Chapter Five

Draco entered the Slytherin common room still in shock. He tried to get rid of the unpleasant feeling, but then the image of his favourite teacher – he would even go so far as to call him friend, at least on occasion – lying on the cold floor would re-enter his mind, and the shock would intensify.

But Potter had felt Severus’ pulse, and the man had stirred after getting the anti-poison draught. He had not died.

Not yet, his mind supplied.

Merlin, how Draco wished the parent visit had never happened. Without it, his father would not have been given the chance to nearly kill Harry with a Bludger, and poison Severus with a—something. Though Draco did not doubt that his father had chosen poison – something about poison had always enchanted Lucius Malfoy more than crude curses, and in the Malfoy library there were several tomes on the subject – he had absolutely no idea what. Something very rare, nearly unheard of, for Severus not to have recognised its effects and countered it with the correct antidote.

And if Severus could not find the antidote, then what chance did anyone else stand of finding it?

The common room felt crowded. Draco, wanting and needing to be alone, crept up to his dorm. He drew the drapes around his bed and lay down, sighing. He closed his eyes. Once again, he saw the scene play out—

Severus prowled the classroom like he always did. Well, almost – his steps were more hesitant, slower, than usual. And then he suddenly stumbled and gripped Potter and the Weasel's table. His face contorted in pain and Draco could hear his raspy breathing, yet could do nothing to help.

Then Severus fell to the floor. Harry gripped his arm, which broke his fall somewhat, but not completely. Draco saw the Severus’ head hit the floor, heard the crack, and saw it bouncing back up as though it was a ball of some sort, before landing again. This time, the man stayed still; too still.

Draco was unable to move. He heard Granger begin to bark out orders, and the Weasel and Longbottom obeyed and disappeared out the door. Only when Finnigan moved to get the healing potion did Draco realise that he was standing with a vial already in hand, and he gave it to Granger. His eyes were locked on the prone form on the floor.

He had never felt so helpless.

Draco shuddered.

Please let him be okay, he begged silently. He's the only one I can stand here.

It was not strictly true – there was one other person he could stand. Only, he could never tell that one person.

You are not supposed to lust after your enemy! Draco screamed at himself.

There was a knock on the window, and Draco opened the drapes. He looked out the window and found one of his father's black hawks. A Malfoy did not use regular owls.

What in the…?

The hawk flew inside as soon as Draco had opened the window. The hawk stood rigidly still, its eyes trained on Draco, as he untied the letter from its leg. Draco gazed at the hawk for a moment, thinking that it, rather than Draco, made a perfect Malfoy. Then he opened the letter, still wondering what in the world could have made his father or mother write to him after a mere few days. A bad feeling had already settled in his stomach.

Draco,

You have sent no letters lately, and I thought we may take that habit up again.

Draco wondered what 'habit' that was, because he had never written home regularly to his parents. He skimmed through the letter. It was about anything and everything, it seemed, though it held no particular details of importance. It was not until the end that Draco finally understood why his father had written the letter, and his stomach knotted together, feeling like he was going to throw up.

What did you do, Father?

Severus felt pain shooting through his body. It started at his chest and worked its way up to his head, out through his arms into his fingertips, and down his legs into his feet and all the way out to his toes. It burned like a slow fire, making him ache all over.

He tried to move, but found it hard and painful, making him gasp for breath. He stilled, not even wanting to breathe – the simple rise and fall of his chest hurt too much. He had been through the Cruciatus curse enough times, but it had never felt like this.

He tried opening his eyes, a task he succeeded in for a short moment. The room, however, was all too bright and he quickly shut them again. A second later, the room seemed darker through his eyelids.

A familiar voice spoke.

"It's okay to open you eyes, Severus," Albus Dumbledore told him.

Snape reluctantly did so, still expecting the blinding light of the Hospital Wing. But though he had been taken to the Infirmary, the room was now only dimly lit, his grateful eyes noted. Professor Dumbledore sat on a chair right next to the bed; Severus could see him out of the corner of his eye. He did not want to try to move again just yet.

