A/N: Hey, y'all! Have some more PercyDraco. :P

Etiquette Task 1: Write about someone trying to rest

Word Count: 1401

WARNINGS: Injury, sick/fever, threat of dying? No character death.

Note: This is a Voldemort wins!au. (Also, unbeta'd—apologies).

Enjoy!

Draco's heart constricted as he walked into the room where Percy lied. This small hideout that the Order provided wasn't anywhere near the level of luxury that Draco was used to, and he hated having to see the older man sprawled across the tiny, worn sofa. He longed for the comforts of Malfoy Manor, where he could have tended to Percy in a large room with the best medical supplies, on an actual mattress.

"W-would you stop lurking and come in?"

Percy's voice brought Draco out of his thoughts, and he glanced guiltily at the Gryffindor. "Sorry," he murmured. He approached the sofa slowly, taking in the other man's pale complexion and the cold sweat dampening his brow. Draco swallowed thickly. "How are you feeling?"

It was a pointless inquiry, but Percy humored it. "I'll be… fine."

He wouldn't be. They didn't know what creature of Voldemort's had poisoned him on the last raid, and Severus Snape was kept close to the Dark Lord's side these days. Long story short, the Order did not have the means to treat Percy.

It was tearing Draco apart.

Why, he wasn't sure. He'd never interacted with the older man much in school, but he couldn't deny that they'd grown fond of each other. Draco had found a fellow outcast in Percy, who hadn't turned his back on the Ministry long before Draco had on Voldemort; they gravitated toward each other.

Except now, the one friend Draco had in the world was dying on the sofa of a tiny, run-down Order safehouse, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

Well, maybe more more than a friend, Draco thought as Percy weakly grasped his hand. "I'll be fine," Percy insisted again, correctly interpreting Draco's silence as worry. "You'll s-see."

"See to it that you do." Draco tried to keep his voice cold and steady, the way he'd been raised to do—but that Draco Malfoy had shattered with his illusion of the world under the Dark Lord's rule. "Your brothers keep stopping by to check on you. It's highly annoying."

Percy's lips formed a small smile, but Draco wasn't fooled. As much as the ex-Ministry employee appreciated the new effort his siblings were making to reconnect with him, every visit was filled with an awkward tension. No one knew quite what to say to the other, but they all knew that time was short. No one was safe anymore.

His long, pale fingers stretched towards the bandages on Percy's leg. "I'm going to change these," he said. "It'll hurt."

Percy's blue eyes seemed bare without the glasses they usually hid behind, but the Gryffindor had taken them off days ago; sleep was difficult for him to come by these days, and he didn't want to be hindered by the metal pressing into his face. Percy just cocked an eyebrow, somehow still appearing arrogant while feverish and sickly. "I know," he told Draco. "This isn't the first time."

Draco exhaled slowly, his mouth twitching with amusement. "You think you're funny."

Percy began to chuckle softly, but cut himself off as his face twisted in pain. Drao wasted no more time; he unwrapped the bandages quickly, his once-clumsy fingers accomplishing the job quickly.

He kept his face stoic when the wound was uncovered. It resembled a snake bite, except there were three puncture wounds, not two. The area was swollen and the bruising was mottled with an angry red. It was clearly infected, and, not for the first time, Draco wished he could clean it with more than alcohol.

But complaining didn't change the situation, so Draco grabbed a swath of cloth, poured some whiskey—the only alcohol they had on hand—over it, and pressed it against Percy's leg.

The red-haired man hissed with pain, his grip tightening around Draco's fingers. He didn't shout out, though; he was always careful to remain as composed as possible. Draco longed to find the words to reassure him, to offer comfort, but all he managed was: "You need to rest."

Percy winced as Draco tied off the new bandages. "What do you-ou think I've been try-trying to do?" he asked, his voice soft and shaky as shudders wracked his body. He'd been attempting to sound nonchalant, but Draco could hear the fear in his voice, could see the uncertainty in his eyes.

He was tempted to give the rest of the bottle to Percy as a painkiller, but they both knew that that would be wasteful. Draco was burning, suddenly, to give some sort of comfort to the man who had, in all honesty, given him a home.

Draco's grey-eyed gaze dropped to where Percy was still squeezing his hand tightly. He wondered what would happen if he just… turned his palm over and laced their fingers together.

Percy caught his look, but this time, he didn't guess the meaning correctly. He slid his hand away with a muttered, "Thanks."

Swallowing back his disappointment, Draco nodded. Then, he stood and walked over to the cot by the hearth. Even though he knew it was foolish, he couldn't help but blame himself for the hopelessness of Percy's situation; never before had he so regretted quitting Care of Magical Creatures.

Draco curled up on the cot and tried to let sleep take him. The minutes passed by slowly, and Draco remained completely conscious. The harsh rasp of Percy's breathing a short distance away was deafening, and every hiss of pain was like acid to Draco's ears. Eventually, he rolled over to face the older man, his heart in his mouth.

"Wea—Percy."

Blue eyes fluttered open, squinting as they tried to make out Draco's no doubtedly blurry face. "Hmm?"

The younger man wasn't quite sure what to say.

I'm nineteen now, but I feel just as lost as I did at sixteen.

Why did you have to rush into the house we were raiding—why did you choose then to exhibit Gryffindor recklessness?

Please, please don't die.

A flush tinged his cheeks pink. "I'm sorry I can't do more."

Percy was shivering under his blankets, but he still waved Draco over. "You've done plenty," he assured the Slytherin when Draco reached his side. "It's okay, D-Draco." Percy hesitated, then added self-deprecatingly, "It was a stupid mistake on my part. I wasn't care-careful enough." A shudder wracked his body. "I wasn't thinking." He closed his eyes. "This isn't your f-failing, it's m-my weakness."

Draco scowled at those words and dropped to his knees beside Percy. To hell with the emotional masks and secrecy that he'd grown up with; he couldn't stand to let Percy think this way. "You're not weak," he insisted. "You're one of the strongest people I know."

Percy looked surprised for one moment. "Thank you," he murmured. Then he winced in pain, his teeth clenched tightly together as he grabbed at his thigh. "I think," he ground out, "it's g-getting… getting worse."

To his mortification, Draco felt his eyes grow hot with tears. He longed for the Percy Weasley who could wield a wand like the best of them, who came out on top of every duel he participated in. That Percy was independent, healthy, and alive. The man before Draco was trembling violently and mere inches from death… He looked away furiously and squared his shoulders, but he couldn't bring himself to move away, even to hide his tears.

"Don't make me give your family bad news," he begged. "Just hang on. Your brothers are searching for information that could help—"

Percy cut him off by sliding his fingers up the back of Draco's neck and into his blond hair, then pulling him forwards until their lips met. It was a quick, simple brush, but it set every nerve of Draco's on fire.

Percy pulled away too quickly. "Sorry," he muttered, his eyes falling closed. "Just had to do that once, in case—"

"Don't be," Draco interrupted, his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat. "Don't be sorry."

One blue eye cracked open, then the other; Percy searched Draco's face for several moments before his face went slack in understanding.

With a wave of his wand, Draco brought the cot closer. He climbed on top of it, and, after a brief hesitation, was brave enough to lace his fingers through Percy's.

Both men laid their heads down, and sleep finally took them—however fitfully.

Their hands remained clasped the rest of the night.