Everything is spinning. There isn't much to make sense of when up is down and his lungs are filled with something thicker than porridge that won't quite leave the clutches of his throat, and it is all a bit too constricting. Harry is clawing at anything and everything he can reach. He pulls down the curtains in the sitting room outside of the entrance hall and Tovo's magic is frantic, biting at his skin. The little elf is trying to contain their new guest to the room, but failing miserably since he keeps trying to disapparate. She screeches out another elf's name and he hears a pop before he screams.
It is shrill and overpowers everything. He cannot tell whether it is in his head or if it's coming out of his throat, but his mouth is moving all the same. Tears stream down his face and he is seeing Hermione lying on the floor, the wild curls of Bellatrix hovering over her with a dagger searing into his best friend's flesh. Hermione is trying not to call out, not to move, but she is failing. Harry collapses in on himself and his tapping turns into slapping against his thigh as he mutters words that even Tovo has no recollection of knowing.
Draco enters the room behind the second elf. He looks to Harry, who has his eyes clenched shut and is slapping his thigh to the rapid rocking of his upper body. His words come quickly. Some are in Parseltongue and some are so slurred that when his voice rises in volume, Tovo looks to Draco in puzzlement. Draco waves the little one off, but reassures her that the wards have been changed to disallow their guest from apparition of any sort. She looks relieved and moves to stand near her charge without getting too close.
There is just long enough for a bottle of whiskey to be opened before Narcissa strides into the room. She takes one look at the new arrival, arches a thin eyebrow at Draco, and sighs. Her son is nursing his glass of spirits, holding it near his temple and waving it in an airy gesture toward Harry.
"As you can see, Mother, we have a guest. He will be staying here until the good doctors release him. I've also given him our protection from the Weasley bint." At that, Narcissa smirks, though it is a gentler version than the one her son more frequently wears.
"Tovo, please see Mr. Potter to the guest suite near Draco's rooms." The little elf beams up at her mistress and nods. "Thank you. Draco, my love. How do you get us into these predicaments?" Her smile is warm and placating as Draco scowls. She glances over to the fallen curtains and fixes them with a simple household spell. Once everything is set to rights, she drapes herself across the quaint couch and waits for Draco to relax enough for conversation.
Three refills in, sitting on the opposite couch, Draco's tie is loose and he's slouching forward. Between slender hands, ice clinks as it rocks against the confines of his glass. "I have no idea what he's thinking," he murmurs. "He had everything. He's got the world at his fingertips and he threw it all away." Draco's own fingers run through his hair in a gesture that is so reflexive he doesn't even know he's doing it. Narcissa can see the exhaustion in his eyes, how he hasn't quite slept well for years, but hides it with whiskey and scotch; how he pretends he has friends, but the only true friend he has is himself—and even then, he's lying.
"Draco, you cannot expect a boy just out of school to know the answers to everything. You cannot expect someone who bore the burdens he did to be all right."
"Why the hell not?" Draco protests. "He was the Golden Boy, the Chosen One. He was the scion, the perfect hero of the wizarding world. Why can't I hold him to the standards everyone wants to put me to?" His sarcasm turns to anger and he's sitting on the edge of the couch, gripping his glass a bit too tightly.
Narcissa sighs. "Is that what this is about?"
"What?"
"You, Draco. You feeling inadequate for so many years because of Harry Potter and then finding out that he isn't quite who you thought he was. He isn't everything you thought he would be. He isn't better than you." She leans forward, fingers gripping the cushion as her eyes bear down on her son's. "He was never better than you, Draco."
"I've never thought—"
"You've always thought so. Never lie to me." Her voice is sharp, like a razor that licks at his skin and crawls inside through the wound. "Your father taught you many things, my son. Self-loathing was one of them and I abhor him for it. You are your own man, just as Harry is his. You've made many decisions that led you here. So has he. There's no use comparing the two, because at some point, everyone makes poor decisions. We all need someone to help us when we've lost our way; don't we, Draco?"
At that, he looks up at her, steel eyes hard and unyielding. He can't let her know how much he needed help at the end of the war. How much he loathed himself for everything he'd done and everything he'd put her through. The small noise as he set his glass on the table beside the chair is deafening in the silence between them. He stands and makes his way toward her. Draco leans over, one hand on her shoulder, and places a gentle kiss to her forehead before turning to leave the room without a word.