You’re Draco

You wake up to the sound of breathing that isn’t yours.

Not the shallow, congested kind you’ve been doing for three days straight, but something steadier. Calmer. Familiar.

You don’t open your eyes yet. You don’t need to. You already know he’s there.

Potter.

No—Harry. But in your head, it’s still Potter when you’re too tired to pretend you’re not a little bit in awe of him. Or when you’re sick and your defenses are down and you’re afraid that if you say his name out loud, he might vanish.

You shift slightly under the covers, every muscle aching, throat raw. The fever’s broken, you think, but you still feel like you’ve been trampled by a hippogriff. You let out a soft breath, and there’s a rustle at the end of the bed.

He’s still sitting there. Hasn’t left.

You can picture it without looking: him perched at your feet, legs folded up, wand probably in his lap, eyes flicking between your face and the clock. He’s always watching, like he’s waiting for something to go wrong. Like he doesn’t quite believe you’ll be okay until he sees it for himself.

It’s ridiculous. And it’s… comforting.

You finally crack one eye open. The room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of his wand. He’s leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, chin in his hand. His glasses have slipped down his nose. He looks tired. Stubbornly so.

“You’re still here,” you rasp, voice barely audible.

His head snaps up. “Course I am.”

You want to say something clever. Something biting and sharp, just to see that little twitch in his jaw when he’s pretending not to be amused. But all you manage is a sigh and a weak, “Idiot.”