactly around the corner).
Hey... what do British people call lawyers? Maybe I'm just being stupid and they call them lawyers or attorneys just like us Yanks, but I had a hunch there was another word... and I need to know for next chap... or possibly the one after, but... soon anyway.
The 000 denotes a movie quote- did anyone notice it? And... can anyone identify the movie and scene I took it from? Just a fun tidbit, I thought.
A quick note about Sirius- I started writing "You Gotta Breathe" long before OotP came out, and so, of course, Sirius featured in YGB- and once book 5 came out I wasn't about to go back and change my story, especially since I happen to like Sirius and think that it's absolute SHIT SHIT SHIT that he died that way- if there's anything worse than seeing a character I like die, it's seeing a character I like die a completely pointless, stupid, shitty death like that! But anyway... so I figured that since YGB takes place in 6th year, and Sirius is alive and well in it, that pretty much made my whole storyline AU, so why not bring Sirius back in this one? Harry's going through enough pain what with losing Ron.
He needs his godfather.
Oh, Sirius.
wanders off, weeping softly.)
Never slowing, Hermione flung herself onto Draco's bed, literally screaming his name. Kneeling over him, again with an adrenaline-born strength not her own, she pulled him fiercely, almost violently, up into a sitting position. Clasping him against her, one arm wrapped around the small of his back, the other hand pressing his face to her shoulder, she continued to keen out her anguish; a pain that was beyond words.
She took no notice of Snape in the doorway, staring at her aghast, or of the pounding footsteps that heralded the arrival of other adults at a run- she was too deeply immersed in her grief for that.
But what she did notice, what she couldn't help but notice, was this; Draco, with a monumental effort, raising his arms to clasp them about her waist, returning her embrace.
He didn't hold her tightly; he hadn't the strength to. But he WAS holding her- a fact which meant that he was, of course, irrefutably alive.
"Draco!" she sobbed into his silver hair, hardly daring to believe, and felt him turn his head slightly to the side, his cheek resting against the place where her neck met her shoulder. His cheek was hot and damp and sticky against her skin. And then-
"Bookworm," he mumbled dazedly, "w'sa matter?"
"Oh my god," she cried, "Draco! Oh my God, I thought I lost you. I don't understand, I don't- your wand, I thought- I was- but you're awake! Oh Draco, you're awake!"
"Course I am," he mumbled. "You were screaming...t'wake the dead."
This was more than she could take.
Intense anger welled up in her, an extension of her fear and grief a moment before, and it didn't matter that it was irrational; it was there, and so needed to be acted upon. Dropping him back against the pillows, she hauled off and slapped him across the face with all her strength. How dare he frighten her so!
Then she collapsed on top of him, sobbing hysterically into his chest.
She felt one of his hands come up and tangle itself gently in her thick hair; it stayed there until she managed to gather herself together enough to raise up and lean over him. He was looking up at her in sheer bewilderment, a vibrant red handprint glowing on his left cheek.
"I said I was sorry," he whispered, sounding for all the world like an injured child, "you didn't have to slap."
And then, before she could reply, he was gone again, sunk back into unconsciousness.
00000
Feeling a hand clamp her shoulder firmly from behind- this was definitely not Draco- Hermione, still on her knees on his bed, yanked herself away and whirled about, snarling.
Snape was standing over her, his dark eyes unreadable.
"Miss Granger," he said in an uncharacteristically gentle tone, "what on earth-"
"I'm not leaving again!" she shouted, cutting him off. "I'm not leaving him, do you hear me, I won't go and you can't make me! When his wand went out I thought- I thought he- I have to be here, right here, where I can SEE him! I don't care what you say, you'll have to Stupefy me and carry me out of this room because I'm not going! I can't TAKE another scare like that! It'll kill me, d'you hear? It'll KILL ME!" Having said all this in one breath, she drew in a long, shuddery gasp of air and dropped her face into her hands, crying weakly.
When Snape's voice next came, it was from right on her level.
"Miss Granger- Hermione- I am so, so sorry that you had such a fright."
