Guiding Light

Harry Potter was more tired than he had ever been, completely covered in sweat and dirt, wearing clothing that was officially ruined... and in a terribly good mood.

For a wizard who had just been attacked by over one hundred Dementors, that was definitely saying something.

Feeling like he could skip if he hadn't just expended the very last bit of energy he had Apparating, Harry made his way slowly through the atrium of St. Mungo's, a faint smile on his lips. He wasn't injured. And he wasn't the only one. No one from the small group had been seriously hurt, a fact that Harry knew would have sent him into a wobbly state of relief... if he weren't so bloody proud of everyone.

The Dementors had arrived so suddenly in Hogsmeade that Harry would not have blamed his team for running, even though they'd learned to expect Dementors. That's what they did after all. Having finished his seventh year at the school and not wishing to go back to the Dursleys, Harry had remained and immediately joined the Order of the Phoenix. Voldemort was picking his way through the slowly growing group of wizards and witches, and the Order had benefited from the influx of newly matriculated students. All elaborate misconceptions any of them might have had about the glory of being an Order member were banished early on: battles were brutal, and the last stages of growing up were fast and unforgiving. Taking responsibility was not merely something to do anymore... it was a necessity, one which Harry grimly found he was quite good at.

The school was somewhat of a farce now; McGonagall and Dumbledore tried to keep the curriculum steady, but there was only so much everyone could take. Studies seemed trivial in the face of Voldemort's constant and unpredictable barrage. Hogsmeade came under attack so often that Dumbledore kept a group of wizards and witches there at all times. Usually seasoned members of the Order, but tonight it had been Harry's group, headed by the eldest Weasley brothers. They had not expected Dementors to show up; incidentally, they were training several promising seventh years from Hogwarts to add to the Order once they graduated. But suddenly the Dementors were there in hordes. Harry did not stop to count, but he could tell there were over a hundred of the Azkaban Prison guards.

His group had risen to the challenge nicely.

It was Neville Longbottom, really, Harry mused, stepping into the lift. The shy young wizard's brilliant patronus surprised everyone. A blinding lion, larger than any real lion Harry had ever seen, springing at the Dementors, razor claws outstretched. It gave everyone hope, a wonderful thought to hold onto, a way to strengthen their own patronuses.

Harry grinned to himself and rubbed his eyes. Just wait until he told the timid former Gryffindor that he, Neville Longbottom, had been behind much of Harry's patronus energy.

The Dementors fled under the combined assault of the multitude of patronuses, leaving a battered but cheering group of fighters behind. Hannah Abbott had gotten the worst of it, stricken by ten of the creatures and half-drained before Harry could get to her. She rallied at the sight of Harry's stag and helped him to battle the oncoming wave, only to collapse in a heap once the last Dementor fled. Harry wasn't sure when Hannah had become so confident, or so battle hardy. Her last motion before fainting was a weak whoop and a fist pumped into the air. Bill Weasley scooped up her inert form, shouted that they were going to St. Mungo's, and Disapparated. Harry stayed behind to help everyone else get themselves together enough to do the same. He could see that no one was as far gone as Hannah, but Dementors were Dementors and he wanted to make absolutely sure. Hermione and the Weasley twins made several trips back and forth from St. Mungo's to Hogsmeade, aiding those who were less fit to Apparate, until Harry told them to stay there and check themselves in. He himself arrived at the hospital last, supporting a semi-conscious but wildly grinning Eloise Midgen, who insisted on reliving - in a slurred voice - the way her falcon patronus had warded off three Dementors at once. Harry smiled and deposited her into the care of the St. Mungo's Healers... and then just stopped moving for a moment to bask in the stillness.

Glorious. That was the only word he could think of to describe it. There had been no teachers there, no wizards over the age of thirty... and yet they had managed to confidently and effectively defend themselves against overwhelming numbers of the worst Voldemort had to throw at them. He could only think that all the practice, all the nights up late in the Room of Requirement with the members of Dumbledore's Army had paid off. Royally. Everyone was alright. Tired and pale, but unhurt. Somehow, he just knew Hannah was going to be fine. And now Harry was going to go inside, get himself looked over, and after that... well, he thought he would Apparate back to Hogsmeade and then head up to the castle to see Draco.

