Chapter Text
It’s Harry’s fault of course.
It’s his fault Malfoy decides to use the Potions study room as a bedroom. It’s his fault Malfoy enters without bothering to check if the room is empty. It’s his fault Malfoy and his boyfriend, Zabini, seem to think it’s okay to snog and walk at the same time with their eyes closed. It’s his fault he happens to be utilising the very reason the room exists in the first place and brewing a potion. It's his fault Malfoy crashes into his desk and flips his cauldron over. It's his fault that the contents splatter all over Malfoy.
Of course. Who else is there to blame?
Malfoy screams. Then, he screams some more. There’s no weight or emotion to the sound; it’s clearly not out of agony, or even shock, but for the drama. Harry’s all too familiar with how Draco Malfoy thrives on the drama.
He only stops screaming when he turns around and notices Harry. His face hardens, eyes narrowing, lips curling. It’d be more intimidating if he wasn’t covered head to toe with sticky emerald-green potion. (The shade should really be a fraction lighter – Harry must’ve used too much seaweed.)
“Potter,” Malfoy accuses, emphasising the ‘t’s and spitting out the name like a swear word.
Harry doesn’t have time for this. The potion currently dressing his arch-enemy was weeks in the making, and something he had worked fucking hard on. Something he had been brewing without anyone else’s help or guidance. If he’d known it was only going to be wasted on Malfoy, he wouldn’t have bothered.
Still, it’s not finished. He has no idea what the effects will be. It could be dangerous. So, out of obligation, he asks:
“Are you alright?”
Malfoy’s eyebrows shoot up. “Am I alright? Look at me! What potion is this? What have you done to me?”
Harry takes a step backwards. “It was going to be a vision improving potion but it’s not finished yet. I changed the ingredients a little so I don’t know how it–”
“This is an experimental potion?” Malfoy’s eyes dart across his own body, from his exposed ankles to the open button at his collar where the potion has leaked beneath his shirt. He jerks his head back up. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“You’re the one who–”
“You did this to me!” Malfoy raises a sharp accusatory finger at Harry. “And if I die, it’s your fault.”
Harry rolls his eyes. Really, it’s a simple potion for eyesight. There’s nothing remotely poisonous in the ingredients. “You’re not going to die.”
Malfoy turns to Zabini, who hovers two steps back, swollen lips curved into a menacing scowl. “Blaise, we’re going to the infirmary. And if I die, please kill Potter for me.”
“Gladly,” Zabini answers without blinking.
Harry watches them leave the classroom, too worked up to feel any relief. Malfoy isn’t likely to forget this anytime soon. He will have no hesitations making Harry’s life hell for the rest of the year. There had been a momentary reprieve from Malfoy’s torments, ever since he shacked up with Zabini two weeks ago; Malfoy had been far too distracted with snogging his boyfriend at every possible opportunity to leave time for bullying. Now, however, Harry doubts even that distraction can combat Malfoy’s rage.
Turning back to his potion, or what’s left of it, Harry sighs. There’s enough in the cauldron to continue but the portions will be all off and Harry isn’t talented enough to compensate for that on the fly. Regardless, what’s the point? It’s only a matter of time before Malfoy tips it over again, except on purpose.
Harry sinks down into a chair and waves his wand lazily. The potion vanishes.
The following morning, Malfoy doesn’t turn up to Potions. Harry’s gut clenches every time he glances over at the empty seat in the back corner. It’s not that he has any well wishes for Malfoy but he doesn’t want anything bad to happen to him either, especially not at his hand. He’s shouldered the silent responsibility for the pain of his friends and family his entire life, he is not eager to add his arch-enemy to the list too. He tries to concentrate on his classwork, but his traitorous eyes keep returning to Malfoy’s seat.
“Harry, my boy, would you mind?”
Harry twists back to the front of the classroom. Madam Pomfrey stands beside Professor Slughorn, hands clasped tightly at her chest. Her expression is blank, controlled, but thick wisps of hair hang from her usually pristine bun, and her mascara is noticeably smudged below one eye.
Malfoy.
Shit.
Professor Slughorn gestures for Harry to approach, then address the rest of the class. “Did I tell anyone else to stop working? Eyes on your own cauldrons please.”
Anxiety takes hold of Harry as he walks forward and he has to stop himself from clutching his stomach. Madam Pomfrey’s presence can’t mean anything good.
“Mr Potter, outside please,” she says quietly once he reaches them.
