(A small plot clarification (you can skip this):
Tennant's fate was rewritten several times. In the first version, Hermione killed him; in the second, he died of his wounds later that same night. But the consequences turned out to be too dark for this story. Letting him escape destroyed the chamber -like, almost claustrophobic atmosphere. In the end, the chosen option allowed for deepening the story without losing course.)
Draco opened his eyes—the infirmary was bathed in the pinkish morning light. It was barely dawn, and a dull pain was already pulsing in his temples. Madam Pomfrey was standing by Tennant's bed.
"Good morning, Mr. Malfoy," the nurse looked preoccupied. "It seems Mr. Rowle has suffered a relapse."
Draco propped himself up, wincing in pain. The still-bound Tennant lay motionless, his mouth slightly agape. His eyes were wide open but did not react to the light of Pomfrey's wand. A thin trickle of saliva ran down his chin. Pomfrey conjured a snow-white handkerchief and gently wiped Rowle's face.
"Poor boy..."
"Poor boy," Draco echoed.
The nurse shot him a sharp look.
"Drink the potion on the nightstand," she ordered. Draco obeyed, and his head cleared instantly.
"You should make yourself presentable, Mr. Malfoy. The Headmistress will be here any minute."
Draco obediently headed to the washroom, where he found fresh hospital clothes. The shirt on him was crumpled and smelled of sweat after a night filled with nightmares in which it was so difficult to separate Tennant's thoughts from his own. The memory of his own face, seen through the eyes of a helpless Tennant...
Now, gripping the porcelain sink, Draco examined that same face in the mirror. Pale, haggard, with damp strands of hair sticking to his forehead. Delightful. Just like in sixth year. Draco straightened up, smoothed his hair, and then winced. Now like in second year. He slightly ruffled the blonde strands, thinking longingly of his own soap and gel. Now his skin smelled of antiseptic.
The sound of voices drew him out of the washroom. McGonagall and Potter were already standing by Tennant's bed next to Pomfrey. The space around the bed was securely charmed, and Hermione was nowhere to be seen.
The Headmistress looked impressive as ever—in a long black velvet robe and with the Key to Hogwarts on a massive silver chain. Potter, in his long cloak, by contrast, seemed exhausted and disheveled. But at least he was fully dressed—Draco felt at a disadvantage, being dressed only in a hospital gown. He ran a hand through his hair, and the wide sleeve slid down, revealing the Dark Mark. Draco hastily lowered his hand.
"Why don't we sit down," McGonagall suggested. She settled into a chair, her back perfectly straight, her withered hand clutching a staff with a ruby pommel. Potter flopped onto the neighboring bed, and Draco had no choice but to return to his own. Pomfrey remained standing, hands clasped at her waist.
"I have been informed that Mr. Rowle's condition has worsened," McGonagall said. She did not take her eyes off Draco with her round eyes—so pale blue they seemed almost gray.
Draco allowed himself to look satisfied. After all, it was Tennant who had attacked him. Potter, by the look of it, wasn't too upset either.
Pomfrey spoke first.
"Yes, Mr. Rowle has fallen into a vegetative state, which I fear is irreversible. Apparently, the injuries sustained proved too serious." For some reason, she shot a reproachful look specifically at Potter.
"It was only a Stunning Spell," Potter countered defensively.
Pomfrey snorted.
"Only a Stunning Spell. Spells and blows to the head are a serious matter, Mr. Potter, especially in combination with each other. I have seen too many cases where brain swelling led to..."
She continued to grumble, but McGonagall wasn't listening to her. Her gaze remained fixed on Draco, and he had to use all his strength to keep from raising Occlumency barriers.
"Miss Granger mentioned... in passing... that you saved her from Mr. Rowle," the Headmistress's voice easily cut through Pomfrey's grumbling.
"Yes," Draco replied, pinned by the gaze of those icy eyes.