As he rode the lift, Harry pictured the blonde, oft-sneering former Slytherin, and had to smile. Thoughts of him had been Harry's first choice for conjuring his patronus, an element that never failed to surprise him with the sheer clout it gave the shimmering stag. Neville's grand performance had added to the already simmering power of his patronus, and from the moment the magnificent creature charged the Dementors, Harry felt as if he could have handled all of them by himself.

It was amazing how wonderful Draco Malfoy could make him feel lately. It wasn't simply the idea of being with him. They'd been together for at least a year now, a development that had surprised and worried many of Harry's friends. But Harry himself was unperturbed. Draco Malfoy, son of a Death Eater, was no longer in the service of Lord Voldemort. He knew it. Draco knew it. And Dumbledore knew it. In reality, that was all Harry needed. The rest would come in time. Had already, in fact: many people seemed to have forgotten that Draco had ever been on the other side, and that was due to a considerable effort on the pensive blonde's part. Nothing forward or flamboyant. Just a gradual exercise in patience and apology.

Harry alone knew how concerned Draco was about his status in the eyes of the others. No one else would ever discover that a Malfoy fervently wished to be accepted by them; Draco was much too proud to let that be known. But Harry knew from the many hours he sat holding his boyfriend, listening to him grumble about the "ridiculous things" he had to do to win over each individual person, that Draco was willing to go the distance, however many shards of glass he had to walk over in order to do it. He acted as if the whole process was a useless waste of his time, but Harry knew better. It was that thought, and that thought alone that filled Harry's body and soul up with warmth enough to banish a thousand Dementors.

A Slytherin - and not just any Slytherin, Draco Malfoy - could change.

Draco would be at Hogwarts, up until the small hours of the morning poring over documents brought back by Snape and ancient forgotten spells that might be used to defeat the Dark Lord. He pictured the sour frown on Draco's face when he arrived and tried to hug him, as filthy as he was, and grinned again. There was absolutely no chance of the Slytherin escaping his embrace; Harry planned to grab onto the tall wiry blonde and hold onto him for the next ten hours, despite any and all protests. And really, when it came right down to it, he thought Draco would have few objections.

Besides, the story about Neville would be a fabulous way to shock him.

Harry exited the lift and walked down the long hall to the new ward St. Mungo's had recently opened for the duration of the war. All battle injuries went here, regardless of seriousness or triviality, and there were Healers from each already-existing department there to take care of every situation. I've spent entirely too much time here in the last few months, Harry thought grimly. And it was true. The war was ravaging everyone to some degree. Few had been killed, for which Harry was thankful, but the casualty list... was appalling.

Still, Harry was in too good a mood for these dark thoughts to diminish him much. It had been weeks since Voldemort staged a successful attack on the Order of the Phoenix, mostly because of the combined efforts of Snape, and several others who worked constantly getting information back and forth, decoded, and utilized to plan a defense. The ward would be nearly empty, except for the remnants of his own team checking their scrapes and bruises.

Harry pushed open the door expecting silence... and was bombarded with a cacophony of sound. He jerked back, blinking. Healers were running everywhere, shouting things to each other, conjuring bandages out of thin air, Disapparating from a cleared space in the middle of the room and then reappearing a moment later with someone in tow. Harry caught a glimpse of a young woman whom he felt he would have recognized... had she not been unconscious and covered in blood. She hung limply from the arms of a tall elderly Healer who whisked her down the hall and out of sight.

"Oh my God..." Harry faltered, looking around the room. He caught sight of Hermione, her face white and weary, gesturing frantically to a harassed-looking witch on the other side of the front desk. One of the Weasley twins - he wasn't sure which - dashed past him, arms loaded down with what looked like... Harry swallowed.

Broken wands.

"Harry!"

He looked up to find Bill Weasley waving at him frantically from a chair in the corner. Harry made his way over to him, and discovered the prone form of Hannah Abbott slumped in a second chair. She was very pale, eyes closed, but her breathing was steady.

"Bill? What's happened? Why is Hannah still out here?"

