I do not own anything here, nor am I making a profit from this. It is purely to pass my time, and hopefully, interest other people. J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter, not me.
A big THANK YOU! To SevLoverKat, yuediangelo, ALPHAQ69, Allyieh, Muggles, ArikaHikari, MirrorFlower and DarkWind, a kitsune's light, Gaomee, doyou000me, Tenshi Yami- Angel of Darkness, Okami-hime-13, Obscene cupcake, gabbygirl89, hotcat, DeanCastielSam, and Guest! Thanks for your reviews, I've tried to update this for you lovely people! :)
Sorry about the long time between updates, My family's very beloved bird died, and then our dog had to go into surgery the next day :( I wasn't really in the mood for writing, so sorry!
And it's worrying me how many of you want Harry to die hahaha, I havent decided yet for sure what I'm going to do, but I have an idea in my head - sorry, no spoilers! Well, this chapter is a bit different, I hope you like it. :) Sorry if I've ruined it for anyone
- S
Chapter Ten - Suicidal, Selfish Little Prick of a Mudblood!
Harry stared at his reflection, horror plastered across his face. How had he thought this would be a good idea? When had it crossed his mind that this would be okay? Hell, had he even thought about it? Apparently not, given the sheer revulsion screaming at him from his reflection. Holy shit…just…why?
He had started the day relatively fine. If you counted staring at the weary list in his hand since his retreat from the hospital wing fine. One thing had been crossed off…just one. He had a bloody plethora of things to do, and yet only one was completed. It was pathetic; how was this supposed to help him at all, if he didn't endeavour to actually complete it? Some he couldn't do yet, others he simply didn't want to…but nevertheless, some had to get done.
And so, after running through his utterly odd encounters with Malfoy, Harry made up his mind. Determined, before he could rethink, or actually think, apparently, he had rushed off to the bathroom to complete number twelve.
And complete it he did, to his utter mortification. Holy shit, he looked like a fucking alien. All he needed now was to paint his body green and streak through the great hall. He could probably do it without anyone recognising him.
Harry blinked at himself, swallowing tightly. He didn't expect the torrent of…weakness to overwhelm him. Was this going to happen to him? Was he going to have to look like this for the rest of his…for the next few months? He only prayed to gods known and unknown and most likely in a state of nonexistence that it would be fine by tomorrow. It had restored itself once before within a day, it could restore itself again. Hopefully. Desperately hopefully. Without the use of magic, would it still work? Merlin, it had better. Harry would rather just tell everyone what was wrong than have to put up with this for over twenty four hours. It was…no words could describe the utter horror that wouldn't be repelled from Harry's mind. It was just…wrong.
And he was going to be given shit today for it. Guaranteed. The first class was potions. Fan-fucking-tastic!
Well, he had to face up to the music sooner or later. No regrets. Be a true Gryffindor!
Despite how he would rather re-duel Voldemort than face his classmates today.
It was silent trip to the dungeons, most people at breakfast. No one really noticed Harry until they did the blatantly obvious double glance. A first year actually stopped walking and let their jaw drop to the floor. It was nice to know that everyone had a rightful sense of decorum.
His reception in class was to be expected, and not much better. The muttering began immediately, echoes of 'attention seeker' and 'E.T' from the muggle-borns. And whilst the Slytherins didn't understand that particular reference, the scorn behind the phrase was difficult to miss.
Sighing to himself, Harry kept his eyes on his desk as he hurried across the room. He was going to make the potion, ignore everything and get out as quick as possible. Easy. Simple. He didn't factor Malfoy into his calculations.
"Which one of them did it?" The venom in his voice was actually quite frightening; when you saw this particular gleam in his eye, it was easy to see why he was allowed to become a Death-Eater at such a young age. Harry glanced at him and did a double take; fucking hell.
He was glaring murder at the other side of the room, his trademark sneer already in place. His wand was out, not even inconspicuous as he pointed it towards the students cloaked in red. What was even more surprising was Zambini and Parkinson had already followed his lead, glancing at each other cautiously before directing their wands at Ron. Only Ron, might Harry add. None of the others.
"Which one?"
Well, this was slightly awkward.
Harry swallowed tightly, trying with careful precision to avoid eye contact like the plague. Malfoy was going to shit a brick at this. "Put your bloody wand away; it wasn't them."
"Bullshit."
"It was me, okay? I did it to myself; just put your fucking wand away!"
Slow motion was possible without the use of magic.
Malfoy turned impossibly slowly, his eyebrows rising as he did. If he looked furious before, he looked fucking murderous now. Eyes glinting silver daggers, anger controlled his face before it transformed quite quickly into one of heavy revulsion. Harry felt unclean as Malfoy's eyes trailed up and down his body, jerking away with a sneer. As quickly as he had come to Harry's aid, Malfoy dismissed him altogether.
