sassy_cissa (sassy_cissa) wrote in slythindor100, @ 2007-06-05 11:23:00 |
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Current mood: | calm |
Current music: | Change by The Deftones |
Special Challenge
Original poster: kudra_23
Title: Orbit
Author: kudra_23
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1908
Challenge: Draco's Birthday: "I think I'd miss you even if we'd never met."
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I charge nothing. J
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DRACO!!!
Draco didn’t know why he was visiting Potter. They’d never been friends, archenemies in fact. Their rivalry had continued right up through the war; fraternizing with the enemy would’ve compromised Draco’s position as a spy. Potter himself hadn’t found out until the very end when Draco discovered him, wandless and bloody, exchanging verbal barbs with the Dark Lord. Lucius apparently had enough of the duo’s witty repartee, because he stepped out from behind Voldemort and raised his wand to Avada Kedavra the Boy Who Lived right out of existence. Voldemort probably would’ve stopped him, but Draco wasn’t willing to take the chance, so he’d yelled for Potter to duck and then cast his own Killing Curse. Presto, no more father.
Voldemort looked right pissed at the death of his head minion and was gearing up for vengeance. Potter had leapt to his feet, shouting, “Malfoy, run!” Then he’d cast a wordless, wandless spell at the Dark Lord to distract him. As Draco ran, he could hear the final battle begin in earnest and hoped desperately that his rival’s reputation wasn’t overblown. Hoped that it was all worth the sacrifice of his, admittedly evil, father.
Well, the bloody Gryffindor had done it; he’d defeated the great Dark Lord, but not without cost. It had been two weeks and Potter was still in a coma, prognosis critical. All the employees at St. Mungo’s would say was that he had severe spell damage and they didn’t know when or if he’d ever wake up.
Draco felt guilty.
Due to Dumbledore’s staunch defense of himself and Snape, they’d escaped free and clear from the whole mess, and were being hailed as the unsung heroes of the war. But all he could think about was Potter, lying in a hospital bed, and wondering if he could’ve done more to help. Logic told him that if he’d stayed, Voldemort would’ve either killed him instantly or used him against Potter. Logic didn’t help when he saw the candlelight vigil outside the hospital. Logic didn’t help at night in his dreams when he relived that horrible day over and over.
Thus Draco found himself contacting Dumbledore to request a visitation with Potter. You couldn’t just walk into St. Mungo’s these days. Everyone and their brother wanted a glimpse of the lauded hero, so only a certain set of people close to Potter were allowed in. Dumbledore agreed to meet Draco at the hospital, and looked especially cheerful and twinkly when Draco arrived with a small bouquet of lilies in one hand.
All too soon, he was standing in the doorway of Potter’s private room. Dumbledore had left him there, claiming he had ‘other matters to attend to’. The Medi-witch had confided to him that Potter’s condition remained critical, his hold on life, tenuous. Then he was alone, and there was nothing left for it but to approach the bed and see what he’d come to see.
Potter looked like a ghost. His normally golden skin was pale and translucent. He’d always been thin, but now he was gaunt, his body emaciated. Like something was eating him from the inside out. Draco could feel some permutation of Dark Magic pulsating beneath Potter’s flesh. It had been a wandless final battle, so there wasn’t any evidence of which spells had caused this. It was no wonder the Healers were at a loss.
Draco grew unaccountably angry.
“Bloody hell, Potter!” he exclaimed. “What’ve you gone and done to yourself?” He stalked heatedly to the window, staring at the bright afternoon sun, its light shining incongruously in on the ghastly figure in the bed behind him. “Was it worth it?” he demanded. Feeling utterly overwhelmed, he dropped the bouquet of lilies on Potter’s chest and fled.
He found himself returning the following day, and every day over the next two months. Sometimes he railed at Potter for leaving him, and sometimes he sat silently by the window and watched the world pass by outside without him. His life consisted of nothing save for his visits with Potter and the stark, oppressive chill of Malfoy Manor.
He forgot to eat, forgot to sleep, and the Medi-witch assigned to Potter’s room often threatened to admit him if he didn’t put a stop to his rapidly declining health. All Draco knew was that his world had swiftly lost all reason and purpose without Potter. He’d never understood how closely they were linked.
His anger at Potter for leaving him behind and his anger at himself for not staying with him to the bitter end blotted out all of his former cares and woes. Well-meaning people had tried to intervene: including Dumbledore, Snape, and, oddly, Molly Weasley. The Weasley matriarch sent food for him every day, which he ignored in favor of counting the veins in Potter’s hands and feet.
His anger was often superceded by the need to promise Potter anything if only he’d wake up. Two months into his vigil, he only left the room when ordered to do so. Worst of all: he missed the prat. Potter had been the axis he revolved around from that very first day in Madame Malkin’s right up to the present moment. He felt he’d been flung violently out of orbit with Potter so still and lifeless. Not fighting back. Not fighting at all.
Even Weasley had taken his turn trying to get through to him.
“Malfoy,” he said gruffly, somewhere during month two, pulling Draco away from his usual spot by the window.
Draco turned, eyeing Harry’s best friend with some distrust. “Yes?”
Weasley fidgeted, running a hand through his overgrown ginger hair. “I’m not sure why you spend all your time here….”
“That’s my business,” Draco snapped.
