Chapter Eight

One Slytherin out of the Infirmary, another one sent there. Harry sat with his head in his hands, his hands fists in his hair, feeling completely empty.

The boy in the Infirmary should be me, not Malfoy.

He had bled, everywhere. His skin had been torn, starting at the point where the small stone had landed, and he had bled, invisible knives cutting and slicing and making everything red, including Harry. His face, his hands, still held traces of Malfoy’s blood, even after he had scrubbed and cleaned himself. He saw it, dripping off his hands, every time he looked.

He saved my life.

They would not let him inside. No one would be let inside while they worked on him – Pomfrey, Flitwick and Dumbledore, Flitwick having been called in because of his expertise in charms and curses.

Harry had not been excused from his classes, but he refused to go.

“If for no other reason than that I have to question him about his father,” Harry said humourlessly to himself, knowing he would be doing no such thing in the coming hours. Malfoy would be fighting for his life, if he survived at all.

“You care about him, too, don’t you?” Ron asked. “What is it about you and bloody gits lately?”

“You care about Malfoy?” Hermione asked incredulously.

Harry wondered how much he could say without revealing what had happened on the Quidditch pitch. “I suppose—yes. And Merlin—he took that for me.”

Luna, who had been standing with them, looked off into the distance. “The line between love and hate is a thin one. He might have been on one side, and then he hopped over to the other.”

Ron’s face scrunched up. “Malfoy doesn’t love Harry.”

Luna’s smile was serene. “Perhaps he doesn’t, perhaps he does.”

Ron shook his head. “Barmy, that one. Completely barmy.”

Luna had not seemed to take offence, and Harry had hurried off not long after that. He had taken the stairs two at a time, only to be met with a closed and locked door that he could not break through.

So he sat, or paced, waiting for an answer.

How much did it cost him to save my life?

And then, the more burning question, the one he could not fathom, the one he seemed to be posing more and more often lately.

Why?

“Mr. Potter – what happened?”

Narcissa Malfoy stood before him suddenly, tall and regal, her usually well-kept hair wild. Her eyes shone with tears and anxiousness, but the grey was a grey of steel. She was no cry-baby, but a capable woman.

“I—he—there was a hawk,” Harry started, and managed to tell Draco’s mother of the events during breakfast. He stumbled sometimes, on Draco’s name, not quite knowing whether to use the last name he always did, or his given name, and not knowing at all how to understand what Draco had done for him.

“It should be me in there, Mrs. Malfoy,” Harry said. “Not—your son. He saved my life. I don’t know why – he’s not even supposed to like me—”

Mrs. Malfoy looked at the closed door, longing on her face.

“You don’t understand,” Mrs. Malfoy said, “but you will. You’re here – it’s a start.”

She shook herself, the expensive fabric of her robes rippling, and her face setting in a harder expression.

“He’s here, at Hogwarts.”

“Madam?” Harry asked, dread filling him. It was almost odd, how very few seemed to actually speak Lucius Malfoy’s name.

Fear of a name, Harry thought, with chilly familiarity, as he thought of Voldemort.

“I summoned a house elf and asked,” Mrs. Malfoy said. “No owl has been sent in the last two days to Hogwarts, so nothing from our Manor that would reach the school now.”

“Then how—”

“One of the hawks is missing from the Manor,” Mrs. Malfoy continued. “I believe he brought it with him to communicate to someone on the outside, should he need anything.”

“But Snape—he didn’t return to teaching until today,” Harry said.

“It seems he grew nervous all on his own,” Mrs. Malfoy said. “He’s here, to finish what he started.”

“Then why did he try to hurt me?” Harry asked.

“Because you know about Severus, and you are trying to help,” Mrs. Malfoy said. “And because you defeated the Dark Lord, which makes you a target all in yourself. He did try before, after all.”

Harry made a face. “But we don’t know anything yet about the poison – Hermione has the goblet—”

“The goblet?” Mrs. Malfoy echoed with great interest.

