A/N: Chapter warnings for; graphic imagery and disturbing themes, explicit language, panic attacks, drowning, graphic implied/referenced torture, descriptions of illness and injury, vomiting.
Something to spice up your holidays, what better than a fresh dose of heavy angst? Merry Christmas!
Next update on: 8th January, Friday.
We all know that this year was a rough one, we were constantly tested and challenged and put through the wringer, but we still had the good moments. For us those were whenever we got a reviews or follows from you all! And now here we are, and the year is over! Finally over. Things are about to look up again. New year, new life.
Stay safe everyone!
Chapter Twenty Three; Spilling Guilt
"So full of artless jealousy is guilt,
It spills itself in fearing to be spilt."
― William Shakespeare
…
Harry's mind is silent. Utterly silent and that terrifies him.
He used to be a companion to silence. Those nights in his cupboard, where everyone had already gone to sleep, but his stomach aches were keeping him awake. The nights where the sound of the plumbing behind his cupboard sent him into a voiceless panic in the pitch dark, building on an irrational childish fear of monsters, when the real ones were sleeping above his head, without a single worry in the world.
This silence was different. In fact, it could not be described as silence at all, as opposed to the lack of sound. Silence is never silent, not really. Harry never used to know the difference, but he is acutely aware of it now.
Silence is tamed. Less dark. Nothing gazes back at you in silence, but from the pitch dark, everything has eyes and sharpened teeth.
The wind blows against his face, but it has no sound, the grass rustles under his feet, he feels his bare toes bend the needle-like structures, and it still has no sound. He cannot even hear the sound of his own breathing, but if he could, he's sure that it would be the only thing filling his head.
He's back in the maze.
He cannot look back, he cannot turn his head, it's as if he's being held hostage by his own mind. The only thing Harry can do is walk forward, to the shining trophy.
He counts each step, his eyes seize the tall shrubs around him, catching the small tendril-like thorns that litter the ground, a little away from the trophy.
Harry knows what happens if he touches the trophy, he can feel it in the sinking in his stomach, in his shaking hands, and subdued thoughts. But he cannot bear the silence anymore.
His mind had never been this quiet before.
He's trapped, and the only way out is the portkey. Ten steps and he's standing right in front of it, gingerly he reaches out, only hesitating for a moment before his fingers close around the handle.
The familiar pull in his navel is unsettlingly absent. Something shifts in the corner of his eyes, Harry's eyes whip to the silent thorns, they're slithering toward him with lightning speed, soundlessly lashing toward his feet.
Harry feels his mouth open, knows that he needs to cry out, run, do something, but he's paralysed. He can only watch as the brambles wrap around his ankles, yanking him away from the trophy and to the dark hedges. Harry's head hits the ground with a sickening lack of noise. The pain is blinding though.
They edge him closer to the hedge, and Harry is helpless. It's too silent, everything is too still. His feet are bloodied and scarred, and the small sharp thorns dig into the wounds, rupturing them in the sharp lashing motions of pulling his body forward.
Then he's in the hedge and he cannot breathe.
His eyes are open but they cannot see, or discern shapes, it's too dark and murky. He feels as if he's under water. Then suddenly he is.
The thorns wrapped around his ankles are now shackles, and he's suspended in water, holding his breath, feeling his lungs burn with the effort. Feels the oxygen escaping his mouth, still hears nothing. Not even the pounding of his heart that he thinks he should be hearing.
Harry cannot do it, he cannot handle the shackles, and the lack of air. He cannot handle being alone under water, in the dark with nothing else with him. No one else here to watch him die, to watch him struggle and sob and cry soundlessly against the rush of pure undulating fear that's washing over him.
He opens his mouth, lets the murky, freezing liquid in, and they burn. Burn worse than flames.
Then he's on his back, sputtering and thrashing under two manic eyes.
She caresses his face, her touch fanning the icy shards in his skin. Her wand is pointed to his temple. She's smiling.
Harry tries yelling, but she makes a face at him, mock pity apparent in her pouting lips. He sees her lips form the words, and then agony takes over again.
Harry doesn't care about the pain, he doesn't care that his entire body is ablaze. He wants to scream. He needs an outlet for the pain. He cannot handle it otherwise. He cannot handle her silent cackle, and his heaving chest, and the soundless impact of his head against the cell's floor.
'Please, please,' Harry begs his mind. ' Let me go. Stop it, please.'
He expects this to go on forever, the silent agony, but it doesn't. It's cut off as abruptly as his drowning. He's still in the cell, but she's not there anymore. Harry has never been more relieved in his life.
The first thing he can hear is the sound of his own breathing.
His hands wriggle, his fingers trembling on the ground as they pat around, looking for something, anything. He's not disappointed when he touches skin.
It's another hand, and Harry readily closes his fingers around the lax limb, his breath steadies, gradually, as he tries to compose his mind into its semblance of sanity.
He's not alone.
It takes him forever, but finally, Harry starts to sit up, ignoring his blurry vision as he squeezes the hand in his. It must have been Draco's. It should have been Draco's but it's not.
It's Cedric.
Harry tries scrambling away, wrenching his hand out of Cedric's hold but it's impossible. Cedric is dead, his face is decomposed, but his eyes, Harry knows those eyes.
Cedric is so dead that he doesn't have a jaw anymore, it depicts a clear image of attrition in his head because Harry's dreams had never shown him this version of the boy, decomposed, and mangled and wracked with maggots.
Harry wants to retch but he cannot because as he looks around he notes that they're not alone.
Mom is there. Leaned against the wall. Dad is propped up next to her, their eyes are wide, glazed, and terrified as they stare right into Harry's eyes. Harry cannot look away. They look like they've been dead much longer than Cedric has.