Raising her head in surprise, she saw that he had hunkered down so that they were eye-to-eye. Before she could formulate a reply, he further astonished her by reaching out and pulling her into a fierce embrace. She stiffened for a moment, then melted into him, burying her face in his dark robes, which bore the fragrance of a hundred potions ingredients, immeasurably comforted merely by the feel of strong arms wrapped tightly about her.
He held her thus in silence for a long time, then at last said quietly, "of course you may stay here. I would not have you any more distraught than you already are. Let me modify the bed for you."
Hermione heard a disapproving little "hmmph" sound and, glancing over Snape's shoulder, saw Madam Pomfrey hovering by the door, summoned, no doubt, by her screams and looking decidedly less than thrilled with the newly proposed sleeping arrangements. The mediwitch, however, said nothing, perhaps remembering Snape's earlier fury and not wishing to see it unleashed again.
With a flick of his wand, the potions master widened Draco's bed just as Harry had done to his own bed earlier and held the covers back while Hermione crawled under them. He then settled himself back into his chair as Madam Pomfrey huffed out of the room, still without having spoken a word.
"Hermione," he said softly, just as her eyes began to drift shut.
"Huh?" she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper, as she snuggled into Draco's warmth.
"Tell me again, now that you are calmer, just what made you believe that Draco had died."
She winced at the word, then her eyes opened, a look of consternation on her face. "I don't understand," she said. "I was watching his wand. I had put a Lumos charm on it so that it would shine continually-"
"You were using the wand to monitor Draco's condition?"
"-because I know that though a wand will respond, to some degree, to any witch or wizard who is holding it, it is bound, from the moment it's purchased, to the magic and the life-force of its owner. It would obey me and stay lit, but only as long as Draco was alive. If he died, the wand would no longer respond to me, or anyone else. It would go out, and I wouldn't be able to relight it. And it did- professor, it did go out! So I don't- I don't understand."
Studying his face, she caught the pained expression that flitted briefly over it- it was there one second and gone the next but, as she had spent over a year in love with a man who was equally adept at hiding his emotions, Hermione was not fooled for a minute. The pain had been there; it had been real.
"What's going on?" she asked, pushing herself into a sitting position. "There's something you're not telling me. Something bad. Draco's alive, but something's still wrong, and I have a right to know, I love him!"
Snape sighed. Under his breath, barely audible, she thought she heard him murmur "damn you, Lucius, damn you to hell. Your own son. To think I ever counted you a friend." Then, turning his full attention back to Hermione, he said, "there are two events, Miss Granger, that can cause a wand to permanently cease functioning. One is, as you have said, the death of its owner. Do you know what the other one is?"
"Yes," she said, clearly not understanding, even now, "I've read about it, but it's really rare, it hardly ever happens, it-" she broke off and swallowed hard, her face a mask of horror as comprehension dawned. "It can't be. No, professor. No."
Snape's face was suddenly tight, as though he were struggling to maintain control of his emotions. When he spoke, his voice was constricted. "When Draco was hanging by a thread, all I asked was that he live. As long as he pulls through and lives... I am content. But this- this is going to be a heavy blow for him to bear. I can't even begin to imagine how he will react."
He saw in Hermione's eyes the silent pleading for him to tell her that this was some misunderstanding, some mistake- and what wouldn't he give to make that be the case. But he would not lie to her; she had been through enough without being lied to and she did have a right to know, as she said; she did love him.
"Draco has lost all of his magic, Hermione. I don't know how, but it's gone. I lent him enough of mine to survive on, but though it kept him alive through the most trying time, it will not respond to him as his own inborn magic would have. Whether his magical ability will ever return, I can't say, but as of right now, for all intents and purposes... he's a Squib."
00000
Harry lay flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling, which looked very far away. Which WAS very far away, considering that he was sprawled flat out on the floor between his own bed and Hermione's.
It had happened when she had pelted from the room screaming, of course. Harry, awakened suddenly from a sound sleep, without time to remember where he was or why he was there, had reacted without thinking, throwing himself out of bed in a panicked attempt to go after her. Unfortunately, the moment his feet had hit the floor he had collapsed, his legs unwilling to support him, his body still weak and in pain.