Bill brushed a hand over his eyes and shook his head. "Harry... I'm not sure what's going on. I haven't been able to find out anything. They won't take Hannah yet, they say she's not critical. But I did see McGonagall, and Ron is floating around somewhere. Maybe--"

Harry was already away, searching the frantic crowd for Hogwarts' Deputy Headmistress. His heart was beating so swiftly he could feel it trying to leap out of his throat. Obviously... obviously there'd been an attack, otherwise these people wouldn't be here. Harry's stomach lurched. This was sickeningly familiar. Everyone was pushing, shouting, running about. He shoved his way through, not really knowing where he was going, only that he had to go somewhere, find someway to help. As he had during the other attacks.

He was on the fringe of the mass of wizards and witches, trying to reach Hermione because certainly she would know something, Hermione, who seemed to know everything, when a hand grabbed his robes and tugged him out of the crowd and down a hallway. Harry looked up wildly to find Remus Lupin staring down at him. Harry's jaw dropped. Lupin had a long half-healed gash running down his arm that was still oozing blood onto his tattered robes. His eyes looked haunted, too full of images he didn't want to remember. The man swayed on his feet and Harry gripped his good arm to steady him.

"What's--what's happened?" he whispered.

Lupin's eyes closed in defeat and he bent his head back, taking a deep breath. "The Death Eaters. At Hogwarts."

Harry was already shaking his head in disbelief. "No... no. How? We--there were no signs that they would-- at Hogwarts?"

Lupin nodded wearily. "No one had any idea. Not Severus, not Minerva... They just.... came. I don't know how they got in, but they were inside before we knew what was happening. They found a way to get past Dumbledore's spells. One by one, but they did it."

"Is everyone... is..."

He knew the answer before Lupin began to shake his head, saw it in his shadowed eyes. "Oh, no..."

He felt a touch on his shoulder, and then a warm arm embracing him. It was Ron, freckles standing out on his face in stark relief. A long cut ran down his cheek, and there were scorch marks and dried blood on his robes. He looked as though he had closed his eyes and seen what the world of the dead looked like before being jerked back to life. Still, he forced an unsteady smile onto his face and gripped Harry tightly.

"You're alright. When we heard about the Dementors..."

"Ron... no, stop." Harry frantically sliced his hand through the air. "Tell me how--"

Ron shook his head. "I have no idea, Harry, I'm sorry. One minute I was asleep in bed, and the next thing I know, Draco's pounding down my door, yelling at me to get my arse up and get the hell downstairs, we were being attacked. And then... I just grabbed my wand and... ran. They were in the Great Hall. I think Sinistra managed to put a warding spell on the staircases before they got to them. They couldn't get upstairs, because the staircases wouldn't move."

"So the younger kids were safe."

"Yes," Lupin said softly. "The teachers who realized what was happening magically locked all the common room portraits. But some of the students were already out in the Hall."

"Wait, wait," Harry managed, holding up a hand. "What about Dumbledore?"

Lupin nodded. "He's the reason the Death Eaters were dealt with so quickly. He was downstairs just after I was."

"But... where is he?"

"In with the Healers. Severus took a couple of bad spells."

Harry let out a shuddering breath, only to suck in another. He couldn't seem to get enough air. He forced himself to focus. "Did they... was anyone..."

Lupin's face aged right before his eyes. "Yes, Harry."

"Who?"

Lupin glanced at Ron. The tall redhead pursed his lips and closed his eyes. "Harry... it's Pansy."

Harry was silent, staring at nothing, jaw clenched so hard he thought it might break. He knew if he let go, if he tried to speak, he would crumble right there in the hallway, fall to pieces, unable to speak, unable to breathe, unable to think.

Pansy Parkinson.

She'd come into her own, finally, during seventh year. Posing as a leader, but always really a follower at heart, the narrow-featured Slytherin girl had at last taken the reins of her own life and decided for herself where she stood. It did not surprise Harry as much as he would have expected. As far as he knew, Pansy's family was not involved with Voldemort. They were simply a lesser pure-blood family who clung to the shadow of the pure-blood aristocracy: namely, the Malfoys. Harry had a feeling that Pansy's abrupt about-face had something to do with the fact that her childhood friend Draco Malfoy had done it as well, but on a much more serious level. Pansy was not going against a fatally dangerous Death Eater father, but she too found the courage to take a stance at last, on her own. She'd proven herself to be a far cry from the Slytherin image she dressed herself in; a rather quiet, nervous girl, who, suddenly bereft of her best friends, had gone it alone, save the friendship she shared with Draco, for over half a year until Hermione saw fit to approach her. It took some time, but Harry discovered the petite girl to be quite clever, and incredibly reclusive. The times when she forgot her own self-consciousness, which were rare and therefore treasured, she was talkative, brash, and a marvelous confidante.