"We're happy you're awake again," Dumbledore said with a smile at him. "You gave us quite a scare."

"What—happened?" Severus asked. His throat felt dry as a desert, and Dumbledore held a glass of water to his lips as he answered. The cool liquid seeped down his throat, soothing but not healing.

"You fainted in class. Shocked half of your students. Miss Granger's quick thinking and Mr. Malfoy’s knowledge of healing draughts are the only reasons you are awake already. And it seems Mr. Potter helped as well."

Potter—Severus could recall the excruciating pain in his chest, the sound of blood rushing in his ears, and—Potter’s eyes, filled with concern. Severus remembered falling, remembered that it seemed like he had simply continued on and on, down towards the hot and fiery gates of Hell.

And Draco – how must he be feeling after the scene Severus had undoubtedly caused?

"How long was I out?" Severus choked out. Despite the water, his voice still would not carry, to the Potions master's annoyance.

"Three hours," Dumbledore said. "Poppy’s been very worried about you, mind you."

“Poppy always worries," Severus muttered under his breath. “Mother hen.”

Dumbledore's small smile was replaced by a look of apprehension a moment later. "Severus, how long have you been sick?"

Severus squirmed and looked away. He did not want the Headmaster to know; he did not deserve Dumbledore's concern. Still, he knew he would never be able to keep anything from Albus. He never had.

"Severus?"

"Last Thursday. Last Thursday night," Snape replied shortly.

Dumbledore sighed. "Why didn't you tell anyone?"

"Because it's my business, not everyone else's!" Severus snapped, and immediately regretted it, both because it made him cough, and because he was not mad at Dumbledore; he was only tired of feeling weak. For weak was exactly how Severus had felt all week long. He had been unable to keep his hands from shaking, unable to control the nausea that once again swept over him – unable to keep his students under control.

Unable to stay conscious through a lesson.

Dumbledore stayed quiet, but looked upon his Potions master with concern.

"You need to sleep, Severus," he said and stood. "Poppy will be back to check on you in a while. Until then you should rest."

Snape nodded. "Thank you."

Dumbledore gave him a small smile before leaving.

Severus closed his eyes, wishing he did not have to breathe, because it hurt. He could still sense the feeling of a fire within his chest. The breath he let out was shuddering, raspy. Waves of nausea swept over him, and only sleep's oblivion numbed the pain.

Harry awoke early the next morning. After five minutes of unsuccessful attempts at falling back to sleep, he got up instead. Without waking Ron or the others in the boys' dorm, he dressed and left the room. He grabbed his wand just before heading out.

The hallways were empty this early in the morning. The air felt crisp and cold and the sky had only barely begun to lighten. Flying would be nice – he had not been on a broom since the non-accident, and flying had always helped Harry clear his mind. He needed to clear his mind now, especially as he recalled the way Snape had looked at him.

He looked so scared…

It was hard to picture the professor without his normally permanently attached scowl on his face, even after having seen it in reality. Over the years, Harry and every other student at Hogwarts had grown used to the annoyed scowl and the low threatening voice he used, always sounding like an impending doom.

Yesterday, however, that voice and that mask had cracked.

As silly as it might sound, Harry had felt like he could see into Snape's very soul. It frightened him, for in those dark eyes, he had seen pain and a great deal of fear.

Then their eye contact had broken, as the Potions master tumbled backwards into a heap on the floor. Harry caught Snape's hand in his, and the professor had, for some inexplicable reason, caught his wrist in a grip like it was a lifeline. Perhaps, to him, it had been. The look of confusion on his face had told Harry that he had not known just how sick he was.

The grass felt slightly soggy beneath his feet; it must have rained during the night. The first rays of the sun were making their way past the mountains, shedding light and long shadows over the landscape.

Harry walked silently, smiling at the sight of his beloved Quidditch pitch. No matter how many accidents and injuries he suffered here, he would always associate the pitch with good memories – catching the Snitch for the first time in his mouth, winning games against Slytherin, watching his team mates score goals. The freedom of the air – nothing compared to it, and Harry’s childhood wish to be able to fly had been realised.

