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* * *
Draco wasn't sure what to make of it all, but he was sure it wasn't good. He wished McGonagall and Pomfrey would stop their furtive whispering and tell them what the fuck was going on. They stood on the other side of the Hospital Wing with their heads as close together as their Bubblehead Charms would allow. The fact that they wouldn’t breathe the same air as Draco and his group was further cause for alarm.
He had been in the middle of his weekly, compulsory interhouse study group when Abbott—their Hufflepuff representative—had fallen ill.
She'd been clearing her throat since she'd arrived, but Draco had assumed that was because she'd sprinted in late from her family holiday and was hardly the athletic type. But the occasional coughing had slowly progressed so that Draco was forced to move farther away from her, which unfortunately had meant moving closer to Potter. He didn't want to be near Potter, but he didn't fancy getting coughed on either. Potter was the lesser evil.
Their Ravenclaw—the clever Patil sister—was the one to notice Abbott had turned purple. Not all over, just around her eyes like a purple raccoon. Draco recognised the famous markings of Death’s Mask, but no one had come down with it in Britain for centuries. What primitive nation had Abbott visited with her family that she had contracted an illness from the Mediaeval period?
His thoughts were interrupted when Abbott tried to stand. Draco's quick reflexes were the only reason Abbott didn't crack her head on the table as she crumpled to the floor.
Unfortunately, it meant that he had touched her. Given the looks Pomfrey and McGonagall were giving Abbott through their protective charms, this was indeed Death’s Mask and would not be burned off with a Pepper-Up potion. He knew that, despite the ominous name, Death’s Mask was rarely fatal, but he also remembered it being described as highly contagious and rather unpleasant.
* * *
Draco wasn't sure if it was his bad luck or Potter's that landed their study group in quarantine. It wasn't Patil's; her life seemed quite dull.
They weren’t to stay in their usual rooms. No, there was no returning to crowded dorm life now that they had been in contact with one of the most infectious wizarding diseases still in existence. That was the only perk in the whole mess: Draco would be staying in rooms meant for faculty, which meant a private sitting room and lavatory. Sure, Draco would rather have shared the improved accommodations with a friend instead of Potter, but he took what he could get.
Patil looked alarmed as she was handed a case of potions and told she’d be locked away with Abbott for two weeks. “But I’m not a Healer!”
Pomfrey gave her a sad smile. “A Healer is of little use anyway. The potions will help with comfort, but there is little that can be done but to let the illness run its course. Miss Abbott will be fine. As will you if you catch it. And house-elves will be bringing meals and checking on you throughout the day.” Part of the joy of house-elves was their immunity to wizarding diseases.
“And you?” Patil looked at Pomfrey with confusion. She clearly didn’t understand why she was being sent away from the person who usually healed all their ailments.
Draco understood. Death’s Mask was rarely lethal, but the few deaths were almost always the elderly. Pomfrey was no spring chicken. “Patil,” he whispered, distracting her so that Pomfrey could check on Abbott one last time, “Pomfrey is at greater risk than any of us.”
Patil was rather a clever witch and caught on immediately. “We will be fine,” she announced as she took Abbott’s side and wrapped an arm around her. Draco knew his friend Nott was rather taken with the sensible Patil sister, and he was finally understanding why.
Having left the girls with two elves to help them to their temporary room, Pomfrey turned her attention to Draco and Potter. She handed Draco a case of potions. “As I told the girls, these are only to help with the symptoms. Death’s Mask cures itself once it’s run its course.”
Draco was alarmed to see blood replenisher between the cough potion and the fever reducer. He was about to ask about it when Abbott began coughing up blood on her way out the door. Oh, ew. Well that answered that. One of the house elves wiped Abbott’s face as they finally led the girls away.
A moment later, another elf arrived for Draco and Potter and squeaked at them to follow it. They were walking down the stairs when it occurred to Draco that the rooms were intended for faculty. One member of the faculty. Perhaps a spouse, but no reason to have separate beds. While sharing a bed with Potter might have occurred in one or two of Draco's odder dreams since returning to Hogwarts, it was not an option for two weeks of painful reality. Infectious illness or no.
