Author's note: OH MY GOD I AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK ME SO LONG!

That said, I will explain: busy times, and then my computer (with most of the twelve chapter, might I add) crashed, and my file was gone faster than you could say Oliver Wood in a thong. And then I was, understandebly, not in the mood to write it again for some time. And then HBP threw me off course...

But enough rambling, here it is now.

Twelve chapter, in which there are blueberry scones, silliness, Quidditch, and quite a big cliffhanger. Enjoy!

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The other boys were just waking up as he left the bathroom, and Blaise squinted at him through glued together eyes, only half open. "How was your night?"

"What?" Draco said, blushing very darkly, before realizing that was not what the other boy meant. "Oh, oh, the detention," he said, as Blaise frowned at him in suspicion. "It was all right."

"All right," Blaise echoed. "All right, as in 'he didn't hex my bits off', or all right as in," he looked around and lowered his voice, despite the fact that all the other boys already left to shower "'there was progress'…?"

Draco tugged on a wet strand of hair, sending cold water dripping down the back of his neck "all right as in 'there was progress'. Definitely."

"Good, good." Blaise said. "And what kind of progress, if you will? If there are any snogging or groping bits," he added hurriedly "leave them out, please."

"The 'he didn't hex my bits off' kind of progress," Draco admitted sheepishly.

Blaise shook his head sadly. "You are a doomed man, Draco. Doomed."

"Thanks a lot!" Draco called after his retreating back sullenly. "See if I ever tell you anything again!"

The bathroom door clicked shut.

Draco huffed, and decided, in a vengeful course of action, not to wait for Blaise.

And, he added, with great satisfaction, he would make sure no blueberry scones (which were Blaise's favorites) would be left when the git finally dragged himself to the great hall.

Even if Draco would have to eat them all himself.

Pansy slipped into the space next to him a few minutes after, and reached for the toast. "Morning," she yawned.

"No, don't eat that!" Draco said "eat this." He pushed a scone into her hand, slightly squashed from where he was keeping them under the table.

"I hate blueberries, Draco." Pansy stated, and looked at the basket he was holding in his lap. "Why did you confiscate all the blueberry scones? You hate them even more than I do."

"It's vengeance!" he explained, biting into a scone and making a face. "Blugh."

"I… see. Against who, may I ask?"

"Zabini, the utter bastard."

"Aha. And how, exactly, is stuffing yourself full with scones going to help? Are you going to throw up on him?"

Draco was too busy choking on a blueberry to answer.

Some time later Blaise walked into the hall, and dropped opposite of Draco, who tried to give him the evil eye and pinch his nose while biting into his fifteenth scone simultaneously.

"You look constipated," Blaise said as a way of greeting, and then "Potter's staring at you. Morning, Pansy. Who ate all the blueberry scones?"

Draco choked again and said "what?" very loudly while spraying crumbs. Pansy rolled her eyes and patted him on the back, then reached out and grabbed hold of the basket he was hiding.

"He did."

"But he hates them," Blaise said, reaching for the basket "hey, all those are bitten into!" he started inspecting them "every one!"

Draco cackled from amidst a sea of leftover baked goods. Then he started coughing.

"Why you sad little wanker!" Blaise said, outraged, cradling the basket to his chest.

"I am evil," Draco agreed, then sobered. "What did you say about Potter?"

"He's staring at you, you complete fruitcake- ungk…"

"No name calling," Draco said, dislodging his heel from the other boy's shin. "Not of that kind. Looking at me?" he added anxiously. "What kind of looking? Good looking? Or is it… bad looking?"

Blaise lobbed a half-eaten scone at his head, which Draco easily ducked. "Merlin, you're tight. I don't know. Bad looking?"

"Bad looking?" Draco repeated in a tiny voice, shrinking in his seat.

"He looks confused. But not angry. So maybe it's good looking? Oh, just see for yourself!"

Draco sneaked a look at the Gryffindor table. Potter was indeed looking at him, a frown on his face; But he looked bewildered, anxious even, not annoyed. Their eyes met, and Draco blushed, turning around quickly.