And now she was dead.

At last, Harry managed to thread enough semblance of control between his mind and body to force out a question. "How did she die?"

Ron swallowed and blinked. Harry could see he had tears in his eyes. "She was... I saw her trying to bind the front doors so the Death Eaters who were still outside wouldn't be able to get in. She's always been good with binding spells."

For an instant, a ghost of a smile appeared on Ron's face, but it withered almost immediately.

"She couldn't do it alone, though. Not with all the Death Eaters who were already inside. So..." Ron flicked his eyes to Harry and then looked away again. "So Draco went to protect her while she cast the spell."

Harry's heart jolted in his chest. For an instant, he couldn't breathe. Ron's apprehension was painfully apparent, and he realized that he had not yet considered the fact that Draco had been out fighting the Death Eaters as well. It rolled on him so quickly he gagged: if Draco had been protecting Pansy, and Pansy had been killed... "Oh my God... he's not--"

Ron came to himself suddenly, realizing Harry's turmoil. He grabbed his shoulders firmly. "No, Harry. No. He's not dead. He's... He was standing behind her so she could pay attention to the spell, and - you should have seen him, Harry. I've never seen anyone deflect the spells he was deflecting. It was amazing. But he missed one. One of the Death Eaters--shot a spell at him and slammed him into a wall. And then... then..."

Lupin finished the sentence in a dull voice. "Then they went after Pansy."

Harry couldn't stand upright anymore. He slumped to the floor, hands over his face, and tried to breathe. It was too hard; his lungs felt full of water.

"The Killing Curse," he muttered.

"No," Lupin said distantly. "Something else. Meant to make her suffer. But when we managed to defeat the Death Eaters and get to her... We couldn't Apparate her out because we were in Hogwarts. By the time we got her outside the gates, she'd... she was already gone."

Harry stared at his hands. He had to ask. But he couldn't. If he didn't ask, maybe he could pretend that Draco was still definitely...

Ron knelt beside him with a soft hiss of some half-healed pain. "Harry. He's alright. They didn't kill him. There weren't enough of them inside yet, and Dumbledore and the rest of the teachers took care of most of them. But..."

Harry turned hollow eyes on his friend and grabbed his bloodied robes. "But what? Ron, if he's--"

The redhead gave a heavy sigh. "Harry, he hit his head hard. Really hard. He was unconscious. And then the Death Eaters must have... I don't know... targeted him. Maybe for being Lucius Malfoy's son. I don't know if he was there. But I wouldn't be the least bit surprised. One of them used a curse that... Harry... he's lost an awful lot of blood."

Harry stood up, using the wall for support. His legs felt as though they would collapse beneath him. He turned to Ron, his whole body stiff. "Where is he?"

Ron pointed down the long hallway. "They've given him the room at the end. Worked on him for half an hour. Harry, you really shouldn't--"

"Is he going to be alright?"

Ron looked at him sadly. "We don't know. He's been unconscious."

Without another word, Harry turned and ran down the hallway, leaving Lupin and Ron staring after him out of haggard, too-old faces. He pushed through the door of the room at the end of the hall and stopped, standing just inside the threshold.

It was a small room, full of dusky shadows except for the gleam of two yellowish balls of light that floated gently above the single bed, illuminating the figure lying there. There were no signs of the magic used to heal any wounds, but the scent of blood still lingered in the air of the enclosed room. Harry's throat constricted and he felt ill. His eyes traveled to the person's face.

It was Draco. The Slytherin's normally pale skin was chalk white, face pocked with deep bruised shadows under the eyes. A grotesque mask of death, all the more horrifying because it was draped over a face that he loved, eyes that he lost himself in. Thin, wilted hands lay atop the coverlet, the long fingers motionless. Draco's lips were parted slightly, eyes closed, and Harry felt suspended in time, staring at the young man. Waiting.

