The Art of Forgiving

Chapter Two

There was something Severus wasn't telling him.

His penchant for secret keeping was not a singularly odd occurrence; it was only quite recently that Draco had realized just how many lives the man had been living. The information still hurt Draco more than he wanted to let on. The emotions were useless now, but he still wished that Severus had somehow told him--warned him that he was making a mistake.

Maybe he had tried to warn him, in his own way, and Draco was oblivious to it in his little pit of despair. The path he had taken to reach this point seemed like a blur to Draco, how had he become so lost?

How was it that he'd gone from being the son of a respected, pureblooded family, to pulling shards of glass from Potter's feet?

Draco stared at the waste basket, his thoughts almost as morbid as the bloodied contents within.

"Are you done?"

Startled, Draco looked up and shook his head. "I don't know, it's hard to tell."

"Get some clean water, try to clear away the blood, we can't leave any piece behind or it will get infected."

That would be a real shame, Draco thought sarcastically. He filled an empty basin with cold water, and returned to sit near Potter's feet, with a frown on his face. The water washed away the excess blood and revealed the severe damage done to Potter's feet. The tissue was torn to shreds and Draco's stomach rolled violently so that he had to close his eyes or risk losing the contents of his stomach.

He despised Potter, hated him for how different their lives had turned out; but, in that moment, seeing what Potter had done to himself, knowing he must have escaped on feet that looked like this; it was hard to not be amazed by him. A thought that should have occurred to him a long time ago finally decided to poke its head up in Draco's mind.

"How did he even get here?"

Severus was already shaking his head, but Draco narrowed his eyes at him. "Was this some place you and all of Dumbledore's people had parties or something, laughing about how good you were at fooling people?"

"Draco, not even Albus Dumbledore has been here. I don't know how Harry came to arrive at the wards."

"I don't believe you--and why are you calling him that?"

"It's his name--"

"You always called him Potter, or was that a lie too? Were you actually all chummy together--I didn't think Potter could act that well."

Rubbing a hand over his eyes, Severus seemed exhausted by the discussion and looked tempted to ignore him. Draco's animosity towards the secrets that had been kept from him seemed to rise whenever the mood struck him.

"I'm not having this...fickle argument with you right now, get done and you can go to your room--" Severus stopped talking when he remembered exactly which room they were standing in. Draco smiled grimly.

"You already gave my room away to someone who's not even conscious enough to enjoy it. Where am I supposed to go now?"

"You can stay in my room."

That was a surprise, and Draco knew his shock was easily recognizable on his face. "You never let me into your room. You said that if I tried to snoop around--"

"I won't be needing the bed, I'll be in here until he wakes up."

There was a fierceness to his voice, and Draco once again felt nonplussed. He shook his head and eyed the bloodied pile of clothes that was growing by Severus' feet as he spelled them off of Potter and cleaned any wounds that came to his attention.