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Thwack!
The sound of Hermione’s fingers cracking against Draco’s nose ricocheted through Harry’s mind, the rebound causing the other boy’s skull to bounce back from the stone structure behind him. Harry watched, shell-shocked, as Draco’s housemates hooked him under the arms to escape the wrath of the Gryffindor.
“That felt good,” Hermione exhaled, exhilarated, cradling her hand to her chest.
Harry didn’t dare breathe.
Thwack!
“Useless boy!” Aunt Petunia screeched before exhaling sharply through her nose with visible force, her nostrils flaring unattractively. The vision of his Aunt faded in and out of the lights dancing in his eyes, mingling with the scraps of burnt egg bits on the kitchen floor.
Aunt Petunia put the frying pan down, freeing her hands to grab him by the ear and throw him back into his room in the broom closet. He cradled his aching head in his hands and knees, fingertips coming back wet.
The way Ron laughed with his stomach usually spread warmth in Harry’s chest, but now only served in increasing the ever-growing ache in his head.
“Not good – brilliant!” Ron spoke around amused snickering. He elbowed Harry in jest, encouraging him to join in. Harry could only bring his hands to touch where his friend had hit Draco.
Had his hands always trembled so finely?
Hermione caught on before Ron did, snapping out of her adrenaline-induced stupor.
“Harry, are you alright? You look quite pale. Do you need to go to the hospital wing?”
“Is it,” Ron paused, gesturing vaguely to his forehead.
“No- no, I just,” Harry felt sick, vision swimmingly lightly. He took a grounding breath and looked up into their eyes, “I just need to-” his voice cracked.
Hermione glanced down at his hands. He balled them into fists to stop their shaking, before realising his mistake and hiding them behind his back instead.
“Harry?”
Thwack!
“I need to go.” He bit out hastily, sharply turning around to head back into the castle.
If his friends called out to him, he couldn’t hear it through the blood rushing in his ears or the voice in his mind urging him to Find Draco now.
Harry had been running for a short while before he realised that he has absolutely no idea where Draco had gone. He inwardly cursed himself.
Shit. Crabbe and Goyle took him, right? So maybe he went to the Slytherin Common Room. But that looked like it hurt a lot, so he’s probably- surely he’s with Madam Pomfrey. Ah, just in case –
Harry ducked around a corner out of sight from the main corridor and opened the Marauder’s Map. He’d never admit it out loud, but the name Draco Malfoy was simple to locate for its painfully obvious pureblood origin, if not for the countless times Harry has tracked the name since receiving the map in behind the privacy of the canopy on his bed.
As such, his eyes were quickly drawn to an isolated corridor somewhere in the labyrinth that made up the dungeons. Remembering his adventures with polyjuice the previous year, Harry could determine that the entrance to the Slytherin Commons were nowhere near Draco.
Maybe he didn’t get injured as badly as I thought? Looks like his cronies ditched him though. Probably for the best. If I take the secret pathway marked here…
Not wanting to draw attention to himself, Harry traversed through the lesser known pathways to Draco’s location, infrequent glances back to the map confirming that his target remained where he was. Harry was unable to decide whether or not this was a good thing.
Finally, he reached the set of corridors that would lead to Draco. Instinctually, he donned his invisibility cloak and lightened his steps, slowing to a creep and he slunk into the hallway. What met him there made him stumble, catching himself before he made too much noise.
In the middle of the corridor, back against the cobblestone wall and head tilted upwards to the ceiling sat Draco Malfoy, a thick trail of blood running from his right nostril, sloppily staining his mouth and chin. There was even a few spots on his clothing. The stark contrast between the crisp white of his shirt – nearly as porcelain as his skin, and just as fragile looking - and the brightness of fresh blood only seemed to highlight its absolute wrongness. Malfoy had always prided himself on his impeccable image, every strand of his perfect blonde hair (though no longer slicked back, thank Merlin) styled to a nearly statuesque standard, tie tight to his neck and robes ironed flatter than when they were first purchased.