He barely noticed the sitting room with its comfortable looking sofa or the large round table beyond. He strode right past the lavatory and into the bedroom. Mercifully, there were two four poster beds waiting for them, each with crisp white bedding. There wasn’t as much room between the beds as there was in Slytherin, but Draco was grateful for every inch of it.
* * *
Potter spent that first afternoon pacing around and sending his damn Patronus off with messages to his friends. Even worse, they replied. Silver otters and dogs bounced about whining like Weasley and pretending to know everything like Granger. Draco ignored it for as long as he could before locking himself in the bathroom.
It wasn’t the Prefects’ Bathroom, but the tub was deep enough for Draco to sink into the foamy water until it blocked out the sound of Potter and his friends’ voices. Surrounded by the warm, fragrant water, he could almost forget where he was and what had happened. He could be a small boy at home in the Manor. He could be in fifth-year enjoying his Prefect privileges. He could be ten years out of Hogwarts with the war far behind him and a new life of his own making.
His muscles relaxed in the heat, and the water seemed the carry away his tension.
With the war and the trials over, Draco finally allowed himself to imagine a future again. Unlike before the war, he no longer envisioned the wife his father would choose and the heirs with perfect bloodlines. His name was worth nothing in this new world, so he wouldn’t make himself miserable to preserve it.
He breathed in the citrus scent of the bubbles.
And instead of sitting on boards and committees, he imagined himself working as a Curse Breaker for Gringotts or the Ministry, or even for the eldest Weasley’s new company. He would come back from a long day of work feeling tired but satisfied and find his lover at work in the kitchen. They would have elves, of course, but Draco rather liked the fantasy of having a lover baking in nothing but an apron. Maybe there would be a dusting of flour through his wild black hair.
Draco ran a hand down his chest and over his stomach as his relaxation gave way to interest in his fantasy.
Maybe when his lover turned, there would be a smudge of icing sugar just below bright green eyes.
Draco sat bolt upright as he realised his imagined lover looked startlingly similar to Potter. He must have been quite surprised as he could hear his heart pounding in his ears.
“Malfoy, open up!” Or the pounding noise was actually Potter beating at the door. “What are you doing in there?”
Draco leapt from the bath and wrapped a towel around his waist.
“I swear, Malfoy, if I wet myself because you’re having a leisurely wank—”
Draco had been in the process of opening the door, so it was on that final word that he met Potter’s eyes. He hoped to God his face wasn’t flushed crimson. Not that it should be. He had not been wanking. Not yet, a little voice supplied, but he pushed that away.
Potter was very still, gaping a bit as he looked Draco over. Was he really so surprised Draco had opened the door? Draco glared at him, which seemed to snap Potter out of his shock. He scowled back and then shoved his way into the lavatory. Draco hurried out before he had to witness Potter peeing.
Having surrendered the bathroom to Potter and put on clean robes, Draco found himself momentarily at a loss for what to do next. It would have been nice to contact his own friends, but Draco couldn't cast a Patronus—not that he would admit that to Potter—and he didn't think the elves were likely to fetch his owl or deliver messages for him. For Potter, they would be delighted, but not for Draco.
If one of his friends sent him an owl he could reply, but he doubted even Nott would think to use an owl within Hogwarts. And if Nott wouldn’t think of it, there was no chance Pansy or Goyle would. Zabini probably hadn’t even noticed his absence.
With no company—he would not expect any from Potter, even if he hadn’t heard the sound of the shower starting—he settled into one of the twin armchairs by the fire. A little bookshelf beside him held battered copies of novels and books of poetry. He selected a small green book with ‘mystery’ in the title.
Potter emerged from his shower and made a lot of noise in the bedroom. Dressing was likely a challenge for him given the awful results he usually displayed. Sure enough, Potter emerged minutes later in clothing intended for someone at least twice Potter's width. Surely shops would provide Potter with a tailored wardrobe for free. Why was he still wearing the same rags he'd always worn?
Potter flopped into the matching armchair and ran his hands through his hair. "I can't believe we are stuck here for two weeks. Two weeks!"
Draco wanted to comment on Potter's unnecessary repetition of established fact, but he knew he should temper his usual goading while they were trapped in close quarters. He had driven Potter to Curse him open once before, and there was no Snape to Charm his chest back together if Potter snapped again. Best to say nothing and pretend Potter wasn’t even there.
