" - co. Draco. "
"Hnf?"
"Draco, get up. You missed breakfast, and Transfiguration. It's nearly noon. You're going to be late for Potions."
Draco sat up quickly, an anxious buzzing quickly burning away the fog of sleep.
"What?! But I – I didn't mean – I just shut my eyes for a few minutes, it wasn't even supper time!"
"Well, at least you're dressed." There was no humour in Blaise's voice as Draco hauled himself upright, pointedly ignoring the other boy's stare.
"Damn it," he muttered under his breath as he glanced at the clock on the wall and saw that Blaise was right. Last night he'd not been able to sleep or move from his position shaking on his bed until Blaise had got up to shower before breakfast; he must have drifted off sometime after that. Lovely. He shuddered as he imagined having to explain to Professor McGonagall why he wasn't in class this morning.
Draco hurried out of the dormitory, barely having time to brush his platinum hair back with his fingers. He raced through the corridors as quickly as he could without breaking into a run, massaging his cheeks and under-eye bags to diminish the evidence of his exhaustion as much as possible.
The tingling in his fingertips and toes only increased in severity as he approached the doors to the dungeons. He did his best to ignore them, and to ignore the looks he got as he let himself in five minutes late. Professor Slughorn, to his credit, didn't draw any more attention to Draco other than to tell him what page to turn to.
"You look rough." Potter was not so tactful.
Draco straightened the sleeves on his robes with a frown before stiffening and turning his focus to crushing his tarantula eyes into a fine mulch.
"Sorry. That was rude. I just meant - you alright? You weren't in Transfiguration this morning."
Draco was so shocked by Potter, of all people, noticing his absence in class that he forgot he was meant to be ignoring him; he froze in surprise before turning and opening his mouth to offer some scathing retort.
Those stupidly vivid green eyes met his gaze, and they were so intense Draco almost felt he ought to take a step back. That annoyed him. This was his favourite class, and he was meant to be the scary one. He was the ex-Death Eater. He wasn't going to back down. It took him a beat – and a raised eyebrow from Potter – to realise his mouth was still open.
He should have just closed it and turned away, but instead he said, "Your cauldron is boiling over."
Potter's stupid eyebrows furrowed and he looked confused, before he glanced up to see his cauldron was, indeed, boiling over with a viscous green liquid. He reacted quickly, vanishing the… mess… (potion would have been too kind of a word) from his cauldron, Draco's flinch as he drew his wand going unnoticed.
Potter started again from scratch under Slughorn's pitying gaze, and Draco once again tried to ignore him, but the other boy's baffling ineptitude was making it difficult. The fifth time he added a new ingredient without waiting for the elixir to simmer down properly, Draco couldn't help himself – he caught Potter's stupid wrist as it made to pour in a vial of pixie dust.
As soon as he realised what he had done, he jerked his hand back, but the damage was done. Potter's own hand was already halfway to his wand pocket, his stupid green eyes intense and ready.
Draco blinked stupidly, trying to come up with something to say that wouldn't make things worse, when he realised Potter's hand wasn't reaching for his pocket. It was just scratching that awkward bit of the ribs he itched when he was caught slightly off guard.
"You, erm. You need to let the potion simmer down and the bubbles disappear before you add the dust. Or any of the next six ingredients, actually." It was a miracle that Draco managed to speak; he had half expected to move his mouth and half nothing come out, or perhaps nothing but a stuttering yelp.
Potter's idiot hand was still paused over the cauldron, and Draco realised he had never noticed how rough the other boy's skin was. His hand was covered in calluses, the type Draco wasn't poor enough to even begin to guess what activities led to them. He shook himself free of the strange, usurping thought, and forced himself to look back into Potter's stupid green eyes.
The intensity in them that had first looked like anger now, Draco realised, was confusion.
"... Thanks. You know, that's the second time you've helped me. With potions, I mean."
Draco's forehead creased. "Don't remind me," he mumbled under his breath. Potter let out a strange, pitchy sigh, and Draco looked at him only to see a small smile on the other boy's stupid face.
Ah. A laugh, not a sigh. Hm.
"I'll do my best," Potter said, his voice still tinged with what Draco now understood to be humour. Draco was still deciding whether to yell at him again, slap him, or just turn and flee when Slughorn called out with a ten minute warning before bottling; it forced Potter's attention back to his own cauldron, and allowed Draco to return to adding the finishing touches to his own potion. Bless that fool of a man.
