There was only one part of the Manor that Draco could slip to and from undetected. The house-elves didn’t mind. It was small and damp and was made so no sounds could go out because his ancestors didn’t want to hear their servants’ cries. Now his family’s captors wouldn’t be able to hear Lee Jordan’s cheerful mockings of them, that which still made Draco’s palms sweat with anxiety.
Draco tuned in every time, because he hoped one day they would have Potter on there, and Draco could just hear his voice, just once more; of something other than a curse yelled out in a bathroom. Draco fantasized about Potter — a suicidal act when Voldemort was raking through your head anytime he fancied. But Snape was useful for one thing, and that was keeping the thing that was keeping you alive far away. So far Potterwatch ended with not a sigh about Potter, and Draco would creep back to his room, unlocked his window, and leave a sliver of opening in his bed drapes so he could see it. And Draco would spend his night, as he did every night, fantasizing. Potter would show up. And Draco would pad over to him and say hello, how are you? Potter would reply, Fine, and you? And the conversation would go on. Good, good. I ate with a dead body rotting in front of me today. Some of the blood got on my food and I couldn’t eat anymore. What a war, yeah? Yeah, why are you here? Why, to take you away, of course. I live in a great, bright house with clean food and no one there can read your mind or torture people; do you want to come?
Then Draco would ask the most important question, that depends; will you be in that great, bright house too?
And fantasy-Potter would say, of course, your room will be next to mine. We share a bathroom.
That’s inconvenient, fantasy-Draco said. But I suppose I can suffer it.
Real-Draco, however, could only stare at his unlocked window until his eyes started to drop; until he knew no one would come that day. Sleepiness and hopelessness was not a very nice combination, but it certainly made for an interesting crying session.
Draco was so prepared to be saved by Harry Potter, that he didn’t know he’d have to end up saving Harry Potter instead. His father was a coward and his aunt was a sadist, and Draco was related to both of them by blood. So when he was staring at a tumescent Potter and a scared Granger, should he have turned him in like his father would have or tortured her like his aunt would have? Draco wasn’t sure what it meant for him when he did neither.
Later, when his mother was cleaning his face, full of lacerations from a falling chandelier, she said, “I would do anything for you, darling, even if it I would get hurt.” And Draco thought back to merely hours ago, when he should have turn Potter in to save his family, and thought maybe in the end, he was like his mother.
That night, face stinging from tears dripping into untreated cuts, because his aunt forbade his mother from healing Draco, Draco was sitting on his bed in front of the unlocked window, too sad to indulge in his nightly fantasies, when someone pushed it open. “Malfoy!”
Draco thought it was quite mean of his mind to choose this moment to descend into insanity and hallucination. “I’m not in the mood,” Draco told fantasy-Potter.
“Not in the mood for this?” Potter asked incredulously.
“You’re not real,” Draco said. “First of all, you’re floating.”
“I’m standing on my broom,” Potter said. Then Draco padded over to the window to see that Potter really was standing on a broom.
“This isn’t real,” Draco said to the purple wisterias hanging outside, glowing in the moonlight. They were easier to look at than Potter. “The Dark Lord must have killed me.”
“It’s real,” Potter said, sounding not in the least bit annoyed.
That was what Draco was afraid of. “What are you doing here, Potter?” Draco asked. “You escaped, and now you’re back like some kind of knobhead.”
“I’m getting you out of here, Malfoy,” Potter said. “I couldn’t … stand the thought of you here after today. Are you with me? There isn’t time for you to think — this is your chance, if you want it. Are you with me?”
Potter didn’t know, of course he didn’t, that Draco had spent so much time thinking about this. That he’d spent hours listening to any news of him. That Draco only survived this hell because he was thinking about it. Potter looked fake outside of his unlocked window. He looked nothing like fantasy-Potter; who was clean, strong and handsome. Real-Potter was skinny; skin grey from the war; eyes bright from it. This Potter was better: he was real.
“I want it,” Draco said. Potter reached out a hand. Draco grabbed it.
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