"Come off it! I heard it!" Harry yelled, spitting venom with each word. The room was nearly empty because they hadn't unpacked since their little scare. Most was still in a duffle bag that was stuffed in the corner of the tiny kitchen.

"Molly, it would really be—" Remus started, gently, but cut off by Mrs. Weasley's outburst.

"Seeing Malfoy's son shouldn't be of utmost importance! I took him in once and that didn't turn out well, did it? No, so let's just forget about this and focus on you controlling your—" Mrs. Weasley screamed, out of worry for the fragile Gryffindor.

"No, no, no! It is of utmost importance! I must see him."

"He never cared about you as much, anyway! Blimey, I saw the way he looked at you, even when I allowed that evil little scoundrel within my house!" Mrs. Weasley yelled back, crossing her arms and contorting her face from the normally joyful look to a stern and angered expression.

"Who cares? He saved me! I loved him! I must to see him!" Harry cried, defensive, but knowing what she said was true. Draco never did look at Harry the same way Harry did to him, he always had a hint of repulsiveness in each heart-shattering gaze. Harry may not have realized why it'd bothered him then or why he was so eager to supply him with a place to call home for a small while, but now he knew what it was and everyone around was trying to deny it.

Mrs. Weasley hadn't answered, but stood, speechless, with Remus beside her. Remus had understood Harry quite well, having been unable to love the person he wished to, but even he couldn't truly feel what it was Harry was feeling. He didn't have as large of a void. His love wasn't given and taken so easily. His love wasn't in a coma for nearly a month. Tonks was alright, walking and living life normally, but Draco had been confined to a bed, with only shaky breaths to indicate that there was life residing within his shell of a body.

"Go." Remus stated, firmly and surely. "Go to the boy you love and don't let your abnormalities keep you apart."

"No, I won't let him hurt Harry, again! It's not love it's just—"

"Molly, our experiences in the field of love may be different, but I can tell that's what this is. Let the boy go, don't let him make my mistake." Remus gently said, looking Mrs. Weasley in the eye and making her heart melt. She gazed at Harry's determined posture and stern, but hurting expression. She didn't respond with words because some things shouldn't be addressed with such flimsy things, but merely got teary eyed, waved her sort-of-son off and tried to create a smile with her lips that had been as thin as a coin throughout their conversation.

***

Harry ran up the winding staircase, frantically looking down each wing passed for indication that Draco resided there. There were many expressions of fright and few of joy, not exactly the utmost comforting sight. Each step felt slower than the last and Harry edged towards turning away. What was he going to say? What do you say the the boy you love, that doesn't love you back, yet your heart has broken when they pull a sleeping beauty for months? A simple "hi" wouldn't do, nor an asking of "how've you been" because, truthfully, Harry knew how he'd been. Nearly lifelessly laying on an uncomfortable hospital bed doesn't exactly cause someone to feel fantastic. Knowing Draco's pride and wish to toy with other's emotions, forced to keep his mouth shut and then be ignored because everyone was to busy reveling in the fact he wasn't dead didn't seem like something he would enjoy. True, he'd been known to pretend an injury was worse than it truly was, but that was always on his own terms and people would listen to any word that left his lips.

He bumped into a healer who informed him that he'd been trudging up the stairs for no reason because the floor he was looking for was the first. Harry didn't listen to the healer's further questioning, simply sprinted down the unbearably long staircase.

The floor he needed had a much less dreary feeling to it. Most families seemed worried, but confident of the patient's survival. Ones in pain didn't share this, but even their pain didn't seem too concerning. Bites, stings, burns, normally non-lethal stuff, but in Draco's case, they were surprised he lived a day more. Although, he really hadn't. Living would imply moving, breathing and, possibly, his trademark smirk, but the "living" boy didn't do any of that. His breathing was purely based on potions and spells, movement was impossible and it was a miracle if his lip simply twitched. It wasn't truly living.

Harry walked by all of the relieved and pained people to walk through the hall, searching for the correct room. It was so chaotic he slipped right past all healer's, without suspicion, or maybe that was just because he was the Boy Who Lived. At first, it seemed impossible to find the room, but then a crying could be heard. Not like the other's, it was done with more heart, more fear, more pain. The cry wasn't that of a boy, but it only made sense he'd be there, but he'd awoken, he'd made it, why cry?

"His fever spiked, out of nowhere. We're supplying potions to hopefully bring it down, but so far, none have worked." A rough voice said, over the crying. "We're doing all that we can, but he might slip back into the comatose state or die if you do not leave and allow us to proceed with our work." Yeah, right, leave. When their son was possibly dying. It had to be Draco they were speaking of, who else was in such a state? Harry's heart shattered from the million pieces it was already in to trillions. There were footsteps, indicating the leaving of the Malfoys.

The two walked out, as untidy as ever. The happiness that lasted a brief moment, now gone with the wind. Their eyes were so filled with tears, that they didn't seem to notice that he was there. Lucius had more emotion etched into his pale skin, than Harry had ever seen prior. He slipped past an exiting healer to inside the room, full of groans and mumbling. Other patients within the room didn't seem to feel it was their right to complain anymore, though, they weren't going to die as a teenager.

Harry turned, keeping a distance, but getting close enough to see the frail boy, laying on the bed, looking sickly. He was pale, a new shade of pale for him, he almost blended in with the sheets. His fangs were out and didn't seem to be able to retract. He must've been thirsty. His mercury eyes were nearly closed, but open just enough to be able to see the piercing color. Draco was moving his head slightly, that had to be a good sign, but the random clutching and releasing of the cheapened sheets couldn't have been. His blonde eyebrow drooped, causing a crease with each clutch. How could someone so identifiable wake up to be completely different looking, yet not change at all?