It felt good, to have pleasant thoughts for once – thoughts where Snape did not exist, nor did the cold eyes of Lucius Malfoy, or the strange, mixed feelings Harry felt for Draco.

He gripped the broom lightly, and kicked off, soaring up in the air. If he had not already been wide awake, the chilly morning air would definitely have awoken him by then.

Harry flew around the pitch, rather more languidly than he ever did during practices or games, because he had no snitch to watch out for now. He practiced loops and flew towards the ground at breakneck speed, turning up at the very last second.

But when Harry turned and headed into the air again, he caught sight of the Hospital Wing. He could not see in through the windows, but he knew that Snape rested on the other side of those walls. It made everything come crashing back, and Harry wanted to scream at himself for caring about the stupid git to begin with.

When he looked away, he saw another figure on the pitch. Blond hair and a Slytherin scarf – Harry groaned quietly. Why did he have to come here, of all people?

He descended, and Malfoy glared at him, obviously having seen him a while ago. Harry wondered how long he had been standing there.

“Malfoy.”

“Potter.”

“So we’re back to that, then?” Harry asked.

“Where else would we be?” Malfoy sneered.

The bright morning sun made Malfoy’s skin and hair look almost white, like fine marble. Harry had to admire it.

“Why are you here, Malfoy?” Harry asked, sighing.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “The pitch doesn’t belong to you. At this hour, anyone can be here.”

It was true, of course. Malfoy had just as much right to be on the Quidditch pitch as Harry, although Harry wished he could have refused Malfoy.

Harry shrugged, climbing another few feet in the air until Malfoy had to crane his neck to see him. “Fine. I’ll keep to this side, you keep to that side, and we won’t have to talk.”

Malfoy sneered. “I’ll fly wherever I want.”

Harry threw his hands into the air. “Fine! Do whatever you want. You obviously already do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That means you have Multiple Personality Disorder,” Harry snapped. “Merlin, you were so much easier when you were just evil.”

With that, Harry turned his broom upwards and with a frustrated growl, he flew off.

Draco stood, still staring haughtily after Harry. He had come to the Quidditch pitch to fly and think, not to fight with Harry at this hour of the morning. He had not slept more than a few hours, his sleep plagued by nightmares about Severus dying in the most horrid ways. He needed some time to let those dreams go, and Harry’s harsh words were not making things easier.

On top of that, Harry had to look so damn good while flying. The wild hair pushed back, the green eyes focused on sharp turns and flying even faster, the fingers wrapped around the wood of the broom.

Draco shook his head – he was still staring, even as Harry set off again.

He mounted his own broom and shot off into the air. The cold wind made his eyes tear up, but he ignored it. He could not cry for real, but perhaps he could get some emotions out this way.

He looked longingly at the Infirmary, wishing he could go there and ask how Severus was. What if he had died overnight? Draco swallowed the lump in his throat – it hurt too much to think about.

His eyes settled on Harry instead, watching as the other boy swooped through the air, weaving right and left between the stands, perhaps chasing an invisible Snitch.

Suddenly, Harry stopped right in front of Draco.

“Are you just going to sit there and stare?” he asked.

“I’ll do whatever I want,” Draco snapped.

He wished he could be nice, but it was just so much easier, when Harry was good and strong and not in danger, to be the same way he had always been. An arrogant, sneering bastard. Harry hated him, and that was it.

Why even try to change?

“You won’t win any games just sitting around,” Harry said. “Perhaps that’s why I always win.”

Draco glared hotly at him. Without replying, he pulled his scarf off and his wand out, and transformed the scarf into a Snitch.

“A game, Potter? One on one? See who wins?” Draco asked. He wondered if it was stupid – he had yet to win a fair game against Harry. He was simply too naturally fabulous at catching the tiny golden ball.

Harry gave him a challenging grin. “Sure. What are the stakes?”

“Stakes?” Draco echoed.

“Yeah. We’re playing for something more than just to win, aren’t we?” Harry asked.

Draco stared at him for a moment before smirking. “Fine. If I win, I get to turn your hair blond.”

