Recovery

Draco shifted around on his cot, throwing an elbow over his eyes in an attempt to block out the ever-present light. He had just about given up on ever getting proper sleep again before he died. He could kiss his cushy bed back home goodbye. Even if he ever saw it again, which was so far beyond doubtful it wasn't even worth snickering about, it had no doubt been ruined by those sods rifling through the manor. Some grimy auror had probably pawed all the sheets, and smudged a little mud on the velvet duvet just for spite.

Not that he'd ever get the chance to scourgify their filthy little goody-goody pawprints from his possessions. He wasn't enough of an idiot to go running home if he got out of this place, and if he failed... Well, it was only a matter of time until they decided he was well enough to leave this trash heap for some prison-issue piece of wood even more uncomfortable than the pathetic little cot he'd been forced to endure for however long it was they'd kept him cooped up in this sodding excuse for a hospital. The way these supposed good guys treated their prisoners wasn't winning anyone any halos. You could feel the contour of every pipe in the damn cot through the thin mattress, and the bolt near the top jabbed into his head even with the additional cushioning of what they referred to, apparently without irony, as a pillow. But that wasn't that half of it. Everything smelled a bit like toothpaste, but was just different enough that his brain rushed to guess and check just what went into the mint reek that pervaded the place. Even if he could ignore that, and tune out the constant din, it was never quite dark. And if, against all odds, he managed to drop off for a second, that thrice-damned cow of a nurse would barge in and probe him for some measurement or other that Draco was certain went on a scrap of parchment somewhere, never to be looked at again. She probably did it just to keep him awake.

All in all, it was almost a blessing that there weren't any mirrors in the room. Draco was willing to bet that the circles under his eyes would give raccoons a run for their money, and he always got pale and pinched-looking when he was tired. Another week and he wouldn't look like a Malfoy anymore. Which, of course, would herald an onrush of Prophet reporters with cameras. At least he could hardly bring any more disgrace to the family name.

And there it was, like fucking clockwork. Fifteen past the hour? Must be time to dwell on his father. In twenty minutes, he could move on to St. Potter. Draco thrashed in one last attempt to get comfortable on his cot. Wonder Boy probably wasn't coming back at all, and all of this discomfort would be for nothing. His feet were falling asleep, but if he got up and started walking around The Cow would come and check on him, and Potter would probably scamper back to wherever it was he kept himself these days. And if he fell asleep, Potter would probably sneak his mother in, and then right back out again, rather than wake him. Gryffindors. You could expect more sense from your average teacup, and Potter was the worst of the lot. And that fucker would observe all the petty courtesies without bothering with little things like, oh, avoiding dark magic. Not like THAT was a central Gryffindor value or anything. In fact, with all of that lying, cheating, sneaking and general nastiness, it was amazing that Potter kept up his good name at all. And it wasn't just idiots looking the other way to make sure their little idol remained untarnished. No, Potter made lying to himself an art form, even if he was bollocks at it more generally. Anyone with that little fucker's marks in DADA had to know better than to buy the shit Potter was spouting. Hell, even the Weasel could probably tell you that a spell as powerful as sectu- that curse- wouldn't so much as produce sparks without some serious intention behind it. "Oh Draco, I cast it by accident?!" The disingenuous fuck. Potter had wanted a close inspection of Draco's entrails. Twice. Which would almost have been respectable, if it weren't for the constant whinging about it. And, of course, the fact that the idiot clearly lacked follow-through.

If he hadn't been dwelling - no, not dwelling, nothing so significant as dwelling - on Potter all day, Draco would have felt like his thoughts had summoned His Holiness. Had to be. No one else would be so stupid as to open a door while invisible, let it creak ajar and then close behind no one at all. He couldn't afford to bait Potty with snide remarks, but MERLIN. If you're going to go to all the trouble of making yourself invisible, you might want to employ some basic stealth.

Draco schooled his face to stay passive as Potter's head popped into view, but the urge to sneer nearly overwhelmed him. The only thing uglier than Potter's disembodied head was Potter in toto, one big smudge of a hygienist's rumpled nightmare. Even his sodding hair was rumpled, and seeing it floating there without the usual mess that was Potter's haberdashery only emphasized its terrifyingly unkempt state. Lucius would beat him bloody if he ever thought about looking like that when he rolled out of bed, let alone in public. Granted, Malfoys were hard to parallel in the charm-and-grace department, but you'd think the little fucker could take some trouble to clean himself up for the flashbulbs that always seemed to find him. Disgusting little sod, pretending to hate the attention. Draco bet he even believed that he hated it. Little fucker probably didn't let himself know that his embarrassed modesty was tailor made for a press hungry for the model hero. The little fucker would probably buy cowboy boots next. Or, heaven forbid, latex.