And then Draco moved. He moved. An almost undetectable rise and fall of his chest, but it was enough. Harry knew in some vague sense that, despite Ron's assurances, he had expected the worst. That Draco was in fact dead, that Ron, in his description of what happened, was only building and building to the inevitable truth. To see him move, to see proof that the man was actually alive was the last straw for Harry's battered body. Relief ripped through every nerve, sweeping him with a wave of dizziness. He staggered forward, collapsing at the bedside and lacing his fingers through Draco's before fainting dead away.

* * *

When Harry dragged himself out of the blackness he had fallen into, he found that someone had pulled him from the floor into a chair and covered him with a blanket. The room was darker than before, the glow balls extinguished, and there was a deeply silent quality to the entire ward. Harry sat up in the chair and blinked, trying to get his thoughts in order. It was all a haze.

The room no longer smelled of blood. Harry looked down and saw that he still held Draco's fingers in his hand. The chill stoniness to those delicate appendages made Harry's heart thud. He followed with his eyes up Draco's arm, over his barely rising torso to his face. It was still so pale, so hollow-looking. Harry raised a hand and touched Draco's cheek with shaking fingers.

So cold.

Draco was dying, right there in front of him, Harry knew it in his bones.

"Don't ask me how I know, Draco," he whispered into the silent room. "I just do."

It might take hours, it might take days. But it would happen eventually. And Harry realized that he could not let it happen. Not to someone who fought so hard to change, who risked so much on a future that was so... unforeseeable. Not to someone who had given up everything and everyone he knew, everything he had been taught, for him, Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. Too many people had given too much for him already.

He could not - could not - let it happen to Draco Malfoy. Not to someone Harry loved so much.

It took him three tries to wrap his trembling, exhausted fingers around his wand, but he finally pulled it from his robes. He was no Healer. He hadn't the slightest idea of what needed to be physically fixed inside Draco's body for him to begin healing. But Draco's face - and the knowledge that, whatever happened, Draco would still be there, patient, undemanding, willing to give him what he needed unconditionally... Harry knew that those were the things that gave him hope these days. The images that powered his patronus, that allowed him to live through this hellhole they were all trapped in.

If he lost them, lost Draco, Harry knew his patronus would never come forth again.

So he brought it forth now. Gripping Draco's hand as tightly as he dared, calling on every last memory of a living, breathing man whose smile was rare and priceless because he had been taught to have no reason to smile, Harry coaxed his patronus into existence. His glowing companion danced from the end of the wand, beaming light into the small hospital room, and circled around behind him, bobbing its head lightly.

He looked at the young man lying so still in the bed. Draco, who came to the realization that he could not live a life of servitude to a dark creature already holding the reins to his entire family, who had walked away from his immensely powerful father in order to find out if he was strong enough to survive on his own... Draco was his strength. Harry wanted to give him that strength, reverse the flow and ease it back into the Slytherin's limbs. Give his body a reason and a way to stay alive.

The cold midnight hours melded together. Harry's aching head drifted to the mattress. He squeezed frigid fingers, and his silent guardian shone warmth into the room, delicately stalking around the bed with leisurely steps. There was no way to judge how much time had passed save the deathly shiver in Harry's muscles that told him his body would give out again soon under the added weight of his patronus, and that the darkness would be complete and infinite the moment it did.

"Harry..."

He thought he was dreaming, the sound was so soft. An echo in ears tortured by never-ending silence. But something deep within told him to look up. He raised his head and met foggy grey eyes, glinting in the brilliant light from his patronus.

"S'beautiful..." came the raspy whisper. Draco was awake for a mere second, and then unconsciousness sucked him away once more. But Harry had seen the flutter of recognition, felt the heat seeping from Draco's fingers rather than the icy chill. His mind clawed its way from the haze enveloping it, and the patronus glowed as keenly as if it had only just been conjured. He raised Draco's hand to his lips and kissed it.

A thousand Dementors meant absolutely nothing again.

* * *

"Harry... Harry. Come on. Wake up, Harry."

