Disclaimer: Harry and Draco and any of their affiliates are not mine. You've all seen what I do to them when they're under my power. If they were mine, the books would be a very different story. eg But they're not. They belong to JKR, and she does with them as she chooses.

Early Author's Note: WARNING: this chapter contains crap writing. :)

He wasn't there when Harry got home, sodden and covered in blood and bruises. He didn't come when Harry sunk into the hot water of his bath, listening carefully for any telltale sounds. He failed to appear when Harry climbed out of the bath, rubbing himself dry with a towel, ignoring his aching injuries. He didn't come that night.

Harry found he couldn't stomach the thought of food. He drew the blinds closed and turned the lights low. He didn't have the patience for the internet – he kept finding himself drifting into absent reveries, or listening out anxiously for the sound of a footfall in the hallway. The television was a meaningless blur of noise and colours.

The only book that could keep Harry occupied was War and Peace. He found a squat bottle of gin and settled himself on the couch, reading the words that the other man had read and listening, always listening, for a soft knock on the door. He read and listened and remembered Draco until he fell asleep.

Harry woke, hungover and still as tired as he had been before sleep overtook him, and went through the motions of getting up mechanically, without thinking. It had only taken a day to wreck the fragile mental stability he had built up after the end of the war. Only one day to ruin six years' work.

But he went to work anyway. His boss told him he still looked run down and advised him to go home again. Harry had gazed at her with such abject horror that she had quickly reassured him he didn't have to go and retreated again.

He spent a dull morning numbly working at the till of his local supermarket, ringing the same essential items through again and again. He barely had the patience to deal with the customers civilly, but spoke flatly and uninterestedly, as if he were in a trance.

It felt like it. It was a curious dissociation from the outside world, as if everyone else was moving beyond a screen, as if Harry alone was closed in a glass box. The air was stale and hard to breathe behind the glass. On his lunch break, Harry was almost unsurprised to find himself fighting for breath. But he could only think of Draco.

It was that lunch break that saved him.

There was one single thing that caught Harry's attention. He couldn't remember, looking back on it later, exactly what it was that had filtered into the glass box that drawn him in. But he stopped to listen.

A pair of his co-workers were sharing a piece of gossip over cigarettes and polystyrene cups of coffee.

"Didja hear about this guy they found this morning?"

"A guy? What're ya talkin' about?"

"A guy. They found him outside the doors this morning, when they came to open up."

"Oh my god! They found a body?"

Harry inhaled sharply. He knew, he just knew… He felt the glass box dissolving around him, his limbs tingling.

"No, 'course they didn't find a body. You'd know by now if they found a body!"

"I thought so."

"Yeah." The girl blew smoke through her nostrils before continuing. "Anyway, they just found this guy lying outside our doors this morning. Unconscious, all ripped up and bloody!"

"God!"

"I know. They cleaned it up pretty good, huh?"

"Yeah! I didn't see a thing this morning."

Harry clenched his fists with impatience. "Excuse me," he interrupted with gritted teeth. "Do you happen to know where they took that man they found?"

There was a small pause, and Harry waited with scant patience while they giggled at his English accent. He was used to it.

"Yeah, I know," the informed girl said at last, mastering her mirth. "They took him to St. David's, the hospital on the corner of 10th and Brooklane."

"St. David's," Harry muttered under his breath as the girls glanced at each other and giggled again.

"So, um," the bolder girl attempted, "you wouldn't happen to be free tonight, would? I just love your accent."

"What?" Harry looked up into her heavily made-up face and shook his head distractedly. "No. Sorry. In fact, I don't feel that well. Could you tell Janet I went home like she told me to?"

Without waiting for a reply, he broke away, striding out of the store and onto the busy pavement. The storm had blown over overnight, and the drying streets were packed again as usual. Harry fought his way mercilessly through the crowd to the kerbside.

He looked around stupidly. There was a bus stop nearby but he couldn't remember the timetable. His head was a mess of thoughts, all panicked, all jostling for attention. His chest felt tight. He had to get to that hospital, he had to! He had to get there now.

10th and Brooklane… Where was that? Harry turned around in a circle, trying to regain his bearings. Too confused! The crowds pushed past him, making him stumble out between parked cars into the street. He had never felt as alone as he did now. He needed help!

A horn blared and Harry jumped backwards, out of the way of a speeding Mercer as it flashed by. People on the pavement were staring at him as they passed, shaking their heads. He just wanted to get to Draco. Horrified, he thought he felt the beginnings of tears welling in his throat. His nose prickled.

He wasn't going to cry here, in a street full of people! Wiping a hand across his forehead, he breathed deeply. Calm down, just calm down… He could feel the blackness coming on, but he wouldn't surrender to that, either. He had to get to the hospital.

He placed his hands flat on the bonnet of a parked car and closed his eyes, inhaling through his nose. It didn't take him too long to calm down sufficiently that he could re-enter the people traffic on the pavement.

He hurried against the tide, pushing past people rudely without apologising. He didn't care about their mediocre muggle lives, he growled inwardly. He just needed to see Draco, make sure everything was all right.

