that he still has a headache and so he lies back down on the mattress. It’s ludicrous, that’s what this whole thing is.

Potter being here, being so meddlesome with him and his life, and him enjoying it. Enjoying Potter’s attention, his time, his concern, and those godawful smiles that he sends Draco’s way when Draco’s said something particularly funny.

He wants Potter to stop. He doesn’t deserve it.

The Dark Mark burns, hot and heavy on his forearm, under his sleeve. He throws it over his eyes, and takes a deep, shuddery breath. He thanks his lucky stars and whatever higher being there is in the sky that nothing happened to either of them today, because he doesn’t think he can ive himself if something had happened to Potter all because he was crazy enough to wander where he’s not supposed to wander and stupid enough to fall in love.

“Next time, don’t do it. My life’s not worth yours.”

There is a pause, one that lasts long enough for the tears to prick his eyes, before Potter murmurs, “That’s for me to decide.”

Draco laughs, low and empty. “You can’t save everyone all the time.”

“I know. But I wanted to save you.”

“It got easier, the more I did it,” Draco finds himself explaining a while later.

He’s still lying vertically on the bed, turned to his side, watching the ribbons of names glide over the Map. Potter didn’t go back to the other bed anymore and had settled for lying down horizontally, just below the pillows. His thigh is just above Draco’s head.

Draco had just Scourgified his clothes and his bed, unable to stand the grit and the dirt anymore, when Potter asked if he knew that it was the Forbidden Forest he was walking to, which evolved into the conversation they are having now.

“I had always been good at lumency. My aunt said I had a natural talent for it.” He closes his eyes, smiling grimly as he remembers Bellatrix Lestrange and their late-night lumency training sessions to prepare him for his mission. He opens his eyes again, unwilling to dwell on the details of those. “Growing up trying to live up to my father’s expectations to be ambitious and…cruel, I suppose, made it easy for me to, in my aunt’s own words, empty myself of emotions.”

The memories that he recalls now are a different kind, one that consists of stone floors, metal bars, a sinking coldness that prated your very bones, and the choice he made to avoid it.

“It kept me from giving in to the terror that the Dementors wanted me to feel. But the more I did it, the easier it got, and the harder it was toe back.”

His eyes trace the map once more, down to the dungeons, and on the ribbon that reads Harry Potter.

“You remember the state I was in when I first got out of that place.”

The bed shifts, and Draco can imagine Potter nodding.

“But it got better, didn’t it? It became less frequent the last few times I went to the Manor.”

“Mm,” Draco says in reply. “My mother says it might be a relapse.”

“Why?”

Draco recalls his summer days in the Manor. He recalls the happiness he felt, the frightening unfamiliarity of it after all those months—after he was given the Mark, his mission, and that soul-gripping fear of what the Dark Lord might do to his family should he fail. And he recalls thinking then, that the world isn’t such a bad one to wake up to, if he woke up to banana pancakes and bright, green eyes.

And then he recalls the following weeks after.

Potter with his friends, always in the distance, always on the other side of the room, his green eyes now looking elsewhere.

Draco knows why. But he’s not going to tell Potter that.

“I have no idea, Potter.”

“I should go,” Potter says, sitting up with a sigh. “Ron will be worried.”

Draco nods mutely, because he’s not about to do something stupid like ask Potter to stay. The throbbing in his head had lessened to a dull throb, and so he tries to sit back up again.

Potter is arranging his robes as neatly as he can, before he takes out his wand again, taps the Map, and says, “Mischief managed.”

The ink disappears in a heartbeat and the paper folds itself once more. Potter pockets it together with his wand. He crosses the room to get the Invisibility Cloak on Goyle’s bed, and then pauses. He turns to look at Draco. His eyebrows are creased with worry. “You okay, Malfoy?”

Draco doesn’t know how to answer that, but he nods anyway. He will be.

Potter doesn’t look assured, but he nods back and walks towards the door. He holds the cloak open. And then he sighs. He turns back to Draco, opens his mouth as if to say something, but decides against it. He closes his mouth again. Instead, he says with a small smile, “See you tomorrow, then.”

The words are out of his lips before he can stop them. e back.”

Potter looks surprised.

Draco already hates himself. He’s not supposed to be doing this. “Tomorrow.e back tomorrow, I mean.” His heart’s beating loudly in his chest, and he swallows, tries to steady his voice. “You have that cloak of yours.”

And he doesn’t know what it is that he said, but Potter’s smiling, and god, it sucks how much he’d missed that smile. His head still hurts, but he finds himself smiling back anyway.

“Okay. After dinner.”

Potter leaves, and Draco thinks, No. No, no, no, no, no.

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