"Were you and Mr. Rowle friends, Mr. Malfoy?"
"No."
McGonagall tilted her head.
"You were roommates."
"Not by choice," Draco answered sharply. At the Welcoming Feast, there had been a lot of sugary talk about unity and healing the scars of war—and yet Slughorn had housed Tennant Rowle with a Death Eater. And the Headmistress hadn't even objected.
If McGonagall caught the jab at herself, she didn't show it.
"Acquaintances, then."
Draco only shrugged.
"And yet," she continued, "you stood up in defense of Miss Granger."
"Yes."
"Mr. Rowle was in the form of a wolf," McGonagall pressed. "And you still threw yourself into the fray, risking a fate many would consider worse than death."
"Yes, I'm just a model of heroism," Draco replied. "Get ready to polish the Order of Merlin."
"Headmistress, I can confirm that..." Potter began.
"I simply find it hard to believe," McGonagall said, "that Mr. Malfoy risked himself for a Muggle-born."
"But he did," Potter stated firmly. "I saw it with my own eyes."
"I asked Miss Granger why you took such a step, Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall continued calmly in Theo's manner—as if discussing the weather. "She replied that she didn't know."
"Granger admitted to not knowing something?" Draco asked. "Mark this day on the calendar."
"Help me understand, Mr. Malfoy." McGonagall leaned forward, resting on her staff. "You committed an act of reckless bravery, risking at the very least going through a soul-crushing transformation, and at the most—dying."
Draco remained silent.
"Why would Draco Malfoy save a Muggle-born Gryffindor, his enemy?" McGonagall continued. "Why?"
Draco felt a shudder and clenched his jaws, still sensitive after the blow, to keep himself from speaking.
"Headmistress, this is essentially none of our..." Potter began.
"Tell me, Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall continued softly but inexorably. "Why did you risk your life for Miss Granger?"
Draco sneered back.
"Your question is flawed, Headmistress." His voice was cold and devoid of emotion. "You are proceeding from the assumption that I had a choice. That I could just stand and watch her being torn to pieces."
The ice in his own voice seeped into his veins, and he forgot he was sitting in a cotton shirt on a hospital bed.
"Maybe they'll conduct a study in Ravenclaw," he continued caustically aloud. "Where exactly does Draco Malfoy finally draw the line? How bad must things get for a Death Eater to help a Muggle-born? An insult? A beating? A curse? Rape? Strangulation?" His eyes narrowed. "Sectumsempra?"
"Mr. Malfoy..."
Draco slid off the bed and stood up, looking down at the Headmistress.
"She was in my bedroom, for Salazar's sake!" he hissed.
"I understand..."
"You understand nothing," Draco cut her off sharply. "You weren't there. She was cornered. Defenseless, without a wand, in a torn shirt... face to face with what looked like a werewolf. A werewolf!"
He let out a ghoulish Black laugh, reminiscent of Bellatrix.
"Oh wait, the witch had a poker, didn't she? A poker! Hermione Granger, all alone, defending herself from a werewolf twice her size with a poker! Have you ever seen anything like it?"
"I..."
Draco couldn't stop, the words poured out in a flood:
"Potter saw it, I'm sure. And I saw it! This same witch on the floor of my drawing room, bleeding, mutilated by numerous Cruciatuses—and she still lied! Lied for Potter, for all of you! So yes, I threw myself between her and Tennant!"
He scanned the room.
"Would anyone have done otherwise? For her? Why should I be different?"
A dead silence hung in the infirmary. Draco heard only his own ragged breathing and the pounding of blood in his temples. He was covered in perspiration—drops of sweat ran down his chest and back, and his hands were trembling. He had already fainted at the manor, and he didn't fancy repeating that experience at all, especially in front of a meddlesome old crone and fucking Potter.
A voice surfaced in his mind, whispering "Draco" and cooling his blood. Small tender hands on his chest. She doesn't think I'm a monster.
