All Life Is Yours To Miss

Chapter 6

When the last student leaves his classroom that afternoon, Draco spells the door locked, folds his arms on his desk and drops his head down onto them. He doesn't even begin his new schedule until tomorrow and yet he's exhausted, anxious and tight with tension just at the thought of his additional responsibilities... or, perhaps more accurately, at the thought of spending so much time with the students in environments so far out of his control. He shudders. His life is ordered, quiet, restrained—the only bit of chaos he allows comes in the form of Stanley, who will, no doubt, be wanting his dinner by now and will probably be getting up to all sorts of mischief in order to obtain it.

Stretching wearily, Draco leaves the comfort and the scent of chalk behind him and walks at a reluctant pace back to his rooms, where he finds the dreaded files waiting for him on his coffee table but no Stanley anywhere to be seen.

Draco looks in the bathroom, the bedroom, and in all Stanley's favourite hiding places before giving in and reaching for the bag of mint leaves that he keeps in his tea cupboard.

"Come out, you little bugger," he calls, taking a leaf and crushing it between his thumb and forefinger, releasing the sweet smell of mint into the air and waiting. For a few seconds, nothing happens, and then Stanley flings himself out of the fireplace, sending coals clattering everywhere and tracking sooty little footprints across the hearthrug as he scuttles towards Draco.

Tack-tack-tack-tack-tack! comes the enthusiastic greeting as the beetle nearly tips himself over in his efforts to nuzzle Draco's ankles and leap for the leaf at the same time. He is covered in soot and is smearing it all over Draco's trousers but for once he doesn't really care. Stanley is pleased to see him and is reassuringly easy to predict, and today, that will do for Draco. He relinquishes the crushed leaf and shakes several more out onto the floor for good measure. When every last bite has been gobbled up, he flings his cloak, waistcoat and shirt over the back of a chair, picks up a filthy, wriggling Stanley and deposits him in the bath. Usually, a quick wipe of his little feet and a polish of his shell with a soft cloth is enough, but not today.

"You'll never believe what I have to do," he confides, filling the bath with a couple of inches of warm water in which Stanley immediately begins to splash gleefully, despite his initial protests.

Tack-tack, he offers, swishing his antennae through the water and sending up a stream that neatly hits Draco in the face.

"Yes," he mutters, wiping his face with his forearm and wrinkling his nose. "It felt quite a lot like that, actually."

When Stanley is finally clean, they decamp to the living room where Draco pulls on a soft jumper and drops into his favourite chair with the shiny folders of doom. He knows he has to look through them sometime, but his motivation seems to have left him. Maybe it's up in the hospital wing with Potter. Thoroughly fed up, he leaves them on the table, where Stanley tacks gently over each one and then settles down to sleep on top of the pile.

Draco glances at the clock on the mantel and groans. It's only just gone four and for once, he has absolutely no idea what to do with himself. He taps his fingers on the arms of his chair for a minute or two, attempting to resist the urge that has leapt unbidden into his head, but it's no good. He rises, and seconds later, he is making his way up the stairs to the hospital wing. Seeing as this whole mess is at least half Potter's fault, it makes sense to be where he is. Sort of.

The sun is setting as he lets himself into the infirmary and the whole room is ablaze with golden light; the stark white of the bed linen seems softened as it pulls tight across four empty beds and drapes over the forms of Potter and a girl with two long plaits—Hufflepuff second-year, he thinks—who is occupying the bed farthest from the door. She glances over at the sound of his footsteps and quickly looks away. Oddly irritated, Draco approaches Potter's bed, which is set between two large windows.

His stomach twists as he gazes down at the motionless form. It's unsettling, because as many times as he has accused Potter of being lazy, it's rare to see him not moving. His clothes are sitting in a pile on the chair at his side and he has been redressed—Draco imagines by Madam Pomfrey—in a pair of light blue pyjamas. He looks strange in such a soft colour, but that's not the reason Draco feels as though something is very wrong. He can't quite pin it down for a moment, and then there it is. Potter isn't wearing his glasses. He isn't wearing his glasses and his eyes have been closed—they hadn't been closed when Draco left, he is certain of it.

Squeaky footsteps make him turn just in time to see Madam Pomfrey walking over to Potter's bed with a potion bottle in her hand.

"Good afternoon," she says briskly.

Draco nods, and then he asks—he can't help it. "Why have you closed his eyes? He's not dead."

Pomfrey gives him an odd look and then softens, granting him a little smile. "He can't blink, Professor Malfoy. I closed his eyes to stop them getting dry and sore. The eyes aren't usually affected by petrificus totalus but this is a rather unusual case."

Draco scans her face, searching for the reproach he expects to find there, but Pomfrey's expression is clear and open. "Yes, I suppose it is," he says at last, and she turns away to administer the potion via a funnel-like contraption. The closed eyes still do not feel right, though. Potter looks strangely vulnerable and so unlike himself.

He hangs around at the bottom of the bed until Pomfrey has finished her task and moved on to her other patient, but he doesn't feel any less unsettled than he had in his rooms. He turns to leave—perhaps a walk around the grounds will help—and stops abruptly, halfway across the floor.

He frowns. "Good evening, Potter," he says, and leaves, feeling like an idiot.