A/N: Chapter warnings for; blood and gore, referenced mild torture, explicit language.

Next update, Saturday, 20th June.

Chapter Nine;

...

"Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red."

― Kait Rokowski

...

Harry's hand is killing him, he's sure of it.

He looks at it as if looking at something particularly foul or treacherous, and he imagines his hand glaring right back at him, telling him that he's the reason it's being put under this torture. 'Not my fault your mouth cannot shut itself, you angst-ridden prat,'

To which his mouth most likely replies with a curse Harry utters under his breath, rolling his eyes.

Harry doesn't disagree too strongly against his hand's argument but doesn't particularly enjoy doing so either.

He feels feverish, in a thick haze most days, and the entire back of his hand is numb to touch but in agony all the same. Harry almost faints when Ron grabs it by accident, asking him to hand over the salt shaker. Ron looks at his glamoured hand, and Harry shrugs, blaming his high strung reflexes. Ron looks at him for a moment, Hermione is too engrossed in her book to notice.

"You don't eat enough," Hermione says after a beat, not looking up from her book. She has noticed his lack of appetite, then. That's unfortunate.

Harry makes a half-hearted face at her. "You read too much." She shrugs and Harry returns the shrug with a rebellious bite out of his pie.

Ron rolls his eyes at the both of them, and digs in his own food, skimming through his transfiguration textbook with glazed eyes. They have a test the next day.

#

"Tuesday at five, Mr. Potter. Don't be late again, or I might have to assign you another detention." It is not his mouth at fault here, Harry wants to glare at his hand. The toad just despises him.

Harry doesn't listen. He doesn't even hear the sound of his own breathing as he stumbles out of the office, heavily leaning against the stones, and barely seeing ahead, Harry doesn't hear the door shutting behind himself as he staggers forward.

He clenches and unclenches his fist rapidly even as pain blooms through his hand, the dizziness is worse than the pain and the sting is helping ground him. His jaw, too, is clenched shut as he takes in rapid breaths through his teeth. His knees feel like they're going to buckle at any moment.

Don't pass out. Don't pass out. Don't pass out.

Is it his glasses or is he actually seeing everything double?

Today, that bitch actually did keep him after curfew. And didn't even give him a note. If Filch or Snape finds him, he'd have another detention, and Harry is seriously getting sick of those. Although detention with Snape seems like heaven compared to what he does at Umbridge's detentions.

The halls are deserted as he makes his way over to Gryffindor Tower, he just hopes that he'd be able to get inside without garnering anyone's attention; probably under the Invisibility Cloak. Although, he isn't sure how he'd escape Ron or Hermione's notice. They would be waiting for him.

Harry had managed to fool them this long, with Hermione too tensed over their O. and Ron too agitated with Hermione and too buried in his own homework as well. Harry isn't sure how much longer he can put up a show. Especially when he feels this unwell.

He leans heavily against the railing as he walks up the staircase, gripping it so tightly that blood starts flowing down his hand and wrist in earnest. And just when he is halfway up, the staircase decides that Harry hasn't suffered enough for the day and starts moving. Harry lets out a low groan and slides down, curling his arm more securely around the railing. It is all he can do not to topple over and crack his skull open on the stone. He has enough injuries as it is.

When the stairway settles, he is more than halfway down the staircase. And the second-floor hallway stretches out in front of him. Maybe, maybe he should just go to the bathroom again. Wait until he can at least see straight, before going back to the tower. This way he can avoid any questions from his friends too.

And there is little to no chance Malfoy would be there today, it had been two weeks since their last encounter and Harry hadn't seen the other boy anywhere except classes and mealtimes. Where they had pointedly ignored each other, pointedly and peculiarly, much to Ron's surprise.

Harry just hopes he would be able to make it there before he collapsed. He could have gone to the boys' bathroom, but there was just something about the abandoned one which appealed to Harry. It reminds him of his room at the Dursleys.

Harry is almost wheezing for breath when he finally reaches the bathroom, and he is sure anyone could follow the droplets of blood he has left in a trail behind him, splattered oddly at irregular intervals on the dark stone floor. It almost looks like a scene from a horror movie, Harry, the victim, has been stabbed and is trying to get away from the assailant despite his injuries, spilling blood everywhere.