As one, the Slytherin's spun back around on their chairs, stoically facing the backboard.
Fuck, that hurt more than the jeers of 'phone home' did.
Resisting rising a hand to his mutilated skin, Harry waited in the agonising silence for class to start. Yes, it was unbearable. Yes, he had done it himself. But he would rather do it now than later, when ideas might concoct between the smarter students. It was on the list, it had to get done sometime.
True, he probably should have used something other than the shower razor. And if he had taken the time to think about why there was a razor in the men's shower he wouldn't have touched it, but he didn't on either account. He looked like a hairless, tufty freak…but at least he still had his nose.
Fuck, it had better grow back tomorrow.
12. Shave all of my hair off
.
.
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Harry stared at his reflection, running a hand over his coarse, bald head. He better not look like fucking Voldemort, or he would be having some serious conversations with the 'how much can you fuck with me?" department.
Seriously though…he looked like shit. The lack of hair made his skin look stretched and sickly, almost as if he had cancer. The bags under his eyes were more apparent…was this what he was going to look like further on in treatment? A Voldemort younger addition?
Harry traced his scalp with a fingertip, nausea clinging to his stomach. This wasn't him. He wasn't going to turn into…this. No, never. Not if he could help it. This was what the list was all about, wasn't it? Stopping him from turning into a hopeless…this.
Merlin, he was ugly. And as someone who usually didn't give a flying fuck about how he looked, the thought hurt. He needed his hair back, if just to hide behind. It had better bloody grow back tomorrow, or Harry would hurl himself over the astronomy tower. That, or leave Hogwarts altogether. Either or.
Harry blinked as the tingling feeling of being watched inched along his spine. He was alone in the bathroom; he had triple checked before bolting the door shut…oh.
"How have you been, Myrtle?"
It was silent for a moment longer, both waiting to see what the other would do first. Eventually, as Harry waited quietly, the head of the ghost popped out of a toilet bowl. Blushing white at being caught, she drifted a little higher before speaking.
"Oh, you know how it is, drifting through each toilet cubicle day in and out. Sometimes I sneak up on first years to scare them, but, well, one tires of it each decade, I suppose." She sighed, smiling at Harry again. He had to give her credit; she didn't even glance at his head. "I miss you, Harry; you hardly come and see me anymore. It gets very lonely hanging around the pipes each week. I used to have the blonde Slytherin too, but you took him away from me. Jealous, were you?" She giggled without mirth, for the first time looking decidedly angry before the hurt and sheer loneliness returned to her face. Harry knew that look; he wore it far too often lately.
"...Doesn't…doesn't anyone else say hello? Other students or teachers?"
The ghost wore grim amusement before sighing dramatically, shrugging as she floated towards the window. "Why would they say hello to someone who's only half here?" She replied, blatantly staring at something outside rather than Harry. "The most attention I had in years was when you were breaking all the rules in second grade…"She smiled at that, turning back around. "Then it was Draco…he was always nice…" She sighed dreamily, turning to stare at Harry. "What happened to your head? You look almost as bad as kitty did in second year." She was giggling again. Harry even quirked a small smile; he couldn't help it, even remembering cat-Hermione was funny.
"I decided to go with a new look; like it?"
"I liked your old look better."
"Then I'll change back." Harry promised quietly, turning and planning to get away as quick as possible. Myrtle had always seemed a bit too lonely, and right now it was hitting a bit too close to home. What if he became a ghost, destined to hover a half life alone? How… sad.
Without thinking, a quality he was repeating far too often today, Harry spun back around. "Myrtle… I've come to take you up on an offer."
Harry watched as she blinked, confusion etched across her translucent face. He might as well make her millennia that much less lonely. "You remember, don't you? You asked if I might want to share your u-bend?"
He didn't think a ghost was capable of that amount of happiness; hope shone through her milky globes, her entire posture lifting with desperateness. He couldn't pull out now, not if he wanted to.
"Well…I'm just saying, if I do become a ghost…I don't know if I will or not, I guess it all depends when you're dead or not...is that offer still up for grabs?"
Myrtle burst into laughter, giggling and smiling broadly. She was happier than she had been whilst watching cat-Hermione, happier than Harry had ever imagined her being. Tears shone down her cheeks as she swooped down to hug Harry. The icy coolness of the hug eradicated Harry's mirth, but the ghost's delight remained strong. She was…happy.
"Oh, yes! Yes! Yes! I started to get a little jealous when you stopped visiting me, I thought perhaps you didn't like me anymore…but yes! The offer is opened and accepted and done!" She smiled brightly, staring at Harry as if she had never seen him before. It was quite unnerving, actually. Harry was already starting to regret this. She didn't seem to blink too often; was that a ghost thing, or a Myrtle thing?