Now, disturbingly enough, Harry distantly mused that Draco hadn’t lost any of his elegance even now with his clothing disheveled and stained with grass and dirt, hair framing his face messily. A quiet corner of his brain dared to whisper that he looked even better in his vulnerability, brows drawn tight together as he attempted to stem the flow of blood with his nose between his fingers and-
Oh Merlin, what is he doing?
Harry, now set into Panic Mode, let his cloak fall off of his shoulders to the ground, walking towards Draco’s prone form with a sense of urgency. Predictably, this startled Draco badly enough to bump his head on the wall behind him, causing him to hiss out a pained wince, which in turn led to a coughing fit. Spit mixed with blood splattered on the ground. Harry dropped to the ground in front of him and pushed Draco’s head to face the ground, taking care to avoid the bump forming on the back of his head. With his other hand, Harry grasped the bridge of Draco’s nose. After his coughing subsided, Draco began to struggle, attempting to throw Harry off and protesting his touch.
“Dammit – just – Stay still, Draco! I’m trying to help you here!” Harry shouted, reinforcing his grip on the other boy’s head. Not that it was needed, it seemed, as Draco stilled after hearing his name come from Harry’s mouth for the first time. Harry took this opportunity to explain.
“You need to keep your head pointed down or you’ll choke on your own blood, you stupid git. I’m going to let go of you now, but you need to keep on pinching your nose – yeah like that – and keep facing down. It’ll stop itself in a bit if you keep doing that.” Harry said, only releasing him when he nodded once, stiffly. Harry sighed deeply and sat next to him, legs spread out and stones digging into his back.
They sat like that for a while, neither daring to dismiss the somewhat awkward yet peaceful silence that had built between them, only interrupted by Draco’s wet sounding though steadily improving breathing through his mouth. When he lifted his head again and experimentally sniffed the air, nose no longer dripping, he sluggishly turned his head to Harry, composed. It was his eyes, bloodshot and wary, that gave away his lingering vulnerability – his fear.
“How did you know to do that? And why did you…” Malfoy cut himself off abruptly, seemingly unable to voice what had just transpired.
Harry smirked, though his eyes mirrored Draco’s, “What, never gotten a bloody nose before, Malfoy? Daddy pay the bludgers to avoid your perfect face too?”
Draco, usually one to rise easily to such obvious bait, remained unmoving, the pale blue of his eyes piercing into Harry’s unnaturally bright green, a searching look he was unable to escape or deny.
Harry’s eyes darkened as he broke the connection to gaze through the floor. He sighed deeply, soulfully. It was not the sigh of a young boy who just turned 13, but rather, someone who had witnessed the true horrors of the world and lived through them.
“Experience,” was all he murmured into his folded arms, now resting on his knees. Draco looked shocked, but smartly said nothing.
Another, more comfortable silence grew between them. This time, it was Harry who broke the tranquillity between them.
“I’m, um, I’m sorry,” he fumbled, somehow managing an expression of both sorrow, confusion and frustration. “You know, for your face.”
Draco scoffed, about to bite back with something venomous before Harry realised his mistake, “Wait no – that’s not – I mean that I’m sorry that Hermione acted like that. I don’t think that what you were doing was right, but she shouldn’t have hurt you like that. So I’m sorry that happened.” He finished, conviction building in his chest despite the somewhat awkward end.
If possible, Draco’s scowl deepened further. “I don’t need your pity, Potter,”
“It’s not pity, it’s an apology.” He simply stated.
That stunned Draco into silence, his face twisting to appear as if he was just told a very confusing riddle, or had been given a puzzle without all the pieces.
The silence formed between them again, this time, longer and more comfortable than the last.
Harry barely heard the whispered Thank You that passed Draco’s lips, eyes half lidded.
Draco was sure that the responding You’re Welcome was just a trick of the wind.