All Life Is Yours To Miss

Chapter 43

At breakfast on Friday, Poppy sits down next to Draco and tells him that the movement has returned to Harry's legs, meaning that the curse has left him completely. The trouble is, she explains as she pours herself a cup of coffee, Harry's legs are far more weakened than the rest of his body and at the moment he is unable to lift them from the bed or even bend his knees.
"He's not going to be ready by tomorrow, is he?" Draco says.
She shakes her head. "Not a chance. His recovery has been incredible—we both know that—but going out there tomorrow in this condition would just be a step too far. I can't count the number of times I've told him not to get his hopes up, but it doesn't seem to make any difference. When I left him he was nearly bubbling over. He's not going to take it well."
Draco folds his arms on the table and stares down at his empty plate. "He's going to be very disappointed. Do you think it would help if I come with you when you tell him?" he suggests, looking up at Poppy.
"That's very kind of you, Draco, but you have lessons to teach. I'll manage."
"I've got NEWT and OWL classes this morning or I'd ask someone to cover," he says, glancing around at the nearly empty staff table. "If you can wait until lunchtime, I'll be there as soon as the bell rings."
Poppy gives him a grim smile. "I'll try."
"Good luck," Draco says, watching her throw down her coffee and get to her feet with a familiar air of no-nonsense determination. He has the feeling that the next few hours are going to be difficult for everyone involved.
He tries to keep his attention on Transfiguration for the next two lessons, but he knows he is distracted, and his students probably know it, too. He briefly considers making a dash for it at morning break, but is quickly waylaid by a student wanting to discuss her homework grade, and by the time she is satisfied, his next set of students are already arriving.
The very moment his last student has exited the classroom, Draco is striding along the corridor, up the steps and into the hospital wing, heart hammering and nerves jangling. Poppy is standing by her potion trolley, sorting through the bottles and quite clearly trying to deflect Harry's questions.
"What do you think?" he says, pulling himself into a fully upright, unsupported sitting position and moving his legs around on the bed with his hands. "I could use that hovering chair—you know, the one you said I can use when I leave here? Oh, hi, Draco. Have you heard?"
"I have," Draco says, glancing at Poppy. They have to do it, and they have to do it now, because the thought of crushing Harry's infectious, almost childlike optimism is sickening, and if they wait any longer it is just going to become impossible.
Poppy nods, hands coming to rest on top of the potion bottles. With a slow, deep breath, she turns around and together she and Draco approach the bed.
"What's the matter with you two?" Harry asks, and he looks so fucking vulnerable in his soft blue t-shirt, hair everywhere and glasses sitting slightly askew, green eyes bright and puzzled.
Draco wonders if he could just leave Poppy to it, but he stays, fingers wrapping tightly around the cool rail at the bottom of the bed.
"Harry, you need to listen to me. I know you don't want to, but this is important. You've only had movement in your legs for a few hours, and you can barely move them on their own. They're not strong enough yet—"
"But if I used the chair..." Harry starts.
Poppy shakes her head. "I'm sorry, but I'm really not convinced the chair would be practical for a Quidditch match. Think about getting up and down from the stands, and even if you stayed on the ground, there's a chance that you could be hit by something or someone and then we'd just be starting all over again. I just don't think it's a good idea."
Her voice is gentle but firm and she doesn't look away from Harry for a moment. When she stops speaking, he looks down at his hands and bites his lip hard.
"Couldn't we just try it?" he asks, voice smaller than usual. "I could stay well back from the pitch..."
"No, I'm sorry," Poppy says. "Not this time."
Harry says nothing.
"I'll let you talk to him for a bit," Poppy says, touching Draco's arm and squeaking back into her office.
"You wouldn't be comfortable in the chair anyway," Draco points out when her door clicks shut behind her. "You need to be able to stretch out until your knees are more flexible. I promise to tell you every single thing that happens. I'll come straight up here afterwards so I don't forget anything."
"Yes, because that'll be the same," Harry snaps.
Draco exhales slowly. Of course he's disappointed. He's angry with both of them and himself.
"No, it won't, but at least you'll know how everything went, and by the time the next match comes around, you will be better, and you will be there," he says calmly.
"You just don't get it, do you?" Harry snorts, looking up and meeting Draco's eyes. His expression may be caught somewhere between anger and grief, but anger is definitely winning out. "You don't know what it's like for me in here. You'd probably love it—you don't have to go anywhere or talk to anyone, and you especially don't have to go outside. All that mud and wind and rain and all those horrible students everywhere trying to be your friend—you can hide from anything you like in here!"
Stung, Draco grips the rail more tightly. "I don't think for a moment it's been easy for you—"
"All I wanted," Harry interrupts, voice shaking now, "was to go outside in the fresh air and watch my team play Quidditch. I thought that was a reasonable enough request, and I worked my arse off to get my arms and hands and back moving; I put up with every single liniment and potion that Poppy could think of and I did every single exercise—I was up all night doing them! Have you any idea of how little sleep I've had in the past week?" Harry demands, eyes shimmering dangerously.