"Just think about it Harry! You and me for century's…together. Year in, year out! Year in, year out!" Fuck.
"…Uh…yeah, about this…you do know this is only if I become a ghost right? I may not…so don't get your hopes too up, yeah?"
She didn't seem perturbed. She actually smiled brighter. "Are you afraid of death, Harry?"
Afraid of death? Harry didn't think anything even intimidated him anymore, on comparison to that. Voldemort looked like a drooling grandfather that had escaped the nursing home in comparison to facing off with Death. Slowly, Harry nodded.
"I'll get the u-bend ready then." Myrtle simpered, winking at Harry before floating through the wall. God, her insanely happy laughter was echoing through the corridors.
Harry sighed, turning back to stare at his deformed head in the mirror. Was he afraid of death?
He was terrified.
.
.
.
Harry didn't want to open his eyes. If his hair was still gone, despite the fact he had been assured that it would indeed grow back from several houselves over dinner in the kitchen, he was throwing himself over the tower. Join Myrtle earlier, if just to shut her up.
The bloody ghost didn't understand the need for secrecy, apparently. She had been singing yesterday...fucking singing! Melancholy ghost of the year had been floating down the halls, singing at the top of her voice, smiling at students, and avoiding the bathrooms altogether. And if people were too stupid enough to disregard all this as unusual behaviour, the fact that she had been grinning smugly all day and repeating "I have a boy who'll stay with me for millennia…will yours?" to all the female students had everyone whispering.
Unfortunately, especially Peeves. He was playing detective now, trying to solve the identity of the secret admirer of the ghost. The students were guessing. Peeves was guessing. The teachers were trying to find Myrtle to ensure that no student was about to harm themselves. It wasn't fun.
Harry had finally managed to track her down after lunch; it wasn't really that hard. He just followed the music and found her at a brightly lit window, humming to herself happily. And whilst it was a nice feeling to know that he had cheered up an immensely depressed girl, Harry also found himself wishing desperately he hadn't said a thing. A century of this might be a bit…taxing.
She had finally promised not to reveal his identity, because apparently nobody would ask anyway, and floated off again, still singing. Bloody girls…Harry had never understood them; they were all mysteries.
Harry sighed, inching a hand to his head. He hadn't slept at all last night, terrified his head would still be bald. Not because he was being plagued by nightmares…of course not.
It would grow back, wouldn't it? If he wasn't allowed to use magic, would it still regrow? He was pretty sure he had magic-ed it back when he was younger…would it work if his magic was volatile?
Where the hell was his Gryffindor courage when he needed it?
No, no he wasn't doing this now. He was going to go to the bathroom, get ready for the utterly lonely Saturday that this was going to turn into, and accidently glance into the mirror at some point. Yeah, that's what he was going to do. Anyway, he couldn't find the strength to lift his hand to check his hair.
Harry shuffled from his bed, thankful that it was almost eleven and therefore his entire house was already up and doing only god knew what. He was thankful he didn't have to put up with the disappointed stares. It wasn't as if he was doing it for attention; he was completing his list.
It took him an entire five seconds after entering the bathroom to glance desperately at the mirror. Another five to realize what he was seeing, and a final sigh of fan-fucking-tastic relief as he ran a hand through his impossibly messy brown locks. Some of his magic still worked; thank bloody Merlin.
He wouldn't have to join Myrtle as soon as she wished.
.
.
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It was an utter waste of a day, Draco had decided as he stared at his friend's antics without humour. Honestly, did they think they were being amusing? It was the first day in weeks in which the sun had actually decided to make an appearance, and as such, the grounds were filled with brainless twits from the other houses. They were all acting as if it was a summer's day, the way they were sunbaking and throwing their cloaks off. In actual fact, it was just above eighteen degrees, and looked as if it were about to snow. They all had such admirable intellect, didn't they?
Truth be told, Pansy and Blaise might have had an input on the odd behaviour between students and the weather. They had begun hexing students at least an hour ago, and didn't seem inclined to stop anytime soon. Usually Draco would have joined them, but he wasn't in the mood today. And no, he wasn't sulking; Malfoy's don't sulk. He was just extremely pissed off that the utter fuckwit Potty would do something as plebeian as cut off his own hair. Did he want everyone to know he was dying? Stupid dipshit.
Draco watched as Pansy directed another paper plane to land behind the Weaselette, transforming it into a heater with a bit of complex transfiguration. They had a bet going, the three of them. They would send a paper plan over, in case they misjudged the distance. It could easily be disregarded as a mistake or accident in that regard. Transform it into a heater, and count the amount of clothes that were disregarded before the brainless twit realised they had an army of heaters behind them. As of now, the Weaselette had three heaters behind her. She was giggling as she complained about the weather and unbuttoned another few on her shirt.