Repeated attempts to pull himself up and back into bed had failed.
He absolutely refused to yell for help. He couldn't stand the thought of being found here, lying on the floor in a state of complete helplessness. No, he would keep trying until he got himself up, damnit. Right. So. Again.
Mustering all his strength and determination, he pushed himself up into a sitting position. His entire ribcage screamed in agonized protest, but this was the most progress he'd managed since landing himself in this predicament, so he was pleased. Only for a second, though; then, before he could grasp the side of the bed in order to haul himself up, he collapsed backward, into a half-sitting, half-lying position against the nightstand, hitting his head hard on its edge in the process.
Raising one hand weakly to his head, he groaned- just as the door flew open.
"Harry!" cried Sirius.
00000
He was at Harry's side like lightning, kneeling over his grimacing godson, his hands on Harry's shoulders.
"Harry, what in the HELL-?"
Harry looked up at his godfather, trying to focus on his face without the aid of his glasses, hatinghatinghating being found like this.
"Sirius," he said hoarsely.
"Christ, Harry, why are you on the floor? Are you all right?" Sirius paused and shook his head. "Stupid question. Let me help you up."
With Sirius's aid, Harry was soon sitting on the edge of his bed, arms pressed tightly over his aching ribs, breath coming in short little pants; it still hurt to breathe deeply. Miserably, he turned his face away from Sirius. It wasn't that he was not happy to see his godfather- he was. It was just that he hated being caught by anyone, especially someone he looked up to this much, in a moment of weakness, and he was afraid that his face betrayed the pain he was in.
Sirius sank down on the edge of the bed, facing away from Harry, as though sensing his discomfort. With his elbows on his knees, he dropped his face forward into his hands, sucking in a deep, shaky breath. At this, Harry finally turned his head towards him, taking in the older man's stooped posture, his obvious worry.
"Sirius?" he asked tentatively.
Sirius looked up at him then, and smiled- but his smile was as shaky as his breath had been. "Harry," he said. "You really delight in these sadistic strains on my blood pressure, don't you?"000
"Sorry," Harry whispered.
"No. Don't be. You did what you had to for your friend. I understand that- I do. When I was your age- hell, now too- if this had happened to one of my friends, I'd've done the same. It's just that- the message I got...Christ, it almost scared me to death."
Harry shook his head. "Don't worry about me. Hermione and Malfoy are both hurt a lot worse than I am."
"Bollocks," Sirius said succinctly. "I spoke to Madam Pomfrey. She said you almost died."
Harry's jaw went tight, his eyes filling with a pain far deeper than the physical ache in his ribs. "I should have died," he said, looking away again. "Ron took that curse for me. It should have been me. He should be the one here right now."
"Supposing he had been," Sirius said quietly. "Would you have wanted him to destroy himself over that fact?"
"No," Harry said, then, "I don't know... bloody hell... I'd've wanted him to feel something though!" Abruptly, he lashed out, the immense amount of grief that lay just below the surface morphing quickly and easily into anger- anger directed at Sirius simply because he was there; a handy target.
"What the fuck are you trying to say anyway-" his voice was rising with every word- "that I should just forget about it and move on? Don't waste another thought on Ron, he's yesterday's news- is that what you're telling me? Fuck you, Sirius, you have no fucking idea- you can't even begin to imagine- I feel like- like-"
"Like you'll never be whole again," Sirius supplied gently. "You want to remember who you're talking to, Harry. I know the pain of losing my best friend. And the pain of feeling that it was all because of me."
"Oh God," Harry whispered, stricken. "God, you're right." He raised his eyes to Sirius; they were all the more brilliantly green because of the tears that were leaking slowly, steadily from them. "Help me, Sirius. Please help me. I don't think I can bear this."
He dropped his face forward into his hands, shoulders hunching, a shudder ripping through his body from head to foot, totally stripped, now, of the fierce, defiant pride that had caused him to resent Sirius finding him on the floor a moment ago- all that was left at this point was an orphan child in a staggering amount of pain, in desperate need of comfort.