Harry cannot even allow his mind to register the missing bits of their bodies as he tears his eyes away to the other corner of the cell. Narcissa Malfoy, looking anything but graceful in her tattered robes. She's there too. Her eyes are not as glazed, but she's also staring at Harry.
Everyone is staring at him. In death, and in a silence that only comes with death.
He looks back at Cedric, his fingers graze against the bony knuckles, there's something crawling on the underside of his wrist, but Harry doesn't dare to look.
"Do you see?" come the surprising words, breathed against his ear, rustling his hair. Harry gasps, this time he hears the sharp intake of air with vivid clarity.
He turns his head around, and Lucius Malfoy's eyes burn into his. They're so close, and they have blue flecks swirling amongst the grey. Just like Draco's eyes. Unlike Draco's, Lucius' looks cold and unforgiving.
"Do you see?" the man asks once more, his hair is matted with a crusted red. He takes Harry's other hand in his.
"See what?" Harry asks, his voice cracked and barely audible. He's not used to the umbrage of sounds that fill the cell. The sound of his breathing, and the gravel under his body, and wriggling creatures that he logically shouldn't be hearing crawling onto his hand.
Malfoy gestures around the cell. "They're imprisoned," he says and holds his right hand by the wrist, "You did it. "
"No, I didn't." Tears stream down his face. Harry wants to go, he wants to leave.
"Yes you did," Lucius brandishes a small penknife, adorned silver, but rusting on the edges. It's not rust though, Harry realises as the man brings the gleaming knife closer to his face. It's dried blood.
"I'm sorry," he tells Draco's father. He means it, he means every word that comes out of his mouth. He's sorry for killing them. He's sorry for being born.
"You killed my wife." The knife is on his wrist, not quite pushing down, but merely grazing his skin. Harry shakes his head, he cannot stop the flood of tears anymore.
"I didn't," he glances at Narcissa's body once more, and she's staring at them both, Harry cries. "I didn't."
"You killed Cedric, you stole my son. You disfigured him."
The knife finally pushes down, and the sound is disgusting in its hyper intensity. He can hear his skin being shredded under the blade, he can feel the pain. It hurts so much.
"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to! I swear I didn't mean to. Stop! Stop, please. " Harry had never begged anyone like this before. Not Voldemort in the graveyard, and not Bella when she had him trapped in here for days. But this pain is agonising. He cannot breathe.
"You killed me." The blade viciously drags across his wrist, and Harry has to look away, he's going to sever his hand from the wrist. Harry knows and that knowledge piles on the pain.
"You didn't give in, " Lucius sounds so methodical and calm, even as his face is spattered with Harry's blood, "You didn't die. So others had to die for you,"
"No," Harry sobs.
"Don't fight it, Harry," Cedric says, squeezing his hand, "It won't hurt when he's finished. It'll all be okay."
The knife hits something blunt. Harry's bone. And the pain just doesn't register anymore. He's not looking at it, but the pain isn't changing. The knife just keeps sawing away. Back and forth.
Cedric squeezes his hand again, "It's going to be okay."
Something hits Draco on the cheek.
It takes everything he has in him not to scream and scramble off the bed. His eyes snap open and he stares at the ceiling, his heart is thundering somewhere in his throat.
He doesn't know how long he breathes for, trying to process the fact that Fenrir isn't here, and that he isn't about to be murdered, but it doesn't feel more than a minute to him.
And then he hears the whimper, right beside him. The sound makes him flinch. He's always slower when groggy.
His senses seem to be coming back to him sluggishly. It takes him over twenty seconds to blink the confusion away, an embarrassingly long time, but at least he knows that it was Harry who'd hit him accidentally with his arm.
He seems to be having a nightmare.
Draco frowns.
Harry is still, for the most part. He is whimpering, but with the way his face is scrunching up, mouth twisting, Draco would have expected more thrashing to be involved-other than the slapping arm- as it usually is with Harry.
Yet, the other boy lies, incredibly still and also as if he's fighting for his life. It's disconcerting to watch someone being trapped in their own body.
"Harry?" Draco whispers, "Harry!"
He nervously swallows, detecting the tears rapidly leaking out of Harry's eyes, Draco props himself up on his elbows, creeps closer to Harry in the cramped bed, and taps Harry's cheek.
"Harry, wake up."
Harry starts sobbing.
The first tendrils of panic grip his stomach.
He sits up and leans over a little, "Harry! Wake up! It's just a nightmare!"
Beneath the heap of blankets, is Harry's other hand, the only part of him that's struggling. Draco pats the blankets and then frowns when it feels wet. With narrowed eyes, he properly sits up and throws the blanket off Harry's body.
Harry's injured hand is fisted on the bedsheet, in a pool of its own blood. A lot of it.
"Fuck," Draco murmurs, reaching out a hand to slowly clasp Harry's shoulder and give him a small shake. This is not good. Not good at all. Draco had not been expecting this.
Severus said it was under control before he left. He explicitly said the words 'Stable if not agitated.'
This doesn't look stable.
Harry hadn't worked with that hand even once since his godfather's departure.
The bandages on the boy's hand are so soaked that they couldn't be discerned from his skin.
Draco touches him and Harry jolts, crying out, terrified, but still doesn't wake.
His heart's thundering in his ears, and he can barely hear his own thoughts over it.
The bleeding can not be good for Harry, according to Severus, his blood is already too thin, and they don't have enough blood replenishers left, and Harry isn't unclenching his hand, which is probably aiding the blood flow quite a bit.
He has no way to contact Severus. No literal way. No owl, no floo, he is not confident in his ability to apparate in this state.
Fuck. Fuck.
The moment Draco touches his hand, Harry starts his weird thrashing in earnest, as if he's shackled down and put under the torture curse. Flailing but unable to move. Draco knows what that looks like too well.