Dean Thomas was quite beside himself, blushing and making a blatant effort to meet her eyes directly. It was pathetic. They deserved the fourth plane that Blaise directed over to them.
Draco rolled his eyes as they told him to pick the next target, quite bored with this game already. Nothing could keep his interest lately, everything seemed so mundane.
As the thought crossed his mind, Potter crossed the yard, expression quite glazed. He was one of the only students fully clothed, and as much as Draco loathed to admit it, decidedly one of the only sane students in the grounds. Thank fuck his hair was back to normal…Draco didn't know how to talk to him when he was like that. It was a fucking slap in the face for him, a reminder that he was in fact very sick, and that he was in all probability going to die in a few months. Bastard of a mudblood, how dare he remind Draco about that? He knew more than anyone, and was probably mourning more than anyone too!
Fucking Potter and his stupid disease! Draco couldn't get him out of his head, just how bloody lonely he looked; he understood perfectly, coming from a hell of sixth year. But he still had his friends, and a chance of living. Potter had no one and no chance, and he was wasting his life away here! The moron should be living, not completing his bloody NEWT's.
"Draco? An answer would have been nice, Darling." Pansy was kind enough to remind him of his apparent discourtesy. Ironic, that; Draco considered it discourteous that he be forced to live through this hell of a day.
He opted to ignore her.
Potter frowned to himself, stopping his frantic pacing suddenly. He pulled a parchment from his pocket, scanning it and getting angrier by the minute. What the hell was he doing?
The next moment, he was ripping his cloak off angrily, tossing it to the ground, as well as his tie, and he rolled his sleeves up past his elbows. Blaise sniggered next to him whilst Pansy made lewd comments about how she wanted the rest of the clothes to follow. Rolling his eyes, Draco managed, barely, to ignore his idiotic companions and turned back to Potter.
He was holding something that glinted in his hand, glaring at it furiously for a few moments…then he was sprinting forwards, almost flying across the grounds.
Directly towards the Womping Willow.
He bloody wouldn't!
…Oh, yes, yes he fucking would!
Potter didn't slow down as he reached the boundaries around the tree, disregarding his own safety as he sprinted towards the murderous tree. It, of course, acted up immediately; branches swung down to fling Potter aside, the stupid prick only just managing to hurl himself out of the way. Potter rolled to the side, and landed on his feet, obvious habits from the war. He didn't hesitate before launching towards the trunk of the tree again, making remarkable progress.
What the hell was he doing? They had all been told about the stupid morons who lost an eye to the tree; did Potter want to die?!
…
Oh.
A branch connected to Potter's stomach, flinging him backwards several meters. Draco watched with horror as Potter was flung backwards roughly, how he didn't move as he was tossed towards the ground. Draco winced as if he could hear the crack across his thick skull as his head slapped against the ground.
He didn't know when he started running, only that he was halfway there.
However, Potter had different ideas. He crawled back to his feet, shaking his head and clutching as his chest slightly before spinning back around. He snatched something off of the floor, barely pausing before diving back towards the tree.
He must have made the trunk this time round, because the tree was furious. Branches were swinging about crazily, slamming against the ground and flinging large clumps of soil exploding into the air. If it could howl, the entire fucking castle would be able to hear its tantrum…
Where was the suicidal bastard? Where the fuck was he?
The Womping Willow threw all its boughs towards Draco, it's limbs coming together to smash against the ground and shower him with dirt and leaves.
It reared up again, swinging around and stretching as far as it could. Harry was suddenly visible, huddling near the trunk, doing something. Then, the branches came down at once, swinging towards its trunk.
Harry barely had time to glance up before he was struck again. This time, Draco was close enough to hear the crack. Harry was flung away, landing in a heap some meters back, suddenly screeching as he landed in a sprawl on his side.
Draco was there within seconds.
"What the fuck is wrong with you, Potter?"
God, there was so much blood. There was a slash across his forehead, trickling over his face, into his right eye. His shirt was stained red, a few slashes on his shoulders weeping as if crying against the thin fabric. He tried to sit up and hissed, immediately lying back down, a shaking hand gingerly cradling his chest.
He blinked up at Draco, his eyes glazed and not quite focussing. "…Drac…Mal-?"
"…Since when have I been 'Draco' to you? You fucking imbecile, do you have a death wish?!"
