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Emergence	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 2816 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am making no money from this story.

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            “Draco!”

            Harry roughly shook Malfoy for the third time. When calling him by his last name hadn’t caused any reaction, he’d turned to the first one. Surely Malfoy would wake up if only to tell Harry off for calling him by something so informal when they weren’t friends, as he would undoubtedly say.

            But Malfoy lay unmoving still, only sharp, shallow breaths escaping his lungs. His skin was so hot that Harry couldn’t touch his forehead or his hand, but had to grip his shoulder, which still had a robe over it.

            “Mate? What is it?”

            Harry didn’t turn around, afraid that Malfoy would die the minute he took his eyes off him. “Will you go and get your mum?” he asked grimly. “I think Malfoy has a fever, but I don’t know, and I don’t trust myself to take care of him.”

            “Right away,” Ron said, and Harry heard the clatter of his boots against the floor as he ran down the stairs.

            “What did you do to yourself now, Malfoy?” Harry asked quietly. He cast a Cooling Charm on the robes around Malfoy, all he dared do. He didn’t know much about fevers, but he’d read that it wasn’t a good idea for victims to get too cold or too hot, because it could hurt them. Or maybe it was that they had both chills and heat.

            Harry sighed. It was strange to wish that he’d done more reading on Healing magic during the war, but now, with Malfoy so red and trembling in front of him, he felt as though pity was strangling him. No one deserved this, and someone as young and vulnerable as Malfoy least of all.

            “Move out of the way, Harry dear,” said Molly’s voice behind him, lowered as though she didn’t want to wake Malfoy up. “Percy used to get fevers all the time, and Ginny when she was little. I’ll know.”

            Harry gladly moved around to the side so Molly could see Malfoy. He didn’t let go of Malfoy’s shoulder, though. He had promised Malfoy he would protect him, even if he couldn’t take care of him. Letting him go now felt like failing.

            Molly cast a few charms that Harry didn’t know, but which surrounded Malfoy with a swirling blue cocoon and then dissipated. Molly’s face was grim when she looked up from the bed. “He has a magic-induced fever. His own power is fueling it. In the old days, people who suffered from this kind of fever could end up as Squibs.”

            Harry winced. But he clung to Molly’s words as a source of hope. “But these aren’t the old days, right? You can do something for him?”

            “I can,” said Molly. Her face was drawn. “But the fever is so advanced, it might not work. If that doesn’t, then we’ll have to take him to St. Mungo’s.”

            Harry winced under the twin lashes of worry and guilt. He felt even more strongly that he’d failed Malfoy, because the Wizengamot had trusted Harry to look after him. And he didn’t know if there were St. Mungo’s Healers who would actually treat Malfoy, or if they would turn him away like they had some rumored Death Eaters and Slytherins right after the war.

            “We’ll get some good care for him, never fear,” said Molly gently, reading his mind as easily as if she was a Legilimens. “Let’s try the charms first. You can learn to cast them without much trouble, and they’ll be all the stronger coming from you.”

            She didn’t say why that was, but Harry thought he knew. Malfoy hadn’t done much to him personally that he couldn’t forgive. And he had read that Healing magic was affected by the amount of compassion you had towards your patient, and how much you sincerely wanted them to recover. The Weasleys might or might not be able to muster that compassion, right now, after everything the Malfoys had done to them in the past.

            You’ll get better, Harry told Malfoy without words, clutching his hand and squeezing so hard that he hoped Malfoy could feel it even in his deepest slumber. You have to.

            “Harry…”

            Harry looked up sharply. Molly hesitated. “What is it?” he asked. If there was worse news than Malfoy possibly waking up a Squib, he didn’t know what it could be.

            Unless it’s that he could die.

            But Harry tightened his hold on Malfoy and swore that he wouldn’t let that happen, no matter what.

            “I think you ought to know that magic-induced fevers like this are a symptom of great despair,” Molly said quietly. “The magic brings them on because not even being a wizard is enough for the person to live for. My grandmother, who was a Healer, used to say that some of them actually wanted to become Squibs, because that would at least completely change their lives and make them into something new.”

            Harry understood the warning. He would have to heal not just Malfoy’s fever, but his perception that there was no reason worth surviving.

            “I’ll do my best,” he said, and held Molly’s gaze until she gave him a faint smile.

            “Good, dear,” she said, and then she stepped past him and started casting spells that wreathed around the still shape under the blankets and made it start to shiver and then stop shivering, and dissipated some curls of red that rose up and disappeared like steam.

            Harry hovered nearby, and asked about the spells, already learning what and how he could.

            I’m sorry that it came to this at all, Malfoy. But I promise that I’ll help you get better. I promise.

*

            “Where am I?”

            Draco felt his cheeks burn a second later, because obviously he was in the same room he’d been in all along, the room that none of the Weasleys wanted to enter. But he had opened his eyes to see the pattern of the blanket looming above him, and that wasn’t a pleasant thing for any rational wizard.

            On the other hand, he had the disturbing feeling that he hadn’t been rational for a long, long time.