Draco scoots even closer to Harry and bites onto the inside of his cheek, hard, to stimulate his thinking.
What if he does something to it and it gets worse?
Ignoring the damp sheets beneath them, he grips one of Harry's shoulders in one hand and pats his cheek with another.
"Harry, it's just a dream, you gotta wake up."
He had no fucking idea if it's gonna work. He doesn't know what he'll do if it makes it worse.
Harry murmurs, delirious and shaking his head. And with a sinking feeling, Draco wonders if it actually is a dream or one of those visions. Maybe even a feverish delusion, or even worse, the poison manifesting into something worse.
His panic addled brain is deducing way too fast for Draco to settle on one simple thought.
Harry's cheek feels warm to touch. Fever? Just Harry? The blankets? Harry is always a little too warm to begin with, but Draco doesn't know shit about medicine.
And if it's a vision? A tiny voice asks in his head. What if the dark lord is in his mind right now, inducing the bleeding, and the fever and the thrashing? Should Draco even be doing this?
Draco has only known about the visions for a short amount of time. He has no idea how they work, he has no idea what he should be doing now.
He should wake Potter.
Mouth dry as the Sahara, Draco slaps Harry a little more harshly. Whatever he's dreaming of is certainly worse than a couple of rough pats on the cheeks, so he doesn't really feel guilty for slapping him again.
It doesn't work, and now Harry's cheek is red.
Draco panics harder, shaking his shoulders more harshly, he all but yells, "Harry, wake UP!"
And Harry does.
No preparation or delay. He's awake all at once. With a loud gasp, his eyes fly open, filled with such unbridled terror that Draco rears back. Harry lets out a choked gasp and scuttles back a little, hitting his head on the headboard in his haste. Draco winces, but Harry doesn't even seem to notice.
"Harry?" Draco says, softy.
He shakes his head violently, murmuring something too low for Draco to hear. The pool of blood is getting bigger. Staring upwards as if staring at a manic corpse suspended from the ceiling. He's as white as chalk.
"Harry, are you-" Draco cuts himself off, of course, he's not okay, "Harry, you're bleeding."
Harry blinks.
Draco had backed away a little when Harry had woken up, but he closes the distance again now. He's reluctant to touch him again, but softly says, "You're hurt."
Harry pulls himself up into a sitting position, back pressed against the headboard, and stares at his bleeding hand with a spasming expression, as if unsure whether to be fascinated or horrified. He's crying.
Draco doesn't dare breathe.
Harry shakes his head again, another sob bubbles out of him but it doesn't sound right, "I'm sorry," he says.
Draco's lips part. What.
"I didn't- I didn't mean to, I swear I didn't." Harry's voice is hoarse and cracking, his breathing ragged. His sobs are getting worse. It sounds like he can't breathe.
Draco wrings his hands, biting his lips.
Harry has wrapped his arms around his knees, bloodied and all, compressed into as small a space as he could manage, face buried in between them. Draco doesn't know what to do. And there's so much blood. On the bedsheets, on Harry's pyjamas, his sleeves, his arms.
It looks like Harry cannot breathe and now Draco isn't faring much better either. This is all new to him, this… handling other people. Being there in their emotional turmoil, well, if this counted as one.
He has no idea what to do, or more importantly, what Harry needed him to do. What was obvious though, was that he should do something.
He scoots closer to Harry, their sides press together, and he hears Harry's breath catch.
"No, no, no, stay 'way," Harry mumbles wetly, "I kill everyone. Stay 'way Draco."
He doesn't know where to begin dismantling that. Nightmare, dream, or vision or whatever… must have had to do with killing people.
Or killing Draco.
This cannot be healthy-obviously-, carrying this much guilt, and fear. Draco would have thought getting captured and tortured half to death would have absolved him of the notion that any of this was his fault. But it looks like this ran deeper than Draco had originally thought.
"No, Harry." Draco slowly wraps one arm around Harry's shaking shoulders.
He is just going to bullshit his way through this, and hope that he's doing it right. He has never cuddled anyone like this in his entire life.
"It's not your fault. It's You-Know-Who that kills them all, not you." He huffs into the boy's hair. "You've got the worst hero complex I've ever seen, you could never hurt someone."
"I do!" Harry wails, turning around and burying his face between Draco's neck and good shoulder. Draco stiffens, almost pulls away for a moment before he forces himself to relax. Nothing is hurting, so yeah, he can handle this.
"No, you don't," Draco says firmly, awkwardly patting Harry's hair with one hand at an odd angle because of the way his body is positioned. It's drenched in sweat. Draco wrinkles his nose but doesn't pull away. He can do this much for Harry.
"Your mother, and- and father, and C-C-Cedric, everyone, how is it not my fault?" Harry sniffs loudly, before coughing into Draco's shirt. Draco winces, before Harry's words register.
"How is it your fault?" He asks incredulously. "You weren't the one holding the wand."
Just a while back, Draco was telling him the opposite. In that godforsaken bathroom. He accused Potter of killing Diggory and killing his parents. The memory is so hazy, that he's not even sure if it happened.
Harry stiffens, but Draco carries on, "You weren't the one to speak the incantation, you weren't the one to fire the spell, hell, you weren't even the one to push them in the direction of the spell," he feels more numb after each word.
How is it that only now he's realizing such a simple fact?
"Nor were you the one to tell anyone to kill them or the one who had any intentions to have them killed. There," Draco says, with a small almost satisfied air, "I think I covered all bases, that makes it, most decidedly, not your fault."
Not his fault.
An apology is on the tip of Draco's tongue, so urgent that he can almost taste it.