Harry nodded, and quickly explained how Dobby had given it to him, and that they hoped to find some residue of the poison in the goblet.

“Has she given it to Professor Dumbledore yet?” Mrs. Malfoy asked.

“She was supposed to, after breakfast,” Harry said, “but I don’t know if she did.”

He got no further, because Mrs. Malfoy had swept away from there, in a flurry of robes not unlike a certain Potions master.

Severus watched his class. He was tired, his vision blurred around the edges. The strengthening potions Poppy had given him were some of the most powerful ones, yet not powerful enough. He had stayed seated throughout his classes and only the hiding charms Poppy had performed kept his students from seeing his feverishly sweaty forehead, and the shivers that kept running through him.

Now, the Gryffindor and Slytherin seventh years were in front of him. Since the Potions master could not be up and about to see that the students did not screw their potions up, as they were bound to do, he had assigned them to writing an essay instead. This had been met by grumbling, but with one stern look, the protesters had fallen silent. He had been happy to discover that his death glare still worked.

Potter and Malfoy were both missing.

Severus wondered how his godson was doing – was he alive at all? Surely Dumbledore would come down and tell him if that was not the case? The lack of a Headmaster calling him must mean the boy was still alive.

If he was, it was pure luck. The hex on the gem that had been aimed at Potter should have killed Draco within minutes. At least Potter had had the presence of mind to chuck the gem away with the help of an expelling spell.

Severus wished he could get the image of Draco, blood spraying everywhere, out of his mind.

The class seemed restless. It did not surprise Severus – their “safe” school had once again been attacked, and now no one had a war to blame it on. Weasley shot looks at the door, obviously hoping for Potter’s return. Crabbe and Goyle mumbled to each other, and Severus strongly doubted it had anything to do with their reading. Granger read on, but Severus assumed she could read and think at the same time.

Severus leaned back in his chair, sighing softly.

Potter – Harry. Severus strongly doubted the boy would come to class; knowing him, he sat waiting for news about Draco.

Severus was having a bit of a hard time with his feelings for Harry. Up until last week, he had hated Harry with a passion, for what the boy's father had done. However, it appeared that a great many things could change in a week, and the moment Harry had asked him, 'Are you all right?' that evening almost exactly a week ago, it seemed things had changed. Now, they somehow seemed to have reached an understanding of sorts. And for some inexplicable reason, Severus was in no way repelled by it.

Draco was a completely different story. As Lucius' son and Severus’ godson, Draco had always been expected to follow in his father's footsteps to become a Death Eater. When Voldemort was finally defeated, those plans still did not change. Draco was the son of a Dark Wizard, and as such, he would become one as well. Lately, however, Draco was pulling back. He had become quieter, even smaller in a way. The light in the boy's eyes had gone, and Severus wondered if he was the only one who had noticed. He had tried to talk to Draco, but the young Slytherin had only told him that nothing was wrong, which worried the Potions master even more. Normally, a Malfoy would have told him to shove off. Severus knew that well enough after knowing Lucius for so long.

Severus felt his eyes become heavy, and he knew that he would need to sleep soon. His body felt so tired… The burning around his heart had increased again, spreading like fire through his body, making him hurt. Only his many years as a spy, where he had learned to control every part of his body, allowed him to keep from wincing.

The powerful strengthening potions and healing potions he had downed to be able to get out of bed and have classes seemed to have stopped working. The draughts were strong, and he had been dosed with enough to keep a healthy person awake for a week.

It had been five hours since he had taken the potions.

I am dying.

Harry sat silently by Draco's side. One of the boy's thin hands was in his two stronger ones. Earlier, he had been talking to the unconscious Slytherin, but after a while, he seemed to have nothing more to say. Silence fell, and Harry’s guilt increased with every shallow breath Draco took.