"Right." He said. "Good looking, I think."

"You're all red, Draco," Pansy observed neutrally. "Toast?"

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And then November came, and with it the beginning of the Quidditch season. Draco didn't see Potter that much, outside of lessons, since they were both awfully busy, but he felt things were not quite as hostile as before between them, which made him happy. He struggled to juggle all his N.E.W.T-level homework and his captainship, and he was finding it more difficult than ever. Potions, thankfully, was still relatively easy – at least compared to the other classes. But charms was living hell – he was never particularly good with that area of magic, nor with transfiguration – and he was forced to spend hours on those subjects just to stay in the required level.

Of course, that wasn't to say he was faring badly; many people were failing, left and right, getting D's and even a T here and there on assignments, being assigned extra practice on new spells. Draco sank as low as to get an A once, in transfiguration, but he had just grinded his teeth and redoubled his efforts.

It was a wonder, then, how he managed to find time to come and watch the Gryffindor practice.

Oh, of course he told himself he was just checking out their strategies, observing the new additions to the team. But deep down, he knew he was lying to himself. He just wanted an excuse to stare at Potter for a while.

He brought his DADA notes outside with him, feeling guilty about having free time and not actually doing any work, but they were soon forgotten by his side. He sat in a protected area in the stands – as protected as the stands got, at any rate – curled into his cloak and scarf, his hat pulled low over his ears and forehead.

The notes rustled by his side, but his undivided attention was on the sky, where seven brooms were zooming about. He immediately spotted Potter, even though it was impossible to see faces from this far, and they were all wearing hats. He had a distinct flying style that could not be mistaken for someone else.

Draco followed him with his eyes, watching as he flew lazy loops around the pitch, weaved between the tall gold hoops. He didn't even seem to by trying to find the snitch, just reveling in the freedom the air gave to him.

Draco smiled to himself as Potter dropped in an impossible dive, and then drew up in the last possible minute. Anyone else, and they would've broken their necks. Draco himself wasn't suicidal enough to even try something of the sort.

He wondered what it would be like, to fly with Potter, instead of against him. He was willing to bet Potter and Weasley flew together all the time, not that Weasley was any match to Potter. He huffed; he himself was much more suited as a flying partner. He knew he was the only one able to provide any competition for him in this school, after all.

The flyers were landing now, one by one, and taking that as his cue, Draco got up and made his way towards the castle. He felt much more at ease, and was able to proceed with his homework with the concentration he needed.

His own practices were merciless; he held them early in the mornings and late at night, working his team relentlessly, ordering them to repeat their moves again and again, until every move was honed to perfection. When they complained, he said "do you want to win or don't you? We have lost too many times, and I do not intend to lose again. If anyone here does not feel the same way, he should tell me now! You must work together perfectly, effortlessly, as though you're reading each other's mind! Now do it again!"

Of course, that wasn't the real problem. The real problem, as Blaise had put it, was Draco himself. After a particularly grueling practice Blaise had exploded and yelled "it doesn't matter how good we are, how much we score and how many throws I'll block! The team who'll win is the team that will get the snitch, and we already know that's not going to be us, so lay off!"

He hadn't apologized, of course, since they both knew he was right; but he supported Draco the next time the team complained, and that was as good as any apology.

And the days passed.

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Harry was slowly breaking down from the stress he was under, and he knew it as much as everyone else. He wasn't getting enough sleep, he wasn't eating enough. He had bags under his eyes and was constantly exhausted. He fell asleep on his homework when he worked in the library or in the common-room, and was woken up by Hermione or one of the other Gryffindors. He had trouble concentrating on the lessons and his spell-work was suffering as a result. He never found enough time in which to do all his essays, and he often stayed up until the small hours of morning to finish them all, but they were never good enough anymore.

He knew his friends were worried. Hermione suggested more than once that he'd talk to Professor Shacklebolt, to Dumbledore, and ask them to relieve him of the extra lessons, even for a few weeks. Ron – shockingly enough – even suggested he'd resign from the Quidditch team, at least until he had a little more time. It was a sign of how much he was worried, if he was willing to suggest it when their first match was barley two weeks away.

