Regret, Remorse, Hold On || Drarry

SEVEN

Harry stood in silence, the echo of his heavy footfalls resounding in his head. The silence was suffocating. It was so empty and so thick. He could hardly remember the way he had fled the hall and run straight back to Draco, the way Zabini's eyes had shuttered with panic as magic began to slowly choke him, the way Hermione had looked at him.

He remembered everything this time, but it felt strange, wrong, like they weren't his memories, as if someone or something else had taken over his body for those few, awful moments. He hadn't wanted to hurt Zabini, despite his feelings towards the other boy, but he had, and he hadn't intended to. It had almost felt like his mind had taken a backseat while his magic assumed control in the worst way possible.

There was a pulsing in his ears, almost like a heartbeat. Nausea clawed inside of him, and he felt as if he might be sick right there, alone in the dormitory with a slumbering Draco.

He turned to Draco, still and silent on the bed, and he felt himself falling to his knees beside him. He grasped Draco's cold – too cold – hand and held it tight to his chest, unaware of how his breath hitched in his throat and the way his back shuddered, uncaring of how he made strangled noises, panicked noises, any outlet for his terror.

He'd almost hurt Zabini and everyone had seen, and they were going to realise what he'd done to Draco, and Hermione was going to tell everyone –

Draco shifted slightly in his sleep, and Harry buried his head in his white-blonde hair. Draco felt warm beneath him, as if he had a fever, and yet his skin was like ice.

He had no idea how to fix this, fix any of this. He wished he could speak to someone, wished he could control his magic, wished that Draco was okay.

He just had no idea what to do.

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The fact that Draco was cold, achingly cold, was the first thing he noticed when he became aware of himself again. The second was that there was a weight on his abdomen, and a hand gripping his so tight that he almost winced.

His eyes flickered open faster than he'd intended to, and he cringed at the brightness of the sun streaming in through the windows. He almost groaned at the headache thrumming in his head, as bad as it had this morning when he'd awoken. He'd been drifting in and out of consciousness for hours now, having been awake long enough to tell Harry he wasn't going to class. His whole body ached.

Still, he really needed a shower, and then perhaps some Pepper-Up potion to help him feel even the slightest bit more human. Merlin, he hated being ill.

"Harry." He whispered slowly, not even questioning who was beside him. "Harry, wake up, I need you to move, you great lug."

His head swam as he sat up, but it got Harry's attention, as he opened his eyes blearily and looked up at Draco. His eyes were red-rimmed as he looked up, as if he'd been crying.

"Harry? What's wrong?" He murmured, his voice slow and tired.

The other boy blinked confusedly, before seeming to realise where he was, and what Draco had asked. "Wha – oh, I'm fine, don't worry. What about you, are you feeling any better?" His eyes, so close, were concerned.

Draco shrugged, the movement making his head spin slightly. "Okay, I suppose. At any rate, I'm getting to have a shower because I've been sweating for hours, and now I feel disgusting." When Harry failed to laugh or even smile, Draco only grew more concerned. "Harry?"

It struck him that he had no idea how to approach a situation like this, though a strange part of him felt as if he'd done this before. Some sort of deja vu, yet he couldn't remember when it had been. "Look, I'm not very good at this. I was emotionally stunted for sixteen years of my life, so this is quite remarkable for me, really." At that, Harry did smile. "But I do know there's something wrong. Alright? I'm not stupid."