"I'm bored!"
Draco could hear his mother chastising that only boring minds got bored, but he kept that thought to himself as well. He could feel Potter glaring at him anyway.
"Kreacher!" A house elf popped into sight at Potter's feet. This close, Draco recognised the old Black family elf his father had used to trick Potter in fifth-year. Draco didn’t know all the details, but he knew his father had told the elf to lie to Potter and that Potter's godfather had ended up dead.
And yet Potter looked pleased to see the elf. The idiot really could forgive anything. Draco forced his mind back to his book before he could wonder if Potter had forgiven a broken nose and Death Eaters in Hogwarts as easily as he had forgiven the elf’s deception.
Potter started rattling off a list of demands: food, magazines, and a map. Then he turned to Draco. "Want anything from your room?"
It was surprisingly thoughtful question. Perhaps Potter realised that close quarters required best behaviour.
Draco had some books with him from the study session and the elves had brought his trunk, but he was missing things he’d left on his bed and in the Slytherin common room. "I'd like my Potions and Arithmancy books. Parchment and quills as well."
Potter looked sheepish as he asked the elf to bring his own school supplies. Did Potter think he would be excused from two weeks of work? Draco felt his mood sour. Of course Potter thought that. And he was probably right. Not Draco. Draco would have to have an elf deliver his essays so he wouldn't lose points for tardiness. Plague or not.
* * *
It took Potter three more days to succumb to illness.
It was a quiet three days, during which Draco tried his best to pretend he was entirely alone. Potter seemed to be enjoying the same fantasy.
In the mornings Draco woke to the sound of Potter hogging the shower and would squirm in his bed until he finally had access to the toilet. He wanted to teach Potter a lesson on bathroom sharing, but something about Potter and lavatories always reminded him how close Potter came to killing him. He could hold his tongue for a couple of weeks. He’d had two years of practice.
Kreacher appeared three times a day with meals that made Potter’s face light up. Clearly the elf knew Potter’s favourites and had little interest in serving anything else. Draco and Potter would eat their meals in silence and then return to their studies: Draco at the round table where they ate and Potter stretched out on the sofa. The only noise would be a silvery Patronus from one of Potter’s friends or the hum of the wireless that Potter kept tuned to a station that played far too much Celestina Warbeck. Frankly, any Warbeck was too much.
It was boring and required careful guard of his tongue, but it was far more peaceful than sharing a home with the Dark Lord.
Then Potter fell ill.
With Potter, much like Abbott, it started with an occasional clearing of the throat as Potter sat on the sofa in their sitting room. Draco, perched at the table with his Charms essay, didn’t notice at first. After all, he had spent every moment since they arrived practicing ignoring Potter.
Once the coughing was loud enough to interrupt his train of thought about Charms altering emotional states, he nearly shouted at Potter to get a glass of water. The words were on the tip of his tongue when he saw the purple tinge to the bridge of Potter’s nose.
Potter sat up and coughed more forcefully into his fist as the purple spread into the same mask look Abbott had before collapsing. Draco’s first impulse was to contact Pomfrey, but then he remembered that no help would be sent. Potter was very pale except for the purple markings and his coughing grew thicker and raspier.
What should he do? Flee to the bedroom and lock himself in? Surely Potter could take his own potions to clear his sinuses and lungs. And if he couldn’t, Kreacher would help him. He didn’t need Draco, and Draco didn’t need his illness.
Then Potter looked up and those green eyes contrasted sharply with the purple bruise-colored skin around them. He wouldn’t ask for help—Draco could read it in the stubborn lines of his face—but he needed it. Potter’s hand on the book he’d been reading shook. His mouth was gaping as he took in ragged breaths and tried to stand from the sofa. He made it halfway up before his legs gave out and he collapsed back to the sofa. He sat there with his eyes pressed closed and determination cut into his face.
This was the time to run to the bedroom. This was the time to leave. It wasn’t fatal, just uncomfortable. Potter would be fine on his own.
Draco stood and walked to the sink where he filled a glass with cool water. He grabbed the Cough-No-More Potion on his way to the sofa.
“Here.”
Potter opened his eyes at Draco’s voice. He looked from the potion to the glass before meeting Draco’s eye. He looked defensive, so Draco cut off any protests against weakness.