Harry refused, of course.

"Nonsense," he told both Hermione and Ron. "I can handle it. I'm fine. I'll manage to squeeze everything in". When Professor McGonagel asked him to stay after class and admitted that his grades were slipping alarmingly, he said "right. I'll work harder, I promise. Really," and she sighed and dismissed him. He started asking Madam Pomfrey for pepper-up potions, for energy boosters, for anything that'll help him get through the day. At first she refused, but after a while she gave up.

"It won't last for long, dear," she warned him "and it'll become less and less effective every time. What you really need is rest, and you can only cheat your body for so long before it'll start taking it's revenge on you. Before you'll collapse".

"I'm fine, Madam Pomfrey," Harry assured her, just as he did everyone else.

I'll rest in the weekend, Hermione. Just one more day, just one more week, Madam Pomfrey, please. Just to last through Quidditch season, Ron, and then I promise I'll take it easy.

Hermione frowned but let it go eventually. Madam Pomfrey pursed her lips, but in the end gave in and just patted his hair and gave him another vial. Ron shook his head at first, but after a while said "only till the end of Quidditch Season, right? And then you promise you'll take a break?" and Harry promised, just like he promised everyone else.

Like he promised himself, when he sat yet another endless night, staring at the parchment in front of him, the textbooks blurring in front of his eyes, his bed calling for him. Just a little more, I can do it, I have to do it. Just a little more, and then I'll be able to rest.

It was just easier that way.

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The day of the first Quidditch match dawned cold and windy, but as clear as it could've been. Gryffindor versus Slytherin, Potter versus Malfoy. One of the two most exciting games, since it was usually Gryffindor and Slytherin that participated in the last match for the house cup, the last match.

Draco surveyed the great hall from his place between Goyle and Blaise. There was a nervous and excited buzz in the air, that made Draco's blood hum in his veins. He felt alive and aware of every tiny detail of his surroundings.

He was not nervous, really, at least not more than usually. He had trained his team to the best of his – and their – abilities, and he'd just have to count on that and trust them. He'll just have to keep Potter from getting the Snitch until Slytherin was in the lead by at least a hundred and sixty points, so that even if Potter caught the snitch it wouldn't matter.

When it was time to go he got up confidently, sending a cocky smirk in the direction of the Gryffindor table. He couldn't see Potter, but Weasley saw him and glowered, making a cutting move in front of his throat: you're dead, Malfoy.

Draco smirk widened and he mouthed back "you'd wish, Weasel." It was so satisfying to see the redhead turn as red as his hair.

Draco grinned at his team and led the way out of the hall. He had a feeling it was going to be a good game.

In the changing rooms he gave a pep-talk which consisted equally of "you're the best and don't you doubt it for a moment" and of "if you dare lose I'll hang you from the hoops by your testicles". All in all, they were in rather good spirits when the entered the Quidditch Pitch and faced the Gryffindors.

Draco's good mood evaporated, though, when he saw Potter.

The boy was standing in the back, half hidden, but it was the first time Draco managed to get a decent look at him from this close in the past two weeks, and he was shocked. He looked tired and sick, his eyes sunken, black bags under them that the glasses didn't quite hide. His mouth was pinched and colourless, his face pale and gaunt. He had lost some weight since their detention, not that he had been all that heavily built before.

He looked simply awful, more like a shadow of himself then anything else. And yet, Draco didn't feel disgust, just pity and a gnawing worry, and a strong urge to grab Potter by the hand and drag him into the infirmary.

Someone coughed behind him, and he started; Weasley met his eyes, frowning in suspicion, his hand extended forward for the customary handshake between captains.

Right, Draco thought, and, forcing his thoughts away from Potter, shook Weasley's hand briefly. They mounted their brooms, and were off.

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Harry was shaken awake, though gently, by Ron.

