The Standard You Walk Past

Chapter 2

Apparently, Granger and Weasley had established a routine of putting Potter to bed every night. Sometimes, they quickly left; sometimes, they stayed and talked. If it weren't for Draco's well-reasoned paranoia, he would have put up silencing charms. As it was, he gritted his teeth and listened as the Golden Trio chattered about their boring day, filled with schoolwork, Quidditch and war charities.

It seemed, however, putting Potter to bed stopped Potter from his normal midnight wanderings around Hogwarts. And in every one of those nights, Potter's subconscious had decided to walk into Draco's bed instead.

Draco dragged himself awake again as Potter sleep-crawled onto his bed. Faintly, he realised that Potter was getting better at that—he got his entire body on, and if Draco left it, Potter would probably figure out to sleep-snuggle under the covers. It felt almost routine to sweep Potter's blankets back, levitate Potter into his rightful bed, and tuck him in. For as long as it took for Potter to stop screaming, Draco let his hand run through Potter's hair.

Draco itched to give Potter the modified Dreamless Sleep Draco made for Mother, but when he searched Potter's bedside table and found empty, old, vials of sleeping draughts, Draco knew he couldn't, at the risk of Potter getting an addiction; making something weaker wouldn't help. Though, it explained why Potter hadn't sleep-walked into Draco's bed earlier.

And Draco could hardly give Potter his moonstone, or teach him how to use Occlumency to ward away dreams.

Blearily, Draco fell back into own bed.

*

"Malfoy!"

Draco did not turn around and refused to pick up his pace. He did, however, curl his fingers around the wand in his pocket. He could hear the footsteps of maybe a dozen students behind. Upstart Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws.

"Think you're too good for us? You should be in Azkaban!" One of the older boys yelled out. The sound bounced off the walls, leaving behind an echoing aaazkaban-ban-ban.

Draco's mind cooled. Yes, and it was your Potter who kept me out. Attending Hogwarts as an Eighth Year had been one of the terms of his probation. He supposed that it was the Wizengamot's idea of micro-aggression when they had been blocked from throwing Draco into a cell on a rock in the middle of the sea, handing over the law enforcement to school children who, by virtue of being on the 'Light' side, couldn't be at fault—

A spell whistled past his ear, clipping the edge of his shield.

Anger bubbled up. Draco twisted around, whipping his wand out just as the rest of the group decided to cast. He narrowed his eyes, and with a sharp slash, sent the hexes crashing into the castle walls.

Fucking kids think they can fucking get me. They fucking never had the fucking Dark Lord living in their homes—

Draco barely caught himself, a curse on the tip of his mind. One bloody scratch on any of them and he'd be shunted back to Azkaban, and he bet these kids knew that. With an inward snarl, he clamped the anger down.

The best he could do was cast the strongest shield he could and walk away as though spells weren't being aimed as his back. He did not give them the pleasure of flinching when a hex barrelled through and struck him in a star burst of pain, shattering his shield. He concentrated on forming another shield. Soon enough, they stopped, as Draco rounded the corner.

He allowed himself a wince, then, and slipped into the nearest empty classroom. Shrugging off his robes, he probed the area around his lower back—thankfully a place he could reach. After healing himself, he found no energy to put on his robes and exit the classroom. But he had too, and he emerged from the classroom when he was sure the corridor was empty.