“I can’t study with you hacking away. Do us both a favour.” Draco was sure Potter could see through his attempt at disinterest, but he silently accepted the potion and water. The potion helped Potter through the evening until he started coughing up blood.
The first glimpse of red had Draco wanting to break his way out of the room and into the safety of Hogwarts. He wasn’t a Healer and he wasn’t prepared to deal with this. He had persuaded Potter to go to bed early, so Potter was staining the white sheets crimson with each renewed coughing fit and Draco was perfecting his cleaning Charms. The Cough-No-More no longer helped, so Draco simply forced Potter to drink a blood replenishing potion. He was still coughing up blood, but at least he wasn’t quite so pale.
Draco was afraid to sleep lest he awake to a corpse in the next bed. Part of him knew he was being ridiculous, but part of him knew his luck in recent years and didn’t want to take a chance. He worried Potter would choke, so he turned him onto his side. Of course, Potter kept flopping back. Draco ended up sitting on Potter’s pillow with Potter’s head rested on his thigh.
“Don’t you dare get blood on my trousers,” he warned, but Potter didn’t seem to hear him. Potter didn’t seem to be with him at all.
Occasionally Potter shouted out in terror or anger. Other times, he clutched Draco’s leg and sobbed against his thigh. It was very awkward, but Draco took comfort that Potter was simply fevered and unlikely to remember anything. He helped Potter take a Chill Out Potion, but the fever persisted, and Potter burned and sweated through the night.
By morning, the coughing had lessened, although Potter was still feverish. Draco felt achy and drained from a night of no sleep. His eyes burned, and his own throat was scratchy and dry, but he refused to even consider that he might be getting ill as well. He called for Kreacher and ordered cold soup which he spooned into Potter’s mouth between babbling fits about potions ingredients and giant spiders. Draco didn’t want to know what was going on in Potter’s mind.
When Potter’s friends sent their Patronuses, Draco summoned Kreacher again to tell them Potter was over the worst of the illness but resting.
Potter’s fever broke mid afternoon and he fell into a deep sleep. Draco worried more than once that Potter had died on his watch—and he was sure that would violate his probation—but when he got close he saw the gentle rise and fall of Potter’s chest.
It was surprisingly soothing watching Potter breathe. His thin lips parted slightly and his face looked so restful now that the fever was gone. Long black lashes rested against delicate cheekbones. He had rather nice features when he wasn’t scowling or looking gormless. The purple around his eyes had faded to a pale bruising, and the blotchy redness had receded until only the apples of his cheeks were flushed. He looked rather pretty.
Why was he having thoughts like that about Potter? What was with his mind’s new obsession with seeing Potter as a potential lover instead of the nuisance he was?
Draco decided not to worry about it and to get some much-needed sleep in his own bed.
* * *
When Draco awoke, Potter was staring at him. They both stayed frozen in their beds staring across the space between them with closed expressions. Was Potter going to thank him? Would they have to talk or could they go back to ignoring each other? Whatever was going to happen, Draco wanted it over with before the awkwardness could grow.
Potter sat up and called for Kreacher. Back to ignoring then. Draco let out a sigh of relief until he realized that Potter was staring at him again. The elf was, too. “What?” He managed to sound more curious than defensive.
Potter asked what he wanted for breakfast. That was new.
“Fruit.” He knew that the elf would bring eggs, sausage, and toast as he did every day, but Draco missed fruit. When breakfast arrived, there was a large plate of berries, apples, and sliced pears.
Potter let Draco have the first shower even though he must have felt disgusting, coated in sweat and germs. While Potter had his shower, Kreacher appeared and changed both of their bedding.
Draco hoped they could return to normal once all signs of Potter’s illness were gone, but Potter asked him to pick the sandwiches for lunch after days of delighting over roast beef.
When Potter asked Draco what station to set the wireless to, Draco nearly lost it.
“Why are you doing this?”
Potter looked from the wireless to Draco. “Playing music?”
Draco shook his head. “No, why are you asking my opinion? It didn’t matter two days ago.”
Potter dropped his gaze to the floor and ran a hand up the back of his neck. “Maybe it should have mattered two days ago,” he murmured.