As soon as he is in, and has closed the door, his knees finally do buckle. With a small gasp he falls to the cold marble floor. And then lets himself lay down completely. The cold press of the tiles against his feverish skin feels good and he isn't sure if he's going to be able to get up. He fumbles for his wand, hands trembling violently, and mutters 'Aguamenti' under his breath, letting water rush out of his wand and over his bloodied hand. He doesn't have the strength to get up and go over to the sink, even though the water pressure would be better under the tap.

Soon, the water from his wand sputters out as his concentration wavers. And he puts it away. Sighing, he lets his head drop back down into the small puddle of blood and water under him, unable to care at the moment.

#

He can not study anymore, no matter how much Blaise pesters him. Pansy has gone back to her dorm by now, probably thinking Draco won't wander out now, since it's past curfew.

What better opportunity than now?

Blaise, thankfully, doesn't follow him. Or at least, Draco doesn't think so. He'd hate to hex him. Draco just wants some fresh air right now, and some time alone to grieve. Fucking Potter had to come and ruin it the last two times he had even thought about it. He won't go into that blasted bathroom this time. Perhaps the Astronomy Tower. That sounds good, and high, with a good view and actual fresh air.

He is strung up and exhausted as he walks, jittery. He wonders if that pink monstrosity is on rounds today, and gets even more nervous. The last thing he wants is detentions with Potter. Detentions with Potter and Umbridge. He shudders.

He is on the second floor, on the way up, when he notices it. And stiffens. Blood. It's not much, just small droplets. But it sends a bolt of something through him. He contemplates ignoring it, but it's like his body has other ideas as his legs immediately start following the inconspicuous trail.

Merlin's beard, how much blood is this person losing to actually leave a trail behind?

He freezes again when he figures out where the blood trail leads. The abandoned girls' bathroom. No. He refuses to go in.

But the stench of blood is so strong it's almost on his tongue, making him want to retch. He also has a vague idea who the person inside is, if he is still inside, that is. Thoughts warring against each other, as memories rise up in his throat like bile, he steps inside.

And this time his mind almost goes blank with astonishment. There, a crumpled body is laying on the ground in a puddle of blood. It isn't moving. For a second Draco is terrified, thinking that Potter is dead. Dead. Dead. Fuck. He barely represses the urge to hurl.

But then he sees the telltale rise and fall of his chest, too shallow, but present.

Draco stills for a moment. Stuck between the urge to bolt out or run to Potter and save the idiot. He settles for staring for an indeterminate amount of time until a groan startles him out of his stupor.

He flinches and pales a little. He still contemplates making a run for it, but god, there is so much blood.

Taking a few shaky steps forward, he drops down on his knees beneath Potter's stirring body, grimacing at the mess.

"You came!" A voice shrieks somewhere to his right, and he almost topples over, slipping in the water as he looks around wildly, spotting that damn ghost hovering over Potter's body. "He has been here for so long, I thought he was going to die," she sniffs. "I would have shared my toilet, but what if he didn't become a ghost? Then he won't even come to say hello."

"How long…" Draco pauses, then looks up from Potter. "How long has he been here?" He reaches a shaking hand- he hadn't noticed it shaking- to Potter's arm, and then shifts him back, revealing the back of his shredded hand, and the pool of watered-down blood that keeps on streaming away from his body.

Myrtle starts wailing by his side and Draco's first instinct is to shut her up, but then he stifles the urge and reaches for his wand. What can he do? What is there to do… Draco swallows.

He cannot stomach the sight of blood on marble, he cannot stomach the gore, his breathing slightly speeds up and he might just vomit any second now. Potter won't appreciate that.

"Go," he turns to Myrtle again, "Go and tell someone. Not Umbridge." Myrtle disappears and Draco is not sure telling her that is going to do him any good. He gets back to Potter, looking more wane still. Blood, Draco thinks, he has to stop the bleeding.

Awkwardly moving on the tips of his toes as he's crouched by Potter, Draco circles the body and reaches for Potter's hand, resisting a flinch as his knees sink into the puddle of water and blood, swirling pink, underneath them both.

His first thought is transfiguring something into a thick gauze, but he quickly realizes that he's in no condition to use his wand without blowing something up. He takes off his school robes and starts tearing, Potter's hand lying on his lap soaking through his trousers.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. That's the only word circulating in Draco's mind.

"I CANNOT!" Myrtle shrieks, appearing by his side once again, Draco is too busy wrapping Potter's hand with the remains of his robes. "I CANNOT FIND ANYONE! Do you hear me?! I cannot! Oh, oh this is bad! CATASTROPHIC!"

