All Life Is Yours To Miss

Chapter 17

He opens them again to find a hungry Stanley promenading up and down his legs and the sun streaming in through the window. Stretching, he turns to look at his alarm clock only to find that it has been pushed onto the floor. When he leans down to pick it up, the first thing he notices is that the pain in his arms and legs has vanished. The second thing he notices is that it is quarter past eight and that he is going to miss breakfast, which might actually be a problem, because, for the first time in several days, he is ravenous. The house-elves can do their worst.

Pushing back his quilt, he looks down at himself and laughs. He has, apparently, decided to sleep in his boxer shorts and Potter's spotty pyjama shirt. Harry's spotty pyjama shirt, he corrects. Things really do feel different this morning, and he rather suspects he has better things to do than go around calling people by their last names.

"Or something," he mumbles, wandering into the bathroom. He walks easily, all aches and pains banished by the magic of Madam Poppy Pomfrey, and alright, there is still a light throbbing sensation at the back of his head, but he can't bring himself to care. He turns in the doorway, heading back into the living room to seek out the vial of dittany, savouring the feeling of the cool tiles, worn floorboards, and soft carpet beneath his bare feet.

Vial in hand, he pulls Harry's shirt over his head and returns to the bathroom. Everything feels so...

"Good grief."

Draco stares at his reflection and grimaces. He has lost weight and it doesn't look good on him. Lifting both hands, he touches the sharp angles of his collarbone, traces his fingers over his ribs and plucks at the dark waistband that, once snug, now sags slightly. There's no one to blame but himself, either. Other than Hagrid's care package, he can't remember the last time he ate anything but biscuits and bits of toast, and he can't imagine that the situation has been helped by the stress, lack of sleep, and unusual levels of exercise.

It's not as though he's ever been much of an oil painting; his skin is too pale, his lips are too thin, everything is far too angular to be attractive, but this is ridiculous. He dreads to think what he looked like when he stumbled into the hospital wing last night. It's probably better not to know; the memories of his bizarre behaviour and humiliation are still raw in his mind despite the best efforts of four hours' potion-induced sleep. Pomfrey-Poppy, Poppy, Poppy-had promised him that the bruises would be gone by morning and she was right. The hair's-breadth scars from the cuts are already beginning to heal, and as he drops some of the dittany onto each one, he watches them fade almost to nothing.

Setting down the glass vial, he leans on the sink and scrutinises his eyes in the mirror. He's become almost accustomed to the dark shadows and they are still very much present, as is the ghostly pallor of his skin, but he feels better, and that will do for now.

The shower is wonderful, as are his clean clothes and the cup of tea that he just about manages to squeeze in before leaving his rooms. The Great Hall is almost empty but on the staff table is a tray of sausages that looks relatively un-interfered-with, so he pulls up the seat nearest to it and takes three, which he then stuffs between two slices of wholemeal toast. He's just about to bite into it when Poppy leans over his shoulder and says,

"Good to see you've got your appetite back."

Draco turns to look at her, stomach grumbling in protest. Her eyes are tired, but she is as immaculately turned out as always and her smile is warm and genuine.

"Yes, I woke up absolutely ravenous," he says. "Listen, I really am sorry about last night. I'm fully aware of how badly I behaved, and you were truly classy about the whole thing."

"You can stop apologising to me now, Draco," she says. "You look much better already and everything's cleared away upstairs, so there's no harm done. In fact, I rather enjoyed our chat. I'd have preferred it under different circumstances... maybe a little earlier in the day, but never mind."

"Yes, I..." Draco sighs. Frowns. The words are coming out whether he wants them to or not. "I really am sorry."

Poppy stares down at him, stern look firmly in place. "Enough. Eat your breakfast before it gets cold, and I will see you later."

With that, she walks away, and Draco watches her, biting into his sandwich and chewing contentedly.

He's still not sure why she seems to want to help him, but it's becoming apparent that he doesn't have much of a choice in the matter. He'll see her later, yes, but first, he has some bridges to build. No one knows it yet, but he thinks he may have been given a chance to turn this mess around, and just as soon as he's finished silencing his stomach, he's going to grasp it with both hands.

And then he's going to go upstairs and tell Harry all about it.