"No, I haven't," Draco says, losing his patience, "but if you had any sense you'd probably have had more! Do you honestly think that you're so different to other people that you can just push yourself through this like a madman and suffer no consequences? Stop being a stubborn fucking idiot and slow down before you get yourself stuck in this bed for another two months!"
Harry stares at him, fists balled and breathing ragged. "You absolute... fucking... prick," he says at last, and Draco's gut twists painfully.
"If that's what you think of me," he says, gathering himself, "I think I'll go."
Harry mumbles something in response but Draco doesn't catch it and he doesn't stop walking until he reaches the stone windowsill in the corridor and his legs quiver alarmingly underneath him. Hoisting himself up onto the sill, he drops his head into his hands and pushes out his breath slowly. He knows that Harry's anger isn't really directed at him. He doesn't think it's even directed at Poppy. He thinks—hopes—that Harry doesn't really think he's an absolute fucking prick. What hurts is the other stuff; the stuff that's probably true. Harry's right about him and he hates it.
Still, none of that matters because he and Harry have argued, and this is the first time he's ever cared about being forgiven. He doesn't know how to fix this but he needs to learn quickly, because everything inside feels wrong and he can hardly stand it. Searching for comfort, he curls himself into his usual position and stares at the wooden doors, chin resting on his folded arms.
He doesn't know how much time passes before Poppy comes out, but she doesn't seem at all surprised to see him.
"Well, that went about as well as I expected," she says, standing beside him and staring at the doors, too.
Draco lets out a rough snort. "Did you really expect that?"
"Not in so many words, but I knew he'd be upset." She nudges him with her elbow and he glances sideways at her. "You know that wasn't about you, don't you?"
Draco lifts an eyebrow. "I think it was about me a little bit."
Poppy shakes her head. "No, Draco. The only person Harry is really angry at is himself. He's an intelligent young man; I can guarantee that he knew on some level that he wasn't going to be ready for that Quidditch game. The problem is, sometimes hope can be blinding, and it can very easily separate us from reason. I'm not saying he wasn't angry with me a little bit, too, but I have a suspicion that if it's a choice between the two of us---he finds you easier to shout at."
Draco looks at her calm, scrubbed face and her serene, blue-grey eyes. "You're a wise woman."
"I'm an old woman," she says. "I've seen a lot of things, and I've seen enough to know that he is sitting in there right now and wishing he hadn't said those things to you."
"You heard?" Draco asks, cringing.
"I couldn't really help it," she says with a rough laugh. "I think that a lot of what you said was true, if rather harsh, and a lot of the things he said were just things he needed to get off his chest. But that's it. Harry isn't the sort of person to hold grudges."
"I know," Draco says. "I'm just wondering if... all this time, I thought I'd been helping, and really he was just lying there and fuming to himself because I wasn't appreciating my life... his life... life," he sighs.
"No," Poppy says firmly. "You've spent more time with him than anyone—it means a lot to him. You mean a lot to him."
"I don't know about that," Draco says, closing his eyes as something starts to turn dizzying circles inside him.
Poppy lets out a sound of exasperation. "Draco, he needs you."
"He needs you. I'm just... I don't even know what I am. I'm ridiculous."
"You certainly are not. Listen, Harry needs me to make sure he eats and to make sure he's healthy and that he's moving towards recovery. He needs you to be his friend, and he needs both of us if he's going to get better," Poppy insists.
Draco lets his hands drop to the windowsill and presses them against the cold stone as his mind races. He doesn't think he has ever been needed by another person before. It's rather a strange feeling. He thinks he might be able to live with being needed by Harry.
"You should go in and talk to him," she says gently.
Draco looks at her. "Now?"
"Yes, now," she says, shaking her head. "I'll even make myself scarce if you think it will help."
Draco gives her a grateful smile. "I'll be back in two minutes, I promise," he says, scrambling down from the windowsill and running down the stairs.
He makes good time but it's definitely at least five minutes later when he lets himself back into the hospital wing with a loaded tray. He's never been very good at apologies, but he strongly suspects that the application of tea and cake can only help things along.
Harry is lying on his back, hands resting on his stomach and head twisted to look out at the cloudy sky. When Draco starts moving potion bottles and setting down the tea tray, he looks over cautiously and then looks away again.
"I didn't mean it," he says quietly.
"Neither did I," Draco says. "Well, I did mean the bit about you pushing yourself too hard, and you are very stubborn, but... this is a terrible apology, I'm sorry."
Harry's mouth twitches into a smile and he turns his head back to Draco. "It's alright. I think I meant a lot of the stuff I said, too, but I meant it for the person I knew before. Not you."
Draco sits down. "That person was still me, you know."
"I know," Harry says, propping himself up on his elbows. "I don't think I knew that person, either. I only thought I did. I bet that doesn't make any sense," he sighs, flopping back down and rubbing his elbows.
"You'd be surprised," Draco advises. "Would you like some marble cake?"