Draco never seems to stay in one place. He makes periodic trips to the library to change out his books, but as for where he settles in to get his research done—he’ll commandeer empty classrooms, the Room of Requirement, various spots around the lake, the shade beneath the Quidditch stands, the kitchens, the astronomy tower. Harry doesn’t want to let on he’s been keeping an eye on Draco’s whereabouts, so he waits for his dot on the Map to turn up at the library again, and catches Draco as he’s emerging with a stack of books.
“Here,” says Harry, holding out his hands, “let me get some of those.”
Draco’s eyes are the only part of his face visible over the teetering pile, and they are glaring.
“I’m not dead yet, Potter,” he snaps. “I can carry my own damn books.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” says Harry, with a wince. “Look, I’m sorry about what I said before.”
Draco sneers. He hoists the books higher and swerves around Harry to keep walking.
“You could at least use a Hover Charm—”
“I’m aware of that, and I will use a charm if and only if I need one. Which I don’t.”
Harry trails along after him, empty-handed, as Draco makes a perilous trip, swaying, down two flights of steps into the dungeons. He chooses an empty classroom near the one where they take Potions, kicks it open, and finally sets the books down.
He’s out of breath and trying, very poorly, to hide it.
“You’re…still here…Potter?” Draco says, feigning surprise while trying visibly not to gasp for air. He’s flushed, and there’s a light sheen of sweat on his forehead; his too-large collar is askew, sliding almost all the way off one shoulder, and Harry can make out the tip of the Sectumsempra scar peeking out over the top of his shirt. He hates the sight of it, but it reminds him not to lose his temper when Draco adds, panting, “I see…nothing’s changed. Still…desperate for my attention…are you?”
He’s so pathetic I can’t even be angry, Harry thinks.
“Hermione told me you’re researching Hanahaki,” says Harry, “that you’re looking for a cure.”
“There is no cure,” Draco says. “I’m not looking for one. I’m going to make one.”
“How?” Harry asks.
“I’m working on that.”
“Ah.” Harry scuffs the toe of his shoe against the stone floor. “Bet it would go faster if you had someone to help you go through those books.”
“Are you offering?” Draco says, like he fully expects the answer to be no, but Harry nods. “Why would you do that?” He appears genuinely baffled, bordering on suspicious.
“Erm, well,” says Harry, “I’m worried about your mum.”
He hadn’t planned on saying that. It’s barely true.
“Excuse me?” says Draco, flatly.
“You heard what I said at her trial,” says Harry, deciding to stick with his story. “I would’ve died if not for her. She defied Voldemort for you. It would be beyond unfair for her to lose you now, like this.”
Draco’s expression is blank, his lips pressed thin, his eyes even and unblinking as they look at Harry. It’s the way he looks when he’s calculating or deep in thought, and doesn’t want to betray his emotions.
“If you’re going to stay,” Draco says at last, “you’ll need to follow my instructions carefully, so we don’t miss anything important.”
“You’ve been waiting all your life to boss me around, haven’t you?” Harry says cheerfully, and Draco almost smiles.
Researching with Draco is not at all like studying with his friends. Draco has Hermione’s stamina and unassailable focus when it comes to long hours of reading, but he likes to talk. In fact, he can’t help himself. That first afternoon together, Draco manages to maintain a chilly silence for all of ten minutes before he starts chattering.
He talks about…a lot of things. Mainly, he likes to use Harry as a sounding board for his ideas, all the theories he’s trying to work through in his head before he puts them to paper. Draco still migrates all over the castle to work, but with Harry present they spend less time holed up inside and more time wandering the grounds. There is one spot by the lake— under a bowed tree with branches that fan out expansively, casting a shadow over shore and water like the wide brim of a hat—which Harry starts to think of as “theirs.”
Distressingly enough, Harry also becomes Draco’s lab assistant when he wants to experiment on himself. “Anything can be cured with a potion,” he tells Harry firmly. “You just have to find the right one.”
And by “find” he means “invent.”
He keeps a clutch of bezoars on hand—“There are dozens here, how did you get so many—” “Money, Potter. Money is always the answer.”—but takes no other precautions.
“Erm,” Harry asks once, early on, “do Slughorn or Pomfrey know you’re doing this?”