"Morning," Ron said, his voice as forced as it had been for the last few days. "Quidditch match, yes?"

"Right," Harry mumbled, and dragged himself out of bed with difficulty. He had gone to sleep rather early yesterday – even Hermione insisted about it, and had practically wrestled his books out of his hands and pushed him in the direction of his dormitory – but instead of feeling refreshed, he could barley keep his eyes open.

He glanced longingly at the drawer containing the vials he got from the Madam Pomfrey, but didn't open it. He wasn't sure if it was legal, taking an energy boosting potion before a match, and he wasn't about to risk disqualifying his team. He would just have to make do without them.

At breakfast he played with his food – Hermione kept urging him to eat, and he was doing it without much enthusiasm – and then it was time for them to leave.

Ron gave them a zealous pep-talk – really, why was every Gryffindor captain channeling Oliver Wood? -- And then they were off to the pitch. The calls and clapping of the audience were giving him a headache.

"Mount your brooms," Madam Hooch called, and then they were all rising into the air.

Harry settled into a slow loop above the rest of the players as the game started under him. Both the teams were good, he could see it would be a close call. Most chances were that the team whose seeker caught the snitch would win. Harry wasn't planning to lose, and the odds were certainly in his favour.

As he flew slowly, looking for the snitch, he started to feel light-headed. I really should have listened to Hermione and eaten more, he thought. He shook his head, but the feeling wouldn't disappear. And now my glasses are all dirty… how could they have gotten dirty so suddenly? They were fine a minute ago.

He cleaned them on his uniform quickly, but everything still looked blurred. And now there were black spots on the lenses, too. How was he supposed to see the snitch if his glasses were dirty? He cleaned them again, but to no avail. He still couldn't see well.

Dammit, he thought, and tried to swallow. His breath caught in his throat, and he started coughing. Dammit, dammit, bloody hell! What was wrong with him? He had to concentrate on the game! They were going to lose, because of him, Ron's first match as captain and they were going to lose –

His throat was burning, as were his lungs, and he couldn't seem to stop coughing. He couldn't really seem to breathe, either. He leaned forward on his broom, one hand at his throat. His head was spinning, his eyes watering, and blood was pounding in his ears, drowning out every other sound.

His mouth was filling with a strange, metallic taste that he knew but couldn't place, and everything just seemed so fuzzy suddenly. He wiped at his mouth, feeling something drip down his chin, coat his tongue, and something small and golden zoomed passed him.

The snitch.

He made a grab for it, lost his balance, and then he was falling… and everything went black and quiet.

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Draco circled around the Pitch, keeping one eye on Potter and one eye around him. Potter was circling, too, without much aim. They both knew that most games the snitch wasn't spotted in the first five minutes, but they were still on their guard in case it did.

The game bellow him was already on full force, the players zooming furiously, their faces tense. The bludgers were being whacked with vicious force. His team was working together perfectly, but the Gryffindors weren't that far behind them. Slytherin was leading already, twenty points to ten.

He glanced at Potter; the boy was frowning as he cleaned his glasses on his uniform, before putting them on. Than he removed them and cleaned them again. Draco noticed his hands were shaking, and growing concerned, he drifted closer.

Potter put a hand on his throat, as though it was paining him, and then started coughing. Draco tensed. Should he alert Madam Hooch? Slytherin was in the lead, and they would kill him if he stopped their momentum now, especially if it was because of Harry Potter – and maybe Potter just swallowed the wrong way, maybe it was nothing.

But even as he argued with himself, Potter's coughing didn't stop; it only got worse.

I'm going to go call Madam Hooch, Draco thought worriedly, and then Potter wiped at his mouth, leaning forward weakly on his broom, and Draco gaped in horror; for as he did so, he smeared his mouth and the side of his face with blood. Blood he apparently coughed up.

This isn't good, Draco thought, and flew towards him, but Potter made a grab at the air next to him – the snitch! – and tumbled off his broom. The snitch hovered near his firebolt, which stayed in midair.

Without giving the snitch a second thought, Draco dove after Potter.