Pomfrey stepped forward, her starched skirts rustling.
"Headmistress, I must insist…"
"I know, Poppy." The wrinkles on McGonagall's face smoothed out. She looked at Draco. "My apologies for such blunt questions, Mr. Malfoy. But I needed to understand."
She rose, casting a stern look at everyone.
"The situation is extremely delicate."
Draco could only nod. He was swaying but was determined to stay on his feet. Realizing what exactly he had just blurted out, he froze in horror.
McGonagall turned to Tennant's motionless body, and everyone followed her gaze. Tennant remained in the same position—a limp doll on the cot, mouth open, only the faint movements of his chest betraying that he was still alive. His eyes were empty, and his face was deathly pale.
Finally, the Headmistress looked away.
"Madam Pomfrey, thank you for your magnificent work last night and today. You may discharge Mr. Malfoy whenever you see fit."
Her gaze settled on Draco again.
"I shall not notify the Auror Office of what happened. Unless, of course, Miss Granger insists."
Draco didn't answer, but he noticed Potter exhale in relief. Even the Chosen One didn't want to bring this pathetic chaos to the judgment of his superiors.
"Evidently, Mr. Rowle posed a danger to himself and others, and your actions saved Miss Granger from a terrible fate," McGonagall continued. "Mr. Potter, I hope this won't put you in an awkward position."
Potter shrugged.
"I have the day off today."
"It would be... extremely awkward... if these events became public knowledge," McGonagall said. "I fear Mr. Malfoy's deed cannot receive publicity."
"T-that's... fine," Draco muttered. More than fine.
"I express my gratitude to you, Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall's voice regained its usual businesslike tone. "Mr. Potter, are you certain no one saw you and Miss Granger delivering both Slytherins to the infirmary?"
Potter stood up, clearly feeling out of place.
"We covered them both and... uh..."
"I do not doubt your and Miss Granger's ability to move through the castle unnoticed," McGonagall remarked dryly. "Therefore, I consider it possible to keep everything secret."
"Granger," Draco managed.
"Hermione won't like it," Potter agreed gloomily. "She'll want to tell the whole world that Malfoy saved her."
"I will take care of Miss Granger," McGonagall declared. Potter looked at her skeptically—and he was quite right.
"Poppy, please contact St. Mungo's Hospital regarding... Mr. Rowle's condition."
Pomfrey frowned disapprovingly.
"They will want to know the reasons."
"Redirect all inquiries to me," McGonagall's eyes flashed behind her glasses. "This is not the first time Hogwarts has sent a patient to the Janus Thickey Ward."
Draco frowned, looking first at her, then shifting his gaze to Potter, who looked extremely smug.
"In the meantime, Mr. Malfoy, rest," McGonagall said, attracting his attention again. "I will, of course, make arrangements for your relocation to another bedroom."
"No, that's not necessary," Draco replied. He still had to deal with the Vanishing Spell.
McGonagall nodded.
"Very well. I will arrange for the elves to set everything in order."
She removed the protective charms from the curtains and departed. Potter followed her, still beaming with smugness.
Draco held on until the door slammed shut behind Potter. But then his vision blurred and his breathing quickened. Sweat poured down his back, his knees buckled. He felt Pomfrey's hands gently sitting him on the bed, removing his shirt, wiping him down, and dressing him in a fresh one. The nurse bundled him up and held a cold vial to his lips.
"Sleep, Mr. Malfoy," she whispered. "I won't let all this commotion undo my work for the better."
Draco said nothing, just closed his eyes. Had her work really been for the better? He felt extra blankets being thrown over him, heard the rustle of curtains. Pomfrey's footsteps faded, and the light sliding over his eyelids vanished too.
When Draco woke up again, the infirmary was plunged into twilight, lit only by a pale November sunset. He had slept all day—either because of Pomfrey's potions, or from his own weakness, or maybe both.
