White Lies // Drarry

Chapter 7: A Beginning of Sorts

Harry couldn't remember the last time he felt safe in sleep. Or warm. Harry had firmly decided to himself not to mull over the war anymore, but the nights were the hardest. It's been almost half a year now and he was getting better, really, but his slumber was more often than not restless. When the letter from Hogwarts came, he had grabbed at it almost desperately, yearning for a reprieve. Hogwarts had brought back memories, yes, but it was also the closest thing to a home that he had, other than the Burrow. (Grimmauld Place was his, but he wasn't quite ready to call it home yet. It only was when Sirius was there.)

Then all this falling-through-walls thing started, and sleep evaded him so much that even the nightmares were better.

Harry wasn't really awake. Oh, far from it.

But he was aware of the fingers gently threading through his hair, and he sighed in contentment, dreaming of blond hair and libraries.

The fingers soon went away, taking the dreams of blond hair and libraries with it. Replacing them were dreams of a different kind, of cupboards and rooms that made him feel claustrophobic. There was still that blond hair and pale, pale skin, only that it was accompanied by –

Harry jolted awake.

Blood.

He blinked his eyes open, only to close them again as they burned at the sudden light. That, and at the incomplete sleep. He didn't know how long he'd been sleeping; just that he knew that it wasn't long enough. He pressed fingers against his eyelids firmly, feeling a headache coming on.

"Bad morning, Potter?"

Without knowing why, Harry sighed in relief. Then, he remembered his dream and he cracked an eye open to look at Malfoy, who was sitting up on the bed with a tray of breakfast in front of him, looking pristine in his white pajamas against the morning light. Harry blinked at his bed hair. "Time?" he rasped out, pulling away slightly from the bed where he had been resting his arms and head to stretch his neck and shoulders.

"Eight," Draco replied, watching amusedly as Potter wriggled his fingers to get blood back in them. "The house-elves brought us breakfast, and I very graciously saved you some bacon, Potter, so you better be –" He stopped as Potter suddenly winced. He furrowed his eyebrows in concern. "What is it?"

Harry slumped his upper body back against the bed, hand gripping at the sheets that covered Malfoy's legs. After getting blood into his fingers, he had shifted his leg and was promptly reminded of his very broken ankle that he was almost scared to even look at right now. "Right ankle," he muttered mournfully against the mattress.

"What?" Draco was confused. "What about your ankle?" He picked up the tray of food and set it on the bedside table instead, before getting off the bed and going over to Potter's side.

Harry was still wearing his school robes (Draco had saved the question regarding that for later.) and his trousers and black shoes didn't give Draco much of a view of his ankle. Harry laughed humorlessly at himself. Oh, he was certainly awake now. "Do you know how to fix a broken ankle? Episkey it or something," he asked, sounding slightly strained.

Draco was even more confused. "How the hell did you get a broken ankle?" he asked suspiciously. He remembered their past Hogwarts years and how furious he would get at the fact that Harry Potter was involved in every little thing that happened school year after school year after school year. After a while, the furiousness gave way to curiosity, and maybe even envy. Now, it held a touch of concern.

Oh, Draco, how low you have fallen, he thought dryly.

"Fell," Harry mumbled.

The light around him stayed gold, so Draco knew that to be true. But he was a Slytherin, so he also knew that there was more to the story than just 'falling'. "Let me see, Potter," he muttered, kneeling on the floor to pull the other's trouser leg up.