"No…" He mumbled, "…but Death certainly wants me, doesn't he?" He slurred, smiling softly. "I…I can't breathe…" He managed to whisper out, fear edging into his eyes. "...It…hurts…"
"Well, maybe next time you'd think before you have a battle with the fucking Womping Willow, won't you?!" Draco snarled, glancing up to see Pomfery sprinting over, with a few concerned teachers. All the students were gathered, some shocked, others looking seriously annoyed. As if they had the fucking right to be!
"Pomfrey's here." Draco informed the steadily paling Potter, fighting the urge to smirk as he looked more so terrified now than he had whilst battling the killer tree. "Oh, I'm going to love to hear you explain this one."
"…Don't lea…" He managed to croak out before his lips slipped shut. His eyes slowly closed, his hand against his chest falling limp. Shit. Shit! Shit!
Pomfrey didn't say a word as she arrived, merely glared at Draco and flicked her wand towards the unconscious Potter. A stretcher appeared underneath him, lifting him jerkily into the air. McGonagall arrived in full temper, grabbing onto his shoulders and shaking him, demanding to know what had happened.
Draco didn't answer. He didn't know if he would have, even if his throat hadn't constricted to try to strangle him.
He couldn't look away from the pale, blood smeared boy sprawled now on a steadily crimson turning stretcher.
It looked like Death had already claimed him.
.
.
.
Draco watched without amusement as Blaise study the chess board again, attempting and failing to outdo him. This game was woeful. He spent five minutes at a time trying to think of every possible move, would reach out a hand to move a piece, then snap back to reconsider. And the process went on. And on. And on.
How had Draco been roped into this? Definitely not willingly.
Finally Blaise moved a rook, three places to the left, snatching a pawn. Without hesitation, Draco's bishop edged forwards immediately, smashing the rook viciously to the ground. It didn't stop there, though. It then took a miniature sword from the queen, slashing at the fallen piece, before stealing a spear and spiking it to the floor.
Blaise simply raised his eyebrows at him, before turning back to the board. "A bit snippy, are we?"
Draco snarled at him instead, his bishop kicking the fallen rook in reaction to his temper. "Malfoy's do not snip. And we definitely don't take fifty bloody years to move a bloody rook to take a pawn, to be taken immediately by my bishop. Do you not consider the game? Is there anything going on in that plebeian skull of yours?"
"You're the one that agreed to play." Pansy sung to him from across the room, waving her wand and idly changing the furniture around the room and back again. "Don't complain if you can't take the heat."
Draco glowered, waving a quick charm to check the time again. It was almost eight. Potter had been alone in the hospital wing for a good six hours now; he should be healed well enough. Honestly, what was that idiot thinking when he charged head first towards the bloody Womping Willow? Did he have to take out his frustrations on the only tree that hit back?
Draco blinked at his hands, clenching them as Blaise moved one of his knights. Immediately, Draco sent a queen after it, staring blankly at his hands instead of the decapitation of Blaise's only remaining knight. He had spent his entire lunch scrubbing Potter's blood off his hand, more seeming to appear with each droplet that was washed away. Pansy had eventually entered the males' bathroom, ignoring all the outraged gasps, and dragged him away from the sink. But his hands still stung. He could still see the red; feel the sickly feeling of blood running down his hands.
What was that bloody idiot thinking?
Draco sighed again, reaching over to pick up his king, twirling the piece in his hands. This set was constructed from the finest materials. The heart of a meteor rock was taken and savaged, crafted into the defending side…the other, the purest of diamond. It had been a gift from his mother on his seventeenth birthday, the only present he had received. Half the board sparkled, perfect. The other half was sunken in shadows, whispering and taunting its opponent. Draco only ever played with the pure side. He didn't want to foul himself anymore than necessary. He was already tainted.
"Forgive me if I am wrong, I'm still a slight novice at this game, but isn't the aim to capture the king?"
"How attentive you are." Draco drawled back at him, tossing his king from hand to hand.
"And how exactly am I to do that, if the king has vacated the board?"
"Magic."
Draco rolled his eyes, sighing again before replacing the piece. Chess was a vicious game, a game of sacrifice all to protect the king. This king had a crack in it. It was more vulnerable than usual, and thus, had to be protected vigorously. All the other pawns could be forfeited, willingly, if just to protect the king for longer.
Blaise muttered under his breath, trying to find a safe path for his cursed pieces to slay the king. He was all chance, and no strategy.
"Honestly Draco, enough snapping at us all. It wasn't our fault that Potty's suicidal; he's always been mental." Pansy slumped over next to them, watching the game with disinterest, and pointedly ignoring Draco's glare. How dare he? Potty was his name. "I'm bored. Come on, find me something to do. Strip poker? Strip shots? A skinny dip in the lake?"
"You're trying awfully hard to rid yourself of clothing."
