Draco wakes.
He's behind his curtains, as always, curled in a ball, and listens to the outside as his classmates run amok, getting ready for the day ahead.
There's a sigh that escapes his lips, maybe two, before he decides that he has to go to classes. He hears a swift knock on one of his bedposts, and then a caramel nose pokes into his morning.
"Draco? Are you feeling well?"
"Yes," he replies, turning his head away when Blaise peeks his whole head in. Then, he adds, "I dreamt of him."
There's a moment of silence. "Of the Dark--"
"No," Draco immediately interrupts, not bearing to hear the name. "Harry."
He turns in time to see Blaise round his lips and nod curtly in realization. "Was it the same one?"
Draco shrugs. Then he sits up, pensive. "Actually, it was different this time."
Blaise, sensing the seriousness in Draco's voice, scoots in all the way and settles onto the mattress. He swishes his wand, curating a silencing charm on the curtains. He nods.
"Everything was the same, except..." Draco pauses, looking past Blaise at the velvet surrounding him. "Except that I...I die, this time," he says quietly.
He hears his best friend inhale slowly and feels the bed dip closer to him, and then he's being tackled into the mattress, covered again in the duvet. "Stay here," Blaise whispers. "You don't have to go to class. I'll get your work for you and I'm sure the professors will understand."
Draco nods. He waits until Blaise is done tucking him in and watches as he goes to pull the curtains apart once again, after swishing his wand, and then he reaches for Blaise's wrist.
Blaise turns and sits back down immediately, raising a soft brow in acknowledgment.
"Why is he not back yet? He should be here, with the rest of them--I came back. And," he sighs, drops his head when Blaise squeezes his hand.
"Maybe," Blaise starts, clearing his throat. "Maybe he's not done grieving. Maybe he hasn't finished recovering. We all lost something, or someone. And maybe he feels that it's all his fault. We all heal differently, Draco."
And without another word, Blaise slips out after giving Draco a soft smile. Draco sighs again, he feels as if it's mechanical now, an action that his body uses to stay occupied so he won't break down.
Three months. It's been three months since anyone has seen the Savior of the Wizarding World. The last time he was seen was inside the castle, Draco remembers reading it in the paper. How he spent most of the summer rebuilding Hogwarts and donating his life's worth to help the misfortunate that got caught in the crossfire.
He feels something like sadness whenever he sits in the Great Hall, in his usual seat facing the Gryffindor table, and doesn't see Harry sitting next to Granger. Draco even misses the familiarity of looking over and seeing him half asleep over his parchment while Weasley stuffs his face and Granger is hellbent on scribbling in her notes.
Now all he sees is Ron's grim expression and Granger with a permanent frown. They keep to themselves, mostly. But sometimes, Draco catches Ron looking over at the Slytherin table with an indecipherable glint in his eyes. He never gets to catch who the Gryffindor is looking at, though, because Ron always manages to look back down at his book with a little shake of his head.
That's another thing Draco noticed. Nowadays, the two-thirds of the Trio was permanently buried in stacks of books. Even Ron seemed to have a mysterious drive to read every page of the book religiously, sometimes he looked even worse than Granger.
He misses Pansy, he muses. Her family had disappeared along with her, he hadn't heard of her since he was taken to the Wizengamot. And he misses Severus. He can't remember how easy it was to just pass by and just know they were going to be there, to know he could see Pansy to the common room and then slip into his godfather's chamber's to talk about his day. He remembers the last words he spoke to Pansy, or he thinks he does. It's all just a blur, now, really. He just knows he feels so...empty. So hopeless.
And these damned dreams.
Or nightmares.
Draco doesn't know when they started or if they even began one night. He thinks he's been dreaming of the same boy for years now because not a day goes by that he doesn't think about that bloody scar. Or those ghastly spectacles that were always too blurry to see past the lenses. Or the ripped, overused jeans that always hung too low on his hips because the boy always seemed too focused, too occupied, too something to remember such a basic instinct like eating.
Draco doesn't even know why or how he remembers any of those details. He likes to think they're just mere reflections of his memories, that sometimes he's still in shock that the Ministry decided that yes, he was shadowing his father in fear, in cowardice of being murdered. Or of being left alone.
"Circe," Draco mutters, holding a pale hand to his forehead and brushing his own hair back.