Harry's trembling is almost as bad as it used to be in the cell directly after one of Bella's torture sessions. That can't be good. After a few days of rest and a mostly stress-free environment, the tremors had eased a little. Now they'd come back threefold. It feels like Harry's having a seizure.
"Harry," Draco says.
He's shaking his head, "I didn't mean to."
Draco wants this to be over already, he has no idea what to do, or how to do it, and Harry's hand is still leaking blood all over the two of them, "Alright. Alright; I know. You didn't mean to,"
Harry grips his hand for less than a second before letting go. He coughs a few more times, still dangerously pale.
Why did Severus leave them here by themselves? He has no idea how to deal with this.
He runs his fingers through Harry's hair and just keeps hoping that it's providing at least some amount of relief.
Harry keeps coughing wetly, painfully, his other hand clenching the sheets.
"You need some water."
Harry shakes his head, Draco needs to take care of the bleeding. The bleeding and the coughing and the fever. There is so much.
Shifting them both to wrangle the sheets from their tangled legs, Draco tightens his hold around Harry's shoulder.
"I don't feel good," Harry says. "I think I'm gonna-" there's no time to react, Harry's already retching on the covers and Draco instinctively scrambles away, holding Harry as it happens.
The other boy looks miserable.
"I'm sorry-" this time, he has enough time to turn away and Draco pointedly pushes the disgust to the furthest corner of his mind.
Harry has never been this sick after a nightmare before. Draco needs to get him out of the bed and into the bathroom as soon as possible. Both of them.
"Hey. Hey, it's okay," he doesn't know how much rubbing one's back helps, he's never had anyone doing that for him before. Usually, because he was never sick enough to garner this much attention.
He grabs his mother's wand and quickly cleans his own clothes before doing the same for Harry. "Let's go, come on."
Harry doesn't cooperate at first, but Draco doesn't yield. The wound has opened yet again, and Draco has no idea why. Severus told them that it was stable enough to be left alone, it looked stable enough before his godfather had wrapped it up a few days ago. Draco has no idea what prompted this.
Aside from this fact circulating in his mind, the only other thought is the word 'Crap', playing in a loop.
They stumble to the bathroom in total darkness, with Harry heavily leaning on Draco with closed eyes.
Draco is not sure how he feels about the close proximity. He actually doesn't have much time to think about it. All he has time and space for is getting the other boy to the bathroom before another accident, and the word 'Crap'.
He turns the lights on, and Harry crashes in front of the toilet on his knees. Draco quickly takes action, opens the water tap, opens the cupboard for potions and bandages.
"Cold water helps nausea," he tells a disgruntled Harry. "Come on, wash your face."
He holds Harry's bleeding hand under the cold water, cursing Severus with every inhale, and praying that the bleeding stops with every exhale.
Severus needs to whip up the antidote. Soon. He's due for a visit tomorrow, that's it. They just have to hold on for a few hours.
"Draco."
"Don't talk now," Draco mutters, pushing the wet flannel to Harry's forehead. His mind is racing, checking off one potion after the other, keeping an eye on the rapid bleeding, cursing his godfather and Umbridge with every cuss word under the sky. Crap. Crap. Crap.
"I cannot give you any stomach soothing potions," he says, eying the rows of stomach soothers in the cupboard. That is the frustrating bit out of all of this. They have the supplies and the potions, only it turns out that Harry cannot have any.
Harry is silent but still looks disoriented. Draco actually wants to hit himself for not explaining it to the other boy sooner. "It's the poison, Harry, alright?"
The bleeding, the vomiting and the nightmare. It makes sense, Draco thinks. Severus has to be here by tomorrow. The man knows these things better than anyone. He designed the poison himself.
"I'm-"
"Don't talk," Draco takes the wet flannel away from Harry's forehead and presses it to his hand instead, the white cloth immediately turns pink.
"Your hand," Draco points out. "It's the poison. Don't worry, Severus will be here with the antidote soon. None of these things is your fault, alright? When the bleeding stops, you have to tell me how to make tea with mint."
"Mint?" Harry mutters.
"Mint is the main ingredient in stomach soothing potion. It helps with nausea," he explains.
"Oh," Harry still looks dazed and his eyes are bloodshot. It could either be the exhaustion or another side effect of the poison. Draco isn't sure because they don't cover advanced dark poisons made by potion masters in class. It's not even part of the Hogwarts curriculum. Draco inwardly curses some more.
Crap.
"We'll stop the bleeding," Draco says, mostly to himself. "Then we'll get you on the couch, I'll take care of the sheets and then we wait for Severus."
Harry flushes in shame, "I can clean,"
"You cannot stand," Draco says, helping Harry sit on the edge of the toilet.
He groans, "Sorry."
Draco closes his eyes and wets the flannel once more. "You apologise one more time," he says, "And I'm feeding you raw leaves, Potter. Don't apologise." He presses the cold compress against the oozing wound. The blood is dark but thin, blood poisoning, obviously. He catches Harry's gaze. "It's not your fault," he repeats. "Curse Umbridge."
"Bloated Toad," Harry says after a moment.
Draco snorts. "That's right. Keep going."
"Flamingo."
Draco pauses, "What?"
Harry shrugs. His eyes keep drooping but his shoulders are impossibly tense. "They're pink."
Draco notes with relief that the bleeding has slowed down. "They're not fat," he points out, wiping Harry's hand. He might as well bandage it now.
Harry snorts, "Fat flamingos."
Draco smirks, "Nice."
They're silent for a beat.
"Am I dying?" Harry's voice trembles.
Draco's face hardens. "No," he firmly says, "I won't let you. It's just poison. Severus will be here soon," he says, and conjures up a roll of gauze, setting it on the floor beside them. Harry's hand has mostly stopped bleeding. Draco wipes at Harry's hand again and they're quiet for one whole minute before Harry speaks again.