Trying not to think about what he was about do, Draco wrapped his legs as securely as he could around his broom, and leaned forward, catching Potter around his torso. The broom gave a horrible lurch and almost threw Draco off, but he managed to stay, though he slipped to the front of the handle. Potter nearly slid through his hands, but Draco caught him under his arms and pulled him up on the broom with him. Then he carefully maneuvered the broom to the ground.

Madam Pomfrey and the rest of the teachers were already hurrying towards them, as well as many of the students. He saw the rest of the players land around them, but his attention wasn't on them.

"Madam Pomfrey!" he called, as he laid Potter gently on the ground and kneeled next to him. He checked for a pulse – weak but there. It felt so strange against his fingers, fluttering and elusive, and for a minute he was so scared he could barely breath.

She kneeled next to him in no time, immediately starting to check the unconscious boy. She conjured a stretcher and carefully moved Potter onto it. "Come with me," she told Draco, and started in the direction of the castle.

He ran to keep up with her. "Is he going to be all right? What's wrong with him?"

"Mister Malfoy, what happened, exactly?"

He blinked "he started coughing. I kept an eye on him – in case he saw the snitch before me, of course " he blushed, but she nodded impatiently and he continued "—and I saw his hands shaking, so I moved closer, and then he just started coughing blood and fell of his broom. Is he going to be all right?"

"Was he hit by a bludger?" Madam Pomfrey asked as they were nearing the Hospital Wing.

"Not that I saw. Why aren't you answering my question?" He demanded angrily, but she ignored him as she pushed the floating stretcher through the doors.

"Run back and get Professor Snape and the Headmaster, Please, hurry" she said shortly, and moved to close the doors.

"Is he –"

"Now! Go!"

Draco turned around and ran.

When he arrived back at the pitch it was in total chaos. The teachers were trying to group the students, but without much success – the Gryffindors were demanding to know what happened to Harry while the Slytherins demanded to continue the game as soon as their captain and seeker got back. As soon as they saw him, they all burst out into a fresh bout of shouts.

"-- Malfoy, where is Harry –"

"—What did you do to him, you bastard –"

"-- Draco, they're not letting us continue the game –"

"-- Tell us now!"

"-- I demand that Slytherin'll be acknowledge as the winner, then –"

"Shut up!" Draco yelled, and they all ceased at once, more out of shock than of anything else. "Just shut up. Professor Snape!" he spotted his head of house nearby. "Professor, Madam Pomfrey asked me to come get you, and Headmaster Dumbledore! She said to hurry…" he trailed off, out of breath from his wild run back.

Professor Snape frowned, and then he nodded, his mouth thinning. "I'll get the Headmaster, Draco. You stay here and organize everyone. I want every Slytherin back in the common room by the next fifteen minutes."

"She said to hurry –"

"I heard you the first time," Professor Snape snapped, and left, presumably to get Dumbledore.

"Right," Draco said to himself, and looked at all the suspicious faces around him, both Gryffindors and Slytherins. "Right. You lot…"

He ignored the Gryffindors, whether they made pleas, demands or threats, and soon enough all the Slytherins were heading back to the school, guided by the prefects. He let out a sigh and started to climb, too.

"Malfoy," a cool voice spoke behind him.

He turned warily. "Granger."

"What happened?"

"Why do you think I would tell you, of all people?" he sneered. "Piss off."

"I'll make you a deal," she offered evenly, not impressed by his brush-off.

"A deal, Granger?" he raised an eyebrow, though he was intrigued. "What kind of deal? I don't want anything from you, other than for you to get as far as you can from me."

"Haha," she said, glaring at him. "Actually, I think there is something. You tell me what happened up there and what Madam Pomfrey said, and I," she gave him a cold smile "will inform you of Harry's condition as soon as I'll know something. I'm bound to know before you."

"And why do you think I care about Potter?" he asked, though he was suddenly nervous.

She seemed amused. "Come on, Malfoy. Neither of us is stupid. I've seen how you look at him –"

"In disgust?" He offered. "In burning and eternal hate?"