"If only you tried nearly as hard to rid me of my clothing." She sighed, winking at him in what he presumed she thought seduction was. "I'm bored, and I'm sick of you moping about because some deluded fucking Gryffindork tried to off himself! Don't you have anything better to do?"
Draco blinked at her, face expressionless. Did he have anything better to do? Merlin, yes. And yet, here he was, playing chess with the Novice of the Century and the Professional Tart.
He turned back to the board as Blaise moved his queen forwards, taking another of his pieces, smothering it in darkness until it fell off the board, smashing. Without hesitation, Draco moved a pawn. One square forwards.
"Checkmate." He stood up immediately, whipping his wand to repair the broken pieces and stormed up to the common room door.
He had better things to do.
.
.
.
Potter's eyes were on Draco the moment he entered the room. The door hadn't even shut yet, Salazar, it hadn't even creaked! And yet, those bloody emerald globes were already trained on Draco, scrutinizing him anxiously. The brunette had paused awkwardly, one hand midway between his bed and his bedside table.
Draco wasn't perturbed. He took a step, and unfroze Potty. The arm snapped back to his body, those emeralds winced in pain. He was still pale, but thankfully not covered in blood. It was a miracle that he was still able to wince and shift.
Draco made sure to keep his face calm, to hold his mask in place. He knew it unnerved Boy Wonder when he did, and sure enough, he was licking his lips nervously and glancing towards where Pomfrey was, presumably.
"What are you doing here?"
"Tch, I don't think so, Potty. You're going to ask me questions? You hit your head harder than you thought." Draco sneered at him, arms crossing dangerously across his chest. Potty's eyes were wide, confused. It did nothing to improve Draco's temper. "Why did you do it? Can you answer me that?"
"Keep it down!" Harry almost yelped, glancing towards the end of the room. "I'm not supposed to have visitors, and if they see you in here, then they'll chuck you out faster than you can say…uh…"
"Idiot?" Draco asked quietly, cheering inside as Potter finally had the audacity to look guilty. "No? How about fool? Coward? Suicidal, selfish little prick of a mudblood!"
"Just shut up!" Potter winced as he bellowed that, hearing a slam in the other room. Damn it all to fucking hell! He was going to answer, and he was going to answer tonight!
He glanced at Draco, almost pathetically pleadingly, then reached over, to grab his cloak. Draco didn't miss the gasp of pain, nor did he comment on it. Why should he? The fool had done it to himself, he deserved a little pain for making Draco wor…for making Draco come out of his way to ensure the Boy Who Wouldn't Die was living up to his name.
Draco merely raised an eyebrow at him, clearly not amused. "Why haven't they treated you yet?"
"The cloak…in my cloak pocket, put it over your head, and don't move." He managed to wheeze out before the door slammed open, Pomfrey storming over to him angrily.
"What was that yelling about? Who's here?"
Draco, thankful of his seeker reflexes, had dropped to the floor quickly, disgust rolling over his face as he rolled under the bed. He couldn't believe he was on the floor. Ugh, what was the Malfoy name coming to? He lay there angrily; watching at patron stepped closer, stamping her foot like a juvenile and wanting oh so much to curse her.
"I don't want to hear another sound out of you, understand? It's bad enough that I have to treat you like this, that I have to be here to ensure you take your damn potions, that I have to be on my toes constantly for the next bloody attack you have, simply because you're too obtuse to give up using magic, even at the cost of your own life! And, what's worse, you try to hurt yourself even more! You stupid, selfish boy!" Draco had never heard her snap like that before, definitely not towards her favourite student. She sounded as if she had been crying, but Draco didn't have the wit to care. Potter had more reason to cry than she did, and he was surprisingly silent.
"Well? Aren't you even going to apologise? Aren't you going to explain yourself?"
Draco rolled his eyes at that, waiting angrily for the Golden Boy to start the grovelling and apologies. There was a definite reason that that Potty was Gryffindork and not a Slytherin.
He didn't expect his quiet voice to silence the entire room with a single whisper. "No. I regret nothing."
Pomfrey's reply was just a chilling. "Then you will die, alone, with no one to miss you, or most likely, even notice that you're gone." Something on the bed shifted, and suddenly the feet were closer, nearly poking Draco in the face.
"No, I don't want this-"
"Unfortunately, Mr Potter, you have no choice." What?
"I don't need it-"
"You tried to commit sui-"
"No, I didn't!"
"And until the Healer comes in tomorrow for a diagnostic, you're not going to do it again!" The feet stomped around the bed twice, then stormed back to the office, finally disappearing from sight.
"Undo it you stupid bat! Oi!"
Draco rolled over immediately, dusting himself off from imaginary dirt and pieces of filth. God, he would never hide like that again.