"Your dad is mad at me."
Draco freezes, looking at Harry, startled, "My… father?"
Harry made an affirmative noise in his throat, "Really mad."
Delirium. Crap. That's not good, Draco bites his already raw lip. He closes the tap and picks up the gauze. He's not sure if dittany or the murtlap would help or make things worse.
Crap, and fuck and all the unpleasant words under the sky.
"He's not mad anymore," Draco promises him after a while as he wraps the wound. Harry doesn't reply, but his fingers curl a little in Draco's hand. When the wrapping is complete, he still finds himself holding Harry's hand.
He's staring at the hand but he knows that Harry is staring at him, the same way he stares at things he's fascinated by, or the things that Draco has thus noticed. It makes something dance in his chest.
"Come on," he says, clearing his throat. "Let's get you settled on the couch," Draco helps him up, dismayed to see that the shaking hasn't eased even a tiny bit.
"Are you going to leave me?" Harry's voice is blank, and Draco frowns.
"No. Don't be stupid."
"You should leave. Or you're the stupid one."
Draco doesn't answer.
He's not coming. He's not coming, and no, he's still not coming.
Draco is driving himself insane.
He's been camping out in the living room all night, and well into the morning, he's had brewed over ten kettles of mint tea with honey he found in the pantry, he's changed Harry's bandages five times in the last five hours, they've made over six trips to the bathroom and Severus is still not here.
If only Draco had some ingredients… well, he wouldn't know what to do with them, he's never worked with this particular branch of poison before, much less one that belongs to his godfather. Severus's work is flawless, always has been, and low dosages given over the course of two, almost three months is no joke.
Damn Umbridge. Fucking death eater scum.
"Draco?" Harry's small voice jolts him out of his worry-induced reverie, and Draco whirls on to Harry, who's trying to get off of the couch, struggling from under the layers of blankets.
"Hmm?" Draco fusses around, shushing him when he tries to bat his hands away.
"Do you want food?"
Draco frowns, he's given Harry a lot of tea, but admittedly, nothing to eat, "Are you hungry?"
"Not me," Harry coughs, "I meant you."
"Me?" Draco asks, his eyebrows shooting up.
"Yes." Harry is still trying to take the covers off him.
"No, I don't-" Draco starts, before cutting himself off, "It doesn't matter. I'm fine. We're fine. Just tell me when you're hungry."
"You cannot cook," Draco wants to feel a little bit relieved at the slight quirking of Harry's lips, but Harry's face is still way too ashen, lips too dry and cracked, and eyes too sunken for his comfort.
"Don't worry about it. Severus will be here soon," it's both a reassurance to himself and Harry.
"I can make something quick," Harry mutters. Draco scowls when he half sits up, his face going a nasty shade of green until Draco plants a hand on his chest and pushes him back down. Harry, naturally, protests, "You cannot even make eggs."
"I can figure it out," Draco rolls his eyes, "Just sleep, you're wasting energy by talking. Do you want another cup?"
"God, no more tea," Harry groans.
"Potter."
Harry raises his eyebrows at him. "You sound just like him,"
Draco sighs, "Who?"
"Your godfather," Harry replies as if it's obvious. It's not, or maybe it is and Draco is too wired up to notice right now.
"He's your godfather? God, Snape is your godfather," Harry is babbling, Draco thinks. Is that a bad thing? At least he's speaking fluidly? Draco doesn't know. "I mean, as godfathers go, he wouldn't be…" He trails off.
"Harry?" Draco asks when Harry doesn't speak for a few moments.
"I forgot what I was going to say," he mumbles. That is definitely not a good sign.
Crap.
"Alright," he says, "Let's not…"
"My godfather is an escaped convict," Potter cuts in, "Yours is a spy," Harry snorts.
"We have lousy luck."
"Lousy, so so lousy. My stomach feels weird," he says, without missing a beat.
"Weird, as in nausea?" Draco asks, quickly getting up and pulling the bucket closer.
"No." Harry says, and then, after a beat, "I don't know, I don't like it. And my stupid hands won't stop shaking, and my legs hurt, I want to shower, but I cannot get up. Lousy luck. Ugh," Harry keeps clenching and unclenching his hands.
Draco takes the right one in his hand and winces when he notices that he's reopened his cuts. Again. "Harry."
"What?"
Draco swallows then shakes his head, "Nothing. I'm going to change your bandages."
Outside the window, the sun has just started to rise above the sea, and the crashing of the waves do little to soothe his nerves as Draco wraps new bandages around Harry's hand, which hadn't stopped bleeding this time at all. He is too afraid to even apply dittany anymore.
"I want to go outside," Harry says, staring down at his freshly wrapped hand.
Draco looks up, "Well, um," he's pretty sure Harry will just topple over if he tries to stand, but just saying no feels too cruel. "We can go tomorrow, I am too tired now…?"
He winces at how it comes out more as a question, but Harry just nods with a pout. The expression is so out of place on his face that Draco blinks, but Harry's eyes have started drooping. The shakes have lessened a little, but they're still a lot worse than they'd been the day before.
Severus. Severus has to come soon.
Draco should still try and make something to eat for them. But Harry was right, he really doesn't know how to cook. Although it couldn't be too hard, he's seen Harry do it many times by now.
How hard could it possibly be?
Turns out, it can be really fucking hard.
Does raw egg white have to be so damn runny? It's just not wiping off the counter. Harry rarely ever uses magic while cooking. But Draco had to give in and use his wand to clear up the three ruined eggs he'd cracked on the counter.
He stands staring at the remaining three eggs in trepidation, wondering if he should try again and whether they would stay in the bowl or not. Eggs are so delicate.
