Catch 22 (Harry/Draco)

Well, In That Case

Epilogue to follow

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It is snowing again. Thick flakes flutter against the tower window, sticking to the sill in an ever-growing pile against the glass. Every time Harry sighs, his warm breath fogs the frosty glass from the inside. It's been almost a week since the incident in the Three Broomsticks, and he's barely moved from this spot except to go to meals and classes, which he only manages half-heartedly after the careful prodding of Ron and Hermione.

Whatever poison Lucius used was a vile one; from what Harry has gathered, it was so chemically similar to the Firewhisky that there was no way anyone, except perhaps Snape, could have detected its presence in the drink. The fiery acid was designed to literally burn a person up from the inside out—thankfully, Draco choked on the drink before it got close enough to his heart. When Harry saw the smoke issue from his mouth, smelled the familiar, citric scent of acid, he did the only thing he could think of, which was to use a Freezing Charm on Draco, hoping to counteract whatever he'd swallowed.

And then he sent an immediate owl to Snape.

It was perhaps the first and last time Snape would ever acknowledge Harry acting less than idiotically. His Freezing Charm had not only frozen Draco inside and out, but prevented the damage from becoming irreversible. He'd still suffered life-threatening wounds from the poison, however, and even with proper care and a week's bed-rest, Draco's life is still in limbo. Madam Pomfrey and Snape have done all they can, and now it is up to Draco's body to decide whether to pull through or not. After all, having all ones internal organs liquidized is a fairly traumatic ordeal.

Harry leans his forehead against the window, closing his eyes as the cold glass bites into his warm skin, causing his scar to prickle. He wants to go and see Draco, even though as far as Harry knows, he is still in a coma-like stasis. But with Blaise on the warpath and in the Hospital Wing whenever he isn't in classes, Harry has stopped trying to go altogether. He doesn't blame the Slytherin for being so belligerent; after all, Blaise has a fair point.

If it hadn't been for you, Draco'd be fine. You are the reason he's in there.

An annoying little voice in Harry's head keeps trying to point out that Draco told him he wasn't doing this for him—because of him, but not for him—and therefore, it isn't Harry's fault. Harry, on the other hand, is more inclined to agree with Blaise; for him, because of him, it doesn't matter. Because of him still makes it his doing.

He wants to see Draco. He wants to see him so badly it hurts.

Haven't you done enough, Potter?

But he doesn't want to hurt Draco any more, either. Even if that means hurting himself.

Sighing, Harry pulls his forehead, now achingly numb with cold, off the windowpane. Just as he moves to sit on his bed, the dormitory door opens and Ron enters.

Harry stiffens; it's the first time since the incident that he's been alone with his best mate. There's a guilty pang somewhere in his midsection as he realises he's been rather neglectful of Ron these past few weeks, unfairly keeping him in the dark, and Harry has a suspicion that Hermione is the only reason Ron hasn't throttled him and demanded details about 'this Malfoy business'.

'Hey, Ron,' Harry says warily.

'Hey,' Ron says, looking disgruntled and a little uncomfortable. 'How're you doing?'

Harry blinks at him; he's been neglecting Ron for weeks, and the first thing Ron can think to ask is how he's feeling—guilt stabs at his abdomen again, digging deeper. 'I'm fine,' he says. Ron raises an eyebrow. 'No, really, I am. I'm fine,' he insists. 'How are you?'