"SHUT UP!" Draco roars at her and she vanishes once again, Potter shifts momentarily but doesn't open his eyes. Even through the makeshift bandages, Draco can feel how cold he is. He needs to warm Potter up. And get him out of the puddle.

"Potter?" he taps the back of his hand against the other boy's cheek, feeling the clammy flesh under his fingers. Too cold. "Potter, you need to wake up," Potter doesn't even groan. Draco's blood runs cold and he knows that panicking is not the solution right now, but he can't not panic.

Fuck. Fuck.

Draco doesn't even have time to roll his eyes. He cannot believe this is his life. Potter fucking dying on a bathroom floor, soaked head to toe, in the only place Draco ever goes alone.

He stands and stretches his back, runs a bloody hand through his hair without even realising it was drenched in Potter's blood, and then crouches to hook his arms around the boy's chest, slowly dragging him away to the nearest dry patch on the cold floor. He takes the remains of his robe and drapes it over him, and then just stands over him for a moment, panting and wide-eyed.

Potter needs help. Myrtle, that bloody wretched thing, cannot call for help. Neither can Draco. There are several reasons as to why him rushing out and calling for help would be undesirable, all of which crowd his mind in less than a second.

At least half of Slytherin is watching him, waiting, just waiting for an excuse to report him back to the Dark Lord, or butcher him for treachery. Draco's pretty sure saving the boy who lived is considered treachery.

Blaise wouldn't help him. He wouldn't risk his neck for Potter. Well, to be fair, Draco wouldn't risk his neck for Potter either. But here he is, soaked and robeless. He cannot risk Blaise. He cannot go to Dumbledore, he cannot go to any other professors. He cannot go to anyone.

But he cannot just leave Potter here, bleeding and alone.

"Ugh… you bastard," Draco tells him, sinking down next to Potter's head. Just to rest for a moment, and also - not that he would ever admit it aloud- to watch Potter's chest shallowly rise and fall, his glasses digging into his cheek, and his jaw lightly slackened. He looks like he's only sleeping.

It's the loss of blood, Draco knows. Then comes the shock. Then probably death, judging by the blood. He cannot believe the amount of bleeding. Only from the wound in Potter's hand, it just doesn't seem possible. Is there a secret injury he doesn't know about?

He nudges Potter again, and when the boy is unresponsive, he leans down to drag the boy upwards, draping him over his own body so Potter wouldn't drop down again. Potter leans against him, his face awkwardly half-buried in the blonde's shoulder.

Draco clasps his wand tightly in his other hand, extending his legs and pointedly ignoring the added weight on the right side of his body. He needs to think. He needs to handle Potter, in a way that won't result in the boy's death. He most likely won't die of a single wound on his hand, but Draco isn't taking his chances. He really isn't.

If Potter dies, and if they find out that Draco was involved in the process somehow… well, he's screwed. If he saves Potter and lingers enough to find out why Potter is dying in the first place then he's also screwed.

Because if this was an attempt on Potter's life, from the Dark Lord…, or a plan, or something that Draco didn't know about and wasn't warned about, and is actively fighting against it now, well then he'd wish that he was dead.

After a few more minutes, Draco finally raises his wand and mutters a drying spell upon the blood puddle only two feet away from them, then turns his wand back on the two of them and does the same. He needs Potter warm. That will abate the shock for a bit.

Potter groans, his hair brushing unto Draco's cheek, and Draco wrinkles his nose. It's… soft. And disgusting, Draco hastily tells himself. Disgustingly soft.

Draco pushes Potter away with a hand and sighs. "Potter," he calls again, looking at Potter's hand. After a second thought, he casts another drying charm on Potter's bandages, the messy-haired boy drops back on him, like a rag doll, a sack of potatoes. Well, he's about as useful as a sack of potatoes in this state anyway.

"You prat," Draco sneers at him because he can and then clicks his tongue. He cannot believe this, he still cannot believe that he's in this situation. "Bloody prat...Fucking Gryffindors. Oh for Merlin's sake. If you die… I'm gonna kill you, Potter."

Potter groans again in response, muttering something incomprehensible into Draco's shirt. At least he's semi-conscious now, Draco thinks, finally allowing his eyes to roll in their sockets. Potter needs Potions. Two vials of blood replenishing Potion at least, maybe a Pepper up for the shock, and probably numerous other things Draco cannot think of or isn't aware of right now.

How delightful.

