𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓 𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐍

❃ pain never heals

❃

𝑵𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒓'𝒔 𝒑𝒐𝒗

Draco didn't sleep for the first 72 hours.

When the soft sounds of chatting in the distance faded, he would allow himself to cry.

What if she never woke up?

He passed out on the fourth day.

Their friends would bring meals in rotations, keeping the two company for around an hour, meeting Draco in the hospital wing for lunch to give him his homework.

They didn't stay for long.

They knew he wanted to be alone.

He cried from pure fatigue and exhaustion, uncertainty and heartache; the only thing keeping him sane having had been violently ripped away from him.

By his enemy.

No; by the kid he bullied.

'Perhaps I deserved this,' Draco thought to himself.

But she didn't.

He didn't sleep, eat, let alone leave her side as to make sure Potter wouldn't come in.

He'd stretch in the mornings to keep his limbs from becoming numb, forcing himself awake by drinking wide eye potions, Pomfrey eventually cutting off his supply. His doses were replaced by multiple cups of caffeinated coffee. All he could hope is that she was dreaming. Good dreams. Or silence. Empty nothingness.

As long as she wasn't stuck in a never-ending nightmare.

His slender fingers flipped through the pages of untouched books from the library to keep himself from overthinking, getting lost in a world that wasn't his own as to distract his mind from the limp body laying on the bed.

She was to be transferred to St. Mungo's Hospital if she wasn't awake by Friday.

It was Wednesday.

Wednesday June 4th.

Two weeks after Potter had shred her apart.

Draco had forgotten what his dormitory bed felt like.

Madam Pomfrey had gifted him a cot, allowing him to sleep next to her with one eye open. Draco knew Potter would try to sneak in eventually.

Not to mention he had to renew the invisibility spell that blanketed over her dark mark every 12 hours. It had become routine; for all of the young death eaters.

Every morning Draco hoped would be the morning that he would hear her voice again.

Every morning he was met by the sheer feeling of disappointment.

Her Father was in the St. Mungo's ICU. If she were to go there; without the boy; sleeping under the same roof as him with no protection; his restlessness would skyrocket.

More than it already had.

That night, he could've sworn he heard soft laughing as he sat passed out in the chair, having had fallen into a slumber with her hand in his, head sunk into the side of the soft mattress.

Madam Pomfrey had forced a sleeping draught down Draco's throat; he had agreed so long as he could stay by her side instead of in his own bed.

He found sleeping in a chair quite uncomfortable, but didn't seem to care.

He felt as though he were going mad.

"Draco?"

A groan left his lips as he jerked himself awake, head hitting the back of the chair.