CHAPTER 5

That night, he sleeps fitfully, tossing and turning and rearranging his pillows in between restless snatches of dreams about Potter and McGonagall holding hands and slamming doors in his face. Sore-eyed and cantankerous, he rises at first light and spells fire into the grate, sitting in his favourite armchair with his dressing gown wrapped around himself and his feet pulled up onto the seat. The blood red corduroy is soothingly rough against his skin as he tucks himself in tight and rests his chin on his knees. There’s something uncommonly comforting about this chair, with its overstuffed cushions, patches worn through from years of fireside sitting, and the fact that the seat is just a little higher off the ground than perhaps it should be. It makes Draco feel safe inside this huge, lonely castle, and is his favourite thing in these three rooms of his, beside Stanley, who is sleeping peacefully on top of the wardrobe.

Surprising as he knows many of his colleagues would find it, Draco isn’t much bothered by things. He has grown up surrounded by fine furniture he wasn’t allowed to sit on and exquisite objects he wasn’t allowed to touch; even his own bedroom was—and still is, he supposes—a testament to elegance rather than comfort or practicality. When he left home, it was easier to let his mother keep the undamaged parts of the house exactly as they were and let her get on with restoring the rest. He doubts his childhood bedroom has been touched in over a decade.

Most of the furniture in his rooms was already here when he arrived, and he’s always been just fine with that. He has his clothes, his quilts, his cups and teapot and copper kettle, and his chair. The thing about the chair, he supposes, is that it was the first grown up purchase he had ever made on his own. It’s his ‘yes, I am a man, actually’ chair; his ‘I went into a shop and chose this without a parent present’ chair; his ‘I can curl up here and spill drinks if I want to’ chair. He realises it would probably sound faintly ridiculous if he had to explain it to another human being; surely surviving a war and the company of Volde-fucking-mort are the experiences that mean something, not buying an armchair. But it doesn’t matter, because he doesn’t have to explain himself to anyone.

He sighs, resting his head against the back of the chair. It smells comfortingly of the fire and unsurprisingly of garden mint. The trouble is, he may have a grown-up chair but he’s not sure he really feels like a grown-up. Maybe that’s the problem with him and Potter—one of.problems, anyway. Their relationship, if one can call it that, has never really grown up. He closes his eyes. It’s not as though he wants them to be friends, but...

With the weak morning sunlight filtering onto his face and the fire crackling at his side, Draco allows his exhaustion to take him before he even finishes the thought.

He wakes to the sound of hungry tacking and an insistent pair of antennae waving under his chin. He feeds Stanley, showers and dresses and heads for breakfast feeling restored ravenous and resolved—just for this once—to be the bigger man. No doubt there will be numerous other opportunities to get back at Potter.

His boots click satisfyingly on the stone of the Entrance Hall and he picks up his pace as the alluring scent of fried mushrooms drifts into his nostrils, turning his head briefly to check on the four hourglasses as he passes. He slows momentarily to note that Slytherin are in the lead, and then something incomprehensible happens.

Right in front of his eyes, all of the emeralds drain away, leaving the Slytherin hourglass empty. Horrified, he spins around to see who has done such a thing, but he is alone in the Entrance Hall. Surely it’s some kind of despicable prank; after all, who would take so many points from Slytherin all at once? Draco’s fingers curl into his palms as he lets his eyes close for a second.

“Fucking Potter,” he mutters, fury overtaking hunger as he turns on his heel and stalks off in search of the obstinate idiot. He can’t believe anyone would be so... but it’s Potter... so anything’s possible... but still. He hopes for Potter’s sake that he finds him sooner rather than later, because he’s only growing angrier with every step.

After fruitlessly checking the staff room, the Quidditch pitch and the Gryffindor common room, startling several students along the way, Draco is heading for the kitchens, just in case Potter is having breakfast with his house-elf friends, when he impulsively sticks his head into the courtyard where he and Potter had argued the day before. It is immediately clear that something has happened, and, judging by the small crowd that has gathered, something interesting at that. He can’t see Potter, but something like panic flutters in his stomach as he walks slowly across the cobbles and ushers the students aside. He isn’t wearing a watch but he knows he has been running around the castle for at least five minutes, and he has a very bad feeling about this.

“Miss Baron, step aside, please,” he instructs, waving the girl away and swallowing hard as she obeys and there, sure enough, is Potter, lying flat on his back on the ground with legs rigid and arms clamped tightly to his sides, glasses askew and eyes staring fixedly at.the sky. Taking a deep breath, he draws his wand and casts the counter-curse. When nothing happens, he tries it again, attempting to ignore the speculative whispers of the students who have now crowded back in around him.

“How long has he been like this?” he asks, not caring who answers.

“About five minutes,” Ivy says, and he turns to look at her. Her long red hair flickers around her panicked face in the breeze and she clutches her wand to her chest.

“What did you do?”

“She didn’t do anything,” insists the much taller girl at Ivy’s side. “It was all a misunderstanding! Some horrible boys were trying to curse Ivy’s sister bald, and she cast a Shield Charm, and Professor Potter was over there—” She points across the courtyard, “doing some spells with Magnus, and he thought Ivy cast the curse so he took ten points from Slytherin and then he just fell down like this!” she finishes, breathless and twisting her tie around her fingers anxiously.

Draco frowns, looking around at the group, which, he now notices, contains an even tinier version of Ivy, wearing a Ravenclaw tie and a terrified expression.

“Alright, thank you, I’m sure Miss Baron has a tongue in her head,” he says eventually, and the tall girl closes her mouth firmly. “What I meant was have you cast any spells on him?” The crowd lets out a collective gasp, and he adds, “To revive him! Did you cast any spells that I need to know about?”

“Just Enervate,” Ivy says quietly. “But it didn’t work.”

“What’s wrong with him?” asks someone behind Draco. He doesn’t turn.

“This happened before,” offers someone else. “Yesterday, in our flying lesson. But he came out of it really quickly.”

“Yeah, and yesterday at morning break!” adds someone else, and suddenly the whole group is aflutter, swapping sightings and theories. Only Ivy, her tall friend, and her sister remain silent, and they are all staring at Draco as though he is going to do something miraculous.

He sighs, gazing down at Potter and feeling just a little bit sick. He’s breathing at least, but there’s definitely something terribly wrong. “I don’t suppose you thought to send for—”

“She’s here!” yells someone, and seconds later Magnus Humphries is charging through the crowd with all of his usual grace. He is, thankfully, followed by Madam Pomfrey.

“Alright, alright, out of the way,” she calls, bustling through the crowd with her wand held aloft, and Draco’s brief surge of relief quickly gives way to anxiety as she pulls up beside him and shoots him a sharp look before crouching to examine her patient. It’s as if she knows it’s his fault, and perhaps she does. Pushing his panic aside, he answers her questions and watches vaguely as she prods Potter with her wand, producing a variety of coloured lights that would be rather pretty in different circumstances.

At last, Pomfrey hauls herself up from her crouch and turns to Draco, lips pursed and expression grave. “Professor Malfoy, perhaps you’ll help me get him up to the hospital wing?”

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