"Potter… Can you move? Open your eyes?" Maybe he can force the boy to walk himself to the infirmary, then deny all contact with him afterward. That sounds like a good plan if Potter manages to stop drooling on him.

Oh, Merlin's pants. Draco eyes his shirt with unconcealed disdain. Potter is drooling on him. He's never wearing this shirt again, that's for sure. He might burn it in the fireplace, tear it into tatters and stuff it in Pansy's pillow… he's not sure which yet.

"I'm sure your virginity wasn't worth this, Potter," Draco says again as he half-heartedly checks for other injuries. There are none, Potter looks as hellish as he did two weeks ago, when they almost shred each other into bits.

His hand, Draco grabs it, cautiously, as if he's handling a dung bomb or a bag of explosives. Two times he had encountered Potter this year, and both times Potter's right hand was bleeding. Earlier, there was too much blood to clearly see what was wrong with the hand himself, but Draco's curiosity is hard to quench now.

Sucking a quick breath, he slowly, delicately pushes the bandages aside, then glares at the dried mass of blood on Potter's thin, skeleton-like hands. Draco sniffs as he sees the bony fingers, long they may be, but they might as well belong to an old witch, all crooked and bent but unwrinkled and soft. If Draco didn't know any better he would have thought the hand to be stitched to Potter's wrist and then glamoured to look otherwise.

His other hand looked normal enough. This one… this one looks like an outcast.

Draco knows it might be painful, but he starts wiping the dried flecks with the cloth anyway. He needs to see how deep the wound goes to assess the damage. Potter cries out but Draco refuses to wince in sympathy.

What in the name of Merlin's hairy saggy balls.

There isn't a deep wound in Potter's hand. It's a whole fucking sentence. Draco's mouth falls open and he just stares at the swollen, inflamed words for a full minute. The cuts are still bleeding and the blood is smudged and makes it hard to read, but it's discernable enough.

I must not tell lies.

"What -" his head whips to stare at Potter's mop of hair, and his contorted face, then back to the abused hand. Draco's fingers subconsciously tighten around Potter's fingers.

Before he gets nauseous, Draco hastily reapplies the bandages and looks away, he cannot stomach looking at Potter anymore. The image burns fresh in his mind still. Who would do that to themselves?

A few more minutes pass and Draco can breathe rightly again, he slowly transfers Potter to lean against the wall and pushes himself to his feet. He prods Potter's shoulder with his wand.

"Potter," Draco sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. He must look like a mess now. There's no way he can sneak out of the bathroom looking like this. Potter's eyebrows twitch and so does his nose, and Draco shakes him again, curling his mouth for full effect.

"Hmm," Potter groans, his head lolling back against the wall.

"Potter, time to wake up now."

"No," Potter leans his head further back against the wall, groggily muttering under his breath.

"We're not playing house, wake up or I'll dump a bucket on you,"

"Go away," Potter mutters, trying to imitate a swiping motion with his uninjured hand as if swatting at a fly.

"I will, once I know you aren't about to die." It's becoming fundamentally clear that Potter isn't about to die. And would probably be fine. Draco could have left then, leaving Potter to lick his own wounds… forget the disturbing hacking on the boy's hand. Forget everything and avoid this bathroom forever. But something compels him to stay, something primal and urgent, that he cannot quite stifle.

Potter looks drunk, not in control of himself… Draco cannot even think of leaving him like this, he'd be more comfortable leaving an infant than Potter at the moment.

Potter's eyes crack open and he owlishly blinks. And then some more. And then he lifts his hands to rub at his eyes, almost violently.

Draco huffs and quickly mutters an accio to summon Potter's glasses. They're cracked. Scowling, he repairs them and hands them to the now semi-lucid boy.

Harry quickly settles the glasses on his nose, and then, if possible, starts blinking even more vigorously. As if trying to dislodge something.

And then he moves so fast that Draco jumps back. Potter has his wand whipped out in one hand, pointing the offending item straight at Draco's face. Potter is sputtering under his breath, trying to stand up, scrambling against the wall. Like a small mouse, trying to scurry away from a pouncing cat. He seems utterly unaware but alarmed at once.

Draco sighs. Easily plucks the wand out of Potter's injured hand and then settles his other hand on Potter's shoulder to steady him. The last thing he needs is the Gryffindor bashing his head into the wall by accident.

"LET GO! What are you doing?!" Potter's voice is high and panicked, making Draco wince. He struggles under Draco's hand, wiggling as if he's being jinxed.

