All Life Is Yours To Miss

Chapter 39

Draco stays late that night, not leaving until most of the treacle tart has been devoured and many, many more of Harry's questions have been either answered or sidestepped. As Harry had promised, there are a lot of questions, ranging from the simple (what did his flat in Glasgow look like) to the bizarre (did he ever tell dragon-tattooed Dave what his name meant) to the slightly more complicated (does he miss his mother). In fact, by the time Draco lets himself back into his rooms, picks up Stanley, and crawls into bed, he has been asked about nearly everything he remembers mentioning to Harry, with one rather glaring exception.

Not a single word has passed between them regarding relationships or any of the admissions Draco had made that fateful night about his sexual past. Of course, it's not out of the question that Harry feels those things are too personal to be discussed right now; it's entirely possible that he just doesn't want to embarrass Draco. But as he lies there, listening to Stanley's comfortable tacking from somewhere next to his hip, he can't banish the thought that his confessions have made Harry feel strange and uncomfortable, and that that's why he's keeping quiet.

He also knows that had Harry asked, in his characteristically direct style, why he hasn't had a relationship for over a decade, or if he is gay, or if he thinks he'll ever be interested in anyone again, he would probably have burst into flames right there in the hospital wing. Somehow, though, that knowledge just dissolves away when he's faced with the prospect that this frustrating, wonderful person might not understand.

Because every day, this feeling is getting a little bit worse, and with every shred of restraint that Draco gives away, he knows that he is slipping further and further from that safe, comfortable place where everything is controlled and predictable and easy. He is in love with Harry Potter, and it's crazy. He feels like he might burst any moment with the intensity of it, and all he can do is hope that when he does burst, it doesn't destroy the unexpected friendship on which he's coming to depend.

Tack, Stanley says softly, catching a patch of bare abdomen with his antenna and making Draco jump.

"What would you do, Stanley?" he asks, feeling for the beetle in the dark room and stroking his shell.

Stanley clicks, flaps his wings, and then turns in several circles before settling down to sleep.

"I could try that," Draco mumbles, yawning, and closes his eyes.

**~*~**

On Tuesday evening, Draco wears his turquoise jumper to Duelling Club and no one says a word. On Wednesday evening, Gryffindor Open House goes without a hitch, and Draco is just checking the corridor for stragglers when Hagrid looms into view.

"How's the cold?" he asks, letting him in.

"Nearly gone now, just a few sniffles," Hagrid says, lumbering over to the hearth and lowering himself down onto the ring of stones. "Finished with yer Gryffindors?"

"For tonight, yes," Draco says, holding up his copper kettle.

"Please. Yeh got time for one more?"

"One more Gryffindor?" Draco asks, puzzled, but Hagrid just grins.

"Well, an ex-Gryffindor, I suppose. I 'ave a favour to ask yeh."

"Absolutely. Let me put this on to boil and I'll be right with you," Draco says, lighting a fire beneath the kettle and seeking out his large mugs before taking his seat. "What's the problem?" he asks, realising as he does so that he's using his most 'understanding' voice, the one he has come to favour for the more extreme Wednesday night problems.

"There's no problem, Draco, I was just wonderin' if yeh'd let me 'ave Stanley for a couple of hours next week," Hagrid says hopefully.

"You want to borrow Stanley?" Draco asks, glancing over to where the beetle is snoozing peacefully on the spare armchair. "What on earth for?"

Hagrid laughs. "'Cause 'e's a very interestin' individual, of course. Yeh see, I thought I'd do a lesson for the seventh-years about the care of magically-altered creatures, and Stanley would be perfect. Nothin'll 'appen to 'im, I promise yeh. They'll just want to look at 'im an' maybe draw a few sketches... what do yeh think?"

The unvarnished hope on the bristly face is too much for Draco, not that he was ever going to say no to such a request.

"Of course you can, I think he'll enjoy that immensely." As the kettle boils, he gets up and goes to make the tea. "I can make a few notes for you, if you like, about how he was altered and what his habits are and such."

"I'd appreciate that very much," Hagrid says, beaming.

When Draco comes back with the tea, Stanley stirs awake and tacks noisily as Hagrid fusses him with a huge, calloused hand. Draco smiles into his cup, hoping that fame doesn't change him.

**~*~**

"Stanley's going to be a celebrity," Draco announces as the two of them walk into the hospital wing later that night. He stops, staring at Harry in bewilderment. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," Harry insists but continues squirming his moving parts around on the bed like half a salmon.

Draco doesn't believe him for a moment. Releasing Stanley to scuttle around on the floor, he approaches the bed and looks down at Harry with his arms folded.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," Harry repeats, gritting his teeth and thrashing for all he's worth.

Draco smiles to himself as it all clicks into place. "Harry?"

"Yes?"

"Do you have an itch?"

Harry stops moving. Lips pressed into a hard line, he looks up at Draco mutinously. "Yes."

"Do you need some help?" Draco offers.

In response, Harry begins squirming again, clearly trying to rub a spot somewhere between his shoulder-blades against the mattress. His face is turning redder and redder with each second that passes, and Draco can only watch for so long before he has to intervene.

"Alright, that's enough! Where the fuck is it?" he demands.

Harry stops to meet his eyes and for long seconds, they just stare, locked in a silent stand-off.

"Fine," Harry sighs eventually. "It's just to the left of my spine and..."

Draco leans over, supporting his weight on one hand against the mattress, and follows Harry's instructions, scratching firmly through the soft flannel until Harry groans and then flops onto his back, nearly pinning Draco's hand to the bed.

"Thank you," he sighs, closing his eyes and smiling serenely.

"You're welcome," Draco says, trying not to feel awkward as he sits down and pulls his blanket around himself to keep out the cold night.

"In fact," Harry says dreamily, "that was almost as good as the night you opened the windows and put something cold on my face... remember, when it was hot and then there was a thunderstorm?"

"I remember," Draco says, heart pounding at the memory.

"I slept so well that night," Harry says. "In the morning I listened to the rain for ages until Poppy came in and demanded to know who had opened the windows. For a moment, I think she really thought I'd done it."

"She told me off for it later, I assure you," Draco says, unable to take his eyes from the calm face with its determined, dark eyebrows, strong jaw and lips curved into a small, contented smile. When Harry opens his eyes he jumps slightly.

"What's the matter with you?"

"I'm fine," Draco lies, wishing he would stop asking. "Don't you want to hear about Stanley's foray into the world of teaching?"