“Of course not. They’d stop me,” Draco says, and chugs a lime green concoction that does not rid him of the flowers but leaves him puking out everything else in his stomach for the next few hours. Not even the bezoar stays down; his body stages a full-on mutiny and leaves Draco on his knees in the bathroom for most of the evening. Harry misses dinner to stand awkwardly outside his stall—Draco refuses to let him in.
“Do you need any more water?” he calls.
“Just go away, Potter,” Draco moans, piteously. Harry rolls his eyes. He can’t tell if Draco’s more upset about the vomiting, or the fact that there’s a witness.
“I’m not going to leave you like this,” Harry says. Draco’s silence, in response to that, has a startled quality that makes Harry want to blush harder than any number of singing valentines or love potion-spiked desserts ever could’ve done. He clears his throat. “Anyway, must be nice to throw up something other than flowers for once. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
“Eat shit, you bloody—” The words cut off into another violent retch. Harry sighs and sits down with his back against the door to wait Draco out.
Draco had given himself days to live, but he disproves his own prognosis. His condition plateaus. He doesn’t get any better, and his symptoms could take a turn for the worse without warning, but before Harry knows it, a week has passed, then two, and Draco’s still breathing. When Harry’s not in class or with the DA, he’s with Draco, and helping him is not the chore he thought it would be, not even when Draco rolls up his sleeves and Harry is confronted with the faded Dark Mark on his arm. This Draco is not the same boy who took that Mark. His insults have lost their cruel bite; it’s easy for Harry to snark back at him, or simply to laugh along. Their arguments are even—dare he say it—fun. In other ways, Draco is no different at all from the boy Harry grew up alongside. He still talks with his hands. He still exaggerates to the point of lying, if he thinks it’ll make for a better story. He still makes a drama out of everything, including the gossip he shares from Slytherin House, and he is careful only to share the gossip that casts his friends in a favorable light and is as unflattering as possible to those he dislikes.
Harry takes his every word with a grain of salt. But he’s never bored.
Sometimes, though, Draco is more subdued. He looks at Harry like he’s waiting for Harry to turn on him, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Harry’s not ready to tell Draco that won’t happen. That he’s come to like Draco’s company.
That he’s come to like Draco.
Hermione helps them research too, sometimes, though Draco insists she prioritize her NEWT preparations (even though they’re months away) and Harry doesn’t object because he’s found that he likes it when it’s just him and Draco. He’s funny when he’s not actively trying to drive Harry mad. He’s smarter than Harry ever gave him credit for—the only person with better marks is Hermione. When Harry’s in a mood, he seems to know when to let him be and when to needle him until Harry realizes what a wanker he’s being and snaps out of it. Sometimes, Harry loses long seconds staring at the curve of Draco’s jaw or neck, the dip of his collarbone, the line of his shoulders and spine, the angular grace of his hands. He’s striking to look at, that’s all, but if Hermione spent too much time with them she’d— she’d misunderstand.
But Hermione is still the person he goes to when he has questions he can’t ask Draco. Questions like:
What’s the longest someone has ever lived with Hanahaki Disease? (Not long.)
Or: Are there spells to stop someone from losing weight? (Yes, but none that would counteract the side effects of Hanahaki.)
Or: If we got the victim’s beloved to drink love potion, would that get rid of the symptoms? (“Harry!” “Only as a temporary—” “Are you mad?” “We’d ask them, of course, they’d consent—” “Run that by Malfoy and see what he says about it.” “…”)
Or: Why lilies?
That particular question doesn’t occur to him right away. At first, he’s too busy coming to terms with the concept of a person throwing up flowers to worry about what kind of flowers they are; later, he perhaps assumes—without ever consciously thinking about it— that it’s random, or linked in some obscure way to the victim’s personality.
“No,” says Hermione. “The lilies are significant, either to him or to his beloved. That’s how it usually works, with Hanahaki. It’s always a flower that has meaning to one or both of them.”
That sends the gears in Harry’s head spinning. He’s been trying to avoid speculating about who the “beloved” is. Draco doesn’t want him to know. Harry himself doesn’t think he wants to know, most of the time. But he can’t help it. Every clue he unearths is another crack in his facade of disinterest, and before long, he’s wracking his brains for an answer.
It’s someone Draco’s known since he was eleven, at least. Maybe a fellow Hogwarts student; that’s the obvious and most likely possibility. But it could be someone who doesn’t attend Hogwarts, a glamorous friend Draco sees during his family’s holidays in France. It could even be a teacher, which, eurgh.
