Draco drifts.
It's an odd feeling, a floating without water. Or air. Maybe it's just his mind drifting.
The more he thinks about it - or tries to think, everything muddled as it is - the more that seems right. His mind is drifting.
He's not sure what happened. He remembers flashes of things but doesn't know when they happened. He doesn't even know if they happened at all. Maybe he's dreaming. Maybe this is all one massive, bizarre dream.
"Murder! Murder!"
Murder? There's not supposed to be any of that. No, no murder. That's why it's supposed to wait until summer. He's been trying so hard to stall. It's very important.
"What did you do?"
Pain. A deep, dark slash of it. A scream, loads of screaming, a bloody sodding screaming contest happening in his ears. In him? Is he screaming? Is it someone else?
"Move, idiot boy!"
A rhythmic lull of words, a chant. A tugging, a stitching, his flesh being pulled this way and that. His torso shifts on the cold floor, warm splashes of liquid at his back as his shoulder blades hit down.
"I didn't know - I didn't mean to -"
"Stay here."
The feeling of being carried. No; levitated? More floating.
* * *
"Will you shag me?"
That's nice, a nicer flash of memory, of something good. Had it happened? Or did he dream it? She'd asked him... hadn't she? She'd wanted him. She'd come to him. She had, hadn't she? He can hear her voice, can almost see it. See her.
So pretty. Perfect.
* * *
"Oh, Severus! What happened?"
"It's Dark magic. I can stop the bleeding, but not -"
"Tell me what you're doing. How are you doing that?"
"Come over here, Poppy. He must remain still. Steady, Draco."
* * *
"I'd never call you Draco."
The smirk that looked so good on her mouth, her full lips, her defiance.
* * *
"Will you shag me?"
"Have you done anything else?"
She had not. She'd come to him, asking... asking...
"I won't shag you tonight. There's a lot that should come first."
He'd been excited, for the first time in months, it seemed. He was happy to drag it out, to have more.
* * *
Heels tapping on the stone floor, a pretty girl winding her way between the tables. A flash of a red toenail peeping out the tip of the shoe, a heel, higher than standard uniform issue. A smell of shampoo - lilac? - as she brushes by, her cheeks a little pink.
A stirring in his trousers, something that feels... distant. Like it's been evading him.
* * *
"Severus, the scar... his chest -"
"There's nothing I can do about the scar, Poppy. But he'll live. Whether Potter will when Lucius hears what he's done, I can't say."
* * *
The pretty girl again, with the riotous hair she ruffles with a hand while she works. It helps her think. He knows this about her, somehow.
A necklace, charms, a star and crescent moon. It hangs under her robes - how does he know that? - and sometimes on top of them.
He gave it to her.
* * *
Less pleasant things.
The pain again, in his chest. Not just the slash, which was brutalising, like a lightning strike in a storm. But a tightening, a constriction. He couldn't breathe.
"You need to know that I'm not a fucking thing you own."
* * *
Vincent Crabbe, trying to infringe on his mission. His mission, the special one just for him, that he has to finish before the end of term. It's to save his father, get him released from Azkaban. His mother is desperate for him to succeed.
What was it? It was... it was... complicated. It was so hard, he didn't know if he could do it. But then he did know, it was achievable, and Draco was stalling.
Why?
The cabinets. The vanishing cabinets. Repair the broken one and let the Death Eaters into the castle. Infiltrate Hogwarts.
And he knows how to do it, but he hasn't yet.
The pretty girl, with the curly hair and the shoes he gave her. The necklace under her robes. Can't have her here for it. He has to wait, wait until after the term ends.
Wait until summer, when she'll be safely away from the castle. She can't be here. This matters.
* * *
"Where is my son?"
"Narcissa, please, be calm. He's just over here."
"It's Lady Malfoy."
"My apologies. Draco is alright. He's not conscious, and it's part of Severus's treatment of the wound. He's going to be fine."
A cold hand on his own, chilly fingers with manicured nails. Sniffling, sobbing, something shakes against his shoulder. He feels hot breath and tears and knows she's crying on him.
"Oh, Draco, Draco... I'll be back soon, darling."
* * *
The way the pretty girl likes being praised, responds to the confirmation of a job well done. A good girl, tugging her skirts down over her knees instead of tugging them up like other girls do.
His good girl, and how she loves him saying it to her, telling her how good.
* * *
"You're finished, Malfoy." The grunt is accompanied by some appallingly pungent hot air across his face. "It's mine, now. Everything you have will be mine."
* * *
"Narcissa, please. He's alright."
"Why isn't he awake yet?"