And his thoughts go back to the dream he's been having for months now, since before he returned for his last year at this blasted school. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and sleeps.
"You know you don't have to keep coming up here to check on me."
Draco blinked, a little frown setting on his lips. "But," he heard himself answering, unsurprised. "I cannot trust you. Not by yourself."
There was a hunched over figure sitting on a ledge, looking up at the stars skittered across the sky. "You don't trust me," it chuckled flatly. "By myself."
It was quiet for just a split moment, where the figure rose, taller than Draco, and turned. Draco wanted to gasp, to turn and run. But something kept him grounded, something that felt a lot like familiarity. So he stayed still as green eyes came closer and he could feel the warmth radiating off his shoulders, and he shuddered.
"Awfully similar, the situation, don't you think?"
And then Draco did gasp, did make to turn and speed off but he was spun around and held to something firm. It took a spaced out second for him to realize it was a chest.
"What...What are you doing?"
"Just hugging you. I just needed a hug. I haven't seen Hermione or Ron yet. And you look like you needed it just as much as I did."
Draco sagged forward, letting his forehead droop into his neck. He doesn't remember what a hug is supposed to feel like. He knows his mother's hugs were always too quick and too light and his father's hugs always felt too stiff. Here, in these arms, Draco feels warmth envelop him like a wreath. He sighs. "I just wanted..."
"I know, don't worry. To check up on me."
"Yes," Draco breathed, but in count of inhaling oxygen he also smelled chocolate and soap. "Harry...you used soap."
Draco lost the arms around him and he looked up, Harry was looking at him with a raised brow and a confused twitch playing on his lips. "I do, just like everybody else."
"I mean you smell like it," Draco answered dumbly. He felt out of his comfort zone, from all the time he spent spiting this boy, he now felt something else that he could not place his finger on.
Harry laughed. He laughed loud and long into the night. "Seven years of feuding and here you are, smelling me."
Draco wanted to laugh, too. To scoff and play it off as a weak moment. But his chest felt too full, too weary of what would happen if he let this go. "I like it," he mumbled instead, crossing his arms around his torso.
Harry set himself apart from Draco, still amused and still grinning. He tugged Draco's hand towards where he was hunched over, threw his legs over the ledge and hung his elbows off the rail. Draco could only stare as the wind whipped his bangs up and down, amazed at how Harry remained unbothered.
"I don't feel the cold much anymore," Harry suddenly piped up, his voice sounding concerned as he fumbled with his sleeves. "But I bet you're freezing."
Draco had not noticed how numb his fingertips had become, or how his jaw was so tensely clamped he could have broken his teeth. He supposed he had felt warmth from the body next to his, but not a physical warmth, more like an emotional warmth. He's okay, he thought. He's here, he's alive.
He kept on staring at the glare the moonlight created on the lenses of Harry's filthy glasses as he drifted closer to drape the cover he had been wearing. Draco absently reached forward and pushed them up the bridge of Harry's nose.
Harry could only freeze, fixating his stare from the buttons he was working on around Draco to Draco's face. "Thanks," he whispered.
"Do you remember," Draco started, pulling back and closing his arms in front of him, blocking the chilly wind. "That day in the bathroom--"
"Stop," Harry stoned his voice immediately, shaking his head at Draco with wide eyes.
Draco stared, unblinking. "I did not wish to hurt you that day, when you found me. I wanted you to--"
"Please, stop," Harry shuddered and bowed his head, Draco copying. Then, almost unheard, Harry murmured. "I didn't want to hurt you, either."
"I wanted you to hurt me, I suppose I was baiting you."
Harry closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. "I know that now. And I fell for it."
"I thought," Draco cleared his throat, closing the sweater around him more. "I thought if maybe you killed me, then my parents would be safe, the Dark Lord would have to find someone else."
Nothing was said after that, the impregnated silence was deathly, dangerous in Draco's mind. Then, with certainty in his voice, Harry turned his face and leaned his forehead on Draco's shoulder. "I will never raise a wand at you ever again, Draco."
He wakes with a start, his chest heaving and his brow sweaty. He looks down at his mattress, sees the duvet and sheets spread around in disarray, and thumps his body back into the pillows.
He focuses his eyes on the canopy of his bed, and his eyebrows furrow.
"That," he breathes. "That was different than the rest."
His eyes widen, and he springs back up.