The Ordeal Of Being Known

12

The first thing Draco noticed upon returning to consciousness was the smell: the sharp, distinct antiseptic scent of St. Mungo's.

He listened carefully, but could only hear the sounds of soft breathing, somewhere near him, and the occasional quiet chimes of the monitoring charms.

He focused on what he could feel, other than feeling like he'd been run over by an erumpent: a soft, cotton shirt and joggers, hospital standard. A sub-par pillow under his head, slightly elevated. Low thread count sheets under his right hand, laying against his side, and something warm was moving in his left hand. He'd have to open his eyes, then. He blinked against the bright, floating hospital lights, directing his gaze toward his left hand.

Harry was sitting in a hard, wooden chair next to his bed, holding Draco's hand spread in his own, carefully tracing the lines of his palm with his fingers. So bloody tactile.

Draco watched him for several minutes, studying him, memorizing every detail, in case this was some sort of trick his mind was playing on him. Harry's wide, black curls were sticking up wildly, as if he'd been running his hands through them incessantly. He was still wearing his navy Auror uniform, which was cleaner than Draco would have expected, perhaps Timsy's doing, and the top three gold buttons at his throat were left undone. When Harry tilted his head a little, eyes fixed on Draco's hand, Draco could see the harsh, deep purple bruises, in a ring around his neck, the horrific impressions of Draco's fingers on his copper skin. Draco's vision blurred, and he unconsciously squeezed Harry's wandering fingers in his hand.

Harry's head snapped up, meeting Draco's gaze, his face a mix of awe and relief and trepidation. Draco was once again startled by the intensity of the bottle green eyes behind the round frames, briefly remembering how it felt to just tip forward, to fall in. He didn't let go of Harry's fingers-they simply stared at each other, taking the other in, and Draco felt that familiar, constricting ache in his chest.

"This is why I sent the Minister, and not myself," Harry whispered, after a long, suspended moment. "I didn't know how to be around you without hurting you."

Draco tsked feebly, rolling his eyes.

"And I hurt you anyway, by trusting him with that," Harry continued. "And I keep doing it. I don't know what it is about you that makes me act like such an idiot." He looked down at his fingers, trapped in Draco's hand. Draco loosened his grip just enough to take his hand properly, rubbing his thumb over Harry's knuckles.

"I'm sorry, Draco," Harry said, his voice unbelievably quiet. "I'm so sorry. I fucked up my one chance to get to know you. I attacked you, I endangered you, again and again. I tortured you-"

"Shut up," Draco rasped, not taking his eyes off of him. "I tortured myself, and I'd do it again. Evidently, your insufferable martyrdom is rubbing off on me." Draco smirked, but Harry's face twisted in pain and guilt. He squeezed Draco's hand in his own, bowing his head in defeat.

"This isn't how I'd hoped our first real conversation would go," Draco said hoarsely, "but I am glad you're healed, anyway."

Harry's lips twitched, eyes still stuck on Draco's hand in his as he shook his head. "That curse was bullocks, and you know it," he mumbled. "You knew me before ever entering my head. Lucius just wanted my memories, my knowledge."

Draco frowned at him. "What do you mean?"

Harry's eyes darted back to his for a moment, before looking back down at their hands. "You already knew me, Draco," he replied softly. "You knew why every one of those memories was important, you knew how they made me who I am. You didn't need me to tell you anything. You knew me better than I did, and I attacked you for it, and abandoned you and the case, putting your life in danger."