He looked around, noting that his head had finally cleared and didn't hurt. In his corner of the infirmary, screened off by a partition, there was no nurse and no meddlesome Gryffindors. The empty bed where Tennant had previously lain was perfectly made—there wasn't the slightest hint that a wizard had ever been there.
Draco felt for his pocket watch on the nightstand and clicked the lid—twenty to five. Almost dinner time. At this thought, his stomach gave a treacherous growl. He sat up and stretched, his muscles stiff from sleeping in a bed that was too short. Memories of the previous night seemed distant and hazy—like a disturbing, dark dream.
He glanced again at the empty bed. It was hard to believe Tennant was gone. Draco almost expected him to burst into the ward any second in his boots and jacket, waving a ring-bedecked hand. Did you really think you'd won, Drakey? You and your Mudblood? His round eyes would spark with malice. She was... delicious to taste.
A long hot shower helped chase away these thoughts, and when Draco ran a hand over the fogged-up mirror, he noted with satisfaction that a flush had returned to his cheeks and the shadows under his eyes had become less noticeable. He dressed in a fresh hospital shirt, slippers, and a robe, then walked to the thick curtain separating him from the rest of the infirmary. Surely there must be a food tray around here somewhere.
"I'm concerned about the sample size," a familiar voice came from the other side of the curtain. Isobel.
"Even if I interview all the male students of the seventh year and older," the Ravenclaw continued, "it's still a limited group, which could skew the results."
"We could expand the parameters of the study," another girl suggested hesitantly.
Draco leaned his forehead against the cool metal of the linen shelf. He was in no state to deal with Ravenclaw field research. Was Isobel really going to wander around the school finding out how boys beg for... that?
"Sixth years? Ugh," snorted a third girl. "How many of them even have practical experience? They'll most likely lie, and that will only distort the data."
"Girls!" came another familiar voice, male and very annoying. "This is completely indecent! Think of your reputations!"
His words caused an explosion of laughter.
"Oh, Justin," Isobel said. "Our reputations?"
"I would like to clarify something," one of the girls said. "On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate Mr. Finch-Fletchley's level of assertiveness at the party?"
"Eight point three," Isobel replied.
"Eight point..." The Head Boy's voice wavered with indignation. "I would never allow myself to... so... so..."
"And Draco got seven point five."
Draco frowned, feeling stung.
"Justin relied on hints—see Table 3, Column 2, Candace—and physical dominance," Isobel continued. "Whereas Draco acted more directly and even put his arm around me…"
"Physical contact?" one of the girls asked.
"I have a rating scale," another replied immediately.
"But we must also consider the overall impression," Isobel added. "I found Justin far more dangerous than Draco, who, I believe, wasn't entirely serious. Whereas Justin clearly intended to... "
"I was drunk!" Finch-Fletchley exploded. "I don't even remember!"
"I've taken that factor into account," Isobel reported happily. "It's a variable."
"If you're accounting for his degree of intoxication, we need to establish baseline figures," another girl countered. "How does his behavior differ when sober, Isobel?"
"I don't know," disappointment sounded in Isobel's voice. "He hasn't pressed for it again."
"And I certainly won't!" Finch-Fletchley, by his tone, was on the edge. Draco crossed his arms and sneered, listening as the prefect continued: "Isobel, I don't plan to... "
"But this question will inevitably arise," Isobel interrupted him. "In the natural course of events. We're progressing quite well, and I consider November 28th a suitable date for... "
"We are not progressing anywhere!" the Head Boy cried in despair. "I only kissed you once, and... we're not discussing this in front of everyone!"
"Now that I've recovered, the process will likely accelerate, won't it?"
"No... yes... maybe... but I'm not going to insist on... well, you know!"
"I'm afraid you'll have to," Candace chimed in. "We still need baseline figures."
"That's it, we're leaving," Finch-Fletchley snapped. "Is this your bag, Isobel? Where's your sweater? Miss Cartwright! What are you recording this time?"
