19 Years (HP - Drarry)

Chapter 15: Have A Biscuit, Potter

McGonagall cut her off with an impatient wave of her hand. "I won't be long. Did you find that file I asked you about?"

Madam Pomfrey hesitated, glancing at Harry.

"It's all right," he said, voice coming out a touch slower than he would have liked.

Pomfrey's frown deepened, but she nodded. "I'll fetch that file now," she said, already walking back toward her office.

McGonagall stood watching until Pomfrey was several feet away, and then turned her attention to Harry. He squirmed under her impassive gaze, waiting for the lecture. But it never came. Instead, McGonagall pulled a small tin from the pocket of her robe and, with a tap of her wand, enlarged it into what was clearly a biscuit tin. She opened the lid and selected one with what appeared to Harry to be excessive care. She held it up, frowning, for a moment, then popped the whole thing into her mouth at once, and broke out into the biggest smile Harry had ever seen her wear. He watched, fascinated, as she delicately wiped her lips, with a lace handkerchief he suspected she'd conjured, and held the tin toward him, smile fainter, but still there. "Have a biscuit, Potter," she said, waving the tin a bit.

Harry felt his lips quirk up as he did as she directed. When he was happily munching - McGonagall always had the most extraordinary biscuits, far better than Dumbledore's ever-present lemon drops - McGonagall set the tin to the side and looked searchingly at him. "Mister Potter," she began, then paused, frowning. "Harry. I realize that you are no longer a student under my care, but I cannot help feel at least a bit responsible for your health. No, don't interrupt, please. I know the war was hard on you Harry - harder on you, than on most of us. And I know that your first few weeks as a professor here have been... less than ideal." She paused, as if searching for the right words. "I just want you to know that I'm here for you, Harry - as is Headmaster Longbottom - if you ever need to talk about it. About anything, really. I owe you that. We all do." She sniffed and straightened her spine, shrinking the biscuit tin and tucking it back into her robes. "Do as Poppy says, Mister Potter," she said, steel back in her voice. "She can help you, but only if you let yourself be helped."

Harry nodded wearily, knowing there was no use arguing. And, he reflected, as Professor McGonagall strode briskly to the door, he probably did need the help. He lay back on his pillows, relaxing into the quiet stillness of the empty ward, and watched the late afternoon sunlight play along the wall as he felt the warmth of the potion creeping over him once more. This time, no one interrupted, and he let sleep claim him.

---

Harry was tugged from that peaceful sleep some time later, by the quiet squeak of shoes on the stone floor. He stilled, instantly alert, but left his eyes closed as awareness flooded back into him. He instantly knew it wasn't Madam Pomfrey, who walked near-silently on her rubber-soled shoes, nor Professor McGonagall, whose heels clicked a brisk staccato on the castle floors. Harry wondered who it could be, but, as it turned out, he didn't have to wonder long

"You're such an idiot Potter," ranted the unmistakeable, slightly nasal tones of Draco Malfoy. "Honestly. You should have at least managed to pack enough Dreamless Sleep, if you were going to use it every night. Of course you weren't going to be able to get any here. And," Malfoy continued sharply, "you shouldn't be using it at all, really, much less nearly every night!" He paused, suddenly, and when he spoke again the words were much softer. "Of course, I can't really fault you for that. Oh, yes, Potter, very good. I use it too. Have to, you see, ever since - well. You know all about that, I suppose."

Malfoy fell silent, and Harry itched to open his eyes and see what expression was on that pointy face. Though, he had to admit, it wasn't really all that pointy anymore. Malfoy was still lean, but not in the skeletal way he'd been the last few years of school. He was more... whipcord thin, Harry decided, all muscle and restrained power, and not an inch of fat on him. Harry's body suddenly took an interest, and Harry realized he had to stop that line of thought before Malfoy realized he was awake.

Malfoy obliged him by speaking again, giving a relieved Harry something else to focus on.

"I didn't mean to do it, you know," he said softly. "I just... you were so insistent, Potter, and I didn't know what to do. I don't know how to open up and let people in. It's been a very long time since I've had to even try. And it's hard because... well, you're dangerous, Harry. You make me feel things that I would really rather not. It's blasted inconvenient, really. And - "

Harry, realizing he needed to stop Malfoy before he revealed something he probably wouldn't want to, cleared his dry throat and rasped "Didn't know you cared, Malfoy." He opened his eyes to find wide grey ones staring back into his from rather closer than he'd expected.

Malfoy startled, jumping out of the chair and moving swiftly toward the door. "I should go."

Harry surprised himself by sitting up - rather too quickly, as it happened, and he groaned at the sudden pain that bloomed along his ribs. He ignored it in favor of stopping Malfoy from leaving. "No! No - please stay."

Malfoy stopped, hand on the doorknob, and stared at him. His brows drew down and he chewed his lower lip as he wavered. "All right," he finally said, blowing a few loose strands of cornsilk hair out of his eyes.

Harry felt an overwhelming urge to card his fingers through that hair, feel if it was really as soft as it looked, but he tamped it down ruthlessly. His idiotic crush on Malfoy wouldn't do him any favors here.

Just as the uncomfortable silence was becoming unbearable, Malfoy snorted softly, and Harry felt nervous laughter bubbling out of him. "Sorry about my House," he said earnestly, peering up at Malfoy from under his lashes. "And about my - about James."

Draco closed his eyes, nodding. He didn't say anything. Harry, momentarily distracted by the way "Malfoy" had become "Draco" again, quite without his noticing, felt all the words he shouldn't say rushing toward his lips, and he knew he'd never be able to hold them in. He let out a huff of self-deprecating laugher. "He doesn't listen to me - never has." And once those words were out, it was as if a dam broke suddenly open inside of him, and all the words he'd been keeping locked inside burst out, spilling from his lips in a damning stream. He closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see Draco's tentative smile turn mocking. He expected Draco to laugh, or make fun of him, or walk away. But he just - listened.

He talked and talked, and Draco let him. When the words dried up, and Harry was left panting and empty, staring at him numbly, Draco reached out and gripped his shoulder gently. He sat there, with Harry, simply existing in the face of shared experience and pain. And it was enough.

When Draco rose, some hour or so later, and turned to go, he squeezed Harry's shoulder gently. He didn't say a word.

As the echoes of Draco's footfalls faded away, Harry drifted off into the first peaceful, unmedicated sleep he'd had in a very long time.