Preoccupied with his thoughts, Harry did not hear the door when it opened, nor did he hear the footsteps. Only when the visitor cleared his throat did he looked up.

"Professor Dumbledore," Harry said. He did not stand.

"Hello Harry," Dumbledore said, sitting down in a chair on the other side of the bed. "How is he doing?"

Harry met the Headmaster's eyes for a moment. "I don't know. Madam Pomfrey won't tell me.”

“I see,” Dumbledore said. “Do you know of the item that fell onto Mr. Malfoy?”

“A—a stone, sir,” Harry said, remembering the small, viciously green gem that had landed on Draco’s back and made him scream and bleed. Silver ropes had shot from the stone, binding Draco effectively, before something had started slicing his skin, starting from the stone’s location and working its way out over Draco’s body.

It had take Harry far too long to react – the entire Great Hall had stood in horrified silence and all that could be heard were Draco’s screams.

Harry screamed a Banishing Charm, and the gem flew off Draco, but something still held him, still cut him, an invisible ghost, holding him tight. Draco’s fine robes had been sliced into shreds, and Harry’s robes had been coloured by his blood.

“Finite incantatem!” Harry yelled instead, his grip on his wand slippery from the blood Draco had lost.

The curse finally ended then, the ghostly killer gone.

Draco lay whimpering pitifully, painfully on the ground, barely alive, and the sound broke Harry’s heart.

He had cast whatever healing charm he could remember, his mind barely there, his world only Draco. He had not seen Ron’s horrified look, or Hermione who had stopped dead in her tracks as she entered the Great Hall, nor had he heard the teachers come running, or other spells cast on Draco’s lifeless body. The flurry of robes around them pulled Harry away from his saviour, and through his mind ran, It should have been me it should have been me it should have been me.

“The curse is called the Umbra Depleo curse. ‘Ghost blood’,” Dumbledore added, “and it’s rarely used. It can be cast as a direct curse, but has often been found to be more effective when combined with an object. A ring is the most common item used, with a belated spell – once the wearer puts it on, the curse starts and—well, no need to continue.”

Harry shuddered. Definitely no need to continue.

He looked at Draco, deathly pale, with cuts on his cheeks and throat, and a long gash beginning at his temple and working its way up to the middle of his forehead. They no longer bled – Madam Pomfrey had seen to that much – but they had only just started to heal. Magical wounds were that much more complicated to heal than regular ones.

“The hawk was a Malfoy hawk,” Harry said. “Did his father—”

“We should not jump to conclusions,” Dumbledore said.

Harry stared at him. “Forgive me sir, but someone tried to kill me. Again. And we know who’s trying to kill Sna—Professor Snape. I don’t think the conclusion requires any jumping at all.”

“Be that as it may, we cannot go around and accuse anyone of anything until we have more proof,” Dumbledore said, not sounding particularly upset with Harry’s harsh words. “Professor Flitwick will trace the gem for any magical signature still on it, and we’ll go from there.”

Harry’s eyes rested once more upon Draco. The boy’s breaths were shallow, and every now and then, he whimpered in his potion-induced sleep.

“What about Professor Snape?” Harry asked. “He doesn’t have much time.”

Dumbledore looked for a moment like he was going to deny that anything was wrong with the Potions master, but then decided otherwise when Harry shot him a very knowing look.

“We’ll do what we can,” Dumbledore said. “We have ordered every antidote we can find, and Mrs. Malfoy is brewing the ones we can’t.”

“Did the goblet tell you anything?” Harry asked.

Dumbledore looked over his half-moon spectacles with curiosity. “Goblet?”

“The one Dobby gave me,” Harry said. “Hermione was to take it to you after breakfast.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t seen Miss Granger, let alone any goblet,” Dumbledore said. “Dobby gave it to you?”

Harry nodded, a slice of fear running through him. Why had Hermione not taken the goblet to the Headmaster as she had promised?