Without a word, Sirius gathered him into his arms, pulling him tight against his chest, rocking him slightly. He held him thus for a long time, as Harry continued to shake; not saying a word, just offering the simple, yet powerful physical comfort that Harry had had so little of in his life.
Harry, for his part, sobbed silent, wracking sobs into his godfather's chest, his hands fisted in the material of Sirius' robes, letting his pain and grief and guilt and horror wash over him in waves like sickness until that was what it all became- and suddenly he was wrenching himself away from Sirius, leaning far over the edge of the bed, his head down between his knees, retching violently, and still Sirius was supporting him, one arm wrapped firmly around him to prevent him from collapsing entirely onto the floor, the other hand rubbing soothing circles on his back.
Only now did Sirius speak again, murmuring, "that's all right, Harry, that's just fine, you're doing fine... the grief you'll have to live with, but the guilt is like a disease, it'll poison you if you let it, so just go on and get it out... get it all out."
When Harry had retched himself dry, Sirius helped him settle back into the bed again, and vanished the mess with a flick of his wand before turning to hand Harry- who was propped up on his elbows , looking like hell warmed over, yet refusing to lie back all the way- a glass of water to rinse the foul taste from his mouth.
Once he had drunk it all down, Sirius took the glass from him and, putting one hand flat on each of Harry's shoulders, pushed him firmly down amongst his pillows.
"Rest," Sirius said, in a tone that brooked no argument. "You need to rest. I'll stay right here."
"Sirius," Harry half-whispered, half-croaked, looking up at his godfather, his eyes vivid green windows into a soul that was drowning in sorrow, "I feel like I'm dying every minute. Am I gonna feel this way forever?"
Sirius bent over him, running a hand with astounding gentleness through that characteristically messy black hair. "I'm not going to lie to you, Harry," he said softly. "The pain is always going to be there. For a while it will be right on the surface, every minute of every day. Then it'll sink to just below the surface... in a few years, who knows, you might get through a whole day or more without so much as a whisper of it... but it will still surprise you, at the oddest moments, and with enough force to knock you flat. It's never going to go away, it will merely become... endurable. But you will have something to help you, something that I never had."
"W'sat?" Harry asked, his voice sleep-slurred, his eyelids beginning to drift shut despite his best efforts.
"Someone who's been where you are," Sirius replied, "who knows exactly what you're going through, and who will help you every step of the way. Me, Harry, you've got me, and you always will. Always."
"Th'nksS'rus," Harry mumbled, his eyes now completely shut. And with a sigh, he was lost to sleep.
Sirius sat for a while in silent thought, then flicked his wand over Harry, whispering the words of a spell that would have much the same effect as a good-sized draught of Dreamless Sleep potion. He then stood, pulled Harry's covers up to his chin, placed a quick kiss on his godson's forehead, and, as there were no chairs in this room, retired to Hermione's bed, where he propped himself against the headboard, stretched out his long legs, pulled the latest edition of the Daily Prophet, which he had nicked from Madam Pomfrey's office, out of a fold in his robes, and began to read.
MAYHEM AT MALFOY MANOR, proclaimed the headline; MANY CONFIRMED DEAD.
00000
Draco was dreaming.
It was a strange sensation, because he knew he was dreaming- yet, at the same time, it felt far more real to him than any other dream he'd ever had- or remembered having, at any rate. Certainly there was a different feel to this dream than there had been to all of the pain and fever induced dreams he had been experiencing since having dragged himself back to Hogwarts.
In the dream, he was standing at the top of Hogwarts' great staircase; the sweeping marble stairs that led down into the school's entrance hall.
With Ron.
Both of them were wearing the standard-issue white pajamas of the hospital wing, just as they had been when they really had stood here all those many months ago, on the night of Draco's resorting. He didn't get the feeling that he was reliving that memory in this dream, though. He felt as though he were planted firmly in the present. Ron, for one, looked the way he had looked just hours ago, the last time Draco had seen him before they had parted ways in the manor- and not the way he had looked that night so long ago. He had grown taller since that night, his hair a little longer, grazing his white pajama collar.
This was definitely present-day Ron, not a-year-and-more-ago Ron.