"Relevant data, of course," Isobel replied. "You're acting very assertive right now, just like at the party."
"Do you think he'll be just as persistent when sober?"
"I WILL NOT!"
"Then how would you ask for..."
Draco gave a soft sigh and lay back on the bed—the sounds of this argument were giving him a headache. Definitely, all Ravenclaws are crazy.
However, he couldn't escape the conversation on the other side of the screen. The prefect, a Hufflepuff weakling by nature, was quickly losing his composure, and his raised tone attracted Pomfrey's attention.
"This is a medical facility, Mr. Finch-Fletchley!" she exclaimed and ushered him along with the Ravenclaw girls out of the infirmary.
Draco considered this progress. Now that Hogwarts' sex-scientist team had gone off to terrorize the rest of the male students (seventh year and older), perhaps he could finally have dinner.
Pomfrey did indeed stop by, but she didn't have a food tray with her.
"You look quite decent, Mr. Malfoy," she said. "But I would prefer to keep you overnight."
"That's not necessary," Draco replied, noting with irritation that his voice suddenly sounded exactly like his father's.
"Oh, but it is," Pomfrey snapped. "And no visitors, especially Miss Granger."
"But..."
"I won't allow it," the nurse looked slightly agitated. "A series of emotional outbursts and interference in the treatment process is not the best path to recovery."
She adjusted Draco's blanket.
"Teaching me how to care for a sleeping patient! Of course, proper head support..."
Pomfrey plumped the pillow and departed, still grumbling, then returned with a tray of disappointingly bland food. Draco winced.
Stuck in the infirmary with toast, porridge, and no Hermione. Was it really so hard for that witch to tone down her obnoxiousness even a little?
After dinner, Draco was so bored that he asked for a quill and parchment to work on his homework. Pomfrey checked his pulse and pupils first and then allowed it, spending a few minutes adjusting the lamp for suitable lighting.
"Stop immediately if your head starts hurting again," she ordered.
Studying slightly lifted Draco's spirits, though he swore to himself never to admit it to Hermione. The mere fact that he could sit on a rickety cot on a Saturday evening and toil away at a Muggle Studies report on agricultural implements, certain that he would remain himself during the next full moon, filled him with something close to gratitude. A rare feeling for a Malfoy.
However, the satisfaction didn't last long, and soon Draco was staring again at that same empty bed. Hermione would surely guess what had happened. Would she thank him, yell at him, or pretend she didn't know anything? In any case, he doubted she would send him to Azkaban. Nothing could be changed now.
So he returned to the section on ploughs (which included several beautifully phrased points of his own, for that matter). Then Draco set about devising Arithmancy problems for extra credit. Freed from the boredom of professors, he found this activity fascinating—his problems were becoming increasingly complex and fantastical. One of the problems was a particularly tricky two-foot-parchment equation involving a broomstick, wind speed calculations, and three canaries. The numbers literally danced on the parchment as he sketched an accompanying illustration.
It was only when Pomfrey returned to collect the tray that Draco looked at the clock again—a quarter to nine. He shifted restlessly on the cot—if Hermione hadn't caused all this commotion, she could be here with him right now in... In bed.
Draco sat bolt upright. The Vanishing Spell was still in effect and was supposed to move Hermione into his bedroom at exactly ten. Into his bed. All alone. Into the very bed where she was attacked. Into the room where she almost died.
Without realizing it, he leaped to his feet and jerked back the curtain. He had to go back there; she couldn't...
"Mr. Malfoy!" Pomfrey blocked his path. "Back to bed immediately!"
"I'm fine," Draco said. "I'll go straight to my bedroom, honest. I'm sure there's no need..."
"No exceptions," the nurse declared. "You're staying here tonight under my observation. After Mr. Rowle's relapse yesterday, I won't take risks."
