All Life Is Yours To Miss

Chapter 13

That night, when his back becomes too stiff even for his beloved chair, Draco retires to his bedroom, accompanied by Stanley, half a pot of tea, and a stack of marking. The work has built up alarmingly over the last few days but he has managed to make quite a dent in it since dinner and there's every chance he might finish it before he goes to sleep. If he ever goes to sleep, which of course he will, because he refuses to entertain the idea that he now needs Potter in order to get a decent night's shut-eye.

That being said, the hospital wing has become a very soothing place in the midst of all this upheaval, and he feels rather resentful of Granger and Weasley-Ron for keeping him away from it. Draco scowls and pushes the thought to the back of his mind, flopping onto his back and stretching out on top of his autumn quilt, smiling idly when Stanley scrambles up onto his chest, even though it means he has to hold each piece of parchment up above his face in order to read it. He doesn't care, because a happy Stanley is a wonderful thing, turning and settling against Draco's breastbone and investigating his shirt buttons with sleepy antennae.

Draco reads, scribbles, and occasionally relates interesting passages to Stanley as he goes.

"When increasing the dimensions of an object, one must be sure that all pineapple surfaces remain even and boa constrictor," he reads, eyebrows knitted. "I think Miss Bailey needs to lay off the self-correcting ink, don't you?"

"Tack-tack-tack," Stanley responds, and of course he agrees. He is a very smart beetle.

Draco scribbles a firm but fair advisory note on the bottom of his student's homework and then picks up the next roll in the pile. When he has finished, he looks at Stanley and realises he has fallen asleep. Suddenly feeling very alone, Draco pushes the rest of the parchments to the floor and presses his forearm to his hot, weary eyes.

It's Saturday night, he thinks crossly. Surely there should be something more to it than this. He's never cared before, but now he finds himself wondering what Granger and Weasley-Ron are up to. What Hagrid is doing. What Potter would have planned if he had the option. He groans out loud and sweeps his fingers over the familiar relief of patchworked fabrics and lines of stitching. He has always wanted what he knows, and now he doesn't know what he wants. Soon, he falls into a fretful sleep, fully clothed and weighed down by a blissfully sleeping beetle.

Harry Potter is in his room. Just sitting there on the edge of the bed as though he belongs there. He looks better... good... healthy and bright, skin flushed with colour and eyes so green, and he just sits there and stares at Draco. He smiles and Draco smiles back before he can control the muscles in his face and get them to do anything else. Stanley leaps down from the bed and Draco sits up easily, leaning forward. Potter leans forward, too, and then his eyes flash with anger.

"What are you doing here, Draco?"

"This is my bedroom!" Draco points out, but Potter just shakes his head.

"Interesting how quickly you've given up on me," he accuses, unbuttoning his pyjama top to reveal a raw, gaping chasm in his chest. His heart is clearly visible, shrivelled and clenching erratically.

Draco stares, feeling the bile rising into the back of his throat. "What happened to you?"

"I got tired of waiting," Potter says, voice growing deep and slow, as though he is talking to Draco from under the lake. "Tack-tack-tack-tack."

"What?!"

"Tack!Tack!" Stanley chatters urgently, and Draco opens his eyes to find an energetic beetle hopping around on his chest.

Realising he is holding his breath, Draco lets it all out in a messy rush, resting an unsteady hand on Stanley's back and staring up at the ceiling. It wasn't real. Potter was never here. Still, Draco darts a quick glance at the end of the bed, just in case. It's empty, and when Stanley scuttles away in search of breakfast, Draco pulls himself up with a wince and walks slowly to the window. It's pouring down with rain. The sky is heavy and grey and the grounds are saturated. Draco wonders if he should call off his advanced flying class, but he doubts the seventh-years for whom Potter provides it will be any less stubborn than the rest. He'll probably just have to get wet.