Ron had been flicking casually at some nearly invisible dust particle on his white sleeve, but now he looked up, his cobalt eyes meeting Draco's without the faintest hint of surprise, just as though he were keeping a long anticipated appointment. When he spoke, it was with calm assurance, his voice quiet, yet clear.
"She didn't give it to you," he said.
"Give what to me?" Draco asked. He didn't need to ask who 'she' was.
"The message I gave her for you," Ron said, "when I met her between. I can understand it slipping her mind; she hasn't been well, and neither have you; the two of you haven't had much time to talk. But it's an important message, and since she didn't give it to you, I have to tell you myself."
"So, what is it then?" Draco asked a bit snappishly; he was feeling somewhat thrown off by Ron's unruffled demeanor, as though the redhead had been standing around and waiting all day for him to show up, as though he had single-handedly engineered this little rendezvous- everything from the setting to the attire.
Had he?
"Do you remember what I told you the last time we stood here?" Ron asked mildly, "as Harry and Hermione went down the steps ahead of us, arm in arm? Do you recall what I said?"
Draco, still a bit put out, wasn't in the mood to play games, so he did not beat around the bush. "You said if I ever hurt her, you'd rip off my balls and feed them to me," he answered curtly, his eyes locked on Ron's somewhat defiantly. "It that what this is, then, Weasley? I don't deny that she's in a world of hurt, and all because of me. Did you summon me here to make good? Go on, then-" and he spread his arms wide; an invitation- "do what you need to. Nothing you can do to me could hurt as much as the knowledge of what she's been through, simply because she's unfortunate enough to be loved by me."
Ron took a step forward, closing the distance between them, reached out, and grabbed a fistful of Draco's pajama top, right in the middle of his chest. He yanked him forward until they were nose to nose, doing battle with their eyes, both boys suddenly breathing hard through clenched teeth.
"I'm not going to do anything to you Malfoy, because that would only hurt Hermione more," Ron ground out, "and she is very- fragile- right- now. All I'm going to do is warn you to stop being such a goddamn selfish bastard before YOU hurt her beyond repair- I don't think you understand how close she is to losing it altogether... and here you are seriously considering leaving her once and for all. Do you have any idea how completely and utterly that would destroy her? Would rip apart not only her body, not only her mind, but her very soul?"
"What in the bloody hell are you talking about?" Draco spat out.
"You're thinking of GIVING UP!" Ron hissed with savage anger. "You think I can't tell that, Malfoy?! You're thinking about how nice it would be to slip into the darkness, to let it close over you like cool water... to just rest for a while- like how about a fucking eternity! You're slipping away from her, and you justify it by telling yourself that you're the cause of all her pain and that she's better off without you... so I'm here to pop your delusional little bubble, Malfoy, and tell you that you had better not dare leave her, because she isn't better off without you... without you, she's WORSE THAN DEAD! Do you fucking hear me?! And if you show up at MY doorstep, I will not hesitate to kick your ass all the way back to her, where you belong. She needs you, and I'm going to see that she has what she needs. I still love her, Malfoy, and I'm still looking out for her, and I always will be, and don't you ever fucking forget it. Now... Are. We. Abso- fucking-lutely. Clear?"
For a long, spiraling moment, they just stood there, Ron's hand still clenched in the fabric of Draco's shirt, both Draco's hands clenched into fists at his side, glaring at each other, gray eyes warring with blue, Draco sheet-white except for two bright fever-spots of rage burning high on his cheeks, Ron flushed with anger, his freckles standing out in bright, startling relief against his livid face.
Finally, Draco took a decisive step backward, yanking himself out of Ron's grasp, disengaging from the battle of wills.
He drew in a long, shuddering breath, and abruptly the fight seemed to go out of him. "Relax, Weasley," he said quietly; dully. "We're clear. Crystal."
He raised a hand and ran it through his silver-white hair, a simple gesture that spoke volumes of weariness and defeat, and took another step back, increasing the distance between himself and Ron, who still looked mad enough to spit nails- and found suddenly that there was nothing solid beneath his foot- he had backed off the edge of the steps- and he teetered for a moment, trying desperately to regain his balance, but in vain; he fell backward and down, thinking in that instant, here we go again, when will it ever be enough?