"Malfoy?" Draco thought he ought to get some kind of medal for restraining the lip curl that was just DYING to confront Potter's confused, rumpled blinking. "Malfoy, did you hear a word I just said?"

Draco had been trained in these things for years. Now was the time for the friendly gesture, the shy smile, but he couldn't quite trust himself to produce it. Yet another thing to add to list of Reasons I Wish Potter Would Fall Down Stone Dead. Draco had been trained since fucking BIRTH to smile at people he didn't like. Lucius was a master of the art, and he'd all but told Draco he was a brilliant protégé. Draco had smiled at the mangy werewolf. He'd smiled at Cornelius Fudgepacker without so much as a hint of a sneer. He'd smiled at the Dark Lord himself when he was barely into double digits and terrified of embarrassing his father in front of such an important person. But Harry Fucking Potter filled him with such boiling contempt that he couldn't rely on his most practiced expression to wheedle what he wanted out of the fucker. Open hatred was just so... common. And stupid. And remembering that he was at the little sod's mercy only made his stomach churn harder.

The moron had taken his lip between his teeth and was beginning to extend his arms. Draco realized with horror that Potter intended to touch him, prop him up somehow... he abruptly straightened. "Thank you," he said, as calmly as he could, imagining that he was thanking Crabbe for a timely punch to Potter's girly little face. "I haven't been feeling well..." One limp-wristed wave calculated to convey illness and weakness, and...

Potter pity, right on cue. "Oh, I'm sorry... I thought... I mean, you looked all right earlier. I didn't think..." Potter scuffled his shoe on the floor; Draco swallowed a snort. No wonder Potter's trainers always looked like something a Weasley would wear. And honestly. Trainers. As daywear.

Potter seemed to have recovered himself, at least enough to look up at Draco again. He looked like he was going to speak, but instead his adam's apple just bobbed ineffectually. Oh, fuck it all. Potter's eyes were filling up again, and Draco was a Bulstrode if he knew what the pansy was worked up about this time.

"I didn't realize it was so bad," Potter whispered. Draco noted with disgust that Potter's bottom lip glistened with slobber and was all red and inflamed from the gnawing. The slightest bit of decorum...

Draco sighed, shifting around with just enough of a wince to set Potter trembling again. "I think I can walk," he said, setting his jaw and dropping his feet to the floor. This time, the wince was real. You'd think they could perform a simple heating charm on the floor of a supposed place of healing, but no! Better just let all the patients get pneumonia and die.

Potter reached out to steady Draco at the elbow, and Draco was sure this his skin had actually crawled - crept a little, shrunk back into itself to avoid Potter's touch out of sheer disgust. Because it was surely disgust, nothing like fear, not in the least...

It was bad enough that Potter had presumed to touch him, but now the sod was pushing him - him! A MALFOY! Nobody pushed a Malfoy! - back onto the dreaded cot. "We aren't going anywhere," Potter said, gentle and slow. Draco nearly snorted. The Boy Who Failed to Develop Social Skills would think that mortal enemies could be calmed using methods developed for horses.

But then Potter's actual statement sunk in. Draco whipped his head around, but his mother was nowhere in sight. He clawed at the space surrounding Potter's head, but felt only the slide of some odd fabric over a male torso that was right where Potter's should be.

"But... My mother... you promised," Draco hissed. It shouldn't be this surprising that Potter had failed him. That Potter had lied. Again. But Malfoy had made something of a project of knowing Potter's habits, his expressions, everything about the sodding idiot because everyone knew to keep enemies closest of all. It was cliché for a reason, that adage, and Lucius had told enough stories to trade on it. If Potter had somehow gotten smarter, better at shielding himself... Because Draco had no inkling that the fucker was leading him on earlier, and now this....

"Draco!" Potter barked, rather loudly and Draco just knew that would bring The Cow. "Draco, what's wrong? Are you sick? Should I call..."

Reason number 717 that Draco Malfoy Must Kill Himself by Next Tuesday. How he had come to be half-splayed across the damn cot, fingers pinching Potter - touching him on purpose, not just accepting the idiot's presumption - hard enough that the Skin That Lived was white around Draco's fingers... Draco thought he might just die on the spot.

And now he'd have to apologize, but he didn't think he could grind the words out. Not to Potter.

Draco took a deep breath. Lucius had taught him better than this. It had been harder than this, many times. Draco pulled himself into a tight knot and raised his head, looked Potter right in the eye. "I'm sorry," he said, proud of the evenness of his voice. "I panicked a bit, there. I thought I heard you say that we weren't going anywhere, but my mother..."