Harry follows her obediently from the classroom. She leads him to a small alcove on the far side of the corridor. With each step, the pain builds in Harry’s gut until it’s searing high in his chest.
Madam Pomfrey pushes a stray hair back into her bun only for it to fall immediately back down. She places her hands on Harry’s shoulders, gentle but serious. “I understand Mr Malfoy came into contact with a potion you were brewing–”
“He knocked into me. I didn’t–”
“I don’t care how it happened Mr Potter. You can explain that to your Head of House. I only care about curing Mr Malfoy. If–”
“Curing? How serious is it?” Harry searches Madam Pomfrey’s face, trying to extract an answer in the purse of her lips. He doesn’t like what he sees. “What’s wrong with him?”
“That’s not for you to worry about.”
“But if he–”
“The only thing you can do to help Mr Malfoy now is stop interrupting and answer my questions.”
Harry drops his head. “Sorry.” Dread eats into him from every corner of his body. He feels light-headed.
“From the colour of the potion and Mr Malfoy’s limited information, I take it you were brewing Felicia Falcon’s eyesight enhancing potion?”
“Yes.”
“How far along were you in the brewing period?”
“Three weeks.”
“And what were the adjustments you made?”
Harry thinks back over the potion. “I reduced the portion of doxy eggs, increased the nightshade, added asphodel root and–”
“You added asphodel root?” Madam Pomfrey’s voice rises uncharacteristically. “And you still let the potion be stirred anti-clockwise overnight?”
Harry snaps his head up. “Yes. Is that bad?”
Madam Pomfrey’s composure slips, her nose flaring, eyes widening. Harry hasn’t seen her like this since Professor Lockhart turned his broken arm into jelly in second year. “Mr Potter, until you have more experience with Potions, you should not be experimenting on your own. The slightest adjustment can completely alter the magical properties and to add–”
“Is Malfoy okay?” Harry interrupts. He can’t bear the not knowing. Especially when it’s because of his fuck-up.
“He will be–”
Harry exhales.
“–if I can get a sample of your potion now. Then, Professor Slughorn and I can start work on the antidote immediately.”
Harry’s heart drops. “A– A sample?”
“Of the potion, Mr Potter. Where is it stored?”
“It’s not...I…Sorry…” Harry closes his eyes as the shame and guilt burn through his skin. “I vanished it.”
“You vanished it,” Madam Pomfrey repeats. Her tone is cold but Harry knows he deserves it. “You had no idea what the effects would be after it came into contact with Malfoy and you didn’t think to keep a sample!?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t…” A terrible thought pops into Harry’s mind, bringing the dread up from his stomach with it. “Will you still be able to cure him?”
Madam Pomfrey’s lips twitch. “I was able to take some of your potion from his clothes but it had already dried out. It’ll be difficult to work out the antidote with only that, but not impossible. I’ll have to speak with Horace. You should go back to your dormitory, Mr Potter.”
Harry blinks. “But class–”
“Is about to be dismissed. This is far too pressing.” Madam Pomfrey stares at Harry for a moment longer before shaking her head and turning back to the classroom. Conversation over.
But Harry isn’t finished yet. “What’s wrong with Malfoy?” he calls to her back.
She doesn’t turn or answer.
Fuck.
Harry considers visiting the hospital ward but quickly shoots the idea down. This is Draco Malfoy. He is Harry Potter. They hate each other. Why would he visit? But Merlin, he has to know what’s wrong. Madam Pomfrey said she could cure Malfoy so it can’t be anything permanent, but how bad is it? Is he in pain? Harry can’t stop his mind from jumping to terrible conclusions. Malfoy might be in agony right now because of Harry’s thoughtless potion experiment.
Harry hadn’t intended to start brewing potions in his spare time. It just sort of happened. After the war, he found himself seeking solitude often but not everyone seemed to understand. Hermione and Ron took comfort in being with others, being with each other, but Harry couldn’t. For every smiling face he saw around him, there was another face in the ground motionless. Sometimes it was too much. His excuses for his absences flowed out carelessly and the one that stuck, that most people seemed to believe, was the most absurd of all: he was brewing experimental potions outside of class.
One day, instead of sitting idly in the quiet Potions study room, he started flicking through one of the Potions books, which turned into looking over the ingredients in the cupboard, which turned into brewing a relaxation potion. It turned out terrible of course, and Harry was far from relaxed, but after that he didn’t need to lie anymore. The excuse became his reality.