He recognized Hermione's voice before he really saw her. She was gripping his shoulders gently, speaking in soothing tones. "Harry, it's time to wake up."

Sunlight streamed into the room. Harry blinked unseeingly in the warm yellow glow. His wand had fallen from his fingertips. The patronus was gone.

With a jerk, he sat up. Hermione started at the movement and let go of him. Harry looked around wildly, eyes finally fixating on the bed. "Draco - is he - ? Is..."

Draco was asleep, just... asleep. The pall that hovered over him like some sinister winged creature was gone. His face had a hint of pink around the cheeks, and his eyes looked less sunken than they had the night before. His breathing was stronger, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Harry closed his eyes, clenching his hands in relief, and discovered he was still holding Draco's hand.

It was definitely warmer.

Hermione smiled at him gently. "He's doing much better, Harry. The Healers aren't sure how or why, but... He's definitely over the hump."

Harry managed a weak smile in return. He didn't trust his voice. Hermione gave a sigh and ran a hand through her tangled mane of hair.

"Alright, then, Harry Potter," she said with a hint of her usual matter-of-fact tone, "it's time for you to eat. No arguments. There are enough people here who need treatment. You had better not become one of them."

It took some effort for Harry to surrender his hold on Draco's fingers, and he did so only after Hermione promised to stay in the room until he returned. Wrapping the blanket around his body, he shuffled out into the hallway. There was a business-like bustle throughout the ward, with several Healers moving somewhat more frantically than others, but all in all, the atmosphere was much calmer and more controlled. Harry made his way down to the reception area, where someone had conjured up a table piled high with steaming breakfast pasties. He took one and munched on it absentmindedly, ignoring the burn it gave his tongue, and then turned around and headed toward Draco's room once more.

On the way back, he passed a large room with three beds in it and paused, lingering in the doorway. Two of the inhabitants were asleep. A tired-looking Healer was bent over the nearest, painstakingly tending to several long jagged wounds that kept reappearing each time she moved on to the next one. Harry shivered. He'd never heard of a curse like that and wanted to forget about its existence immediately. Just as he looked away, he recognized the person. Luna Lovegood.

"Will she be alright?" he asked.

The Healer glanced at him, moving her eyes rapidly over his person. She nodded, a tiny smile creasing her face. "This won't last forever. It fades out, you see. These wounds should stop reopening in an hour or so. She's lucky we got her here so quickly."

Harry nodded, again feeling relief flow over him. He looked at the patient who was awake and was slightly surprised to see Hannah Abbott sitting up in bed, watching with ghostly eyes as the Healer worked. A plate heaped high with chocolate sat at her bedside, and she held a piece absently in her hand. Harry moved across the room to her bed.

"How are you feeling, Hannah?"

She started and peered up at him. He could tell she hadn't realized he was there. "Harry?"

He smiled and nodded. "Here, eat your chocolate. You're still a little pale."

Hannah took a tiny bite and chewed slowly. "I can't believe... I mean..."

Harry was silent. They both watched the Healer for a long moment. Then Hannah looked at him again.

"I heard about Draco. Is..." Her face went through a flurry of uncertainty, and Harry could see she was trying to work out what to say. "Is he alright?"

He smiled at her in pure relief. "He's doing better than he was last night. I think he'll be... okay."

Hannah nodded, almost to herself. She was biting her lip. Harry knew Hannah was one of the few people who still had trouble with the idea of Draco Malfoy on their side. She took another bite of chocolate, and then laid a hesitant hand on Harry's arm. "You should go sit with him."

Harry gave her hand a squeeze. "I'm glad you're feeling better, Hannah."

He turned and left the room.

* * *

The Healers allowed him to stay in Draco's room that night, and the night after. One of them transfigured his straight-backed wooden chair into a more comfortable plush. Harry pulled it to the bedside and resumed his vigil, holding onto Draco's hand as he slept. His days were a series of fits and starts as he allowed his body a few minutes of the sleep it so desperately craved, only to awaken with a jerk, certain he had felt Draco stir. It was futile. Though the color had returned to the Slytherin's cheeks and the weariness receded from his face, he seemed to be locked into some sort of stupor, unable to wake.