Draco wants to be. He struggles again, in vain. He thinks he's closer all the time, but maybe that's a dream, too.
"He's healing faster this way. Be patient."
"The scar... his chest. Oh, Severus."
"I'm looking after him, Narcissa. There is nothing I can do about the scar, but I am doing my best to protect him."
"And what is being done about Potter, may I ask? He attacked my son."
"Narcissa, please..."
"It's Lady Malfoy, for the last time. Severus can refer to me informally as a long family friend and as Draco's godfather. You may not."
Draco tries to tell his mother that the Healer means no harm, that she's always been good to him. But he doesn't think his mother would be pleased to hear how often Pomfrey has had to patch him up.
He's done his best to keep those things from her.
It's important that he does what his father can't, that he cares for his mother and everything else.
It's his responsibility.
* * *
His arm, his left arm.
Has anyone seen? How can he keep the secret now?
* * *
"I'm not going to mess around with anyone else. You won't have to worry about sharing. I'll only do this with you."
"You already know I haven't done this with anyone else. And... I won't. I don't want to. It's only you."
A gift of cosy, soft pyjamas, green to remind her of him. And a second set: red, just for her. A set. A matching pair, for her to see every time she opens her trunk.
"Are you my good girl?"
"Only yours."
The way she smells. Lilac on the surface, yes, but also salt and musk. Her arousal. The way her heels tuck under her bum when he's between her legs, the way her little red-tipped toes are in his face. The way she tastes.
"And I'm the only good girl you have?"
"My best girl. My only girl."
* * *
Some things drift in more clearly than others. Draco still can't put things in order.
Breaking Crabbe's nose when he tries to interfere, tries to shove his way into the mission.
Pansy, in a broom cupboard, offering friendship. "I only care about the mission because I care that you don't fail it, wanker. We all know what's on the line. We care about you."
"We:" Pansy. Theo. Blaise.
Not Crabbe. Not Goyle.
But Draco isn't alone.
* * *
That broom cupboard had got him into trouble. She'd misunderstood. He was in there with Pansy, and she'd gotten it all wrong.
* * *
"Draco." The smooth baritone he should recognise. He does recognise it, can see the face, but can't pull forth the name of the person to whom it belongs.
Frustrating.
"Draco, I'm taking care of things. I vowed to help you. That can take many forms, but one of them is to step in and complete your task if you cannot."
He feels an enchantment ripple down the hospital robes and he strains uselessly. What does that mean? Is the 'task' his mission? Why can't he track these things better?
"I don't intend to take it from you. But you must heal. I'm sorry for the charms, but they're meant to speed the healing process. Be patient, Draco."
* * *
One hand wrapped behind her head in her perfectly disarrayed curls as he watches her come apart. She's astride his lap, her thighs surprisingly strong, and his gaze is torn between her face and the necklace he gave her, resting on her naked chest.
He wants her right here, every day, forever. That look on her face, his hand in her hair.
Every day.
* * *
"What about... her?"
Pansy's voice in his head, and fear bolts through him.
Her. Her. His girl. Pansy knows. They all do, but they're more afraid of the coming war. Things are going too far and they're afraid.
They don't care that she's - that's she's -
Muggle-born.
* * *
And then it had all gone wrong.
"Don't follow me!"
No, no, no.
Please, no.
His best girl. His only girl.
And then the pain. Pain like he was being torn open.
Maybe he had been.
"I am not yours like that."
* * *
It's hard to tell what's happening now or what's a memory. Or what memories might really be dreams. Has he dreamed these things?
Which ones? Any of them? All of them?
Draco has no idea how long he's been here. He's restrained at the wrists and ankles, he can tell. It feels like a basic incarcerus hex to the hospital bed.
On instinct, his eyes stay shut when he hears someone approaching. He's still disoriented and until he knows who it is, he'd rather be able to mimic sleep. Could he open them if he wanted? They feel so heavy. Maybe more than his extremities are bound.
"He needs rest to heal. I really must protest -"
"He is healing, no thanks to Potter. He needs to see what he's done. Potter, get over here and take a good look. You nearly killed him. If I hadn't gotten to him in time, he'd have bled out on the bathroom floor."
"Harry, how could you." It's not a question. It's a statement, a hissed disappointment from the corner, a third or fourth admonishment.
Something in the voice gives Draco chills, a ripple of familiarity. Not just the voice itself, but the angry tone, the cold fury of it. Draco knows it's been aimed at him. The drive to avoid it is almost visceral. His chest feels tight and he tries to focus on the other voices.
"Detention, every Saturday until the end of term."