Holding up his hands in submission, Weasley nodded. “Take it easy, mate. It’s just that there’re a lot of people worried about you.”
“So?” Draco asked challengingly. “Do you really care, Weasley?”
“Actually, yes, I do,” Weasley replied. “When we all found out what you’d been doing for the Order, well, you deserve your freedom, Malfoy. Instead of enjoying it, you’ve chained yourself to Harry’s bed.”
“Which, once again, is my business.”
Weasley sighed. “You’re not taking care of yourself. You’re withering away,” his voice became choked, “just like Harry.”
Draco didn’t know why he couldn’t leave, he just knew that his destiny was so deeply intertwined with Potter’s that he didn’t think he could, or wanted to, live without him. What was this feeling that pervaded his chest in between bouts of anger and panic? Hadn’t they hated each other all these years? It was easy to see why he felt his soul was chained to Potter’s, just like Weasley’d said his body was chained to Potter’s bed. But he’d always thought it was a connection borne of malice; that they were polar opposites whose worlds had revolved around each other from the start.
Now, he felt… something that wasn’t at all like malice. He didn’t want Potter to wake up and hate him, but he feared they were doomed to play out their hateful parts to the bitter end. If he woke up at all. He’d taken to lying down next to Potter on his bed when exhaustion overtook him, hoping that maybe human contact would bring him back.
It was a Tuesday when Potter woke up. Draco was laying on his side, watching Potter’s pale face, sooty lashes casting shadows that couldn’t hide the blue, bruised skin. Green eyes opened and looked right at him, sending Draco scrambling from the bed. Potter tried to speak, but all that came out was a strained cough. Draco immediately reached for the water beside the bed. It had a straw, so he held it up to Potter’s lips.
“Small sips,” he murmured, feeling like he’d jumped right out of his body. Or maybe he was dreaming this. Potter couldn’t actually be awake, could he? What did this mean? Would he send Draco away?
Potter placed bruised lips around the straw and took a few experimental sips of water. Draco knew the Medi-witch would be here any second; Potter’s room was spelled to sound an alarm if he woke up. Green eyes returned to Draco, looking unfocused. Draco grabbed his glasses from the bedside table and gently placed them on his face.
“Draco?” he rasped, looking confused and relieved all at once.
Draco couldn’t help but smile and feel all gushy inside. “I’m here.”
“How long?” He started to cough roughly.
Holding up the cup again, Draco chided, “Easy there, Potter.” Once Harry had taken a few more sips, he added, “Two months, three weeks and two days.”
Potter’s eyes widened. “You… here?”
Draco sighed. “Couldn’t stay away,” he whispered hoarsely.
At that point, the Medi-witch bustled in, looking jubilant. “Mr. Potter!” she said happily. “So good to have you back! Let’s see what’s what, shall we?”
Draco took a step back to let her cast a series of diagnostic spells, but Potter’s eyes stayed locked on him. It was unnerving and exhilarating all at once.
“Mr. Potter,” the Medi-witch said gravely, “you’ve experienced severe spell damage. Your body is still very weak and wandless damage to this extent is something we’ve never treated before. It is unknown how fully you’ll recover. As soon as you’re able, a full recounting of your duel with Voldemort will be help us greatly in designing your physical and magical rehabilitation.”
Potter looked subdued, but he nodded gratefully. Draco knew there was nothing Potter hated more than dishonesty, so he surely appreciated the Medi-witch’s candor. Had Dumbledore or Mother Weasley received this information first, they most likely wouldn’t have expressed the gravity of the situation.
The Medi-witch smiled. “It’s a miracle that you’re here with us, Mr. Potter. Perhaps Mr. Malfoy’s constant vigil helped to guide you back.” She proceeded to administer an apothecary’s worth of potions and then bustled out, leaving the room in weighty silence.
“Constant vigil?” Potter murmured, his voice having mostly returned due to one of the potions.
Draco shifted uneasily. “Well….”
“Draco.” It was a command, and he met Potter’s eyes dutifully. “What’ve you done to yourself?” His green eyes roved over Draco’s frail figure and limp hair.
Throwing on a shadow of his old smirk, he said, “Life just wasn’t the same without you around to drive me crazy.”
Potter smiled weakly. “You’ve really been here all this time.”
Not knowing what else to do, and feeling stripped utterly bare, Draco nodded.
“Thank you,” Potter whispered, reaching out a hand. Draco immediately moved closer to the bed and took it. “For being here, and for… the final battle.” He paused, looking guilty. “I’m sorry about your father. I’m sorry you had to do that. I,”
“Between the two of us, we could form a Guilty Survivor’s Club, Potter,” Draco drawled to cover the warm tingle pervading his body at the feel of Potter’s hand willingly holding his own.
Potter shook his head sadly. “You don’t look like you’re surviving too well.”
“Well, neither were you!” Draco accused.
“But… why?” Potter whispered.
Draco sighed, pulling uneasily at his unruly hair. “I missed you,” he stated simply.
The smile on Potter’s face brightened the room and filled Draco’s starving lungs with air. “I missed you, too.”
Draco chuckled, feeling giddy. “How could you miss me, you were asleep?” he pointed out.
Green eyes met gray. “I think I’d miss you even if we’d never met,” he confessed.