"Helping you, Potter. Unless you like sleeping in the bathroom in a puddle of your own blood or bashing your head into a wall," Draco pushes Potter down to the floor again, better than having him collapse and break his nose on the floor.

Unsurprisingly, he doesn't stay down and starts trying to get up again, making a swipe for his wand in Draco's hand. Draco takes a step back. Potter snarls, seemingly disoriented.

"Do you really expect me to believe you? Give my wand back!"

Oh, the sheer chutzpah of this rambling fool, Draco aches to roll his eyes.

"Look, Potter, you're obviously in no state to cast any spells, and giving you a wand will only end in disaster. I'd rather this bathroom not be reduced to rubble." Draco keeps his voice cool and nonchalant, but his eyes are fixed on Potter's hand. Which has started bleeding again, soaking through the recently dried bandages.

He still cannot quite stomach the sight of Potter's hand and the words… etched into his flesh with the sharpest point of a knife, probably. Who knows how Potter does it?

Potter opens his mouth to say something, but Draco just comes forward and actually shoves him down on the floor again, before plopping down next to him and throwing their wands a couple of feet away. "I'm not going to attack you. There, happy?"

Potter, decidedly, does not look happy in the slightest, but at least he isn't attacking him with his bare hands, which is considered a win in Draco's books.

"What are you doing?" He asks, his eyes are so wary that Draco is almost offended. He's leaning away from Draco, and the blonde is severely tempted to tell him how he was drooling on Draco's shoulder only a minute ago.

"I wanted to chop you up and use the chunks as Potion ingredients," he says after a short phase. "But alas, you woke up at just the right time."

Potter scoffs, his nostrils flaring, Draco's noticed that happening often, mostly when Potter's angry. "I'm not fooling around," the Gryffindor growls. He still doesn't seem to notice his bandaged hand, or act as if he has any use of that hand at all. It lays on the floor, limp while his other hand is fisted upon his knees.

This time, Draco really does roll his eyes. "I didn't know you had short term memory loss problems, too." He drawls. "Or perhaps a concussion?" he hums.

He gives Potter a long clinical look, his eyes fixated on the boy's forehead with a pensive frown. "Hmm, now that'd be tricky."

Potter shrinks under his gaze, fierce, his eyes alone narrow in a way that seems to want to will Draco out of existence with determination and not an ounce of magic. "Stop beating around the bush, Malfoy," Potter snaps, his eyes narrowing, "Why would you be helping me?" Then he holds up his injured hand, nodding at the remains of Draco's school robe. Draco just stares at him for a moment, unimpressed and simultaneously intrigued by how quickly Potter seems to be gathering his wits about him. He still looks pale, but a bit more coherent.

"I mean, it'd sure be a shame if the Wizarding World's Golden Boy were to die in an abandoned girls bathroom, but what would I know," Draco smirks, an expression he knows would infuriate Potter. "You do owe me a school robe, by the way," They both look down on the tattered remains of Draco's robe, previously draped over Potter and now lying beneath them.

Potter looks up with a scoff. "Why would you care about that? Ripping your robe for me?" he holds up his hand again. "Wrapping my hand? That's not you." He sneers at Draco. "The real you would probably dance over my grave along with Voldemort."

Draco shouldn't have flinched. They were just words. But he did, hard. Almost smacking his head on the wall behind him. Potter has no idea about the real him, and he has no idea what the Dark Lord is really capable of. Potter doesn't get it.

And true to Draco's thoughts, Potter does misinterpret his flinch.

"You don't know what you're talking about, Potter," he hisses.

The Gryffindor almost looks surprised for a second, before his lips curl up in a cruel smile, "Why? Afraid of saying Voldemort's name? Never knew a 'Malfoy'", he raises his hands in exaggerated air quotes, "would be afraid of a simple name." And then, he abruptly stills, staring at his raised hand as if it's something particularly foul and disgusting. He looks at the bandages for a long moment, before quickly starting to tear them off.

Draco wants to throttle the boy. "Really, Potter." He says instead. "You're going to bleed to death,"

Potter doesn't pause his mad, erratic movements, and shreds the stripes of cloth away from his hand, "I don't need your help." He bites out, sounding a bit choked up, Draco assumes it's from the pain.

He shrugs, slowly, and then turns away from the other boy. What was he thinking? Of course, this is how things were going to turn out. This was Potter's life he saved, for whatever reason, probably the last person on earth who would appreciate it. "You're right, Potter. Saving your life was an absolute waste of my time." Draco crosses his arms. "You cannot save someone who doesn't want to be saved."

