19 Years (HP - Drarry)

Chapter 17: Dinner Date

"Harry. How am I supposed to eat without my hand?"

"Oh, so you are staying. Good." The grip on his wrist loosened, but it tightened again before Draco could pull free. "Unless you're just being a sneaky Slytherin, luring me into a false sense of security and all that, and you're going to run for it the moment I let go."

Draco scowled at him, refusing to admit that that was exactly what he'd been planning. "Of course not. My dinner's here already, isn't it? Git," he added, as an afterthought.

Harry laughed. "Prat." His voice held amusement, but no malice. He let go of Draco's wrist and Draco pulled it back quickly, rubbing it as if Harry had hurt it, and trying his best to ignore the tingling warmth that still buzzed just under the skin Harry had touched.

"Well. Let's eat, then."

—

It was late when Draco left the hospital wing, book tucked securely under one arm and small, pleased smile lingering on his face. Madam Pomfrey had shooed him out, tutting about Harry needing his rest, and ridiculous overgrown boys that think they're too old to sleep. Draco was sure he'd seen her trying to hide a smile when she'd walked in to find him and Harry embroiled in a passionate discussion about one of their past quidditch matches, arguing heatedly about whether either of them had cheated, and who really should have won the match.

He hadn't realized he could have so much fun with Harry - especially not while talking about such a turbulent and difficult time for them both. They'd steered clear of any mention of the war - it was too early for that, yet - but their cautious, tentative friendship was beginning to feel real. It was exhilarating and terrifying, and Draco was torn between twin impulses to draw closer to Harry's warmth and run far, far away.

He still didn't know which would be better, as he felt sleep claim him. His last fuzzy, half-coherent thought was that he hadn't taken his customary dose of dreamless sleep - specially brewed to allow him to use it much more regularly and long-term than the standard variety. He didn't remember the last time he'd been able to sleep without it.

—
Friday, September 29, 2017
Draco had expected dreams - nightmares - to plague his sleep, but he woke up feeling oddly refreshed. And... free. Lighter. Even happy.

He stared bemusedly at his toes, long and pale, like the rest of him, as they dangled over the edge of the bed. He'd frozen halfway out of bed when his thoughts had caught up with him.

He stretched, wincing slightly as his joints popped, then feeling his mouth tug into a wide smile once more as he realized that many of his customary aches and pains were gone. He felt so... alive. He grabbed his wand, spelled the small window open, suddenly craving fresh air. He drew in a deep breath, feeling his lungs expanding, stretching. A slight breeze curled lazily through his room, stirring the long-still air into whispery currents. He caught a whiff of something in the air - something that he couldn't identify, but that hinted at autumn.

The breeze seemed to stir through his head, then, turning over stale thoughts and whisking into musty corners, bringing with it memories of crisp, cool days, the forbidden forest blazing with reds and golds and oranges as the leaves changed color, and most of all cloudless skies, an endless expanse of blue stretching as far as the eye could see and beckoning.

Draco leaped out of bed, casting a quick tempus as he hastily pulled on the first articles of clothing his fingers touched. He had time. It was early yet - earlier than he usually woke. He cast a hasty cleaning charm, too impatient to fuss with his customary shower, and rummaged in his trunk until he unearthed his broom.

He hadn't flown in so long.

He eyed it, suddenly unsure. He didn't know if he could fly, now. He hadn't, he suddenly realized, since - well. Since the fire. Since Harry had saved him.

But he still packed the broom wherever he went, by force of habit, and it lay there, waiting. The breeze teased him again, ruffling his hair. Right.

Snatching up the broom in one hand, his gloves in the other, Draco strode out of his room and out the front doors. He paused, lifting his face, basking in the early morning rays of sun. They warmed his cheeks, which were instantly cooled by the playful breeze, and Draco laughed.

He threw one leg over the handle of his broom and hurled himself into the sky. The breeze, delighted, ruffled his hair affectionately as he re-acquainted himself with his broom, and then challenged him to a race. Draco, never one to back down, bent low over his broom and shot through the morning air with a whoop.

He loved this. Flying. He couldn't imagine, now, how he had he ever given it up.

—

He was late to breakfast, windblown and pink-cheeked, and he felt his fellow teachers - and many of his students - staring at him. He tried to fix his face into his customary scowl, but his mouth kept tugging up against his will. Madam Pomfrey met his eye then and winked at him, and he gave up. He nodded back at her, allowing his mouth to curve up into the smile he couldn't seem to suppress. She raised a brow at him and smiled back, expression sly. He wondered, suddenly, if she'd been a Slytherin.

—

Classes passed in a blur, and soon Draco found his feet carrying him once more to the hospital wing. His dinner was waiting when he arrived, and his exasperated frown dissolved under Harry's hopeful gaze.

A little voice in the back of his head was screaming that this was bad - very bad. Draco didn't care. He'd spent far too much time listening to that gloomy little voice. He didn't know how long this was going to last - didn't even know what this was, really - but he'd be damned if he was going to throw away the only thing that had made him truly happy in years.