Whatever You Want, Draco Malfoy || Drarry

Chapter Six

Draco took a deep breath, his cheek pressing into a soft pillow smelling like evergreen and soap. He was surrounded by warmth and pulled his arms tight to his chest, burying his head deeper into the pillow. He had nearly fallen back to sleep when he remembered he didn't bring a pillow and only had the fitted sheet, no blankets.

Draco opened his eyes and forced them to focus on his surroundings. He was still in Potter's flat, still on the floor, but now he had a pillow, half falling off the mattress, and he was covered in a soft fleecy sky-blue blanket. As he slowly pushed himself up, he saw two more blankets left near his feet, one knitted, another a heavier quilt.

"Are you awake?" Potter called from the other side of the wall.

Draco didn't respond. Even if he had been sleeping, that would have woken him up, so it seemed like a particularly stupid question.

Potter looked around the corner, "So you are up. You could have said something."

Draco grimaced at him. The headache he had had last night had followed him into the morning and was softly thrumming behind his temples.

"Get up," Potter said.

"No," Draco said.

"You should eat something," Potter said, disappearing back into the kitchen.

Draco flopped back down onto his bed, pressing his face into the pillow. It occurred to him that the smell caught in the fabric must belong to Potter.

"You look like shit," Potter said, his voice far too close and without any footsteps of warning.

Draco twitched, trying to hide how badly he had been startled with a sharp retort, "Thanks ever so much."

"Need anything?" Potter asked.

Draco pulled the blanket up over his head, his words muffled by the fabric, "To be left alone. And stop stealing my lines."

Potter sighed, "I meant like a potion or something."

"You don't have any potions," Draco said.

"I bought some yesterday," Potter said.

Draco frowned to himself but gave in and muttered, "Pain potion," through the blanket.

Potter opened the bathroom door, the soft clink of glass on glass heralding the vial of potion Potter tapped against Draco's forehead.

Draco sulkily pushed the blanket back down and took the vial of pale violet liquid, turning it to read the label before pulling out the rubber stopper.

"I can read a label," Potter said irritably.

"Sure you can, Potter," Draco said, taking a tentative swallow or the watery, fennel tasting stuff with a grimace.

"You're supposed to take the whole thing," Potter said.

Draco pressed the stopper back in, shivering as the potion worked its way through him, first with a chill, then briefly making him feel entirely numb before it began to fade and leave him as he was, but without the headache or the stiffness in his back that he hadn't noticed.

"I don't need more than that," Draco said.

"They're literally the weakest potions you can get," Potter said.

"I hadn't had any for years. Until last week, anyway. I'm still sensitive to them," Draco said.

Potter frowned, "So you're on child doses? How did they manage at St Mungo's?"

"Gradual dosing," Draco said. "My mouth perpetually tasted like something had crawled inside it to die."

"Ugh," Potter said.