Oh shit. They were going to talk about it.
Potter looked him in the eyes. “It was really decent of you, looking after me and all. You didn’t have to. You could have ignore me as I’d been ignoring you, but you didn’t. You helped.”
Draco could have pointed out that he had been ignoring Potter as much as Potter had ignored him, but he really just wanted the conversation over with. He directed Potter to the jazz station and then ignored the look Potter gave him that suggested he had more to say.
Potter took the hint and let it drop, but he did not go back to ignoring Draco. Nor would he let Draco ignore him. He asked Draco about jazz music and Arithmancy and the book of Norse sagas Draco took to bed. More surprising was the fact that he listened to Draco’s replies.
It was less quiet than the first few days, but it was peaceful.
Until Draco fell ill.
* * *
It felt like Draco was drowning. Fluid was filling his lungs and no amount of coughing got it free. He had already taken a Cough-No-More, but it was no longer working and he couldn’t take another dose for hours. He coughed into his handkerchief and checked the white fabric for blood. Nothing yet, but it was only a matter of time. He pulled a bottle of blood replenishing potion from the case Pomfrey had given them and set it by his bed.
When Potter came out of the shower, he would know. Draco had used charms to hide the sound of his coughing all night, but Potter would notice even silent coughing now that he was awake. Draco crawled back into bed and let his aching joints relax against the soft mattress. He wasn’t sure why he was hiding his illness from Potter, but he knew it would be a very long day.
Thank God he’d already given Kreacher his Charms essay to deliver.
He stretched out on his bed and listened to the faint sound of the shower in the other room. He was glad Potter was hogging the one room with a mirror so he couldn’t give in to the urge to see himself as a purple raccoon. Groaning, he buried his face in his pillow instead.
* * *
Draco had always known Potter was slow on the uptake, but he apparently had no understanding of simple commands like, go away or leave me to die in peace.
Instead, Potter would snort, mutter something about dramatics and shove another spoonful of cold cucumber soup in his mouth. At least Potter claimed it was cucumber; Draco could not smell or taste anything other than the disgusting thing that had once been his tongue. Now it more closely resembled an old sock.
“Come on, Malfoy. You need to keep your fluids up.”
When did you train as a Healer? Draco meant to say, but what came out was a serious of sounds even Draco couldn’t piece together. He hoped they sounded scathing anyway.
Potter just chuckled and shoved the spoon back into Draco’s mouth.
* * *
Snape was leading Draco down a hallway to the Charms classroom. He was shouting about Draco’s oboe and how irresponsible it was for Draco to have Transfigured it into the Eiffel Tower. Draco had no idea what to reply, but then Dumbledore was there talking about Irish Dancing and Snape was hitching up his robes to properly demonstrate a step.
Someone called Draco’s name, and when he turned he saw his mother in her room at the Manor. She was taking off her pearls and laying them into her jewelry box. She turned to him with a gentle smile that froze before she began screaming.
Draco heard the hiss behind him and ran for the window. He jumped out and landed on a Quidditch field, but Nagini was still behind him. He ran, screaming for help, as the hissing grew louder. Just as he thought his legs would fail him, Potter dove down from the sky on his broom and grabbed him.
“Shhh. You’re okay. I’ve got you.” Potter held him close and murmured in his ear as Draco turned to bury his face deeper into his damp pillow.
* * *
As Draco slowly awoke, he became aware of many oddities at once. The sun was pouring in the window, which it didn’t do until late afternoon. His body was achy, clammy, and cold as if he’d played a long game of Quidditch in the drizzling rain. There was a warm, solid body lying beside him.
Remembering his illness explained the time of day and the feeling of his body, but he was struggling to wrap his mind around the third oddity. Cracking one eye open, he saw Potter stretched out beside him, sound asleep.
Draco couldn’t remember much of what had happened over the past few hours—days?—but he remembered the stages of Potter’s illness: coughing, fever, sleep. Draco remembered the first stage. He shuddered at the memory of his bloody handkerchief and pushed away thoughts of Potter spoon feeding him. After that, he remembered little more than snippets of fevered dreams. He remembered Potter crying against his leg during his own illness and prayed he hadn’t cried in front of Potter. Not that it would be the first time.