At one point, Harry asked a witch who came in to check on Draco to tell him exactly what had happened to him. A particularly powerful expelling charm had been the cause of his concussion. Then Vastare Envelos, a wasting curse. Agonimorphus, a curse causing ever-increasing levels of pain. Dermaschismus, inflicting myriad wounds on the body. Hemoragus Infinitem, causing the blood to stop clotting. Harry stopped her after that one, feeling so ill he could barely see. They had managed to counteract all of them, the woman told him softly, but the damage to Draco's body had been severe. Harry nodded mutely, staring at the wall. After a time, the Healer was called away. She squeezed Harry's shoulder and left him sitting in numbed silence.

When night came on, plunging the ward into shadowed stillness, and Draco's face took on a wan, pinched look, Harry once again conjured his patronus. The marvelous creature moved about the bed as if it knew what was at stake, pausing now and then to study the inert figure there. The stag would lean over Draco while Harry watched dully, and huff silent breaths an inch from the Slytherin's skin.

The third night, Harry slipped completely into the daze of white light and endless heartbeats. The patronus was steadily draining his badly weakened frame. He could feel his energy edging away from him, being pulsed into the room in a form he could not make use of. But Draco. Draco could make use of it. Draco could feel it. He had to feel it. He had to. He had to. He had...

There was a small sigh, a tell-tale creaking of the bed, and Harry felt thin fingers drifting through his hair in slow contented circles. He raised his head and found those voluminous grey eyes open again, gazing at him in mute reverence. Letting out a breath he hadn't noticed he was holding, Harry took Draco's hand in his.

Draco smiled wearily. His breathing was the deep edgy rhythm of someone who has just taken his first breath after being submerged.

"Good... to see..." he whispered.

Harry rubbed his fingers gently. "And you've no idea how good it is to see you."

Draco managed a tiny nod, and relaxed back against the pillows with a sigh. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and looked around the room. Harry thought he looked like a young child, taking in a world he didn't understand. The question in the grey irises was plain. Harry stroked his arm lightly.

"You're in St. Mungo's. In the new wing."

"How long...?"

"You've been asleep for two days, and unconscious a day before that. I was starting to worry."

Harry tried to make it lighthearted, but his words snagged in his chest and came out choked. Ruptured. Draco's gaze fell on him and he encircled Harry's hand with stiff fingers.

"M'alright... Harry... just..." A pained spasm of facial muscles. "Tired."

"Perhaps I should..." Harry trailed off, unwilling to relinquish Draco's hand. The first night, when the Slytherin had woken for that tiny second, Harry'd had only one train of thought. Draco was standing on the brink at that moment, and it seemed incredibly important to remain there by his side until his footing was more certain. He had not even thought about going for one of the Healers. The idea of leaving Draco's bedside, and the disappearance of his patronus, was unfathomable to Harry's confused and clouded mind. To desert Draco, even if only to get help, had been unthinkable. A death sentence for the taxed and withering young man. But now, Harry worried that perhaps he'd done the wrong thing by staying with Draco that night instead of getting someone. Maybe he was nothing except incredibly lucky to have Draco alive at this moment.

Harry got to his feet painfully. The patronus stepped up behind him. "I should get someone."

Draco's eyes widened and he half rose off the pillow with a strength Harry did not know existed in the man's frail form. "No, Harry, don't..."

Then the Slytherin's body gave up and Harry saw that he was right: the strength was not there at all. He hastened to ease Draco back down, touching his face carefully as he did so. "Alright... alright, I'll stay. Just don't..."

Draco sighed, clutching Harry's fingers as tightly as his overwhelmed muscles would allow. His eyes traveled to the majestic stag behind him and he smiled faintly. "Didn't know patronuses... could heal..."

"I didn't know it either."

Draco squeezed his hand, gazing at Harry concernedly. The Gryffindor wondered how he looked to the other man. "Harry... you're exhausted... I can see it..."

Harry tried to silence Draco, but the Slytherin waved his hand away. "No... I don't want you to... become ill... over me... Please, Harry."