Cracking them against the bowl edge, he turns it to see if it broke. It hasn't.
Delicate. Delicate but apparently not fucking fragile enough to crack on the bowl.
He has to crack it five more times before it actually cracks down the middle.
About twenty minutes later, he wonders if maybe he should have stuck to biscuits and some of that frozen sludge still in their freezer.
And learnt some advanced healing spells while at it. He dabs some dittany at his own right hand, his palm stings furiously as he grits his teeth, and his eyes are watering. He wraps his hand in a bandage and makes his way back to the living room, the bathroom door swings shut behind him.
If he never has to see a bandage again in his lifetime, it would be too soon.
He takes a small bowl of ice cream and spoon to Harry, because he seems to like it for some reason, and sits down next to him on the rug. Draco purses his lips, wondering if maybe he should let the other boy sleep, or if sustenance was more important.
But the choice is made when Harry starts whimpering in his sleep, brows furrowing and eyes rapidly moving beneath lids. Draco quickly sets the bowl down and moves to a kneeling position beside him. He doesn't dare touch Harry yet, "Harry."
He stills, but doesn't open his eyes. Draco reaches out carefully, and keeps a hand on his shoulder, shaking him carefully, "It's me, Draco. You're in Shell Cottage. Wake up."
Harry's face scrunches up, and for a split second Draco is about ninety-nine percent sure that Harry is going to let out a scream, but then his eyes flutter open, "'Raco?"
"Yeah, it's me." Harry feels too warm, and Draco tries not to be too concerned about it. It's not like he can give him a fever-reducing potion for it, "I bought you something to eat."
Harry blinks at him, a little startled, and Draco would have felt offended if he had managed to cook something… but the ice cream in his hands speaks for itself.
"You… what?"
"I thought you liked ice cream."
Harry's face clears as he peers into the bowl, "Oh."
Draco helps Harry sit up. Harry's body is shaking too badly to even hold himself up. Crap.
Draco hands Harry the spoon but holds the bowl in his hands. Harry doesn't start eating for one full minute, and Draco waits, staring at Harry stare at the spoon shake in his tremulous grasp, before it clatters to the floor with a frustrated sound from Harry.
"Now I can't even hold a stupid spoon! How am I supposed to cook? Forget Voldemort, we are both going to starve to death," Harry cries out, his eyes welling with tears. Draco resists the urge to flinch at the Dark Lord's name and quickly picks up the spoon.
"Hey, hey, Harry, it's alright, Severus will be here soon," Draco fucking hopes so, "You'll be fine."
This wasn't the right thing to say, apparently.
"How can you say that?" Harry snaps, "How? You are stuck here with me, your parents are dead, my relatives are dead, Cedric is dead, dead, dead, dead, and I can't hold a stupid fucking spoon."
Draco does flinch then.
He could keep telling himself that Harry is just as stressed out as him, a lot more stressed out than him, in pain, and probably delirious. Probably hungry, but it doesn't take away from the truthfulness of his words. It seems as if everyone around them is dropping dead like flies.
Draco has no family. Not one that matters anymore. He has no manor. Not a single coin to his name.
There's silence, and then he stands up and bumps at Harry with his hips, gesturing at him to scoot over.
"Harry, I know," he says. He means it.
The boy looks at him with teary, red-rimmed eyes, his hands raised up to chest level and trembling violently.
"C'mon," Draco says, "I'll feed you."
Harry's jaw slacks for a second, scowl clearing in surprise, "What?"
"I'll feed you," Draco says, trying not to think too much about it, "You clearly need to eat, you can't go without, and since you can't yourself, I will. That's just… logical. That's common sense, Potter. Even Gryffindors are supposed to have it."
"You'll feed me." Harry deadpans.
"That's what I said," Draco says as he scoops up a spoon full, about to take it to Harry's mouth.
"I am not a child," Harry grumbles.
"Did I say that?"
"Nor an invalid."
"You are sick. Also, you made this ice cream, so I think that makes us even." With that, Draco shoves the spoon past Harry's lips before he can protest more. He is a really scrawny kid. For someone who knows how to cook like him, that shouldn't be possible.
Harry manages to eat a total of four spoonfuls before he starts looking greenish again and Draco has to take the bowl away, and somehow, he doesn't think it's because he doesn't like the ice cream.
He's getting worse.
And Severus still isn't here.
The first thing Draco hears when he wakes up is screaming, and for one moment he thinks, horribly, terribly, with a jolt of debilitating terror, that he is back in Malfoy Manor, in the cells, and that Bellatrix is torturing Harry.
The next thing he is aware of is the crick in his neck, and the ache in his back. As soon as he tries to get up from the floor, his mouth twists in a grimace of pain and he almost crumples again.
His eyes shoot around trying to figure out the source of the screaming and land on Harry, who's thrashing on the couch, flailing and screaming. His cuts, to no one's surprise, have split open again, and his bandages are stained red.
Draco shoots up and quickly pins down Harry's hand, careful of his right one, grabbing it at the elbow. There are tears streaming down his face and he's still screaming.
He shouldn't have fallen asleep. He's an idiot. He shouldn't have. Merlin's balls.
"Harry, Harry!" Draco keeps repeating frantically, his heart is beating somewhere in his throat as he tries to calm the other boy down. Harry's legs are still kicking out a little, but since they're tangled in the covers, Draco isn't too worried about Harry hurting himself.
"Harry!" Draco yells when Harry still doesn't seem to hear him, and the windows have started to rattle dangerously.
Harry's eyes snap open and he continues thrashing, trying to throw Draco off of him.
"It's alright! You're not there anymore," he pauses in puzzlement, "Wherever you think it is, you're not there anymore, it's alright!"
Harry makes a small hiccuping sound, before dissolving into sobs and going limp.