When Draco decanted a sample of his potion into a small vial (it was the perfect shade of burgundy described in the textbook), he couldn't help but notice Potter waiting for the bubbles in his cauldron to disappear before adding the final teaspoon of mandrake sap.
Potions was his last class until after lunch, so Draco headed slowly and agonisingly to Professor McGonagall's office. He stopped short of literally dragging his feet, as to not scuff his shoes, but it was tempting. He still managed to double the length of the journey, and when he raised his hand to knock, his knuckles had barely touched the wood of the door when he heard a clear, "Enter" from inside.
He held back a sigh and let himself in. The Headmistress was sat behind her desk leafing through a stack of parchment, but gestured for Draco to take a seat on one of the sofas without looking up. He did so awkwardly. He'd despised this room when he was younger; the red-and-gold tapestry behind the desk, the golden lion statues on plinths lining the door, even the case of quidditch trophies on the wall. Now, he found them almost amusing; it was comforting to know that despite McGonagall's desire for student integration among the houses, she didn't want to forget them completely.
Draco had only just sat down when the Headmistress stood, placing a tartan-patterned tin on the table and taking a seat on the other side of it, across from Draco. He was surprised she wasn't making him wait longer; but then, a woman like Minerva McGonagall did not need to rely on petty gimmicks and power plays in order to command respect.
"So. Mr Malfoy. You wish to discuss your absences this term, I take it?"
Draco's brow creased in confusion. Absences plural?
"Erm - Yes, I'm here about this morning. I apologise for not coming to class, I, erm…" He weathered slightly under her unrelenting gaze. He'd intended to make up some lie about an illness, perhaps a migraine and something about not wanting to take up any of Madam Pomfrey's time, but found that it was difficult to lie in the face of the Headmistress. So instead he just trailed off.
After a long, excruciating silence, she opened the tin on the table and pushed it towards him.
"Have a biscuit."
Draco was flabbergasted. "Excuse me?"
"Have a biscuit, Malfoy."
He was so taken aback that he couldn't think of anything to do but obey, so he did. It was tastier than he expected, and he almost subconsciously took another one, if only to have something to do with his hands.
The silence and the stare was so long and painful that he almost had a third biscuit before the Headmistress spoke again.
"It is true, I did note that you did not come to my class this morning. I would have assumed you ill, or perhaps I was having a N.E.W.T. student skive my class for the first time in years, but you have been absent rather a lot this year."
Draco scowled indignantly. "That's not true! This is the first class I have –"
Professor McGonagall waved her hand. "True, the first class you have missed all term. But it has not gone unnoticed, Mr Malfoy, that you have been absent from many school meals. Particularly feasts." Draco could feel his lip curling into a sneer, but the woman did not flinch. "I have also noticed," her voice drew sharper, "that you have not yet signed up for quidditch tryouts. I am aware Slytherin's are the day after tomorrow, no?"
"Did Blaise put you up to this?" Draco asked angrily.
Professor McGonagall remained impassive. "If anyone had to come to me, you know I would not be at liberty to say. But you are not as… inconspicuous as you might wish, Mr Malfoy. Have another biscuit."
"I don't want another biscuit."
She raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him, and he took another biscuit, if a little disgruntledly. They were quite good. She watched him in silence for a few moments before sighing and taking a biscuit herself. In that moment, Draco realised he had never really known how old she was, or heard of anyone holding both a teaching position and the position of Head for more than a few weeks. She looked suddenly very tired.
"You know, when I first introduced the new common room system, everyone told me to start with the first years and not the eighth years; to start them young, because seven years of living and breathing a rivalry was not going to go away. I received some very angry letters when I started with eighth years instead." She took a bite of her biscuit. "Do you know why I insisted on started with you lot?"
Draco shrugged.
"Something for you to ponder, young man. Now, if you can make sure to catch up on today's missed class before our next one on Monday, I see no reason for you to worry about it. I will be expecting to see you at meals. Oh, and do talk to Vaisey or Professor Slughorn about tryouts on Friday. It's been a while since Gryffindor has had any real competition."
She seemed to straighten as she spoke, and return to her usual impassivity. "I shall see you at the feast tonight." She returned to her desk.
Draco swore he saw her smile when he took another biscuit on his way out.