"But -" a horrified whinge that almost makes Draco smile, "- but the Quidditch Cup -"
"Oh, dear." Draco's piecing things together better now. That's his godfather's silky baritone. "Last place for Gryffindor this year."
* * *
Finch-Fletchley, the Hufflepuff, talking to her. Some joint project, an essay together, and Draco tries to control his jealousy.
"Are you my good girl?"
"Only yours."
Seamus Finnegan teasing her in class, putting a hand on her shoulder, calling her by a nickname: "'Mione."
His vision goes red and he can't stop himself. He confronts Finnegan, chasing him off, blasting the secret to public pieces.
Everyone knows. Draco doesn't care, but she does. The only people he cares about already know.
She's always cared, always wanted the secret, and he blew it.
"You need to know that I'm not a fucking thing you own. I am not yours like that."
The necklace falling into a golden slump on the floor at his feet, yanked off her neck by her hand, the clasp broken.
"Don't follow me!"
* * *
Hermione. Hermione. Hermione.
He couldn't breathe, his chest too tight. He retched, bent over the sink. The stupid ghost, the whingy bint pleading with him to tell her what was wrong, that she could help him.
No one could help.
She was gone.
"Don't follow me!"
* * *
"You piece of shit."
Green eyes behind glasses reflected in a mirror, a wand raised.
"I didn't believe the map, but it's never been wrong. I've known you were up to something, but never in a thousand years did I think you were fucking around with Hermione. But she admitted it!"
That throws him off. They know? She told them?
"We couldn't believe it was true. Hermione's never stupid, but this?"
Draco's anger flares again as green eyes rants and raves. No, she's not stupid. Never stupid.
"Then just now, Seamus said you were a complete prick. Look, I'm not surprised and I hope she set you straight, but given that she's in tears in the common room - I swear, Malfoy, I'll kill you. She's so much better than you - she's - she's -"
Green eyes seems overcome, as if he's saying something Draco doesn't already know, as if that's a surprise. He pushes his ridiculous glasses up his nose.
"Stay away from her."
"You don't tell me what to do, Potter. And you sure as fuck don't tell her what to do. She'll do what she wants."
Right now, what she wants is to be as far away from Draco as possible, and he tries to manage his breathing. He has to manage long enough to handle this, anyway. He's humiliated and devastated and other things he can't wrangle, and he has to handle Potter walking in right this second.
Why is he here? How? Draco can't worry about that. He's here, and the situation can't be ignored.
He doesn't want to ignore it anyway. He wants to take out his rage, his fear, on someone - someone who deserves it.
Then he can go back to falling apart in private, with nothing but the histrionic ghost bint for company.
Potter's meddling. This isn't Potter's problem. Hermione isn't Potter's problem; she's Draco's, and it's a problem Draco desperately wants - needs - to fix. And he will, as soon as this is over.
He raises his wand and Potter mimics, and hexes begin to fly.
His distracted state doesn't serve him well, and in his desperation, he reaches too far into his bag of tricks.
"Cruci -"
"SECTUMSEMPRA!"
* * *
Then, the pain. The darkness. The screaming. So much screaming.
* * *
A pressure on his hand, but a kind one. Not cold, like his mother's fingers were. A sniffling he can hear, but no words. The fingers wrap through his, between his, around his.
She's on his right side and he's glad.
* * *
"Malfoy?" a whisper, male.
"Shh, we aren't supposed to be here."
"I know that, wanker, why do you think I'm whispering?"
"Shut up, both of you." A girl's voice, now. "Draco?"
He struggles with no more success than he's had yet, but his mind is clearer. Three voices, two male and a female.
Someone lifts his left hand and this doesn't panic him. They already know.
"Can he hear us, though?"
"Snape says maybe."
"It's been hard to find a time when nobody else is in here. If there's a chance he's hearing us, get on with it."
"Malfoy, Crabbe wants to take over your mission. No one knows what it is, so he can't, but he's angling to try on his own, some other way."
That panics Draco, almost enough to open his eyes. How can this enchantment be so bloody hard to crack? If Crabbe finds a way to let them in the castle while she's still here...
"Snape intervened, says he has the situation under control. The impression he gave is that he knows what you're doing and is helping. We don't know if that's true but it's keeping Crabbe out."
Which situation? This one here, Draco in the hospital wing, or the situation with his blasted mission? Both? Maybe he shouldn't have been so curt with Snape all year.
"Also, Draco..." only the girl calls him 'Draco.' He wishes he could smile before the desire is wiped away for good. "They know about - about her."
* * *
"How is he now?"
"Just as before, dear. He'll be fine. Professor Snape knows this area of magic better than I do, and he's confident."
"When will he wake up?"