"In worry," she smiled again. "In jealousy, when someone else is near him. In possessiveness –"

"I don't –"

"You blush."

"I do not!" he yelled.

"You're blushing now," she pointed out.

"I am not." He denied it, but dammit, he could feel his face heating up.

"Fine," he said "I am not acknowledging any of what you said, because it's obviously all lies –"

"Obviously."

"But I'll tell you, if only to get you to leave me alone."

"I'm glad you've seen the light, Malfoy," she smirked.

After he finished, she was looking a lot less cheerful. In fact, she was downright fretful.

"Thanks," she said, and started heading back.

"Wait," he called, and she turned. "Remember our deal. You tell me when you know something."

She nodded and left.

Draco rubbed his eyes and followed her back in.

When he got back to the common room, everyone swarmed him at once, some about Quidditch, some about Potter. He waved them all off irately and stomped off to his dorm.

Blaise looked up when he entered, as did Crabbe and Goyle. He looked angry.

"And that," he demanded, "was not 'throwing away the game'?"

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose "this is not a good time, Blaise."

"Oh, on the contrary, this is a bloody great time –"

Draco held up a hand. "Crabbe, Goyle, leave. Now."

They grunted but did as they were told.

"I did not throw the game," he stated.

"Really?" Blaise snapped. "Because it sure looked like that. The Snitch was hovering right in front of your face – all you had to do was pluck it out of the air – and you choose to swan-dive after your boyfriend instead! We could have won! Fair and square! And you threw it all away! I can't believe you!"

"I wouldn't have managed to catch the snitch and still catch him!"

"You should've gone for the snitch instead, then! The teachers would've taken care of him!"

"You don't know that for sure –"

"That's what they're there for! In case things get ugly!"

"Look, I panicked, okay? I admit it! I was wrong! Are you happy now?"

"No," Blaise stated bluntly. "I'm not. You threw the game away. You made us lose."

"He was coughing blood! And then he fell of his broom! And I was supposed to concentrate on the snitch?"

Some of the anger seemed to leave Blaise. "You need to get your priorities straight, Draco," he said. "This is not good for you. Potter… he's messing with your head. Forget about him. Please."

"I can't, all right? He's in the hospital wing! And Madam Pomfrey wouldn't answer me when I asked if he was going to be okay, she just switched the subject! And then she sent me away!"

Blaise shook his head. "You're taking this too seriously, Draco. He'll be fine – Madam Pomfrey can fix just about anything. You never got this worried about Pansy or me."

"You never coughed blood!" Draco pointed out.

"Touche," Blaise conceded to the point. "But still. Calm down. I'll bet he'll be at breakfast tomorrow, and if not then at lunch."

"Right," Draco said, running a hand through his hair and then making a disgusted face. "Of course, you're right. I'm going to take a shower."

"Have fun," Blaise said dryly.

But Potter wasn't at dinner, where his absence hung over the Gryffindor table like a great, depressing cloud. And he wasn't at breakfast, or lunch, or dinner the next day, either. And Draco didn't like the miserable expression on Granger's and Weasley's faces one bit.

At breakfast the next day he couldn't hold himself any longer and motioned to Granger towards the doors as soon as he caught her eye. She gave a tiny nod and he stood up and left.

Two minutes later, she came out, too.

"Well," he said impatiently as soon as she approached him. "Where is he?"

Up close he could see her eyes were red and filled with unshed tears, and his insides twisted painfully.

"Oh, Malfoy," she said, and sniffed, her voice hoarse as if she was crying "he's not – He's not waking up."

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Ha! Cliffhanger! I'll try to finish the next chapter soon, and if my computer would be nice and would not crash again, then maybe I'll actually be able to post in soon.

But isn't Draco adorable when he's pissed? He is so not cannon-ish. And apparantly, my Blaise isn't as well. Well, fancy that.

Read and review and you will own my soul. Though it's dark and full of dust bunnies, so I'm not sure if that's such a great deal. Toodles!