August.

After the incident during his birthday party, Potter had been quieter than normal, a feat which Draco would not have found possible for someone already in a waking catatonic state. He wasn't accepting any potions, and had stopped eating again, no doubt as some form of self-punishment for breaking his state of inner turmoil and almost addressing another human being directly. Not for the first time, Draco wondered just what was going inside Potter's empty, useless head. After two weeks, Draco had grimaced, swallowed his pride, and fire-called Potter's closest minions.

He looked around, tight-lipped. Hermione and Ginny were sitting on the couch in tears, and Ron was tearing his hair out while he stared out the window. None of them had succeeded in their attempts to make Potter eat, drink or sleep. He looked worse than he did when Draco had first seen him at Hermione and Ron's house.

"I have a suggestion," he said suddenly. Three heads turned towards him expectantly, and he continued, "We Stun him, shove one of those hospital tubes down his throat, and then-"

Ron cut him off. "Tried it once. Read the bloody book."

Draco glared at him. "I'll have you know that I'm only halfway through that ridiculous novel of Potter's misery." He got no response, so he stalked over to the coffee table where the book currently rested and flipped it open. It was Hermione's doing, so it was ridiculously well-organised and it was easy to find the aforementioned incident. Draco's eyebrows rose.

"The hospital tube shot out and started…strangling…a mediwizard." He looked up at the others. "That's…quite funny, actually."

Ginny had turned away from him, but her shoulders were shaking slightly and Hermione's eyes were on the ceiling. Ron was still looking out the window. Then, as one, the three of them turned to meet his gaze, and they burst out laughing.

It was a sad sort of laugh, the kind brought out in desperate situations because you can't cry anymore.

September.

Draco had been dreading September. It was the month that Potter had defeated the Dark Lord, and Draco had been expecting to come in and find Potter lying on the floor in a coma. To his surprise and subsequent dismay, he had found Potter sitting at the window, crying. Alarmed, Draco had been at Potter's side, and, before realising what he was doing, had drawn Potter closer into the world's most awkward hug.

That week, Potter slept of his own volition, and Draco tried very hard not think about whether it was the hug that made it possible. Naturally, Potter still woke up on occasion and panic enough to shatter the windows with magic, but Draco felt that this was an improvement, however small it may be.

He was certainly not watching Potter sleep, either, he was merely observing the patient in a clinical manner, trying to gauge if any worse symptoms were surfacing. He was privately pleased that Potter was starting to fall asleep by himself. In fact, just the other night, Potter had managed half a sandwich without throwing up.

The rest of the month had seen a definite increase in Potter's appetite, and Draco even went so far as to open a box of Honeyduke's chocolate and watch as Potter stuffed his face with two whole pieces. He tried to remind himself that he was doing this to secure his job, but the lie sounded absurd even in his own head. He sighed, coming to terms with the fact that maybe, just maybe, he really did want Potter to get better, just because.

After all, a Potter I can yell at and fight with is far better than a Potter who has reached such a desperate state that I am helping him recover. He really owes me dinner now…

He said a polite hello to Hermione as he passed on her the stairs on his way home, gave her a quick update on Potter's state, and went home.

He paused outside his property. Someone was inside. He was suspicious, but the wards assured him that he knew this person. He cursed himself for not making them more complicated – he'd been meaning to install wards that almost indicated whether or not he actually liked whoever tripped the wards. He drew his wand and entered the home.

"Draco!" came a familiar cry, and he relaxed instantly. The arms of Pansy wrapped around him in a tight hug, and then moved, only to be replaced by the much more solid grip of Blaise. Draco masked his sudden confusion with a wry smile. Unfortunately, Pansy was not so easily fooled.

"You forgot we were coming over, didn't you?" she asked accusingly.

"Nonsense," Draco lied. He had, in fact, forgotten they had come home from Paris yesterday and were due to have dinner at his house tonight.

Pansy raised an eyebrow, and he coughed. "Perhaps."

This response earned him a roll of the eyes, and she gestured to his dining room. He looked past her shoulder and was unsurprised to find dinner already waiting for him.

"Ah, Blaise, how I envy you sometimes," Draco sighed dramatically.

Blaise grinned in response, and the three of them sat down to dinner.

"How did you find Paris?" Draco asked between bites.

Pansy launched into a dramatic retelling of their honeymoon while Blaise occasionally managed to get a few words in while she paused for breath. Draco nodded and hummed in an impressed way – he had been to Paris before and it hadn't quite been to his liking – whenever Pansy gestured particularly violently. He soon found his mind wandering back to Potter, and he stared broodily into his food as it gradually began to taste less like a meal and more like cardboard and ashes. His thoughts slipped further away from Paris, and shifted onto the lonely figure of Potter, curled up in his room and shut into his own mind.

Draco became aware of an irritating pain in his arm, and he jumped slightly as he realised that Pansy was poking him with a fork.

"Draco, what is wrong with y-" Pansy stopped. "Draco, you looked positively exhausted? What on earth are your hours like at the office now?"

Draco shrugged gracefully, and Pansy peered at him suspiciously. "So it's not that, then. Draco…what's happened? You stopped listening to me and you haven't even reacted to the photos of men I personally know you'll find gorgeous."

Draco looked down at the table. Every holiday Pansy went on, she brought back photos of men that she thought Draco might take an interest in. Naturally, she knew much about Draco, so most of the men were dark-haired, green-eyed, or, very rarely, both. He studied the photos curiously. Like all of the photos, he found them to be a shadow of the man he had once found so attractive. Without realising it, his lips thinned into a line as he considered what that man had become because of his ridiculous self-punishment.

Pansy cleared her throat – he had forgotten they were there again. He debated coming up with an elaborate lie, but decided against it. As they continued to dine, he explained the situation, and Blaise's face grew more and more disbelieving, while Pansy's remained expressionless. When he finished, neither of them spoke for some time.

Eventually, Pansy broke the silence. "You do realise how ridiculous that sounded?"

Draco fought the urge to bury his head in his hands. "I knew you wouldn't believe it."

"No, I believe you. I just think it's ridiculous."

Blaise stared at her. "You honestly believed that cock-and-bull story?" Pansy flicked a hand impatiently at her husband.

"Draco. What have you gotten yourself into?"

Draco shook his head. "I honestly don't know."