He carefully removed himself from bed without disturbing Potter and walked to the mirror over the sink. His eyes were red-rimmed and shadowed in pale purple. His face was very pale while his nose, cheeks, and lips were flushed. Well at least I’m colourful.
He stripped and climbed into the shower. It felt wonderful to be clean, but as he stood rinsing the shampoo from his hair he felt his legs protesting the standing as his lungs took issue with the hot, wet air. He began coughing as he rinsed the last of the suds away and fumbled for a towel.
“Malfoy?”
Draco froze.
“You okay?”
Draco dried hurriedly, propped against the wall, as he called back that he was fine. He wrapped the towel tightly around his waist and staggered to the door. Potter caught him by the arms as he nearly stumbled into the bedroom.
“Hold on. Hold on. You’re okay. Here come lie in my bed. It’s cleaner.”
Draco had no opportunity to protest, even if he could have found the strength. He found himself surrounded by soft warm bedding that smelled of Potter. Why did he find that so comforting?
He heard a pop and Potter instructing an elf to change Draco’s bedding. There were mentions of food, too, but Draco just thought about the softness of the sheets and of Potter’s voice. It all felt very safe and comforting, so he slipped back to sleep.
* * *
Draco again woke to the feel of Potter beside him. This time he knew Potter was awake because he could feel the thrum of energy Potter emitted whenever he wasn’t in the deepest stages of sleep. Potter’s leg was twitching and he was muttering softly under his breath. Maybe reading? He often muttered as he read. There was a tapping sound, and Draco remembered Potter tapping his quills against books, parchment, tables, and even his own head. The boy had a tapping problem.
“You awake?” Potter’s voice was gentle and low.
Draco opened his eyes and saw Potter with a quill resting against the book in his lap. He was equal parts smug and disturbed than he knew Potter so well.
Potter closed the book on the quill and tossed them aside. “How are you feeling?” He put the back of his hand to Draco’s forehead with an ease that implied he had done it several times before. “Fever’s still gone. Been gone since this morning.”
Draco looked to the window and saw the last traces of a golden sunset. How long had he and Potter been sharing a bed? Potter showed no signs of leaving the bed now that Draco was awake, and then Draco remembered it was Potter’s bed he had collapsed in after his shower. He tried to push himself up, but Potter promptly pushed him back down.
The warmth of Potter’s hands on his bare chest made Draco acutely aware of his lack of shirt. Of course. He had come straight from the shower. He was sure his face was flushing as he realised that he was completely naked between Potter’s sheets. He looked over and was relieved to see that Potter lying on top of the duvet. He felt pure relief with not even a tinge of disappointment. Really.
Once Draco was still, Potter took his hands from Draco’s chest. “Oh no, you don’t. This time you are taking it easy.” Mercifully, Potter got up and carefully propped Draco up with an extra pillow. Draco’s relief was short lived as Potter grabbed a tray and then came right back to the bed. He sat up against the wall and stretched out his legs alongside Draco’s body with only the duvet and Potter’s jeans between them.
“Kreacher brought sandwiches. I figured you might be sick of soup.” He gave a little smile. A private kind of smile, like one would share with a friend over a secret joke.
Draco nodded instead of replying and grabbed a sandwich to occupy his mouth. Potter passed him a glass of water which he drank without comment.
As he ate, Draco wondered if he had to say something. He had brushed off conversation after Potter’s illness, but now Draco was the one in debt. Yes, he had tended to Potter first, but Potter had thanked him. Now Potter probably expected the same.
He took another bite and washed it down with water.
“Tha—” His voice came out hoarse and cracked. He cleared it and drank more water. “Thank you.” It was little more than a whisper, but the smile Potter gave him was proof he’d heard. It was a ridiculous smile for such a small thing: so many teeth and crinkles around his eyes. Draco looked back to his sandwich. Cucumber. His favourite. He glanced over at Potter’s beef sandwich but didn’t comment. Perhaps the elf had remembered.
Potter finished his sandwich and began nattering away as Draco ate at a more dignified pace. He drank more water, but then realised he needed to relieve himself. Which would mean getting out of Potter’s bed. Naked.