“Yes—it was the one Lucius—eh, Mr. Malfoy poisoned when all the parents were here,” Harry said.

Dumbledore stood. “I’m sure she’ll give it to me – perhaps she has decided to test it herself? She’s a very bright witch after all.”

Harry frowned. “Perhaps.”

The Headmaster turned to leave, but before he did, he said, “I would say you owe Mr. Malfoy a thank you. You are allowed to stay for as long as Poppy will let you tonight – most of the day has passed already anyway. Tomorrow, however, you will have to go to class."

Harry nodded numbly. "Thank you, Professor.”

Dumbledore gave him a sad smile. "You're quite welcome, Harry.”

Harry sat back in the chair. He had never once let Draco's hand go from his, and he would not for several hours. His worry for Professor Snape took a backseat at the moment, and besides, there was not much he could do about it anyway.

Madam Pomfrey came and went, fussing over her patient and checking his vitals every fifteen minutes. Every hour, she came in and applied a healing potion all over his body. Harry left for a little while each time, not wanting to humiliate Draco. He did not deserve humiliation after what he had just done for Harry. And Harry did not think gratitude, the way Dumbledore had said he owed him, was enough of a thank you.

Hermione shuddered.

Slowly opening her eyes, she shook her head to clear it. Her mind was foggy, and the room dark, leaving her unable to see anything at all of the place she was in. She noted that she was sitting on something, presumably a chair, and her wrists and feet were bound to it. The air around her was cold, clammy.

Where am I?

She tried to remember how she had gotten there. Anything at all.

I was with Harry and Ron— They told me about Lucius and Snape. Oh God, I'm supposed to be in the library! And Harry and Ron, they're probably worried sick!

She let her hands wander as far as she could with the bindings around her wrists. She could not feel her wand anywhere on her. That left her with very little option on what to do to get out. Still, she was never one to just sit around and wait to be rescued.

I need to get out. Harry and Ron are counting on me…

Harry heard Professor Snape long before he ever saw him. Heavy, raspy breathing echoed through the stairwells and Harry looked at Draco for a moment.

"I'll be right back," he said softly and let go of the Slytherin's hand. The loss of contact seemed to hurt almost physically for him. Holding Draco’s hand meant knowing he was still alive. A few feet away from him, anyone could think the boy was dead already, with his skin so pale, and cuts all over his body, his breaths silent and shallow.

Harry flew down the stairs, and it did not take long before he saw the Potions master, leaning heavily against a wall. He looked like he was about to fall down at any second.

"Professor Snape," Harry breathed as he reached him. He eased one arm over his shoulder, and let the professor lean on him. Snape did not protest and Harry found himself wondering if the man knew that he was there at all. "Come on, Professor. It's just a few more steps."

By the time the two had managed to get up all the way, Harry sweated from the exercise. He almost carried the close-to-unconscious Potions master. Though the position was not comfortable, Harry had to reflect on how little Snape weighed.

He must have lost weight since he got sick, Harry thought.

They made their way over the floor, amazed that Madam Pomfrey had not come out yet. Carefully, he helped Snape onto the bed he had been occupying the previous night. He cast a quick spell so that the professor's black robes changed into the Infirmary's white ones, before pulling the sheets up over him, so that they covered his body up till his chest.

“Potter?”

Harry was astonished to see Snape's eyes open.

"Yeah, it's me," he said softly. "Don't worry, just rest. Do you want some Dreamless Potion?"

“How’s—Draco?” Snape asked, eyes flitting around the room, ignoring Harry’s question. He did not seem to see well at all, because he squinted and frowned, looking in the general direction of Draco’s bed.

“Madam Pomfrey seems to think he’ll be okay,” Harry said. “He just needs a bit of sleep. Just like you.”

“Blood loss?” Snape rasped.

Harry wondered how the man had possibly been able to make it through the day. “He lost a lot, but Madam Pomfrey managed to restore most of it, she said. And the cuts are already healing.”

