Draco disappears. He doesn't come to breakfast and Harry doesn't hear him slip to or from his room.
It's afternoon when Ron Floo calls Harry again at Kingsley's insistence.
Before he disconnects the call, Ron sighs. "Look, Harry…" He scratches at his neck, his anxious gesture. "Hermione and I are worried about you. We're worried about you getting wrapped up in whatever's happening with Malfoy. Just—if you need anything. You know you can trust us, yeah?"
Once he's gone, Harry slides to the floor with nothing to catch him but the couch at his back. With arms wrapped around his knees, Harry drops his chin and closes his eyes. Breathing becomes the most important thing while he tries desperately to re-center his world.
Every muscle in his body clenches; he pulls so tightly to himself that he's afraid of tearing something loose. Instead, he finds that his fingers are numb and the indents on his arms where they've been clutching are already a violent shade of red. Another breath. Another. Harry uses the couch for support, sinking his palm deep into the cushion before lifting his weight upward.
"You can do this, Harry."
He nods. It's a simple thing—a nod, but it gives him the confidence to move his feet one at a time until he's at the bottom of the landing. There, he directs one up until he can grip the banister and tug. The other follows and before his brain catches up, he's half-way there.
"Don't stop," he mumbles, using rote memory to keep the feet and legs and hands and arms moving without thinking. Thinking scares him.
Attaining the landing, Harry turns as if he's heading toward Draco's room. His body lurches along the hall, toes knuckling and dragging like a corpse, but he doesn't stop until the door looms in front of him.
"Okay, Harry," he breathes. "We ca—" A noise from within makes him stumble back a step. "Can't. We can't."
He turns around and flees to the security of his own room, not stopping until his door is closed and he's sitting at the top of his bed. He's rocking slightly, one chewed nail in his mouth, but he's talking to himself around it as if the conversation is incredibly important. It's important to be heard and not just thought.
"You need to. You need to go in there and help him." He bites too deeply and draws blood, hissing before shaking the hand and starting on another nail. "He needs it. It's that simple. He helped you. You help him. You can do this."
Determined, he puts both hands flat on the blanket and scoots to the edge. When a clatter comes from across the hall, he scurries back.
"Tomorrow. You can do this tomorrow." Harry nods and pulls the blanket back, lying there until Tovo brings him a tray with dinner.
The following morning, Harry paces in front of Draco's door until his feet ache. He ends up throwing his hands in the air and grabbing for the handle when he hears Draco vomiting.
"At least you're in the bathroom," Harry mumbles as he wades through the piles of clothing tossed everywhere.
"Unngh," is the only response he gets. When Harry peeks around the corner of the bathroom door, he quirks a brow to see Draco's head resting on the toilet seat.
"Lovely." He steps back out, calling for Tovo.
She appears, but shakes her head at the room. "Does Mr. Harry Potter, sir be needing anything?"
"Yes. Can you please help me clean up this room?"
She looks at him, aghast. "Help? You want me to help… you?" A short finger points at him.
"Yes, that's what I asked."
"Absolutely not. Tovo will not help Mr. Harry Potter, sir. Tovo cleans. Mr. Harry Potter, sir does not."
Harry rolls his eyes, but at the angry look he receives, he clears his throat. "Yes, Tovo. That will be fine."
Walking back to the bathroom, Harry casts a freshening charm on Draco, hoping to expel some of the excess odor. It helps a little.
As the magic tingles across his skin, Draco turns his head. "You're still here?"
"Yes. You told me not to leave, remember?" Harry looks as if he'll jump out the nearest window at his earliest convenience, but Tovo shoots a Scourgify toward Draco, who lifts a hand in mock salute.
"Well," he pauses, searching behind him for something, fingernails scraping the tile. "Ah, here it is." Draco brings a bottle to his lips and takes a long pull.
"Are you kidding me?"
"Oh," he tilts the bottle toward Harry. "You want some?" The bottle nearly falls before it slides down his thigh to clink against the floor.
"No. You're not having any more, either." Harry grabs it, draining it in the sink.
Draco attempts to stop him, but slumps back against the toilet. "Fuck."
"Sounds about right." He steps in front of the drunkard. "You are going to sober up. That means no more of this." Harry shakes the empty bottle, then vanishes it.
"What the hell, Potter?" Draco tries to grab it out of the air, but only lands himself face flat at Harry's feet.
"Your boss has been trying to reach you for the last week."
"He can sod off," is what Draco says, or at least that's what Harry can gather, as he speaks the words to Harry's toes.
"No. You are going back to work."
"Why?" Draco rolls over, dry-heaving.
Harry is trying not to vomit himself, covering his mouth until the blond finishes. "You're going back to work because it's what you do. You worked hard for it and now your boss is going to take away all your cases because you can't get off your arse to answer his Floo call."
"Can't."
"Yes you can. You're just too damned drunk to try."
"Pre-ci-sely." He emphasizes the middle syllable with a flick of his index finger.
"Fuck off, Draco. You're sobering up."
"Fuck you, Potter." Draco struggles to sit again, but manages. "I don't know who you think appointed you my keeper, but it wasn't me." He pauses, looks like he's contemplating something, but continues. "You have no control over whether or not I keep drink—" The word is lost as fluid belches forth from Draco's stomach. There isn't much, but what's left ends up down his shirt.
Harry stares in disgust. "Yeah. Want to keep talking about drinking?" He spins on the spot and walks out the door, leaving Draco on the bathroom floor.
In an effort at being covert, Harry attempts to catch Draco asleep for his second try. The Malfoy heir is not sleeping in his bed; instead, he's lounging on a chaise by the window with a brand new bottle of alcohol wrapped in his arms.
Harry waltzes past the sleeping man, grabs the bottle, and chucks it out the open window.
"Where the bloody hell are you getting all this alcohol from?"
Draco startles, but stretches out, running a hand down his chest. "I'm beautiful enough that they lavish it on me." He purrs the last few words and Harry snorts.
"Ungh. No."
He then walks around the room and gathers every container he can find, banishing them all. Harry easily ignores Draco's outburst—mainly because he falls off the chaise trying to yell at him.
Storming out of Draco's room, Harry bristles as he thunders down the stairs and into the elves' quarters.
"Elves! All of you. I need all of you!"
He waits a few minutes for the word to spread.
"I need you all to do a sweep of the Manor," he commands. "Get rid of any alcohol you find."
"But you is not master!" calls a voice from his left.
"You do as Mr. Harry Potter says," comes Malve's stern voice.
The other elves cower a little, with a few practiced "Yes, missus" responses.
Harry nods to Malve. "Any elf found getting him alcohol or helping him to get alcohol will be punished—by me."
Some of them gasp, but he turns heel and walks out before they can say anything. Malve tuts and sends them out to search the Manor immediately.