Draco floats then, from one state of consciousness to another. One minute he’s there, staring at the wooden floor of the bridge, knowing that he’s doing it, his body’s doing it, his own eyes are doing it, and the next he’s in some haze, like somebody else is staring at the floor and he’s just looking through their eyes. And then after that, it goes black all over, and he doesn’t know how much time passes until the next time he sees the floor again, but it’s darker now, and in one corner of his mind, it registers that oh, it’s already night time.

There’s a crack in the wood, and a small spider, so small he’s surprised it hasn’t been blown away by the wind yet, slips through it. He wonders if he can slip through it, too.

What did he say to Potter again? Potter was mad. It’s been a long time since he last saw Potter that angry. He doesn’t like it. He never did like it. But he could stand it then, years ago, so why does it hurt so much now?

They were talking about something. A girl. Potter’s girl. Oh. Weasley.

His vision’s starting to go dim at the edges again.

It’ll be nice, he supposes. They’re going to build the happiest family ever.

It hurts.

What did he say to Potter again?

It’s dark. Darker than Azkaban.

Azkaban at least had moonlight shining through the bars.

But this is darker, pitch-black, all light blocked by the canopy of trees above. He hears the rustle of leaves more than he sees them, and he hears the incessant buzzing of insects. Something howls ahead and Draco wonders if this is real or if it’s just in his head again.

He needs to leave. He knows he does. He always knows. But with Potter gone, it’s been getting harder and harder to get out of his head. He thought he was getting better.

But no, he’s just getting worse, and Potter’s angry, and he misses the Manor, and the garden, and breakfast, and Potter.

There’s another howl that sounds and echoes around him, and he doesn’t know where he’s going. He thinks he’s walking, he’s not sure, but it’s dark here, and Potter’s not around.

Draco wakes up to the scent of sweat, treacle tart, and fresh soap. He’s being carried on someone’s back, and he knows immediately who it is. His nose is buried in Potter’s hair and he’s not sure if this is real, but he feels like crying.

He thinks he already is.

Potter stops, pauses, and Draco realizes that they’re still outside the castle. It’s still dark, with only the moon and the light from the towers illuminating their steps. The wind is still cold, and their robes billow in the wind. Potter’s carrying him, and he’s probably heavy, but Potter’s grip under his thighs are firm.

Potter says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said.”

Draco’s having a hard time concentrating. He doesn’t understand what Potter’s saying.

“I’m not going to stop pestering you, Malfoy. Stop trying to get rid of me.”

The chuckle is out of his lips before he can stop it. Stupid Potter. Stupid, annoying Potter who doesn’t know when to give up. The little bugger just has to save everyone, even those that don’t deserve it. “I’m mad, Potter.”

“You’re insufferable, that’s what you are.”

There is amusement in Potter’s voice, and Draco missed that, the sound of his voice when he’s happy. He wishes he didn’t.

Potter starts to walk again, and Draco crosses his arms, wraps it around Potter’s shoulders to keep himself from falling. He buries his nose in Potter’s neck, lets himself feel the warmth of Potter’s skin and allows himself this one minute of weakness and selfishness, because, he promises, this will be the last time.

He wants to kiss Potter’s neck.

Instead, he says, “Let me down.”

Potter turns his head, looks at him from the corner of his eye. “Can you walk?”

“Yeah.”

Potter kneels down and lets go of his legs, lets him step on the ground on his own and straighten himself up. Immediately, Potter stands and looks at him over, looks at him worriedly. “Are you okay?”

No. His vision’s dimming again and he feels like his head’s about to burst. “Fine.”

“You look like you’re about to throw up.”

“Must be your imagination.”

Potter rolls his eyes and takes his arm, pulls it over his shoulder. Once again, they’re pressed together, which is just as well, because Draco’s knees buckle.

Potter’s hand is around his waist in an instant. “Merlin, Malfoy. You can ask for help, you know,” he mutters through gritted teeth.

Draco’s vision clears, just a bit, and he tries to straighten his legs once more.

Potter’s voice is near his ear and it’s soft. “You can ask me for help.”

And Draco, in his delirium, replies, just as soft. “I know.”

He knows.

The castle halls are quiet when they pass through them. Gone are the students, and the only noise that echo are their footsteps and heavy breathing. Draco spends the trip trying to focus on keeping himself awake so much that it takes a while for him to notice that they’re already in front of a very familiar stone wall.

He laughs, a quiet laughter of disbelief. “Potter, why do you know the way to the Slytherinmon room?”

Potter grins at him. “Trade secrets.” He nudges his chin towards the wall. “I’ll tell you when we get inside. Can you stand now?”

Draco does. He doesn’t think he can do it for very long, but damn if he’s going to keep hanging off of Potter forever. “We?”

Potter’s smile gets bigger, and Draco curses his heart for feeling whatever it is that it’s feeling. Must be the nausea.

Potter rummages through his robe pockets, gets his wand in one and a small piece of cloth in the other. With a swish and flick, the piece of cloth transforms into a huge cloak, sparkling like the night sky. He throws it around himself, and Draco tries hard not to stare dumbly at the spot where Potter once stood.