Malfoy's didn't hide.
"The…uh…the cloak, put it on." Potter whispered, forcing grey eyes to finally sneer at him again. The scowl was lost as he stared suddenly at the bound Harry, his arms restrained to his sides. That was just…pathetic. He was trembling, for fucks sake!
Anger dispersing, Draco reluctantly reached in and pulled out the cloak, marvelling at the sheer weightlessness of it. It was an invisibility cloak, and one of great power. Draco let it run, like water, through his fingers as he felt the purest of silk, not wanting to relinquish it back to Potter.
"…It was my dad's…so, you know…don't kidnap it."
"It has to be alive to be kidnapped. I would be stealing." Draco murmured softly, finally pulling it over his shoulders to stare blankly at how his body just disappeared. He didn't hear Harry's small scoff, only his next gasp of pain. Finally throwing the cloak over his head too, he edged over to the still figure, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Neither of them spoke.
Draco felt his anger rise again at the thought of that stupid witch that called herself a nurse. How dare she just bind him here, knowing full well that he was going to be alone with his thoughts tonight, knowing full well that he probably hadn't been given pain relievers? Of course she would know, she would be the only one there to administer them.
"Why didn't they heal you?"
"Punishment."
"You could have said the tree looked at you funnily. It provoked you."
Potter blinked at him, the traces of a smirk edging over his lips. It was a nice feeling, knowing he had put it there. In this situation. "They did, sort of. I'm on too many potions as it is, pain relievers, internal healers, magic stabilizers…too many could make me dependant, or something. Don't worry, they made sure I was fine."
"Why would I worry?" Malfoy's didn't worry.
Potter scoffed at that, wincing as he did. Instead, he shrugged slightly, the constant awkwardness that only he and Longbottom maintained vigorously in full action. "And just so you know, I didn't try to commit suicide."
"Well, that's a relief. You know, with the entire school being able to see you dive head first at the tree multiple times with no regard for your life or the amount of times you were hit, quite savagely might I add, we were, quite obviously, wrong. Why would that be counted as suicide? It was only a bit of fun!"
Boy Wonder winced at his snarl again, swallowing tightly. "Funny. But it wasn't suicide. God, if I can fight it every Tuesday, why would I throw it away to have a tussle with the Willow?"
Well, that was mightily confusing.
"Explain."
Potty stared at him guardedly, trying to consider whether or not he should divulge his secret. Those bloody eyes seemed to be taunting Draco, drawing out every fucking secret he had to offer. It was an effort to hide behind the mask, when those fucking emerald eyes were staring like that. Even the mask had its cracks.
"I can't." He was going to get a broken nose if he didn't start talking. Draco didn't necessarily need his nose, just those emeralds.
"Not good enough, Potty."
"Fine, then; I just won't. It's no one's business."
Draco smacked Harry's knee, growling in frustration. This was ridiculous; Potter had told him about his condition, he had gone to him for help when he thought the poison potion was still in his system, he had bloody joked with him, exchanged letters, chatted by the lake… but he wouldn't tell why he had fought against a killer tree?
"I haven't told anyone about this, have I?"
And there were those eyes again, calculating, nervous. They didn't trust Draco, just as Draco couldn't trust them. How could you trust something that showed every fucking emotion all at once? It was unnatural.
Draco waited a moment. Then another. By the third minute, however, he was seriously considering forcing the bottle of veratiserim he carried in his pocket down Potter's bruised throat. Would it kill him to answer? He must know by now that patience wasn't a top characteristic on Draco's list.
"…I don't want anyone to know."
"Try again."
"Fine. I'm not telling you." Oh, this was just brilliant. Trust Potter's misguided sense of Gryffindorkness to flare up just when it wasn't needed.
"I have some interesting facts for you. If you're not going to tell me why you've decided to become a renowned tree-wrestler," He ignored the pointed stare thrown his way. "Then you can listen to me instead. Doesn't look as if you're going anywhere. I found a very interesting book the other day, one that I've almost bloody memorized. Did you know that Succorbentis wasn't around until the early twelfth century? The first wizard to ever contract it was a bishop, who-"
"I don't want to hear about this."
"Hmm, interesting that. You don't want to hear about my facts, but I want you to. I want to hear about your deluded thoughts of wrestling the Womping Willow, but you don't want me to. Whatever shall we do?" Draco blinked again, ignoring the sinking feeling in his gut. Honestly, a sinking feeling? What was he, twelve? It wouldn't be willed away either, not when Potty was fucking pleading with those eyes like that.
"Dr…Malfoy, don't. Please."
"You don't know anything about it, so how will you fucking beat it?"
"I'm working on that already, okay? Just…don't. Please."