He saw Ron's eyes widen and the red haired boy lunged for him, but it was too late; he hit the steps with a lightning flash of pain and tumbled all the way down them, thinking, I really ought to wake up right about now- when you fall in dreams, don't you usually wake up before you hit bottom?
No such luck this time. He slammed down on the marble floor of the school's entrance hall and lay there, sprawled on his back, his feet resting on the bottom step, dazed and gasping shallowly for breath, bringing one arm up from where it was flung out beside him- a Herculean effort- to hold it protectively against his side, which was screaming with pain. Funny, he thought, the fall should have caused all sorts of new pain for him, but it hadn't... all it had done was bring into sharp focus the agony in his side, which had previously faded almost entirely from his consciousness.
Then Ron was there, on his knees bending over him, no longer looking angry at all; just pale and anxious. "Malfoy," he said, gripping Draco hard by the shoulders, "Malfoy... Malfoy?"
"S'okay, Weasley," Draco slurred, "s'just... my fucking side...ow. I thought it was... going away. But it's back now. And do you know... that's the third bloody staircase I've fallen down today?" His forehead creased, then, in thought, and he added, "or has it been more than a day? How long's it been anyway, Weasley?"
Ron shook his head. "That doesn't matter. Time has little meaning here. But Christ, Malfoy, I'm sorry. That wasn't supposed to happen."
Draco, still flat on his back, gave a one-shouldered shrug, and winced. "I never liked stairs much. When Hermione and I get a house, it's going to be one... bloody... storey."
Ron smiled at that. "Just make sure there's room for a library, Malfoy."
Draco grinned back weakly, then attempted to lever himself into a sitting position, hissing through his teeth as he did so. Ron helped him, pulling him up with an easy strength that Draco couldn't remember whether he had possessed in life. Not that it really mattered now.
A moment later they were sitting side by side, both leaning back against the large, ornate marble pillar that served as the bottom of the stairs' banister, their shoulders touching. This was, Draco reflected, the most companionable they had been in a long, long while- perhaps ever.
After several moments of such companionable silence, Draco asked abruptly, "this isn't a dream, is it? I mean, not in the traditional sense. You're not just a figment of my imagination, are you? You're... really you."
"Yes," Ron said simply, "I'm really me, Malfoy."
Draco mulled this over for a moment, then said quietly, "in that case, Weasley, you really ought to think about paying Potter a visit like this. He's hurting bad, mate. He's hurting really bad."
Ron didn't answer this directly. Instead he sighed, ran a hand through his coppery hair, and said, "you ought to be getting back, Malfoy. Hermione really does need you, more than you can possibly know."
Draco turned his head toward him. "You know what happened to her." It wasn't a question.
"Yeah," Ron answered quietly. "I almost wish I didn't; it hurts to know. But yeah."
"How?"
"I'm dead," Ron said flatly, as if this explained everything. "I know what I need to know."
"What about my father?" Draco asked. "Do you know about him?"
"He's... not where I am, Malfoy. I'm sorry. I know that must be hard for anyone to hear about a parent... no matter that he brought it on himself."
"Not as hard as you may think," Draco said grimly. Then- "and my mother?"
"She's not where I am either," Ron said simply.
"But is she-"
"Look, Malfoy, you've gotta get back. She'll be waking up in a minute." Ron stood and extended a hand to pull Draco up as well. When their eyes met again once they were both on their feet, Draco saw in Ron's an incredible depth of sadness.
"I truly am sorry, Malfoy," Ron said. "You don't deserve what's happened to you. It's shit, pure and simple. But you have to remember Hermione- no matter how bad things look to you, think of her, and how much she's going to be depending on you to help her heal. You can't take the easy way out, Malfoy, no matter how appealing it looks. You can't leave her. Swear to me."
"Wait," Draco said then. "Wait just a damn minute here. What the hell are you on about, Weasley? What's wrong with me?"