            Hasty footsteps crossed the floor, and then a hand yanked the blanket aside. Potter bent down and looked directly into his eyes. Draco recoiled a little in spite of himself. Potter was so earnest, so anxious. It was just this side of disgusting.

            “Oh, sorry.” Potter finally seemed to realize that having his enormous nose in Draco’s face wasn’t helping, and he pulled back a little and gave Draco a sheepish smile. “But there’s some food Molly left for you. Why don’t you eat?” And he turned and lifted a wooden tray that held a steaming bowl of soup, three pieces of toast dripping with butter, a small salad, thicker bread soaked with what smelled like apple juice, and slices of cheese.

            Draco opened his mouth to refuse the food, but his stomach was loud enough to drown out any words he might have spoken anyway. He turned his head to the side, refusing to look, but didn’t make another protest as Potter settled the tray on his lap.

            “What happened?” he asked. Potter tapped his hand with something, and Draco opened it on reflex, swallowing against his fear of what felt like Potter’s wand. It was only when Potter folded his fingers around it again, which he certainly wouldn’t do with a wand, that Draco recognized it as the handle of a knife.

            “You had a fever fueled by your magic. Molly said that you’d despaired of being alive, and the fever was draining your power. You were suicidal. You might have woken up a Squib, if you didn’t just die.”

            Draco did have to whip around with his mouth open then. He knew what the signs looked when Potter was lying, and he had to see them. “I would not be that weak!”

            But Potter was only looking at him with that kind of disgusting earnestness again, which Draco knew, to his cost, only appeared in his expression when he was telling the truth. He reached out and squeezed Draco’s hand. “It’s not weakness. It’s—despair. I felt the same kind of thing during the Horcrux hunt, and when I realized that I’d have to die to defeat Voldemort. It doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.”

            “Gryffindor, you mean.” Draco couldn’t stop shuddering, and not because he was cold, thank you very much, Potter, he thought in irritation as Potter solicitously tugged the blanket up around his shoulders. “My father—he would be ashamed. Disgusted.”

            “He’s not here. You are.” Potter sat back and looked at Draco until Draco, unnerved, picked up a spoon and started to eat. He was also unnerved by how much Potter’s approving grin affected him. And how delicious the soup was, so that once he started eating, he couldn’t stop.

            “I didn’t realize how much it affected you, being here without your parents. And being around me and the Weasleys, I suppose.” Potter grimaced and dragged his hand along his chin as if he was trying to rub off the stubble that had gathered there. “I just—wow, Malfoy. I’ll try to do better in the future.”

            Draco did have to stop eating, then, as he realized what Potter was saying. He was blaming himself, not Draco? Draco had expected to hear different pronouns in that last sentence.

            “Why would you blame yourself?”

            “Because I have custody of you. I thought it was all right if you just wanted to stay here and sleep all the time. It made things easier for me. But I should have realized something was wrong, of course. No healthy person would want to do that and nothing else. I didn’t watch you as closely as I should have. I didn’t help you the way I should have. So from now on, I’m going to do better. I’ll help you any way you want.”

            Draco scraped his fork down his arm, but nothing changed other than Potter adopting a slight look of concern. He was still there, making that vow as if he meant it, and no matter how Draco ate or didn’t eat, spoke or didn’t speak, Potter just sat there.

            Draco finally burst out, “You can’t mean that!”

            “Why not? I know I messed up, but I really do want to do better in the future. That’ll mean I have to watch you more, I know, and—”

            “You can’t mean to help me! You’re a Light wizard! You’re a friend of the Weasleys! Do you know what Light wizards and Weasleys do when they catch a Dark wizard and a Malfoy?”

            “I don’t think I’m an anything wizard, really.” Potter’s brow was wrinkled with a calculation that was probably too difficult for the poor little dear, Draco thought, with a shudder that went into his bones. “Unless not using the Dark Arts makes you a Light wizard by definition. Does it?”

            “I would have known if you were a Dark wizard,” Draco said. “Everyone would. That’s not the kind of thing you can hide.”

            “Why?” Potter sounded fascinated. “Do you grow horns and scales or something? Because I didn’t see anything like that on you.”

            “It’s not—it’s not—” Draco found himself without words, and took a bite of bread in sheer agitation. It wasn’t fair that the apple butter on it soothed away some of his anxieties, so that he found himself leaning back with a long sigh.

            “You haven’t had to explain it to someone before,” Potter guessed at length, after watching Draco attentively, as though he expected him to start making sense in a minute. “You’ve always been around people who knew what it meant instinctively, and who knew how to classify themselves the right way.”

            “Right.” Draco frowned at Potter. He had the feeling that Potter had got one past him, somehow, but it sounded right, and he was so hungry. “You’re not a Dark wizard. You should hate me by definition, because you’re a Light wizard, and that’s what they do.”

            “I prefer not to hate people by definition,” Potter said placidly, and pulled an apple out of his own pocket, and started eating. As though it was perfectly normal for him to sit here doing that!

