He's just about ready to move into the hall when he sees it—the glint of it, fresh on skin. Drops of it slide down pale white arms. One of them slides off a fingertip and plinks, unknown, to the floor.
Everything is slow for a moment. Just a breath—a blink, an exhale. He watches enraptured as Draco storms through the hall toward his door, flings it aside, and tosses his stained robes into the ether.
Harry's breathing begins to speed up.
He is trapped in his doorway. There was too much. Is it his? Whose is it?
"No. No. No-no-no-no." He's shaking his head and reeling back into his room as fast as his legs will carry him. The open door is forgotten. Harry scrambles into the bed and dives under the cover. There is a kind of solace in the darkness beneath a heavy blanket. He laughs.
"Blanket fort! Fort. HA. I'm safe now." He's laughing now, but the dry sounds coming from him are empty as he tugs the blanket up and over his chin. There is no meaning, no emotion, no point.
Harry pulls tight to himself and ensures that no light is visible before covering his eyes and drifting. Here, he does not tap; he doesn't need to. His fingers are too harsh on the skin of his eyelids and the staccato thump-thump of his blood is enough.
Hours have passed as Harry continues to sleep. His legs are restless and kick out against the terrors of his mind.
Voldemort grabs his wrist. Thin, pale fingers wrap around him and he freezes just long enough to lose his balance. Then they are tussling in the air, falling-falling-falling. Spinning and thrashing, and he screams, but all that happens is a great weight landing atop him and the screaming stops. He can't scream with Voldemort pushing the air from his lungs and he's scared—yes, he's so terrified the screams are fighting the weight and threatening to come out his ears—but he feels something rumbling around him.
His vision blurs and all he can see is a figure hovering above him, hands gripping his shoulders and holding him down so that he can't move, he can't run away from everything he's been trying to fight, trying to defeat. The man atop him shakes his head and he's saying something Harry can't quite make out, but as the fringe of blond—blond?—hair moves, he realizes it's Draco. Oh.
"Hold the fuck still," is all he hears.
They are both breathing too rapidly for so close a space and Draco drops his forehead to Harry's.
"Merlin, Harry," he pants. "Just take a breath and calm- the- fuck- down." He puts particular emphasis on the last few words.
Harry's body goes limp. This is not Voldemort. This is not the night everyone died. This is Draco. This is an Auror who's been keeping him alive despite his best efforts to the contrary.
When Draco's breathing evens out, he looks to Harry. The fear is obvious. He begins lifting his knee to move away, but Harry reaches out and grabs his arm.
"Stay. Please." He's desperate, pleading.
Draco is confused. He exhales slowly, moving to Harry's side. The other man's eyes are wide as if he's expecting Draco to make a mad dash for the door. Instead, Harry relaxes a little when Draco scoots to the head of the bed and just sits.
He watches as Harry burrows beneath the covers once more, his thin frame curling back into a ball. The choking sobs Harry lets out are less shocking than the hand he reaches out to place on Draco's leg. Despite his irritation, Draco doesn't move away. He doesn't shake the hand off or ask Harry to move. He leans back against the bed and tries to think of anything but what he's just seen—what he never wants to see again.
He nods off some time in the early morning.
When Draco wakes, he finds himself tangled in a mess of Potter's hair. Apparently, he'd fallen to the side at some point and Harry moved into the body-shaped space he created. Draco tries not to sneeze while he lays there, the morning haze slowly retreating. He untangles his various limbs and watches as Harry swipes at the empty space, whimpering a little. Draco looks down and frowns. He retreats from the room quickly, passing a questioning Tovo as she enters Harry's room with a breakfast tray. Draco keeps walking until he makes it to his room for a much-needed shower.
Exhaustion. While he slept most of the night, Harry feels little more than the scratching at his eyes and the empty, hollow feeling in his gut. Something is missing. He rolls over. The sheets are mussed in places he hasn't slept. Then he remembers. Voldemort grabbing him. Draco's face above him, keeping him steady. Reaching out to Draco in his silence; asking him to stay.
This is about the time Tovo enters with breakfast. His cheeks burn and he pulls the blanket taut about his neck.
She ignores him. "Mr. Harry Potter should be getting up, he should. Should be eating breakfast now." Nodding, she moves around the bed, banishing his dirty clothes to the laundry.
He crawls out of bed to grab a pair of pajama pants and Narcissa walks in, pointedly ignoring the pair of them to sit at the table. She pours a glass of orange juice and begins serving toast with jam. Harry slides in across from her.
"Sleep well?" He doesn't answer. Her eyebrow lifts, but she continues spreading jam on perfectly-browned toast. "All right then."
Narcissa rattles on for a few minutes. For the most part, Harry tunes it out, shoving torn-off pieces of toast into his mouth.
He's only pulled back in when he hears her say, "Tovo told me that Draco didn't sleep in his room last night. I'm positive he was home." The pointed look is too much.
"Excuse me. I-I need a shower." He stands and walks to the bathroom, leaving her at the table with a full glass of orange juice and a half-eaten piece of toast.
The Malfoy matriarch finishes her meal before leaving. When she leaves Harry's room, he sends a Finite to the shower and steps out. It surprises him to hear shouting coming from across the hall. While he can't make out the entire conversation, he's certain Narcissa is questioning Draco about the night prior. There is some heated back and forth before a door slams.
Harry sits in the corner for the rest of that day. Hands cover his ears and the slow, repetitive jut of his jaw turns into an aching neck and a migraine that won't leave him.
Over the next couple of days, the only face he sees belongs to Tovo. This upsets Harry. He isn't sure if he's welcome at the Manor any longer. On the fourth day, Harry pushes away from the wall and begins to methodically sort his things. Items that are truly his are put in one pile; items belonging to the Malfoys or given to him are in another. His things he tucks into a tied-up jumper and heads toward the door.
Tovo intercepts him with a lunch tray in hand. She nearly drops it when he comes storming out into the hall.
"Tovo," he begins. "I—want to thank you for everything you've done for me."
"Mr. Harry Potter, sir? Where is you going?"
"Home." The word feels like glue on his tongue, sticking to the roof of his mouth and tacky behind his teeth.
Tovo's hands shake and Harry must reach out and steady the tray then. "You cannot go! Mr. Harry Potter must stay!"
She continues telling him how important it is that he stay the entire walk to the Floo. Harry reaches out for the bowl on the mantle, grabs some powder, and tosses it into the fireplace.
"Grimmauld Place," he manages, unsure even then he wants to go. The flames come alive and Harry steps into them. He doesn't—can't look back.
Tovo drops the tray and wrings her hands before running upstairs.