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Chapter Eighteen

It was the middle of the night, judging by the height of the moon shining through the windows of the hospital wing.

Draco was awoken by the soft scraping of the chair next to him. He slowly blinked his eyes open as Potter yawned loudly by his side.

"Hmm," the blond started, "an epiglottis upon my wake."

Potter lazily rubbed his eyes and stared down, "Wha?"

"Nevermind."

Draco sat up and leaned his back against the wall behind him. His mate kept his tired gaze on the blanket, continuing to scratch the sand away from the corners of his eyes.

Draco allowed himself an affectionate smile. "Who'd have thought; you look even worse at night."

"Shuddup," the raven mumbled as he put his head against Draco's knee.

The latter laid his hand gently over the unruly hair, gently stroking until he felt the small tremors stop under his fingers. Potter reached up and took a gentle hold of Draco's ankle, sinking into the touch and allowing himself a deep soothing exhale.

After a moment, Draco whispered, "I know my presence is enthralling, but that is not the reason for your visit, is it?"

Potter shook his head slowly.

"I can do legilimens," The Slytherin added, "But I don't want to see all the dirty images that are surely clouding your mind. So, spit it out."

The Gryffindor sighed and lifted his head, grabbing Draco's hand along the way and propping his chin on it. He glanced over at his mate before murmuring, "I'm talking to Ginny tomorrow."

"Oh… have you decided?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

"That's not an answer."

Potter breathed in the scent of Draco's palm before locking his eyes with him. "I came here to be sure."

"Are you?"

Their hands intertwined as their thumbs gently caressed each other. There was a resigned sadness in Potter's eyes, one that tugged at his heartstrings but one that also boiled something deep inside of him. An anger he didn't know he was capable of feeling. A deeper sensation of injustice at how hard it was to get ahold of something that should be so evident.

Finally Potter answered earnestly, "I don't know."

Draco grit his teeth but outwardly kept his composure the best he could, trying to keep the boiling from reaching the carvings into his skin.

He breathed in deeply and pulled Potter closer, making him sit next to him on the bed until their shoulders touched and their clasped hands laid atop of their legs.

"Talk me through it," he said, "As dense as you are, I feel certain that the answer is just a quick trim away."

Potter smiled and let his head fall atop his shoulder.

"It's complicated, you know?" he started, "Ginny and I… we've been through the war together. We've waited for each other. Through the cold nights on the run, thoughts of her helped me through. She is - was … - the one I was supposed to have a future with. She's been in love with me since we've met. She's the sister of my best friend. She's always been family. If ever there was a story written about us, I'd be with her. She knows me and has been with me. It just makes sense."

Draco felt his chest tighten but focused as much as he could on the warmth of his mate by his side, reminding himself over and over again that he was here, with him.

"That's all a nice picture, Pothead-"

"Don't get salty now."

"But," he continued as if uninterrupted, "That is what it is, a picture. It's a painting of what you want to see. It's not reality. So, what is the reality?"

"Smart ass." Potter squeezed his hand tighter, taking a moment's break as he combed through his thoughts. "The reality, I suppose," he started softly, "is that she's an incredibly sweet and smart girl. She's stronger than anyone gives her credit for. She's -"

"Not sure I can listen to you yap about miss perfect's qualities without shredding into a harpy."

The raven scoffed and pinched the top of his hand before continuing, "The reality is that I care for her very deeply… but I don't think I can really envision a future with her. She's in love with this hero version of me, she looks at me with stars in her eyes, like she can't really believe I'm real or something. She has too much admiration for me to disagree with me. She walks on eggshells around me, I can tell. She's always trying to be perfect, to do things for me, to focus on me. She doesn't let her guard down. The truth is that I'm fairly sure she doesn't consider us equals, and that she never will."

"Well, neither do I," Draco replied, "You are clearly inferior to me, and I am perfectly alright with that."

"You would be, you ass."

The Slytherin bumped their heads together gently.

Potter closed his eyes and nuzzled deeper into Draco's shoulder. "And put like that," he whispered, "The choice seems rather easy, doesn't it?"

"I suppose it does." Draco looked at their hands; the way their skins contrasted, the scars they each carried, the weight they had held. He breathed in, "You do realise I am never going to be a version of her that fits you better?"

"How disappointing."

"I'm serious Potter."

The raven moved slightly against him, settling his body closer against him. "I know that, you prat," he answered, "As if you'd ever have Weasley-like qualities. I know you're a different kind of easy and a different kind of difficult."

"And you're okay with that?"

"I'm still here aren't I?"

While their nocturnal rendez vous had appeased some of Draco's anxieties, he still awaited the end of the day with a sense of foreboding.

He imagined Potter chickening out, or the Weasley's cries and pleas to get to him. He imagined himself to be at the receiving end of that breakup conversation - regardless that they weren't truly together. He even envisioned the possibility that Potter might return and lie to him, have them both, have his cake and eat it too; but he could feel Potter too well to not detect a lie, or not smell the scent of another on him, or dismiss the burns on his arms.

Regardless, it unnerved him in ways he was not prepared for.

He spent the day in his room, waiting for any sign of his mate to return. When he awoke, part of his vision had cleared, like a small tunnel opening up and he could see directly in front of him. It was faded and dark but he could see. He looked around him, trying to distinguish the things he knew only by touch.

He found he cared very little for the texture of the hospital desk or the colour of the various juices.

He cared very little for his vision in fact. He'd rather be blind but have Potter by his side. A surprising realisation though it was. With his witty remarks, half assed insults and general demeanour, the Gryffindor made for rather enjoyable company. And he wasn't prepared to lose that.

He wasn't sure he'd been able to think of anything other than him over the last few months. Last years even. In fact, he couldn't remember a time when the raven hadn't been on the forefront of his mind. He wasn't sure what he would occupy his thoughts with without him.

He sat on the chair with his feet on the bed, facing the door awaiting any sign of mouvement.

Not that he really needed to. He could feel the steps, as if echoing through the stone straight into his feet. Felt it getting stronger as he neared.

The door opened slowly, allowing a more subdued Potter to come in. He sent Draco a small smile but mostly kept his head down and his hands deep in his pockets. He dragged his feet towards the bed and let himself fall heavily, face first onto the sheets.

Draco allowed him a moment to snuggle in peace when he heard a whisper through the pillow, "It's done."

He held back the crude remarks about narrowly avoiding the red plague and think of the dumb ugly babies you won't have. If their bond allowed him one thing, it was the knowledge of when to shut up.

He removed his feet from the bed and leaned forward, putting his hand gently on Potter's shoulder. In more ways than one he could tell there were silent tears running along his cheeks.

"Don't ask," he whispered into the pillow, "I'll tell you some other time."

"Alright."

Staying face down, Potter opened his palm towards him, an invitation Draco took at once, gently cradling the fingers between his. He pinched him once, hoping - and succeeding - to stop some of the shaking in his back.

"Don't get soppy on me now, Pothead," he whispered good-naturedly.

"Just let me have this one," he answered, his tone somehow more dejected than he had ever heard before.

Draco nodded and scooted closer, craddling the hand in both of his.

"Ok you can have this one," he responded evenly, "But just this once."

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