"I don't know for sure. His body has a lot of healing to do; deep, internal healing. Professor Snape's mix of treatment choices has kept him unconscious and still."
"Why is he still restrained?"
"We're still afraid that if he regains consciousness and no one is around, he could hurt himself. He could reopen the wound. If he's confused about how he got here, or what happened... it's safer for him this way."
"Draco." The voice is whispered but insistent. He wants to answer it. "Draco."
But it's just out of reach.
* * *
"Has anyone ever done that for you?"
The head shake, full eye contact. No one ever has. No one's ever seen her, touched her, had her respond. No one else has ever felt her clench around them, her desperate desire for more.
"You don't want to skip the next part. I promise."
Her curls brushed behind her shoulder, her lips slightly parted. Big, chocolate eyes locked on his. And she loves being praised, loves the validation. He should have guessed she might but he could never have imagined it in person.
"Now we know you like it when I tell you what a good girl you are. I also like it. But just because I like it doesn't mean you have to. If I do something you don't want, you still have to say so. Understood?"
The trust in her eyes, the anticipation. The nodding, her quiet insistence in his ear of 'Please, Draco?'
The staggering of his heart, the unpredictable nature of love. Making it, being in it. Falling into it, arse over tit. Head over heels.
"Have you forgotten this was my idea from the start?"
He couldn't possibly. She approached him and his entire life changed. He'd thought it was that week, that month. This school year. But it's more than that. Everything's changed.
"You're doing all the work."
"If you think it's work, I've been doing it wrong."
"All the fun, then... Will you teach me how to touch you like that?"
* * *
"Draco."
The whisper again and it pierces through the haze. This is the voice that matters. He wants to hear it.
"Draco. I know you might not - might not be ready to wake up." The voice hitches a little and he wants to reassure it. He's alright. He's okay. He'll be okay, for her.
Even while the voice is thick, it's melodic, but it pauses a minute.
"What Harry did - I'm so furious with him. I need you to know. And he feels really bad -"
Somehow this doesn't resonate with Draco quite as much. He focuses on the voice instead.
"And I'm furious with you too, you tosser, but - you almost died." It chokes up, the voice, and he tries to tighten his fingers around the hand touching his.
"I meant what I said. I'm not something you own. I'm not something you can tuck away on a shelf or in your bloody vault, but I don't want you to die. And as long as you - as long as you remember that, I -"
She stops talking and he wants her to keep going. He struggles to open his eyes. Why is it so much harder now? Earlier, he'd felt right on the cusp of it. Sometimes everything still feels like an illusion.
Hermione.
* * *
"Darling." The cold hand. Draco can feel the bangle of an expensive bracelet slide against his own wrist as she clasps his fingers in her own. "We need to talk when you're awake. Can you open your eyes for me, Draco?"
He tries. He really tries. She begins to cry again.
* * *
"No, he's still unconscious, you arsehole!"
He hears a scuffle and fights with the spells he's held under. The voice is indignant, angry. It's beautiful.
"Hermione, I didn't - I didn't mean to -"
This voice is tortured and Draco finds himself pleased about it. Not like the other one; when that one's upset, he's driven to fix something. Anything.
"I didn't want this. I didn't know -"
"No, you used a spell from that stupid book I kept telling you was dangerous! You should have turned it over months ago! And instead, Draco's laying here half dead -"
"'Draco' is it? Not 'Malfoy'?"
This voice is different, derisive, and Draco prickles on reflex.
The beautiful voice turns cold. "It's whatever I say it is, Ronald. It's my choice. My decision."
"Okay, let's see once and for all, shall we? What kind of decision are you making? Someone pull up his left sleeve."
Panic strikes him, vivid and sharp. He hears another scuffle and wants to tell her not to fight it. She can't stop it. He'd rather she left, that she weren't here, but he can neither make her leave nor hide this from her. Not anymore.
His drive to move does shift him on the hospital bed. He feels his weight move and he wrestles against his eyelids. He nearly makes it, straining harder than he ever has in his life, but when he feels a hand yank against his sleeve, the sleeve doesn't move.
Someone yanks on the other one, and it doesn't move, either.
The scornful voice, the one with a tawdry, lower-class accent, curses, "What the hell?"
He hears a scoff from behind, and a second voice says, "Pomfrey probably doesn't want anybody messing about while he's unconscious."
There's a slight smirk to the tone and Draco wonders if that was, in fact, the point. He wouldn't mind the beautiful voice messing about with him and wonders if the rest of his hospital robes would be similarly immobile, but now's probably not the time.