Of course, Potter would have an invisibility cloak.

“You little bugger.”

A chuckle echoes in the dungeons. “What’s the password?”

Potter is in the Slytherin dungeons.

Potter is in his room.

Granted, he’s had Potter in his room before, but not…in Slytherin.

The shock and utter ridiculousness of it has Draco walking straight towards his bed to lie down and rest his aching head. There are a lot of gaps in his memory, and trying to make sense of everything that led them here isn’t doing him any favours.

There’s a sound of a bed creaking, and Draco can imagine that Potter’s gone and made himself at home on the other, nearest bed.

That one had been Goyle’s.

Draco sighs, rubs his hand over his face, and then keeps it there. “How did you know I was in the Forbidden Forest?”

Potter’s voice is sheepish. “I have this Map that tells me where everybody is in the castle.”

Draco snorts, shaking his head in incredulity. “You certainly have a lot of things, don’t you?” He kicks his boots off and, uncaring of how muddy the ends of his robes are, puts his feet up on the bed and arranges himself so that he can look at Potter while keeping his throbbing head lying down. He’ll Scourgify his sheets later.

“Yeah, well, you don’t beat Voldemort empty-handed.”

Potter is leaning back on his arms, keeping his feet and his own dirty boots firmly planted on the floor.

“Are you gloating?”

Potter rolls his eyes. There’s a smile on his lips and a twinkle in his eyes, like a promise of something fun. “No, Malfoy.”

He stands up, crosses the room, and sits on the free space above Draco’s head. He rummages in his pocket once more and produces an old piece of folded parchment, which he lays on the bed in front of Draco’s face. e on, tap your wand here and say I solemnly swear I am up to no good.”

Resolutely ignoring Potter’s distance from him (or the utter lack of it), Draco glares at the parchment. “Are you fibbing with me?”

“No, I am not fibbing. You’re being difficult on purpose, aren’t you?”

Still suspicious, Draco gets his wand from his own pocket. It’s a new one, bought in a quick trip to Ollivanders’ on the last day of August, on the very same day that Kingsley Owled him to say that his magic ban was over. He had been nervous, and ashamed, to meet the old man again after what the Death Eaters did to him in their very own dungeons, but Garrick Ollivander had taken one look at him, disappeared within his shelves of boxes, and returned with a wand and iveness.

“10 inches, rowan wood and unicorn hair, young Draco Malfoy. No matter how dark the road, the value is in your persistence to find the light.”

It’s not the same as his old one, of course, but he doesn’t know where that is (Potter? The Ministry?) and he’s too scared to ask.

Holding his breath, Draco taps the parchment with his wand and says, “I solemnly swear I am up to no good.”

The parchment unfolds, and ink dances from the middle, towards the sides and the four corners, to form…

“Hogwarts,” he says, breathless. He props himself up on one elbow, eyes wide. He looks back at Potter with his mouth open in amazement.

Potter grins at him in reply. He taps the lower right corner, the Slytherin Dorms, right where their names are placed beside each other.

It’s definitely weird. Seeing their names together. They don’t match, after all.

“You weren’t at dinner,” Potter says, continuing their conversation. “I checked the Map and didn’t see you anywhere.”

Draco looks at the area labelled Great Hall. It’s empty, as expected. He doesn’t know what time it is, but it’s probably already after curfew. He thinks about the absurdity of Potter eating dinner, realizing that he’s not there, and going out of his way to check this ridiculous map of his just to look for him.

He blinks, tries to stop himself from feeling happy about it. “Other people might call this stalking,” he says instead.

Potter’s cheeks are pink. “Shut up, I was worried.”

He’s definitely happy. Damn Potter. “Worried that poor little Draco went bonkers and wandered off into the Lake?”

“Yes, Malfoy, is it that weird of me to worry about you? Now stop trying to piss me off, I’m trying to have a civil conversation here.”

Draco clears his throat loudly. He hopes the dark is doing its job covering his burning face. “Alright, so you didn’t see me in the Map, and assumed that I was in the Forest?”

“Well, it’s one of the places that isn’t shown on the Map, so I took a hunch.”

Draco looks at him disbelievingly. “You went to the Forbidden Forest on a hunch?”

Potter shrugs. “It’s not the first time I’ve been to the Forest. And you didn’t manage to get very far.”

He’s not mad. Potter’s mad. He thinks of all the things that could have happened, all the ways that this day could have gone horribly wrong. “Merlin, Potter, you mean to tell me I almost got the Saviour of the Wizarding World ripped apart by wolves because he was stupid enough toe after an ex-Death Eater on a hunch?”

Potter’s frowning again. “Stop calling me that. Stop calling yourself that.”

“They’re both true, Potter. Don’t be so sensitive over it.”

“So,” Potter irritably cuts off, probably because if they continue talking about this, they are going to have another argument. “That’s how I found you.”

Draco huffs in reply. He shakes his head, still incredulous, but that movement reminds him

本站無廣告，永久域名（fanyan.cc）