But the dream was already spinning away, the school's marble entrance hall and great staircase spiraling lazily and fading into blackness, and all he could see any longer were Ron's eyes, his sad blue eyes, and all he could hear in his mind were Ron's words; "don't you leave her, Malfoy. Don't you dare leave her, no matter what; don't you dare...."
"Weasley!" he shouted, "Weasley, wait! Wait! What's happened to me? Goddamn it all, what's WRONG with me?! WEASLEY!"
00000
"What's wrong with me?" He whispered the words aloud as his pale eyes opened with a snap.
He was breathing hard, his sugar-white hair pasted to his head with sweat, and he would have shot up into a sitting position, had it not been for a warm, sleep-heavy weight lying across his left side.
Hermione, he realized. She was in his hospital bed with him, fast asleep, her head resting on his left shoulder, one arm and one leg flung possessively over his body beneath the blankets they shared. He might have smiled at finding her there, except that now the words
what's wrong with me what's wrong with me what's wrong with me
were running ceaselessly through his head, a terrible, foreboding mantra. Even wide awake now, he never questioned that his session with Ron had been real, and
what's wrong with me?
this fact meant that he had to uncover the meaning of Ron's parting words. Ron had seemed to think that
what's wrong with me?
there was something so terrible amiss that Draco might actually lose his will to live when
what in the bloody hell is WRONG WITH ME?
he realized what that something was. He didn't understand, though; he felt all right, all things considered; he had regained some of his strength and the pain in his side had subsided to a dull, albeit persistent, ache. The only real discomfort he was in at the moment was due to thirst. His mouth was miserably dry- felt as if it had been coated in sandpaper.
Carefully, so as not to wake her, he shifted Hermione off himself and, with a monumental effort, sat up, stifling a groan as he did so and leaning back heavily against the pillows, his head suddenly swimming.
Once his vision cleared, he scanned the room and saw that Snape was asleep in a chair in the far corner; the darkest corner- looking absolutely haggard. He saw also that the water- both pitcher and glass- was on the bedside table beyond Hermione. He was unwilling to call out to Snape, and unwilling to lean over Hermione- he didn't want to wake either one of them.
No matter, though; this was a problem easily solved.
"Accio," he murmured, extending his left hand toward the half-full water glass.
Nothing happened.
His forehead creased into a frown.
No. No no.
"Accio," he said again, his voice stronger, more commanding.
Still nothing.
He found that his breath was coming faster all of a sudden, his heart beating harder, panic mounting in the corners of his mind. He looked to the nightstand on his own side of the bed and saw his wand lying there; picked it up and pointed it at the water glass, realizing as he did so that his hand was shaking.
what's wrong with me?
"Accio glass," he said, his voice cracking, his heart in his throat.
Nothing happened.
The wand fell from his fingers.
No. No no. No no no no no no no nonononononoNONONONONO NO NO NO NO
And he didn't have to ask what was wrong with him any longer.
He knew.
00000
(A/N: 400 reviews- WOOHOO! Thank you guys so much!!! Well, long enough chapter for you? Twice the length of the last one... but it will have to do for three weeks, because two weeks from today I will be in NY for the first of my three summer trips there (and I live in CA, so it's not exactly around the corner).
Hey... what do British people call lawyers? Maybe I'm just being stupid and they call them lawyers or attorneys just like us Yanks, but I had a hunch there was another word... and I need to know for next chap... or possibly the one after, but... soon anyway.
The 000 denotes a movie quote- did anyone notice it? And... can anyone identify the movie and scene I took it from? Just a fun tidbit, I thought.
A quick note about Sirius- I started writing "You Gotta Breathe" long before OotP came out, and so, of course, Sirius featured in YGB- and once book 5 came out I wasn't about to go back and change my story, especially since I happen to like Sirius and think that it's absolute SHIT SHIT SHIT that he died that way- if there's anything worse than seeing a character I like die, it's seeing a character I like die a completely pointless, stupid, shitty death like that! But anyway... so I figured that since YGB takes place in 6th year, and Sirius is alive and well in it, that pretty much made my whole storyline AU, so why not bring Sirius back in this one? Harry's going through enough pain what with losing Ron.
He needs his godfather.
Oh, Sirius.
wanders off, weeping softly.)