“Um...Potter? Can you …” What? Did he trust Potter to just close his eyes or should he make him leave the room? Surely Potter wouldn’t look. Why would he want to? Draco felt himself bristle at the thought of Potter not wanting to look. Draco was rather fit, after all. “Turn your head.”
Potter’s eyes widened a moment later as he finally caught on. “Right.”
As soon as Potter turned away, Draco slipped from the bed and hurried to the lavatory. He did not hope Potter was peeking, and he certainly did not clench his buttocks to make his bum look more pert.
He hadn’t thought to grab any clothing on the way in, but at least he had large covering towels to wear out.
* * *
They sent Kreacher to McGonagall with news that they had both fallen ill and recovered, but she was not moved to release them early. Two more days.
Two more days of meeting Potter’s eyes when they woke in the morning. Two more days of soft goodnight’s before casting Nox on the lights. Two more days of sleepy smiles, sitting close, and quiet conversation. Worst of all, two more days of Potter stepping out of the bathroom with nothing on but a towel and smiling that little smile of his from underneath damp black hair.
It wasn’t just Draco’s bladder that had him rushing into the lavatory each morning. He had to put a door between him and wet, almost-naked Potter before his interest made peeing impossible. There was plenty of time for thinking about Potter once he was under the hot spray of the shower.
How had he not noticed before? Had Potter always looked like that? No. He used to look like a scrappy runt of a boy. But recently? Surely Potter looked exactly the same the first time he had stepped out of the shower and back into their shared bedroom. Draco tried to recall, but he only remembered his irritation with Potter hogging the lavatory when Draco needed it. So many of his memories of Potter were coloured red with anger, obscuring his memory of how Potter had actually looked.
Supposedly he looked like this: wild wet hair briefly tamed by the water weighing it down around his face and flicking into his eyes. Bright green eyes that were brightest when he smiled. A body that, while still long and lean, had lost the childhood gangliness and showed surprising strength.
Really, when had Potter’s shoulders started looking like that? And Draco would never have known what was hidden under the tents Potter called shirts if not for them being locked up together.
He had an irrational impulse to hug Abbott.
So Potter was fit. And could be nice. And wasn’t a total idiot.
These were all rather alarming realisations for Draco, especially with them being locked up together. It was a good thing he had them after his fevered dreams or he might have said rather embarrassing things to Potter. Although the dreams might have been better. Less Snape dancing and more Potter in a towel.
Draco picked up his Charms book and pretended to read.
“More Charms?” Potter looked confused as he glanced up from his magazine. “We just had the essay and the reading, right?”
Shit. Why hadn’t he grabbed Potions? “Just thought I’d read ahead a bit. N.E.W.T.s and all.”
Potter snorted. “Careful or you’ll turn into Hermione.”
Draco wrinkled his nose. “I’d gladly take her marks, but I’m sure I could find a better boyfriend.” Draco would love to claim he had no idea why he had added the last bit, but he knew he was gauging Potter’s reaction. Some masochistic little part of him had to know if Potter could ever return Draco’s newfound interest.
Luckily Potter’s face showed everything. He arched his eyebrows in surprise, but there was no sign of disgust. “Oh really?” And there was interest. Clear interest.
Was it curiosity, or something more? Draco knew he should leave his prodding for now, but he couldn’t resist. Not when he had Potter’s full attention like that. “Wouldn’t you say the same?”
Potter was silent for a long moment, and Draco wondered if—for the first time ever—Potter was choosing his words. “I don’t deserve her marks because I don’t put the work in.” He stared right into Draco’s eyes. “And I wouldn’t say I could find a better boyfriend, but I would certainly want a different one.”
Draco felt the hope rise up in his chest and tried his best to stomp it back down. So Potter liked men. It didn’t mean he wanted Draco. He had shown clear interest in Draco’s own admission, but maybe that was just because he had thought Draco was a homophobic bigot. Maybe he wanted a gay buddy to talk shop with.
Potter was still staring at him, which made it very hard to keep his mind clear and his hope in check.
“Well it’s good you are not pining after Weasley behind Granger’s back.”
Potter’s snort broke the tension, and Draco gave him a lazy smile.
“No. No risk of that. I love Ron, but only in a brotherly sort of way.” Potter stared for a moment, while Draco pretended to look at his book. “And you? Are you pining for one of your friends?”
