The Heart of the Matter (Harry/Draco)

Chapter Three

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Draco spent the next two days in bed.

It felt more like a week, but he carefully counted the number of times the sun appeared and disappeared outside the window, casting warm shadows around his room through the drapes. They began as small orange lines against the door, and slowly stretched into long, diagonal rectangles across the bottom-half of the door and the floor. He would spend most of his day watching the dust turn golden and spin in the light, like a million tiny, dancing Snitches.

The rest of his room remained dark and indistinct, and he sought refuge in the aphotic corner his bed resided in, comparing the tiny dust Snitches to the way sunlight used to reflect off his mother's hair on a bright day. Or thinking about how she'd never send the house-elf to wake him during the summer months when he slept in like Father had, but always came into his room herself, and her soft murmurs and light touch on his hair would slowly pull him from sleep.

And he'd think about how he would never see or hear or feel any of those things ever again.

His bed at home was much larger and comfortable than his bed here. Potter's bed, he corrected himself. Whatever. Potter had obviously found himself somewhere else to sleep, and so far he and his lot had mercifully left Draco alone. Leaving the room only in the early or late hours when the house had grown still to plod downstairs to the loo, Draco was aware but uncaring of the fact that he'd been lying and sleeping in the same robes for three consecutive days. He had not combed his hair or brushed his teeth, much less ingested anything that wasn't water straight from the tap.

He liked the routine; the less energy he had the less of it he could waste on sobbing. If he kept himself exhausted beyond tears, he didn't have to cry. He could mourn like a man was supposed to—aching and in despair, but composed.

What Potter had witnessed had been unfortunate timing and circumstance. It would not happen again.

Draco did not acknowledge the fact that he'd promised himself that very same thing last time Potter caught him weeping like a small child. He decided to skip his evening trip to the loo, and eventually his mind faded into a fitful sort of sleep, filled with blue eyes and golden hair that shone in the sunlight.

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He woke with a start the third day. Judging by the rectangles of light on the floor, it was about midday. The soft knock sounded his door again, and Draco rolled over to face the wall and ignored it.

He closed his eyes as he heard the door open. Whoever it was could sod off, because he refused to acknowledge he was awake. Mother would have known better than to bother him like this.

'Draco? Are you awake, dear?'

The use of his first name startled him, but he did not move and forced his breathing to remain shallow. He had been expecting Potter, demanding his room back, or perhaps the werewolf, but this voice was female. Older. Motherly, even. The concern in her tone was not false, and for half a crazy moment, Draco considered rolling over.

'All right, dear,' said the voice that clearly knew he was awake. 'I'll just leave this for you. But you should know that Severus and Albus will be stopping by this evening after tea, and they'll be wanting to speak with you.'

He waited until the door had closed before rolling over and slowly sitting up. On the stand by his bed—Potter's bed—sat a silver tray with a pitcher of what looked like pumpkin juice, a kettle of tea with a cup, and a small selection of comestibles. Draco had been able to ignore the hunger pangs until now, and his stomach growled aloud and he reached over and plucked an apple off the tray to placate his body for the time being.