By The Light Of A Dying Flame ~ Drarry Fanfic

Chapter 6: Harry

Harry had never learned how to communicate without an owl, and he regretted taking advantage of Hedwig. He kept rousing at any shuffling noise, expecting to see her landing on the rotting windowsill, beak open in impatient anticipation of a treat. She had been damn useful, and beyond that, his loyal companion for years. An aching sadness burrowed in his chest as he thought of her now; he'd never had the chance to properly mourn her. His body seemed to have gone numb in the last few months—perhaps even longer, he wasn't sure. If he allowed himself to slip, even for a moment, into his grief, he feared he would never be able to climb back out. He couldn't afford to submerge into his sorrow—not when the fate of the Wizarding World rested in his trembling hands.

He was not one for sitting idly by while the rest of the world carried on without him. Something akin to jealousy pricked in his chest at the thought of Ron and Hermione chasing down Horcruxes without him, charging closer to the end of the war while he sat in this joke of a shack and pretended not to flinch every time he heard Malfoy shift downstairs. He almost wanted Death Eaters to find them, if just to give his adrenaline a bloody fight to cling onto, instead of slithering through his veins and lighting his brain on fire.

He could only hope Ron and Hermione would carry on without him as best they could, that Hermione was brilliant enough to see the connection between Gryffindor's sword and Bellatrix's concern for the Lestrange vault when they were trapped in the Manor. Hope was all he had these days, and he had begun to hate the very word.

Harry glanced over at Malfoy from his perch on the rickety stairs. He appeared to be asleep, and was jerking and twitching, odd words tumbling from his mouth. Harry imagined that's how he looked when he slept, and he wondered what strange dreams haunted Draco Malfoy, if they were the same poisonous shade of green as his own.

His bandages hadn't been changed since the shed, so Harry collected a few from the moleskine bag. He walked over to the couch, staring down at him as he mumbled, his blonde curls falling over his eyelids. Harry had never seen Malfoy's hair not slicked back against his skull, and he wondered if the strands were as soft as they looked. Using the wand, Harry prodded his shoulder; it took a few jabs before he finally opened his gray eyes. "What?" he grumbled.

"You need to change your bandages."

Malfoy sat up stiffly, taking the bandage out of Harry's hand. He slipped the old bandages over his head, wincing with the movement and revealing the Splinch wound. The edges were still a nasty shade of green, but it wasn't spewing blood anymore. Below the gash were several silvery lines, nearly invisible against Malfoy's pale skin until he shifted in the light. Harry's eyes widened, the memory of Malfoy bent over a bathroom sink, his body wracked with sobs—

"Are you just going to stare," Malfoy asked sardonically, his pale lips caught in a grimace as he stretched his arm over his head, "or are you going to help?"

Harry jolted, blinking the hazy memory from his mind. "I think you can manage," he replied, stepping back from the couch. "Really, Malfoy," he added, forcing bravado into his voice, "it's a wonder you haven't died already."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Tell me," Harry said, a mocking grin unfurling across his face, "does your mother have to dress you in the morning?"

Malfoy finished clumsily wrapping the bandage around his chest in silence, the movements slow and careful, before he looked back up at Harry, his eyes chips of ice. "At least I have a mother."

Harry staggered back, the grin dissolving as if Malfoy had slapped him. His wand hand trembled, and he fought against the instinct to lift it and hurl a curse in his arrogant face. "You make it so easy to hate you," Harry said quietly, before flicking the wand. The ropes wrapped around Malfoy again, and he snarled, his gray eyes following Harry as he climbed back up the stairs.