Draco laughed at the mere thought. “Oh God, no. Zabini is in love with himself, which is the closest any of my friends come to an intrest in men. Except Pansy, of course, but she’s not my type.”
“And what is—”
“Potter, I really must study.” Draco hated seeing the flash of hurt on Potter’s face, but he could not risk telling Potter that his type seemed to be stupid Gryffindors with wild black hair, green eyes, and glasses.
* * *
Draco woke early on their last day to beat Potter to the shower. He worried if he showered second he might come back to the room only to find it empty. Very soon, Potter wouldn’t be his roommate anymore. He would just be another student with his own House and his own friends, separate from Draco.
Draco tried to scrub his mood away, but he returned to the bedroom feeling as empty as he had when he’d woken. Potter was sitting up in his bed looking uncharacteristically still and silent. Draco dressed while Potter showered, although he made sure to be in the room for one last look at a steamy, wet Potter in nothing but a towel. He had a feeling the memory would come in handy back in the cold, damp dungeons.
They packed their trunks and left them for the elves to collect. Kreacher appeared with breakfast and Harry passed Draco the fruit bowl before serving himself.
“Last meal, huh.” Potter’s voice was low, like he realised what an asinine comment it was.
“So it is.” Draco wasn’t particularly hungry, but the berries were plump and sweet. He managed to eat a respectable amount.
Potter took in a deep breath and set his fork down. “Malfoy. Draco.”
Draco’s head shot up at the use of his given name.
“They’re going to come for us soon and I … I hope we’re different now. Friendly.”
Draco nodded. He was grateful to know Potter didn’t intend to ignore him or forget everything that had happened.
“And given that you will be able to get away from me soon, so it won’t be endlessly awkward if I’m wrong about … I mean I think you feel the same.” Potter cleared his throat and sat up straighter. “Remember when we were talking about what we want in a boyfriend?”
Draco nodded, hope trying to bloom in his chest again despite his fears that he was misunderstanding completely. He needed to keep his voice casual. “You mean how we both agree Weasley is best off with Granger?”
Potter didn’t smile. He looked rather tense. “Yeah, well we talked a lot about who we don’t like. But um … what about who you do?”
It was likely this was Potter’s attempt to express his own interest, but Draco would proceed with caution until he was sure. No way in hell was Draco risking himself first. “Are you asking for a list of traits I find desirable in a partner or a list of men who could interest me?”
Potter’s head fell back with a little groan. “You’re killing me, Draco. Have some mercy.” He glared at Draco, so Draco batted his lashes in feigned innocence. “Fine. I like you. Okay? A lot. And I think we could be good together. The fact that we didn’t kill each other over the past two weeks bodes pretty well. I don’t think half the couples in our year would make it out alive.”
Draco thought of the Gryffindor Patil sister and her alternating screaming and snogging sessions with her Ravenclaw boyfriend. They wouldn’t have lasted a day in these quarters.
“Do I get an answer or are you going to sit in silence until the door opens and you can run screaming for the dungeons?” Potter was probably trying for light, but his nerves showed through in his voice. Making him squirm should have been fun, but Draco found himself putting his hand over Potter’s instead.
“I hear there’s a new cafe in Hogsmeade.” Draco tried for light as well, but was only marginally more successful than Potter. “A decent pot of tea without all the doilies and hearts.” Not that Potter could have dragged him into Madam Puddifoot’s without both a Body Bind and a Levitation Charm.
Potter’s eyes lit up as he smiled. “I’d have endured doilies for you.”
Draco huffed out a laugh and squeeze Potter’s hand. “You romantic, you. I’m sure you can save me from other things, like your friends.” Draco felt his stomach drop as he wondered if Potter’s friends would talk him out of trying a relationship with Draco.
“Nah. They are rather pleased with you at the moment.” Potter smile turned a bit sheepish. “Although I can’t promise Ron won’t make a nursemaid comment or two.”
Draco groaned dramatically and dropped his head to the hand not currently clasped with Potter’s. He enjoyed the dramatics, but he was secretly pleased Potter’s friends wouldn’t be openly hostile.
A knock sounded on the door announcing the end of their captivity. Draco felt a quick pang of disappointment at having their time together end, but then Potter squeezed his hand and didn’t let go.