Potter let his lip slip from between his teeth with a disgusting plop. When had he started gnawing on it again? "I guess... You said come back, and maybe we'd discuss what I should tell the Aurors. I didn't expect... I mean, I can get in here no problem, but I checked before I came in you wouldn't believe the security they've got on this door, all geared to keep you in, so I can't really take you to see her. And she... Well, don't worry, because, like I said, nothing serious, but I don't know if she ought to walk around too much just yet, and besides, if your door's like this I bet hers is, too."

Well, Potter was just a font of useful information... Provided, of course, he hadn't become some lying savant while Draco languished in the hospital. It was almost hard to swallow that even the most - Gryffindory? Gryffindorish? Stupid word, in any case - Gryffindor would be dumb enough to just spew information about the nature of defences to an enemy. Draco nearly lost his calm face again as it hit him; you never talked about defenses to an enemy - unless you didn't consider the enemy to be even the most minor threats. Years of hexing and hatred and showdowns, and Potter...

Draco wrapped his "blanket" around his fingers in an effort to keep his rage invisible. Who cared what Potter did or did not think? The idiot's ever-present arrogance was hardly something to mark in the calendar. If anything, Draco should be thankful that the moron couldn't shake it. He now knew more about his prison than he ever had before, and knew to take extreme caution; even if Potter was lying, taking extra care wouldn't hurt the escape plan.

Still, the civil veneer was harder to keep up than ever. Draco took a steadying breath, imagined Lucius' face if he could see his soon lose his control in spectacular fashion, in front of Harry Fucking Potter. "Good thinking, Potter," Draco said, forcing a half-smile. "I suppose sneaking is out, then."

Potter scuffled again. "See, but the Aurors..."

"What were you planning to say to them?" Draco was torn between blind terror and amusement. Harry Potter, attempting subtlety?

"Well," Potter said slowly, still gnawing away at his lip, "I suppose I thought I'd tell them that you two could talk, and maybe I could be there. You know, in case you said anything we could use..." Some of Draco's displeasure must have been showing on his face, because Potter looked straight at him, blushed and lost what limited grasp on English he might once have had. "Of course... I mean, I'd have to be here, they'd never allow it otherwise, but I was thinking... I mean, of course I'd put a silencing charm around you." His face slid into an expression of resolve, and Draco felt his stomach drop just a little. The last time he'd seen that... "Some things are just private."

Well, what do you know. Miracles do happen. Potter had concocted a half-sensible plan. Draco took a shaky breath, and pasted his half-smile back on. "Sounds good. You might mention that you think something could come up, some information that would be worth the risk..."

Potter returned the half-grin, which only made his mouth look more cock-eyed. "I'm not a moron, Malfoy."

Draco shrugged, a surprisingly comfortable gesture. "Never hurts to check, with a Gryffindor."

Potter's smile slipped, and for a minute Draco feared that even that gentle gibe had been enough to piss the volatile moron off, but Potter sucked in a deep breath and returned the shrug. "Maybe we're a little less stupid than you like to think."

Draco's smile shrank ever-so-slightly. "In this situation, I can only hope so."

Potter smiled, wide enough to show teeth. "Well, I'd better head out if I'm to catch anybody tonight. I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

"Potter..." Draco reached out, not quite close enough to touch Potter's phantom torso. "Look, if you could come and tell me, even if things don't work out..."

The git looked stupid, trying to shoot a sidelong glance around those outdated, beat-up glasses. "Of course." Draco frowned as a hand emerged from somewhere to fuss near Potter's head before they both blinked out of sight. This wasn't an invisibility spell that Draco had ever run across... He frowned as something tickled at the edge of his memory...

Whatever recollection he might have had was driven out of his head when something smashed into his cot. Draco started, looking around wildly for some kind of weapon, until muffled curses in Potter's unmistakable squeak rose from the floor. "Sorry," Potter muttered. Draco couldn't suppress a chill; the fucker was creepy enough when you knew precisely where he was.

Of course, his stomping was a dead giveaway. Invisible or not, if Draco had hold of his wand, he could have hit Potter at any point during his exit. Draco's lips curled into a nasty smile as he considered a couple of choice hexes that might teach Potter the value of a little stealth...

Better to put the irritating little sod out of his mind entirely. Draco had more pressing concerns, not least of which involved actually getting some of that elusive sleep. His mother would worry if she saw him looking as haggard as he must, and she was too delicate to upset if it could be helped.

Draco sighed, and ran a hand through his grubby hair. Nothing for it, then. He'd have to call The Cow and ask for a proper sleeping draught. If they were going to poison him, they'd probably have done it already. And although he wouldn't trust The Cow as far as he could throw her - which really wasn't far, considering her bulk - even Longbottom could pull off a cleaning charm by second year. Draco laid a finger on the little communication pad they'd placed next to his bed. "Nurse, I will have my bath and a sleeping draught now."

He thought he heard an indignant huff on the other end of the line. Draco grinned. High time the bitch learned her place in the order of things.