In a powerless rage, Draco allowed Pomfrey to lead him back to the cot, sullenly watching as she placed powerful protective charms on the partition and left. That damn dark wood wand certainly wouldn't help him escape. But Draco wasn't ready to give up yet.
"Tully!" he whispered loudly.
The little house-elf appeared with a characteristic pop.
"Mr. Malfoy, sir!" she wailed. "You're aliiiiiiiiive!"
Her loud sobs threatened to attract Pomfrey's attention.
"Yes, Tully," he said, "calm down. Everything's fine."
"Tully has put your bedroom in order!" the elf reported proudly. "Tully washed away the blood, fixed the furniture, and collected the fur—oh, so much fur!" her eyes widened. "Fur!"
"Yes, yes, there was fur," Draco muttered, not thrilled by the reminder.
"Tully, I need your help. I need to get back to the bedroom, but Madam Pomfrey has enchanted the infirmary."
"Yes! Yes!" Tully shouted. Draco relaxed, but it didn't last long. "Dear Mr. Malfoy must stay here and recover!"
"I'm fine," Draco said. "I'll get better faster in my own bed."
"Oh no-no-no!" Tully looked ready to burst into tears again. "Mr. Malfoy must stay in the place for sick people! Sick! Sick!"
"I'm not sick, Tully."
"Sick!"
Draco lost his patience.
"Tully, I order you to move me to my bedroom!"
The little elf immediately rushed to the visitors' bench and began banging her forehead against it.
"What are you doing?!" Draco cried, jumping off the bed. "STOP!"
Tully sobbed.
"Tully must disobey Mr. Malfoy for his own good! Bad!" bang. "Bad!" bang. "Bad..."
"STOP! NO! Don't move me to the bedroom!" Draco shouted.
Tully stopped banging her head and gave Draco a blissful smile, a bruise already spreading across her broad forehead.
Madam Pomfrey burst in, pulling back the curtain.
"Mr. Malfoy, what is this outrage? Such noise in the infirmary! You're disturbing... yourself!"
"My apologies, Madam Pomfrey," Draco said, noting with relief that Tully had instantly vanished.
"Back to bed immediately, and no more noise!" she ordered.
Draco obeyed, and the nurse departed with a swish of her starched apron.
"Mr. Malfoy?" came a tiny voice from under the bed, and Draco almost jumped to the ceiling. He hung his head over and saw the elf hiding under the cot.
"Get out," he hissed. "I have a new order."
Tully hopped out from under the bed and stood still beside him, bouncing on her toes in anticipation.
"Yes, master will give Tully an order, and then Tully will leaveeeee! Mr. Malfoy must rest! Rest!"
"Wonderful. Now go to my bedroom and wait for Miss Granger," Draco said. "You must stay with her and... What is it this time?"
The elf's face distorted at the mention of Hermione.
"She... she'll slip me socks."
"She won't," Draco said, hoping it was true. "Listen carefully. Stay with Miss Granger, serve her tea, cocoa, firewhisky, or whatever she wants, and if she gives you..."
"SOCKS!" Tully groaned. "SOCKSSSSS!"
"Quiet!" Draco hissed.
Tully looked at him as if he had betrayed her trust. Then in the tiniest voice imaginable, she whispered:
"Socks..."
Draco sighed.
"That's all. Although..."
But it was too late. True to her word, Tully vanished with a pop, hurrying to leave him to rest.
"Tully!" he called, but the elf didn't return. "Fuck!"
He wanted Tully to send Hermione back to her room. Now, Hermione would be stuck in his bed because Hogwarts elves are idiots. Draco tried to call another school elf, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't remember a single name. He flopped onto the pillows. Pomfrey was right—he was only getting in his own way.
He spent the next hour staring at the ceiling and trying not to think about Hermione, who would be in his bed tonight, or Tennant's empty eyes. Pomfrey returned with a Dreamless Sleep potion, and Draco didn't hesitate to drain the vial, sinking into oblivion.