Now, after the incident with Malfoy, Harry can’t imagine brewing potions will ever relax him again. Guilt taints all his thoughts, and with no answers from Madam Pomfrey, he has no idea what he is even guilty for.
To keep himself from losing his mind in ever-worsening speculation, Harry heads over to the Slytherin table at dinner. Malfoy’s friends see him coming before he even passes the Hufflepuffs. Parkinson raises her eyebrows and nudges Nott. Nott frowns and nudges Zabini. Zabini jerks his head up and openly glares. Harry continues his approach regardless, stopping only to hover awkwardly by the table.
“Potter,” Zabini growls.
Harry takes a breath. Surely the boy who lived (and died!) can handle Blaise Zabini. “Hi,” he begins, discreetly rubbing his sweaty palms on his trousers. “Is Malfoy okay?”
It’s Pansy Parkinson who replies. “No, of course not! He’s in the Hospital wing thanks to you. He’s going to have to–”
“Pansy,” interrupts Zabini, “no need to explain to Potter. He doesn’t care about Draco.”
“That’s not true,” Harry counters automatically.
Zabini raises an eyebrow.
“I mean, I don’t care about Malfoy but I don’t want him to be hurt.”
“Get your story straight, Potter. You’re just worried you’ll get in trouble. Don’t worry, you could murder someone in cold blood and they still wouldn’t expel you. You’re the boy who lived. You’ve got a free ride for the rest of your life.”
Harry winces. He’s used to Malfoy’s harsh words riling him up but Zabini? His wrath is new. And cruel.
“That’s…that’s not…”
Theodore Nott sets down his knife and fork. “They’re letting him out tomorrow," he says calmly, diplomatically even.
Harry gapes at him. Zabini elbows him.
“What? It’s what he wanted to hear. Now he’ll leave us alone." Nott eyes Harry. "Right, Potter?”
“Right,” Harry agrees.
He returns to the Gryffindor table, ready to set the whole incident from his mind. If Malfoy’s out tomorrow, it can’t be that bad then, can it? Harry simply panicked for no reason. Everything is fine now.
So why can he no longer taste his food?
Harry rushes to breakfast. Malfoy will be back today. Once Harry sees him, and confirms he is his usual horrible self, everything can go back to normal. Harry can shake this awful feeling in his gut.
He is one of the earliest to arrive and hardly anyone is about. That’s fine. He sits and waits. And waits. Later, Hermione and Ron join him and try to involve him in their conversation but he isn’t interested. He’s too focused on watching the door. But at five to, there’s still no sign of Malfoy.
Guided by his friends, Harry finally heads to class, but his mind wanders. Nott said Malfoy would be out of the hospital. So where is he? Did something else happen? Harry knows he is overthinking but how can he help it? This is all his fault.
His mind is still wandering when he enters the Transfiguration classroom so it’s not until Harry slumps into his seat that he notices the platinum blonde head in the front row. He audibly exhales.
Malfoy.
Zabini slides in beside Malfoy, throwing an arm over the back of his chair. Malfoy turns, leans up and plants a gentle kiss on his boyfriend’s cheek, all the while smiling pleasantly. Harry cleans his glasses and reassesses the scene. Malfoy’s still smiling. Harry’s never seen him smile before, at least not like this, not like he means it.
Zabini frowns and pulls his arm away. He speaks in a low voice that Harry can’t catch across the length of the classroom no matter how far he leans forward. Malfoy’s absurd smile drops and he whispers back. Perhaps Harry would have been better off brewing Felicia Falcon’s hearing enhancing potion.
Still, apart from the strange smile, Malfoy appears completely healthy, and Harry relaxes for the first time in days. Yes, it is peculiar for Malfoy to be so openly affectionate, even towards his boyfriend, but perhaps a couple of nights in the infirmary has given him a new perspective on life. It’s improbable but not impossible. Besides, he wouldn’t be released from the hospital until he was fully cured so there is no point in worrying further. Malfoy is back and he’s healthy. End of story.
Finally able to breathe, Harry focuses on Transfiguration and forgets about Malfoy. He takes his notes as usual, sneaking glances at Hermione’s every so often, and chatting with Ron whenever they can get away with it.
At the end of class, Malfoy jumps to his feet first, moving swiftly to the door at the back of the room. As he passes the back row, he catches Harry’s eye and smiles, actually smiles, not smirks, and says with a nod, “Morning, Harry.”
Wait, what the fuck?
Something is seriously wrong with Draco Malfoy.