Eighth Year (Drarry Fanfic)

The Beginning of the End

Draco awoke. 

Bewilderment washed over him as he stared at the unfamiliar, white, stone ceiling. He was expecting to see the painfully red canopy of Harry's bed. He shifted slightly on the bed and gasped when a bone-deep ache lanced through him. He swallowed, trying to piece together the reason for his agonizing exhaustion but his brain felt exceptionally sluggish. He clenched his eyes shut and opened them again, willing his vision to focus. Finally, he was able to recogise where he was. If anything, the potent smell of healing salves and potions gave it all away.

Hospital Wing, then. Draco mused fuzzily.

And suddenly, everything came rushing back to him, flooding every corner of his blank mind until it was nearly bursting. Draco sat bolt upright, reeling from the memories and the pain in his sore bones. Anxiety bubbled in his blood, stealing the breath from his lungs. He suddenly couldn't breathe. Something had lodged itself in his throat and it was suffocating him.

Strangled gasps echoed disjointedly in the cavernous room, yet Draco was unaware that the tortured sounds were coming from him. He was too lost in the swirl of memories that had led to the here and now.

Draco remembered red.

Bright and ephemeral, it had streaked across the silver expanse of overcast sky. It reminded him of the streams of blood that flowed like rivulets on Hogwarts cold, stone floors during the Battle.

Draco remembered that moment of pure, unadulterated panic just before the spell hit him; just before his mind had shut itself down and he was falling endlessly into the darkness. In that single moment, he had thought of nothing and no one else but Harry.

Draco had thought he would feel fear then. Fear for himself. Fear of dying. In that brief second before darkness engulfed him, he'd expected his sense of self-preservation to rear its head and howl in fury, gnashing its teeth, clawing at Draco's insides, lost in its blinding fear of death and pain and the unknown. Like how it had been during the War when he'd let his fear take control of him, pushing him to make the worst decisions of his entire life.

But there had been none of that. There had only been visions of Harry; his warmth, his touch, his smile, his everything... And all Draco had felt was overwhelming sadness.

"—foy! Mr. Malfoy!"

"—DRACO!!"

Draco jerked, staring blindly at Madam Pomfrey who was fussing over him. Draco blankly realised he had been sobbing, heaving and broken. It echoed too loudly in the Hospital Wing. He swept his blurry gaze around him, noting that their friends—his and Harry's—were all present; their eyes filled with trepidation. But the one person he longed to see was missing.

"Harry...?" Was all Draco could manage through the lump in his throat.

Where's Harry?

The pinched look on Hermione's features coupled with Ron's ghastly, gray pallor made Draco want to vomit. Something was terribly wrong. He was sure of it. Harry must've done something, otherwise how could Draco be alive at that very moment?

"Where is he?!" Draco's voice rose, almost hysterical. He stared at their friends, eyes wild, tear-tracks drying on his cheeks.