His girl - his girl? Please, please, please - retorts, "Good. Get the hell out, then. He's not a Death Eater. You're being stupid and paranoid. He was seeing me; great, you caught us - by spying, by the way, and don't think I've forgiven that."
"We're just trying to look out for you -"
"Oh, total fucking bollocks, Ronald. Don't even try that angle. You were tracking him, trying to find something on him, and the worst you found was that he's been meeting me - gods forbid. So just -"
"'Mione -"
There's that nickname again, the stupid one from someone other than him, and Draco's furious. It's the closest he's come to opening his stubborn eyelids. He's so close.
"- we're just trying to look out for you."
Draco hears a deep breath and readies himself. This should be good. He knows her. She's got this.
"You were 'looking out for me' by spying on someone else, and you were using house-elves to do it!"
Her voice is reaching a shrillness he's never heard, which is saying something. He wishes he could smile.
"So keep it to yourselves in future! Stop abusing your stupid bloody rights to Kreacher and Dobby -"
Dobby? That sidetracks him, temporarily.
"- and focus on what's important for a change. You have important things to do, Harry. I haven't forgotten. Where are you on that stupid memory? Dumbledore is entrusting you with it, and you've been wasting time interfering in my bloody love life! Yes, he's been distracted - with me, you arseholes! I just didn't want to say anything to either of you, and you're proving exactly why!"
His eyelids finally, mercifully, crack open. He's so surprised that it takes him a minute to realise he should probably be subtle about his newfound ability to see. In his quick glimpse, he sees her facing the two of them, everybody's faces red and angry. She's between them and his bed, her back to him. That's a shame, but he has a full view of her incredible hair and he wishes she were a little closer. He'd love to feel it against his fingertips, even from the bed.
Perhaps overly cautious, he keeps his eyes closed. Whatever else happens in the next few minutes, silence soon falls. Maybe he dozes back off.
The light, delectable pressure descends on his hand again, and this time, he's able to react. He squeezes the tiniest bit.
"Draco?"
It's a gasp of a sound, a choked noise that her hand muffles. She leans in.
Hermione.
He has no idea what time it is or who else might be around, but he wishes she'd lay down. Can't she get closer?
She can. She must feel the same way, or maybe it's just night and they're alone. How long has she been here? How often?
She climbs in next to him, tucking her head under his chin and he finally feels right. There's a pang of discomfort as the bandages across his chest shift, but everything is okay. She's here. She's here, with him, at last. Her weight is against his side, and he'd like to move her more firmly onto him, but he'll take what he can get - gladly.
He tries to speak and still can't, although he persists struggling with it.
"You're going to be alright," she sniffs, her voice still thick. "Snape says you will. And I'm so - I'm so, so angry with Harry. But I'm angry with you, too. I have to say it. Are you awake?"
She leans up, her weight off his, and it's intolerable. He nods, the barest amount. Being awake is exhausting.
"I'm angry with you, too, you arsehole. I'm not yours. I will be with you, I'll be your - your girlfriend, as long as you aren't a jealous, possessive twat. But I'm not some precious goblet that you own. You can't put me in a vault and lock me away. Do you understand?"
How can he do anything but agree? He's trapped here, yes, but he's also desperate for her. He'll do anything. He'll give her anything.
"Pansy told me that's hard for you."
Pansy told her? That grabs him.
"And I know you're jealous. But even if you don't trust anybody else, you have to trust me. Just because I'm friendly with other people doesn't mean I want to be with anybody but you. Can you do that? If you can't... we have a problem."
He struggles with it. Yes, he wants to do it. In practise, it'll be harder, but he'll try. He'll do whatever she needs.
"Are you awake enough to hear this, or do we have to do it all over again?"
She looks so upset, he can't take it. He nods. He's here, he hears. She doesn't have to say it again. He'll never make her say it again.
She stares at him for a long minute, her eyes big and watery. Just as her lower lip starts to tremble, she shakes her head and tucks back into his side. He tries to lift a hand to curl around her, but he can't. He's still restrained and he's so tired, but he fights it.
"Don't," she whispers, her palm splaying across his chest, lightly resting atop the thick bandages. Draco wishes it were something he could feel better, a closer contact. "They said you have to. But now that you're waking up, they'll probably lift them. I could call them now, but they'd probably make me leave."
She raises her head with a slightly mischievous smirk, the one that looks so good on her lips. "Would you take the trade? Freedom, for my absence?"
Not a chance. He shakes his head, trying to croak out a 'No.'
"If you were feeling better, this could almost be fun."
That simple sentence gives him a short spark of alertness. With the last of his conscious strength, he rasps, "Maybe - soon."
* * *
I love you.
* * *
Don't leave me.