For a moment, Draco can only stare.
This is a nightmare. And it's on a loop, and it seems as if it's just as bad for him as it is for Harry.
Numbly, he notices that Harry's temperature has risen in the past few hours. The bandages have soaked through and the blood is now leaking through to the blankets and the couch.
He won't fall asleep again.
Harry twists a little, and for a second Draco thinks he's going to start thrashing again until he says, "Sick, going to- to be sic- sick."
Draco's eyes widen and he quickly scrambles to pull the bucket to them and Harry retches. The sound is awful, the angle is awful, and Draco winces as Harry vomits half on the rug and half into the bucket.
This time it's Draco's fault.
"I'll be right back, Harry, okay? Just right back," Draco says, quickly hopping over to get his wand. He fucking left it in the kitchen.
As soon as he turns back to Harry, Draco's heart stops.
Harry is lying limp over the couch, looking like death warmed over. But that's only half the picture. His mouth is surrounded by a halo of red.
His own hands shaking now, Draco makes his way slowly over to Harry, gagging just slightly. He's been an empathetic vomiter since childhood. It's a miracle, that he's holding himself together like this.
He stares, and Draco knows, knows that it's blood, but he stares for probably a good half a minute before vanishing the mess.
Harry's vomiting blood.
That is not good. That's fucking worse. That is the fucking worst thing that could have happened. Merlin's bloody balls in hell.
Harry's moan breaks Draco out of his trance and he quickly darts towards him. His heart is thundering in his chest. Crap.
The only thing that makes him feel useful is propping Harry up to make sure he doesn't choke on any more vomit that might be coming up. Harry is still crying and Draco's stomach clenches at the sight.
He must be feeling so miserable right now.
Draco summons a glass of water and slowly coaxes Harry into drinking three measly sips. Harry coughs wetly when he's done, his lips speckled with blood.
Not good. Crap.
His own eyes prickling with tears, Draco makes Harry lay down, and adjusts the covers more comfortably around Harry.
This is too much for him. Draco can't handle this. He's never been around sick people. He hasn't taken care of a healthy person in his entire life, much less Harry in this state and he is losing his freaking mind.
He needs Severus. Severus, and his parents, or someone, anyone to come barging in, grab him by the shoulders and tell him 'We'll take it from here. You go rest.'
Draco makes to stand, he should get Harry a change of clothes, maybe a toothbrush and more tea, the boy probably feels disgusting. But before he can get on his feet, Harry's hand latches onto his wrist and he rasps, "Don't," he whispers, "Please, I- I know I bring- bring death with me, but please don't leave," Harry's face crumples a little, "Don't leave me, Draco. Just stay for a little longer. Everyone leaves."
Chest aching fiercely, Draco quickly settles down next to Harry, and says, firmly, "I am not leaving you, Harry, alright? I am not leaving you."
He ends up casting a quick refreshing charm instead of the change of clothes he planned on getting. Harry shivers violently and Draco quickly helps him under the covers before getting onto changing Harry's bandages again, the cuts are still bleeding sluggishly. Draco swallows the panic with a resolve he didn't know he had.
He'll panic later.
The black lines spreading from the cuts up to Harry's wrists and even further up, make him want to be sick, he doesn't want to think about how much they must hurt. Harry's hand trembles like he's having a seizure and Draco has to hold it steady with one hand as he cleans it with a wet rag and wraps it in clean dry bandages.
Harry's eyes linger on the bandages on Draco's hand, but thankfully, he doesn't ask. His eyes are starting to droop, and he is too warm, burning up. If it wasn't for his fluttering lids and gasping breaths, Draco would have been checking his pulse every few minutes.
It occurs to him, perhaps for the first time since last night, that Harry might die.
Oh merlin. He might die before Severus gets here. Draco will have to live here with Harry Potter's body for hours, maybe fucking days, until he comes.
And if that's not bad. The image of Harry being dead is worse. Harry cannot die. Not now that Draco has him. It sounds wrong in his head, selfishly possessive but he doesn't care. Years he has been trying to befriend the boy lying on the couch, and now that there's finally something between them, Harry's poisoned.
Well, the poisoning has been going on for a long time. It just took Draco an embarrassingly long amount of time to notice. If only he had gone to Severus for help sooner… none of this would have happened.
Harry's hands would have been fine, Bella and Rosier wouldn't have tortured them. His father would be alive. His face wouldn't be heinous and disfigured. His shoulder wouldn't be in agony all the time.
He should have gone to Severus. Why did he have to be so fucking stubborn?
"Draco," Harry murmurs.
Draco looks at him.
"'m sorry," Harry mutters, voice slurring.
"Don't be. It's going to be fine." Just don't die. He cannot stomach the thought.
"I said it," his eyes have closed now, and the panic fluttering in Draco's chest feels slightly detached.
Draco frowns. "Said what?" but Harry isn't paying attention.
"I'm not gonna do that, Sirius. Stop."
"Do what, Harry?" Draco lays a hand on Harry's forehead and recoils at how hot it is.
"Sirius is being annoying."
"Who?" He blinks, trying to place what Harry is saying, "Sirius Black? No one is here. It's just us."
"Yeah," Harry leans into Draco's hand as Draco summons a bowl and rag, filling the bowl with cool water, "Don't mind him if he…"
"If he?" Draco removes his hand to wet the rag, ignoring Harry's muffled protest at the loss of contact.
"I don't know."
"Okay," he says before wringing the rag out and lays it on Harry's forehead. Harry's small sigh unknots something tight in Draco's chest.
"Do you know the Ukulele song?" Harry asks after a moment.
Draco pauses in where he was laying another rag under Harry's neck and says, "No."
