You’re Harry

You never thought you’d get used to the sight of Draco Malfoy curled up in bed, pale and quiet, without a single snide remark or dramatic toss of his hair. But here you are—three days in—and you’ve memorized the way his brow furrows when he’s asleep, the way his fingers twitch like he’s still arguing with someone in his dreams.

The dorm is quiet. Blaise has taken to studying in the library to give you space, and the other Slytherins have stopped pretending to be surprised when they find you here. At first, it was all wide eyes and whispers—Harry Potter, sitting at the foot of Malfoy’s bed like he belonged there. Like he cared. Which, of course, you do.

You shift slightly, careful not to jostle the mattress. Draco’s breathing is shallow, his skin still too pale, lips chapped. Madam Pomfrey said it’s just a nasty flu, but it’s knocked him flat. And you hate it. Hate seeing him like this. Vulnerable. Still.

You reach out and brush a bit of hair from his forehead. He doesn’t stir, but his brow smooths out, just a little. You let your hand linger, fingers barely grazing his temple.

Funny, how things change. A year ago, you’d have given anything to see him speechless. Now you’d give anything to hear him call you “Potter” with that ridiculous smirk again.

You glance at the clock. Past midnight. You should’ve gone back to Gryffindor hours ago, but you can’t bring yourself to leave. Not when he looks like this. Not when he might wake up and find the room empty.

So you stay. At the foot of his bed, knees drawn up, wand in your lap just in case he needs something. Just in case he whispers your name in that half-conscious way he sometimes does when the fever spikes.