Fingers on the wrist of his wand hand. Harry looked at them, white against his darker skin, and then at Draco. The man was staring at him intently. With a weary sigh, Harry allowed the magic to flow away from him. The stag gave a gentle toss of its head and faded from sight, plunging the room into dim bluish shadows from the moonlight outside. Draco gave a tiny nod and slumped back into the pillows. "Just... stay here... with me..."

Harry gazed at the heavily breathing man. "You scared me," he whispered.

A faint smile flitted across Draco's face. "My...apologies."

"Do you..." Harry stopped and swallowed. The room felt protected, cut off from the rest of the world, and he wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible. For forever, if he could. To voice this question was to banish the magic and spill the war back into their lives. He had a horrible feeling Draco had not yet considered why he was here, at St. Mungo's. So much easier to ignore it. Harry'd seen it before, with other wizards and witches who had come under attack. It was enough for them to know they were alive; they didn't go farther in their own comprehension of why until someone forced it on them.

But this was Draco. His Draco. Remembering could shatter him. Harry did not even know what had happened at Hogwarts exactly, and part of him did not want to find out. But holding it in would be far worse in the long run. Draco needed peace. Harry steeled himself and prepared to help him achieve it.

"Do you remember what happened, Draco?"

For a moment, the other man stared at him uncomprehendingly. Then his eyes widened. He opened his mouth but no sound came out. Harry could see it flowing over him, an unstoppable tide of confusing images. The shock lingered on Draco's features, accompanied by what was unmistakably anger... and fear. "Oh my... Harry--"

Harry took Draco's face in his hands, brushing his hair back. "Shhh... it's alright. You're safe."

Draco clutched his arm in a vice-like grip. "I was... They got in. I don't know..."

"No one knows how," Harry murmured. "It's not your fault."

Draco stared down at the sheet over his lap. Harry got the feeling he was looking at something no one else would ever be able to see. "Dumbledore... binding them left and right... They were outside, too. Wanted... to get in... but..."

Suddenly his eyes focused and he jerked his head up. "Harry. Where's Pansy?"

Harry's heart thudded into his stomach. Of course. Draco had been unconscious. He had no idea.

He swallowed, wrapping his hands around Draco's. Closed his eyes. "Draco... I'm so sorry."

At first, there was nothing. Only the careful mask Draco had tended so diligently all through his youth. His gaunt features were rigid, eyes hooded, staring in front of him. A statue sitting there in the bed, untouchable.

One shuddering breath.

And then his façade cracked, tiny fissures around the eyes and mouth. Harry saw his eyes go hollow. His shoulders began to shake uncontrollably. Draco lifted a thin hand to cover his face, but Harry saw the tears dripping from his eyes. The man gave a raspy sob and turned away, curling his body in on itself. Harry got up from the chair and edged onto the bed, pulling Draco into his arms. He stroked the fine blond hair and kissed his head.

"I'm so sorry, Draco," he whispered again, not knowing what else he could say.

Draco let go with a shudder and sobbed brokenly into Harry's chest then, wrapping clinging arms around his torso. Harry thought of the hole Pansy's loss was burning into Draco, the one already gouged into his own chest but left unattended until now, and felt his own tears rise. He wanted to draw Draco into himself, protect him from what had happened, and from the loss and the memories. The pain. He rubbed Draco's back gently, letting his warmth flow into the other's body.

"It's alright," he whispered hoarsely. "It will take time, but it'llbe alright."

The only reason Harry believed this at all was because of the way Draco's arms tightened around him at his words. But that time, that moment of alright-ness, would come later. Harry laid his cheek against Draco's head and closed his eyes. For now, they just held each other and mourned for their friend.

Sometime later, Draco's wracking sobs dwindled into small hitches and his breathing deepened. Harry knew he had gone mercifully into sleep. He hugged his body close, and raised a hand to brush the drying tears from his own face. Draco did not need the nightmares that were sure to follow, haunting him through his rest until he woke once more. And despite Draco's warning, Harry knew exactly how to banish the evil dreams.

"Expecto Patronum."

The stag danced from his wand tip again and took its place beside the bed, flicking its ears at him. Harry felt the familiar dull tug on his innards and wondered how long he could keep it up this time. He settled back, rubbing his hand over Draco's shoulder, and watched the play of light and shadow on the walls in peaceful silence.