"By you? No thanks." Potter slumps back against the wall, his eyes falling shut.

Draco jeers. "Are you going to hack those on your other hand? 'I must not accept any help'?" Potter's eyes shoot open.

Draco ruthlessly continues. "You do realize how twisted you would look once everyone finds out, don't you?"

"You know nothing," there is a distinct weary edge to Potter's voice.

"And you clearly do, or you wouldn't have shredded your hand." Draco is very good at keeping any shred of concern from his voice, a concern he is absolutely not feeling, shouldn't be feeling, anyway. Slytherins curiosity, that is all.

Potter throws him a look of pure loathing and then hangs his head, as if too exhausted to carry an argument.

"I didn't do it." He says, and Draco's eyebrows rise on their own accord. That's… weird, definitely untrue, and weird. Potter really does expect him to believe this, doesn't he?

"I'm sorry, what?" he asks aloud.

Potter huffs. "I said ' I didn't do it '." He groans again, this time out of muffled frustration. "I'm so tired of getting blamed for everything!" Draco is sure that if Potter were able to, he would have stood up and stalked off right then, but as it is, he looks too exhausted to even keep his eyes open.

"It's your hand." Draco's voice has lost its accusing quality. Potter just idly sat and let someone else do that to his hand? That seems highly unlikely, but as Draco's come to learn, nothing is impossible when it concerns Potter.

Potter's eye twitches. "That doesn't mean anything, okay?! I didn't do it, why would I even do such a thing?" Draco frowns. Exactly, why? Why would anyone do that to themselves, that's the question.

"Who did this to you, if it wasn't you?" Draco knows, even as he speaks, that the chances of Potter doing this to himself are highly unlikely. And once the reason dawns on him, Draco wants to hit himself. Potter was right-handed. Draco had known that since their first class together. Potter's injured hand was his right one. And yet… the cuts were in his handwriting, precise, but impossible to manage.

It is a very relieving realisation, at least. The image of Potter cutting into his own hand with the edge of a knife makes for a vivid, nauseating scene.

"Whatever, Malfoy, as if you care,"

Why does Potter have to be so difficult about everything? Draco is more intrigued than ever. He makes up his mind, fast. "Potter…If you don't tell me, I would have no choice but to go through the process of elimination, is it your... friends? Weasel and the muggle-born?" He seriously doubts it.

"No!" Potter looks horrified at the mere prospect, "Just leave it."

"I didn't lose a robe, just to leave it. Tell me, or I'll tell everyone." Low blow, but it's not like Draco cares. Slytherins utilise anything and everything in order to achieve success, pride or morals don't necessarily play a hand in it.

Potter is flabbergasted. "What?"

"You heard me. Tell me who did this to you, or I'll tell everyone about your hand." Draco doesn't attempt to keep the smugness from his voice, "You do know how quickly that'll catch on, right? One whispered word and it'll be printed in every newspaper the next morning."

"Are you threatening me?" Potter is glaring at him. It's not very effective.

"If you're too scared of the person who did this to go as far as to protect their identity, you're most likely not going to do anything about me threatening you." Draco waves him off. "Tell me now, Potter, who carved words into your hand?"

The other boy uncomfortably shifts in his place. "They didn't carve it, not… in the literal sense of the word. Um… how do I know that you won't tell anyone anyway?" Potter's eyes are skeptical and honestly, it's not like Draco can blame him. If the roles were reversed, right this moment, Draco would die before uttering a word to Potter. But the roles aren't reversed and Draco is a skilled player.

"Why would I do that if I'm getting what I want?" Draco asks, exasperated. He has to admit, playing against someone who isn't familiar with the rules of the game is rather exhausting.

Potter narrows his eyes further, turning to fully face Draco. "What do you want?" he asks, and Draco smirks.

Had he ever entertained the idea that it would be easy? Because it wasn't.

"The name of the person who did this to you." Draco shrugs. "Potter honestly… you should drop by in the infirmary to get your head checked later." He isn't even saying it sarcastically anymore, now that Draco thinks about it, Potter could actually have a concussion. Draco stops himself from frowning in concern. He stashes the weird tightening in his chest for later procession in his mind, when he's less occupied and confused. He'll deal with it then.