"It goes, la, la, la la… " Draco swallows harshly, he'd thought they were past the delirium.
"Maybe you should," he says, "try sleeping again."
"No," Harry frowns, trying to wriggle away from where Draco is trying to put some of the cool rags under his armpits too, "Cedric is mad. I like you better."
"Okay." Draco takes a deep breath, "Okay. Let's try anyway."
"I've never slept with anyone. Did you know that?"
"Yes Potter, you're fifteen, obviously a virgin." The cloth on Harry's forehead has become warm worryingly fast.
"No," Harry gives a giggle, but then sobers up with a gurgling cough, "like… just sleep. But then, you offered a pillow. It's nice."
"Sounds like you like it," Draco says, moving on to changing the one under Harry's neck, and then the others, methodically. He's not really cooling down. Severus isn't here yet, might never be here, because he could be DEAD. Draco wouldn't know. They're stuck here.
"I do. You're nice. And your hair…" Harry rambles on. Draco swallows again. They're stuck. Harry might die. If not, then they'll starve to death after a while, those ingredients aren't going to last them forever.
Or worse, Harry and Severus could both die. And Draco would be left here with a rotting body of someone who was once his enemy, for days and days and days. Until the smell is burned into Draco's memory, and decomposition has already set in. And Harry's rotting flesh the last image that's burned into his skull before he too dies in this watery, sandy grave, carved with fucking shells.
"What about it," he says out loud, as calmly as he can.
He cannot leave Harry's body to the sea, he just cannot. If Harry dies, Draco might as well. He has nothing else. His mother is dead, his father is dead, the dark lord lives in his Manor, his godfather might as well be gone.
Oblivious to Draco's inner disaster scenario, Harry keeps talking. "Smells so… I don't know. I want to smell it all the time." He pouts, "But I cannot, because Sirius said it's 'weird!'. He knows stuff. My godfather. "
"Is he here?" Draco is starting to get really worried about Harry's godfather. The stress is like stones striking the already large boulder on his shoulders, and it's already pressing down on his back, pushing and restricting his movements. He hates it.
"He's a dick," Harry says,
Draco sighs. "Okay." He closes his eyes, rubs his forehead. "Okay," he says again, "Let's try to sleep." Harry scoffs, Draco groans. "Seriously," he pushes.
"Ugh, shut up!"
"Me?" Draco asks, taken aback.
"No!" Harry says, quickly.
"Fuck," Draco curses, the water in the bowl, which previously had been ice-cold, has already become more than lukewarm. It hasn't even been a full fifteen minutes. Harry's temperature hasn't changed.
"You curse a lot."
"You make me," Draco says, and vanishes the bowl and rags. They aren't helping. Maybe a bath would. And Harry smells awful. "How does your hand feel? Any pain?"
"Which... one,"
"The one that should be bloody hurting? "
"Don't know. I have no idea." Harry's head lolls limply as Draco tries to prop him up into a sitting position, the covers fall off the couch and on the floor.
"This would be a lot easier if you cooperated," Draco says gruffly, "Is it numb? Hurting?"
"I don't know. Stop shouting," Harry finally wraps one arm around Draco's shoulders and Draco has to bite down hard on the inside of his cheeks to keep from crying out in pain, his shoulder is mostly healed, but that doesn't mean it's completely healed, it never will be.
Harry is usually very mindful when it comes to his injuries, but obviously, this Harry doesn't care. "Where are we going?"
"I wasn't shouting, and the bathroom," Draco grumbles.
"Now you are. I'm cold,"
"Fuck Severus, Merlin, where in the name of the nine bloody hells is he," gritting his teeth a bit, Draco stands up, they stumble a bit, but steady after a few seconds. Then Harry goes limp again and decides to flop his head on Draco's shoulder.
"Sirius likes you," Draco looks down at Harry incredulously.
"Do you even know that man?"
"Yeah," Harry smiles listlessly, "He calls me kiddo,"
"Of course he bloody does. Just so you know, I'm going to kill Severus."
"Potions," he chortles, "Use. Potion."
Draco snorts, "You know what?" he starts walking, more like stumbling, towards the bathroom, "I think I will."
"That would be funny. He's a potions… teacher. So funny,"
"Hysterical," Draco says.
It takes them longer than it should to reach the bathroom, and Harry can't balance on the toilet seat long enough for Draco to fill the bathtub, so Draco has to sit Harry on the floor, propped up against the tub, still babbling on about his godfather, and a rat.
Draco is too peeved and exhausted to check the time, but can see the sun has already gone down from the tiny window in the bathroom as Harry rests in the tub, still in his clothes, his eyes closed, and his face peaceful for the first time since last night.
The shake in his hands seems to be reduced a little but Draco can still see the slight tremor, there's a tremor in his own hands for very different reasons.
He's terrified. He has no idea what to do. And Harry might seem better now but the day is over, and if Severus doesn't come over soon, they're really really screwed.
His shoulder hurts from where Harry had accidentally put pressure on the wound, he's hungry because he hasn't eaten anything all day, and he's gross and disgusting because he had foregone the morning obligatory shower because he was too afraid his… companion would bleed to death if left alone.
Never in his life, has Draco hated the sight of himself this much.
Harry's eyes open, and they look clearer, Draco holds his gaze.
"I feel disgusting," he says with a groan.
Draco hums, "Me too."
"Give me my toothbrush," the blonde takes this as a good sign and hands the object over. It's fine now, he thinks, it's going to be fine. Harry is going to be fine.
Harry's eyes are clearer. He's even stopped babbling. And maybe he's imagining it, but even his temperature feels down.
Severus is too careful to let himself be killed. He will be back, Draco is sure of it. Harry will be fine. He is fine. He is, after all, the boy who lived.
And then, the seizures start that night.