Harry surprised him then by laughing. He sobered a moment later, and said, “And if I win, I get to ask you a question, and you’ll have to answer it truthfully.”

Draco’s eyebrows rose in surprise; he had not been expecting that. Perhaps he ought to worry. But the two shook hands, and then Draco released the Snitch. Harry flew away from Draco, and Draco almost forgot to watch for the Snitch.

Come on, focus, Draco reminded himself. Visualise Harry’s – Potter’s! – hair blond, that’ll be fun.

The Snitch seemed to have gone off for a tour around the castle. Harry and Draco both lounged on their respective brooms, although both were quite prepared to take off at any moment, should a flicker of gold become visible somewhere.

Draco found himself almost having a good time – flying felt wonderful as always, and his mind did not linger on Severus. He felt bad for not wanting to think about the man – he might be dying even as Draco was enjoying himself on the pitch – but he had to think about something else, lest he go bonkers. The impromptu Quidditch game with his—with Harry was just what he needed.

Then the Snitch returned, and all thoughts, even of Harry, other than as the opposition, disappeared from Draco’s mind. The two boys raced alongside each other, at the same insane speed. The ground whirled into a blur below them, the goal posts swishing past them on their sides. All Draco saw, all he could focus on, was the little tiny golden Snitch.

He reached out his hand – he was so close, he imagined he could feel the fluttering of the Snitch’s wings.

But then came Harry, with a burst of speed that should not be possible, and at the very last second, Draco’s win was yanked away from him.

Furious, with himself for losing, and with Potter for—for being Potter!—Draco landed and threw his broom away, stomping away from the pitch in a manner not unlike a three-year-old child. He did not care.

“You’re a sore loser,” Harry said, leisurely flying up beside him.

“Piss off,” Draco snapped.

“No, not before I cash my win,” Harry said.

Draco stopped, his chest heaving with anger. He knew his face must be flushed red from the brief race, just as Harry’s cheeks were red. He crossed his arms over his chest defiantly as Harry landed in front of him.

He’s much more graceful in the air, Draco thought. Stupid, irritating, bloody—

His mind went of in a tirade of swearwords.

“So now what?” Draco snapped when Harry stood in front of him. “What do you want to ask?”

Harry looked thoughtful for a moment. Then he smirked.

“Do you like me?”

Of all the crazy things—Draco simply stared at Harry, aware that his mouth had fallen open. Why had he asked that? Of all the embarrassing, stupid things he could ask, why that?

“Remember, you have to be truthful,” Harry smirked. “No white lies.”

There was a challenge in his eyes, a look Draco wanted nothing more than to wipe off. Emotions fought in him, back and forth – one part hated Potter simply for being Harry bloody Potter, and another part hated him for asking the goddamn question. Why had he agreed to this anyway? It had been doomed to start with – he did not win over Harry in Quidditch. Really, he did not win over Harry in anything, but that was a whole other story.

Why did he have to be Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius? Why did his father have to be a great, big bastard, who expected Draco to be the same way? Why could Draco not simply be strong enough to stand up against him?

Harry stood, his hands on his hips, watching him expectantly. Draco thought he could see playfulness in those green eyes, and it only served to make him more irate. Playfulness! A Malfoy did not know playfulness!

Hair blew into Harry’s face, and he pushed some of it away. He licked his lips – those full, red lips – and Draco could not look away.

In furious frustration, Draco took the two steps that separated them, and pressed his lips against Harry’s. It did not feel quite like heaven, because Harry was too shocked to respond – and really, Draco was too shocked by his own actions – but it was close. Harry’s lips were salty from the sweat of their exercise, but sweet at the same time, with a hint of mint. 

Then Draco pulled away, his eyes firmly on Harry. Harry stared at him, green eyes wide, and Draco could almost see the wheels turning in the other boy’s head.

Is that answer enough for you? Draco wanted to ask, but upon seeing that Harry had almost figured out how to make words again, he decided to flee. He did not want to hear about how disgusting he was, or how unworthy.

Draco ran.

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