            “You don’t have to protect me,” Draco said, leaning forwards and trying to imagine the arguments that would convince Potter. “You don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to. You should be able to stroll out of here and leave me behind and not give a damn about what I feel or what happens to me.”

            “But, you see, I’m terrified of the Wizengamot.”

            “What?” Draco knew he sounded ridiculous, like he didn’t understand what Potter was saying, and he hated sounding that way. There was no way that Potter should know something he didn’t, and so no reason that Draco should have to sound stupid when he talked to him.

            “The Wizengamot gave me custody of you.” Potter leaned towards him with a serious face that twitched a little at the corners. “They’ll do something to me if you die. Maybe even make me an honorary member of the Wizengamot or something. And then I would die, too, of boredom.”

            Draco stared at him, and knew his mouth was open. Potter leaned further back and took another crisp bite of his apple. “So I’m protecting myself by protecting you.” Potter nodded to his meal. “Now eat, so that you don’t die of starvation and I don’t die of Molly’s scolding that’s going to happen if she finds out that you’re not eating anything.”

            Draco went back to his meal. His motions were mechanical, but his stomach didn’t care. It was just happy to have something to fill it.

            He still knew Potter was wrong. He still knew his father was right. That was the way it had always been.

            Except that it didn’t feel that way, anymore. Draco didn’t know what kind of feeling had replaced it.

*

            “Look who can finally stumble downstairs!”

            Harry was right behind Malfoy as they came into the Burrow’s kitchen, and he felt Malfoy tense unhappily all over. Harry nodded. George was here, and he didn’t think the first confrontation would go well, especially not when Malfoy had been sleeping in Fred and George’s old room.

            On the other hand, Harry had nearly killed Malfoy by ignoring him and staying away from him, and he wasn’t going to let the same thing happen when it came to this. He stepped in and told George, “Good morning.”

            George didn’t look away from Malfoy, even as he nodded an acknowledgment. “Isn’t it interesting how some people live when they don’t deserve to, and others die?” he asked brightly.

            It’s like all the fire that used to go into his pranks has been turned into this sharp, nasty sarcasm, Harry thought sadly. Nevertheless, he wouldn’t heal the problem by simply trying to soothe George, the way his family had. Molly had tried it with tears and food and hugs, and those hadn’t worked. Harry would try something else.

            If it had worked with Malfoy, who was more prickly and difficult on a good day, there was a chance it would with George, too.

            “It’s very interesting,” Harry said, and gave a complex frown as he sat down in the seat across from George’s and waved Malfoy to the one next to him. “For example, do you know anyone else who would partially die from a Killing Curse and go to a reflection of King’s Cross Station?”

            George finally pulled his eyes away from Malfoy’s face and blinked at Harry. “What?”

            “Well, that’s where I went.” There was a bowl of apples in the middle of the table, and even though Harry didn’t really want one, considering he’d eaten a whole one upstairs, he picked up another. He could punctuate his points with loud bites and snaps, and that kept George from looking at Malfoy again. “And Dumbledore was there, and he told me that it was all happening in my head, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t real.” Harry paused thoughtfully. “You know, I forgot to look and see what kind of socks he was wearing? I should have. It would tell me how real it was. Or maybe not. Since I knew about Dumbledore wanting socks, maybe it would just have drawn on my memories and not reality.”

            “What are you talking about?” George asked, so honestly bewildered that Harry had to fight his smile.

            He leaned forwards and began to talk seriously about Dumbledore’s desire for socks that he’d told Harry about when Harry was looking into the Mirror of Erised. Once, he caught Malfoy’s eye, but Malfoy only stared at him, so Harry went on talking to George.

            I can do this. If I can do it my own way.

*

            Draco ate his own apple slowly. He had just eaten, but the Weasley mother stared at him when he came into the kitchen in a way that he knew meant he would get overwhelmed with food unless he already had something in his hand and mouth.

            What is Potter doing?

            It took Draco a long time to figure it out, especially with Potter’s own chatter distracting him. But at last he did, and dropped his apple.

            He’s guarding me.

            “Porridge, dear?”

            It seemed he would get food the instant he let go of the apple, after all. Draco sat back with a resigned murmur, and put the apple down next to his plate.

            Potter, he thought, as he watched the absurd conversational backflips Potter was doing to keep the one-eared Weasley from going after him, I don’t want to owe you debts. But you’re pretty good at collecting them.

*
            Kain: Thank you! Draco’s parents did believe the stories, although part of the problem is that Draco didn’t really grow up normally the last few years of the war and thus never got to see where some exaggerations were probably in them.
            And yes, Draco is going to form a relationship with both Harry and the Weasleys. He’s sick, but he is getting better. There’s a reason the story has this title. ;)
            SP777: Thank you!
            Jenelle: Thanks very much! I think your analysis of Draco is spot-on. And while playing Quidditch will need to wait until Draco has recovered more, Harry is going to work on making sure Draco has a lot of interaction with other people, including him.
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Emergence