When The Smoke Clears

Prince of Darkness

Light spilled across the stone floor and the snow-white linens in the hospital wing. Draco woke before his eyes opened, and the first thing he saw was the pale pink of his eyelids, crisscrossed by violet veins. He blinked and lifted himself with his left arm. The hospital wing was mostly empty, the white beds standing neatly like a line of sleeping swans.

Harry Potter sat in a chair next to Draco's bed. He slumped, head in hand, in a hand-knitted, maroon sweater with an H on it. Draco's mouth quirked into a half-smile; of course, the loyal, perfect Chosen One visited him in the hospital wing. When no one else would.

"Potter," Draco said softly, but the boy kept right on sleeping. The Slytherin rolled his eyes and tried again, louder. "Potter!"

The Gryffindor jumped to consciousness, straightening his posture, and adjusting his glasses. "What time is it?" He muttered. He checked a golden, dented watch, and gave a sigh of relief.

"Late for something?" Draco asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No, I didn't want to stay too long. Hermione and Ron wanted to do a study group with a few others later." Potter leaned forward in his chair and met Draco's gaze, making his heart skip a beat. Draco hated to admit it even to himself, but there was something equally gorgeous and irritating about the brunet's emerald-bright eyes peering through his signature round glasses. "How are you feeling?"

Draco lifted his right arm and flexed his fingers. A dull pain throbbed through his forearm, but it was subtle enough that he could ignore it if he tried. "Much better." He pulled down his sheets and sat on top of them, cross-legged. I need a shower, Draco thought, uncomfortably aware that he was still wearing the Quidditch underclothes from the day before.

"Malfoy...." Potter began, clasping his hands, "Do you want to talk? Things have been kind of weird with us lately. Weird and unfriendly. I get if you don't want to tell me everything that's been happening, but friends share what's going on in their lives."

Draco dropped his gaze guiltily. It had been about three weeks since his short excursion from Hogwarts, and he had been trying desperately not to think about what happened. A mental static blocked his present from that particular bit of his past, and he wasn't yet ready to dig through it. "I'm not ready to share everything," He said finally. "But I... appreciate you coming here to check on me."

"Yeah, it's no problem," Potter replied, a friendly smile blooming on his face.

"However, I do need to know the name of the dunderhead who hit me so I couldn't catch that damn Snitch."

"I dunno, Malfoy. I think I still would've caught it."

Draco sighed dramatically. "In your dreams, Potter. Now, who hit me?"

"It was a Slytherin, actually." The Gryffindor laughed. It was a sound Draco was having a hard time getting used to, but one he looked forward to hearing nonetheless. "By accident. One of your Beaters, the taller one, thought it was a good idea to try and hit me."

"At that crucial point?" Draco groaned, slapping his forehead in frustration. He shook his head and gave Potter a hopeless look. "If only everyone was as much of a Quidditch genius as we are."

"We?" Potter said, his voice lilting amusedly. "Am I a Quidditch genius?"

"You're probably the best Seeker this school has seen in at least a generation," Draco said begrudgingly. He waited a moment, then squinted at the other athlete. "Huh. Did your head get bigger just now?"

Potter snickered, though not unkindly. "Good one, Malfoy. You're a real comedian."

Draco lifted his chin in mock-arrogance. "I've always thought so."