When he was still a couple of blocks from the hospital, Harry pulled himself up short, panting. What on earth was he thinking? He clapped a hand to his forehead. What had made him think this stranger could possibly be Draco? All the girl had said was that they'd found a guy all torn up outside their shop in the morning. It could easily be just some wino who got into a fight. Fuck.

But he had this feeling.

Harry walked the remaining distance to the little hospital more slowly, arguing with himself. He had thought that chapter was closed – Draco was gone, wasn't he, bound for the south? But still, here he was, foolishly rushing off because of a feeling he had had. It still burned there, in the pit of his stomach, like an ember that wouldn't die. He didn't want to think about it.

By the time he pushed his way through the revolving doors of St. David's, his heart was in his mouth.

The reception was decorated in pale greens and blues, and there were hardly any patients waiting around to mess up the elegant lines of the furniture. Harry felt out of place. Of course, he thought, Draco was the heir of a wealthy wizarding family. Even the muggles must know he's rich.

Harry sucked in his breath and walked up to the sweeping reception desk. An efficiently coiffured blonde gave him a polite smile. He felt too aware of his work clothes, declaring him to one and all a menial till-worker at a supermarket. Still, he smiled nervously back at the receptionist.

"Hi," he attempted, and coughed. "I was just wondering if, you know, you'd had anyone in today…" he took a deep breath, his heart leaping back up into his throat. "…by the name of Draco Malfoy."

"Draco Malfoy," she repeated, her voice high and pleasant. Harry had almost expected it to be. She fitted with everything else here – smooth, efficient, pleasant. It made a stark contrast to Harry's local hospital.

The receptionist was tapping away on her keyboard, a half smile fixed on her face obviously for the benefit of the public. "Yes," she finally said.

Harry's jaw dropped open. His head felt like it was rising up off his neck; he had to grip the edge of the counter for support. "You're sure?" He managed to croak. He was here. Draco was here! He knew it!

"Yes," she said simply, her smile turned up to full wattage again. "He was admitted this morning."

"Can I see him?" Harry asked urgently, leaning forward. "Please, I really need to see him."

The smile faltered. "I'm sorry, sir," she said. "But Mr Malfoy signed himself out… let's see… about an hour ago." Harry's heart dropped again and his shoulders slumped.

"Oh. All right." He sniffed, scuffed his foot against the floor, then looked up again. "Do you know where he went?"

"Sorry," the receptionist shook her head again. "I don't."

Harry turned away without another word and slouched despondently out into the street. The sky was white with the promise of rain. There were less people out and about than before, it seemed. Harry kept walking without looking up.

Gone again. So close! He had allowed Draco to slip through his fingers again. He had missed his second chance.

But why had the infuriating Slytherin been in town anyway? Harry had thought he was long gone. Directing his steps back towards his own district, Harry quickly eschewed the idea of returning to work. Instead, he spent an hour searching for the old man who had given him Draco's message the day before.

He was nowhere to be found. When it began to drizzle, Harry gave up the search and turned his feet to home dismally. Perhaps this chapter was finally closed. Now he would need some time to get over it.

The door to his apartment was unlocked when he returned home, and Harry frowned, turning the brass knob and pushing it. The door swung open slowly to reveal his darkened living room. He felt on the wall for the lightswitch.

"Please don't. The light hurts my eyes."

Harry froze, his hand groping the paintwork. The voice had come from inside the apartment, in the living room. It sounded like… he peered into the darkness. The curtains were drawn, shutting out the afternoon light. "Draco?" he said tentatively, hardly daring to hope.

A tall, slender figure stood from the couch, stepping towards Harry, who gasped. Draco's clothes – or, rather, Harry's clothes – was torn and rent, revealing white surgical bandages beneath. His hair was mussed. Harry couldn't see his eyes – they were in shadow. "I found the owl," he began, trailing a hand lightly over the back of the couch. "It's sleeping now. I got it a cage." He paused. "I found the letter too."

"Did you read it?" Harry asked numbly.

"Of course not," Draco said more abruptly, a frown marring his delicate features. "We Malfoys…" He looked away. "I have some honour, at least."

Silence fell. Harry shut the door behind him, but stayed with his back pressed to it. Draco stood, his head bowed, in the middle of the dark living room. Harry sought desperately for something to say.

"Why did you stay?" He blurted, feeling like an embarrassed schoolboy once again.

Draco looked up. He smiled wearily. "Harry," he simply said.

…

Author's Note:

See? Crapness. I'll make the next ones better, promise. Brownie's Honour.

Anyways, thanks for the reviews! Keep 'em coming, folks, you inspire me. Harry and Draco are all I can think about during school hours now. When I'm meant to be taking notes on Hans Selye and Kierkegaard and Descartes, I'm off in the corner, plotting like mad.

Mleh. At least in English Lang./Lit. I can take notes without looking suspicious. Anyhows, this chapter is dedicated to Robert Frost, because he writes subtly pornographic poetry.

Jen

xox