"My hand is fine. And… it was Umbridge. It still is her, I have another detention with her this week." Draco stills and opens his mouth, then closes it. Before finally speaking.

"Umbridge."

"Yeah, her. I don't think she really likes me." It couldn't have been more of an understatement.

"She's… carving words into your hand." Draco had known she was a fat pink unreasonable toad with a probably sadistic streak, but torturing students? She's a teacher, a very sorry excuse for one, but a Professor nonetheless. Dumbledore cannot have known about this, or any other Professor for that matter, if they did, they wouldn't have allowed Umbridge to carry on with her medieval methods. On Potter too, at that.

"No. No, she has this- um… this quill, that doesn't need ink." Potter frowns, then glares at his hand. "She just has me write lines… and the quill… I don't know how it works. But somehow, it uses my blood as ink? I don't know. The moment I start writing… the words start appearing on the back of my hand."

"Appearing or sculptured into?" It's a struggle to keep his face completely blank.

"Who cares about the wording, Malfoy?" Potter grumbles as he slides down lower on the wall, clearly exhausted.

"You haven't told anyone."

"I cannot tell anyone."

"Potter, you have to tell someone. This is.. I'm not sure whether it has occurred to you or not… but this is torture. The very definition of it." Potter's hand has started bleeding sluggishly again.

"When I say, I cannot tell anyone, you need to take my word for it, Malfoy. Ron and Hermione will flip. And there's nothing they can do, so that'll only upset them more, the professors have no choice but to abide by Umbridge's rules, she's from the Ministry, she can get them fired if they act out…"

"Potter, you and your hero complex-" with Gryffindors this stupid, they'd give Hufflepuffs a run for their money, Draco sneers.

"Professor Dumbledore hasn't looked me in the eye even once since the term started, so he's clearly too busy to deal with my trivial complaints," Potter sounds very bitter.

"Trivial complaints? Potter… you almost bled yourself dry not half an hour ago." Bleeding out on the marble floors, unmoving.

"You don't understand."

"No, I really don't understand your brutish Gryffindor logic, Potter. If you don't tell someone, there might not be a next time. Do you realise that?" Or does he think that just because he escaped the Dark Lord, he is unkillable?

"I can't go to Madam Pomfrey, she'll find out, and I cannot just go around asking for healing balms either."

"You need to do something about it or your hand will be ruined beyond recognition, Potter. Let me help." The last few words are out of his mouth before Draco can stop himself. But after a moment, he doesn't want to take them back. He couldn't help his mother, he was helpless then. But he can help Potter since the idiot is so damned stuck on trying to get himself killed.

"How are you going to help, exactly? Rip up another robe for me?" Draco snorts.

"As tempting as it sounds, no. I can get my hands on Potions, balms, anything that helps," He's not sure as to how yet, but he knows that if there's anyone who can do that, it will be Draco.

"Why would you want to help me?" Potter is staring at him now, actually staring and not merely glaring.

"If you don't let me help you, and you won't tell anyone about this, then I'll reveal your 'secret'."

"We hate each other, just two weeks ago -" Draco cuts him off, impatient but not wanting to let any misunderstandings linger.

"And none of that has changed. I still hate your guts Potter, and I'm sure you hate mine. This is strictly business. Nothing else." Absolutely nothing.

"But what do you get out of this?" Potter has crossed his arms over his chest, tucking in his still bleeding hand under his arm.

"I need a distraction." Not a lie, but not the truth. Not that he is going to explain it to Potter. "And you need to live. Seems like a good deal to me. Just for once, Potter, use that hero complex for your own good, instead of for others."

"And you won't tell anyone, anything, about any of this?" Oh, they're making progress, at last.

"Not if you don't."

"Did you just threaten me into saving me?" Draco lets a smirk creep up onto his face, the Slytherin in him is proud.

"Someone has to, Potter. When is your next detention?" he asks brusquely.

"Tuesday. It starts at five… It probably lasts for quite a while." Potter looks frustrated and angry just at the thought of it.

"Then I'll be here with the Potions. We'll meet up here after your detention. I'll have the Potions by then." He still doesn't know how, but he will figure something out. He is Draco Malfoy.

"Don't stand me up," Potter grumbles, before making an attempt to push himself to his feet, barely succeeding. Draco watches him as he walks over to their wands and picks his own up. Then Draco stands up too, smoothly bending and picking up his own wand as Potter makes for the door, heaving his bag upon his shoulders.

"Don't be late," he says just as Potter steps out.