Empty Spaces

Chapter 30

Whatever was in Yamamoto's potion not only dulled the pain, it also made Draco sleepy. At some point, he was vaguely aware of Potter stoically insisting his intention to stay the night which resulted in Yamamoto setting Potter up with a cot and telling them she would come back in the morning and Draco had better have gotten a good night's sleep when she did. And then a velvety darkness took over as Draco fell into a dreamless sleep.

Something pulled him back to consciousness-- what it was, Draco wasn't sure at first but then he heard it again: Potter.

Draco sat up; Yamamoto's potion must be wearing off because the aching was coming back and his brain was waking up too. Or maybe it was the sight and sound of Potter caught in the threshes of a nightmare. Maybe both.

"Potter... Harry! Harry, it's okay... you're here, we're safe, in the hospital," Draco shook Potter awake, trying as best as he could to be gentle. Potter's eyes burst open, seeing invisible ghosts and hearing silent cries while Draco took his hands and held them tight. Potter's breaths were short and fast; he looked around the room and took it all in... slowly, slowly, the terror left his face...

"Bad dream?" Draco asked softly, sitting on the edge of Potter's hospital cot. His ribs weren't particularly happy with the arrangement, but he could deal with it a little longer.

"It– It's fine," Potter said shortly, noticeably trying to calm his breathing.

"No it's not," Draco replied. "I get them too," he admitted quietly, "It sucks because you think you're got it all figured out and then something comes along and pulls back the curtains and it turns out you haven't really defeated them... all you've done is cover them up..."

"Yeah..." Potter said quietly, "That's exactly it... Sorry... It's been a while... I just... I don't know what happened..."

"I do," Draco said, guilt beginning to creep in around the edges, "I brought you to The Manor. I shouldn't have let you come, I'm sorry–"

"Don't be sorry," Potter replied, beginning to sound like himself again, "And I should be taking care of you... how are you feeling?"

"Nice try," Draco dismissed, ignoring the increasing pain in his ribs, "Come on, Potter, come over here..." He moved over to his own– slightly bigger and somewhat more comfortable– bed. Potter followed, and after some negotiation and deliberation, Potter ended up sitting propped against the headboard, Draco in his arms.

"You're supposed to be sleeping," Potter said. "And do I get to ask how you're feeling now?"

"I'm fine," Draco lied, "But you're not. Tell me something... anything..."

"What!?"

"You know my story," Draco continued, "So tell me yours."

"What, like right now??"

"Yeah," Draco persisted, "Now's good. Your real story, not the stupid crap the press puts out. Unless you'd rather go back to sleep..."

Potter sighed, reluctant.

"It's okay," Draco said, softer this time, "Not every night is a good night. But we'll get through it together. Tell me your story. I want to hear it..."

"No you don't."

"Try me."

"I was raised by Muggles."

"I already knew that," Draco coaxed, "Tell me something I don't know."

"My bedroom was a broom cupboard until I turned eleven."

That got Draco's attention.

"That part's true?"

"Yeah... It was under the stairs..."