“Good.”

Snape’s chest heaved, his breath loud and wheezy. He shivered, even beneath the blankets, and Harry pulled his wand out and cast a warm and dry charm on the bed, so that it would stay pleasant even with Snape’s obvious fever.

“Do you want some Dreamless Potion?” Harry asked again.

Snape managed a small nod, and Harry held the vial to his lips. He held one hand behind his professor's head, so that he was in a better position to drink. It was a testament to just how weak and ill Snape was, that he allowed it. The man drank in small gulps, before Harry eased him back on the bed.

Snape looked up at him. "I'm really dying, aren't I? For you to do this for me—"

Harry shook his head, though a lump formed in his throat. "No, Professor Snape, you are not dying.”

The Potions master looked at him, dark obsidian eyes unreadable. “You’re not—a good— liar, Pott’r.”

“Harry,” Harry corrected. “After all this, I’d say we’re a bit past last names.”

Snape regarded him rather coolly, even through the feverish haze, and for a moment, Harry thought he would utter some scornful remark. But he appeared to decide that his energy was better spent on breathing, so he closed his eyes, and mumbled, “Harry.”

Harry smiled gently. “Well done. Now sleep. You’ll need your strength.”

Within seconds, the professor had fallen asleep. Harry stayed by his bed for a few minutes longer, listening to his raspy breathing. He knew he should not look at the heavy breaths as something positive, but at least the man was still breathing.

Harry walked slowly over to the other bed in the room. Draco's pale complexion shone in the moonlight, making him look rather like an angel. A scarred angel in agony, but an angel nonetheless.

He really is handsome, Harry thought. Beautiful, even.

Then, for a moment, he paused. Beautiful. Beautiful?

Annoying, stuck-up, spoiled – beautiful.

Harry had to admit, the boy must be considered eye-candy. Blond, soft – he assumed – hair that was usually slicked back, though at the moment was a mess after Madam Pomfrey’s not-so-gentle handling. Draco's cheekbones were high, his nose thin, small and straight, chin still pointed. His grey eyes, when awake, held an intensity that not many could compete with.

The memory of Draco’s lips against his own made his skin tingle. Draco had smelled of lavender, salt and Draco, and he had fit so well against Harry, even when he had barely responded to the kiss.

His heart and mind confused, Harry sat down. Once again, he grasped Draco's hand in his. He watched both the boy and the man in the room, worry etched onto his face.

Hermione's head shot up as she heard something move. Her breath caught in her throat as she realised that the door was opening, and she wondered briefly if this was it.

No! No thinking anything like that! I'm going to get out.

She had so far been completely and utterly unsuccessful at getting out. The bonds around her wrists were strong, and without a wand, she had no chance at breaking them. Still, she refused to give up. She was stubborn by nature; now was as good time as any to show it.

The door creaked open, and Hermione gathered whatever Gryffindor courage she could get her hands on. The room was still dark, and she could see only the outline of the items in the room – a table with what looked like a book on it, as well as a fireplace. The fireplace hadn’t been lit though – it would have been idiocy for anyone taking her hostage to have the fire lit. Then anyone could Floo there.

She was surprised to see the door close again, without anyone entering. The room was eerily silent, and Hermione suddenly realised that there was someone in the room.

"Who's there?" she asked. Her voice was strong, trying desperately to hide her fear.

Something swept just past her, and she pulled herself the other direction.

"Hush, child," a feminine voice said. "I'm not here to hurt you. Lumos."

The room was suddenly bathed in light, yet Hermione could still not see anyone. She looked around the room, her head whipping back and forth.

"Who – who are you? Show yourself!"

She felt the gust of air, and heard a sigh. A moment later, a woman stood before Hermione, the Invisibility Cloak in her hand. Blonde, lovely hair, pale features and expensive robes—

“Mrs. Malfoy.” 

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Chapters

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