"…three people who had it went insane. Three. Two more were developing symptoms that-"
"Just fucking drop it!" Potter shouted, wincing as he glanced towards the door Pomfrey disappeared into. Just what they needed was another furious nurse to ruin their lovely chat. And they were having so much fun too. "The Healer is coming in tomorrow to make sure I'm not losing it, even though I know for a fact I'm not! Maybe you want to join the little therapy session so you can stop telling me I'm deluded too? I get it enough from everyone else then you too!"
…
Why was he comparing Draco to everyone else? He was blatantly fifty times better than anyone could bloody hope to be; Draco was in his own different level!
"…Why are you here, Potty?" Draco made sure so speak quietly, but not pityingly. Potter was allergic to pity, apparently. "Why would you fucking return with this to deal with?"
"…For my plethora of friends?" Potter joked weakly, sighing himself before shrugging. He was drained, exhausted. He looked close to giving up again; that wasn't good. Draco needed to change that. "…I dunno…they gave me the option. I could go to Mungo's, or I could come back here. I tried Mungo's, but I was stuck in a room for months on end, the only company I had was a dead fly I kept on my windowsill, apart from the nurse that gave me my medication. They don't trust me on my own, you see; it...well, there's a high suicidal rate. And being the bloody 'saviour', apparently, means that they can do anything for my greater good…it sucked." He shrugged again, not meeting Draco's eyes. "Here there are the professors to keep an eye on me, Pomfrey to do the medication and checkups and shit, and over five hundred other students who don't know when to keep their eyes or business to themselves; it seemed like the better option."
And Draco thought he had it bad, being on surveillance through the holiday. For the rest of his life seemed a bit excessive.
He huffed, throwing himself into the chair and glared at Potter. He was still shifting nervously, still pale and fucking corpse like. And it wasn't likely that he would change his stance on not telling Draco either, the stupid idiot. Well, if Draco was spending the night in the hospitalagain, he might as well make it a little less cyclical.
"Don't think you're going to get away with this after we're married; you'll tell me everything or you'll get none until you do." And there was the smile that only Draco could conjure. Perfect.
"The horror!" Potter chuckled nervously, shaking his head slightly and blatantly trying not to wince. His attempt was pathetic, really; Draco made sure he saw everything. "You know, you really need to stop that, it's not helping the rumours."
"Have I ever implied I want the rumours to stop?" Potter just raised his eyebrows, that stupid grin on his face as he rolled his eyes. The prat wasn't taking him seriously. "I quite like the fact that everyone thinks I've captivated the one and only Golden Boy; makes me seem omnipotent."
"Except for the fact that neither of us are gay, have no intention on being gay, and will most definitely never be gay…apart from that, you have a chance."
"Fifty gallons says I enthral you." Draco smirked, barely restraining from hitting Potty again as he shook his head, laughing. Oblivious prat.
"Well, enough flirting for now. It's apparently being ignored." He fucking snorted, again. Draco had to bite down his steadily rising annoyance. Malfoy's weren't easily ignored.
He flicked his wand, undoing the restraints on Potter's hands and ignoring the incredulous stare he received for his troubles. The dipshit. "I can put it back." He remarked with his eyebrows raised, smirking as Potter quickly thanked him and stretched his hands.
Draco set himself up on one of the beds, glancing at the steadily falling asleep Potter. He would get to know why the idiot decided to cut his life short by tempting fate with the Willow, if it was one of the last bloody things he did. He had found out about this, he would easily find out about that.
.
.
.
Draco stared at the shaking bundle on the other bed, what he assumed was Potter. He had been tossing and turning for the better part of an hour by now, muttering and whimpering in his sleep. Fucking hell…couldn't he get a break?
Draco knew about nightmares, more so than he cared to admit. He also knew about the humiliation of being woken from a particularly nasty nightmare.
So he stayed awake, and just watched, and hoped he would be quick enough if Potter tried to hurl himself from his bed. He hadn't brought his dreamless sleeping potions tonight, and so would have to stay awake anyway. He was tired, but not nearly as exhausted as Potter had to be.
Sighing, Draco blinked his eyes open again, running a hand over his face…
Potter jerked again, this time kicking his robes off of his bed and across the floor. Really, even in his sleep, implying a Malfoy to pick up after you was a nonexistent had a death wish…well, a bigger one than flinging himself at the Womping Willow, in any case.
Ignoring the annoyance at having to get out of the comfort of his bed, Draco padded across the floor, snatching the robe from the floor. Ugh, it was crusty from the blood.
As he did, however, a folded piece of parchment fell from the pocket, obviously shoved in precariously. Well, Potter should have hid it better if he didn't want Draco to…
…
What the hell was this?
.
.
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17. Carve my name onto the Womping Willow