#intertia

"shit.." is all you can get out when you wake up, already nauseous, the room feeling like it's sideways. you don't really open your eyes, not willing to risk any lights making your head hurt more than it already does, but you don't get very far before a none too gentle hand is on your sternum, forcing you back down.

your eyes finally crack open and your brows pull together slightly, fully prepared to snap at whoever it is, but all of that dissipates when you see who it is. thaddeus is looking down at you, same blank face, same sharp stare that you're pretty sure is silently calling you stupid. "you were mumbling in your sleep. twitching, too," he begins, hesd tilting slightly. "four times in the last hour. you're going to vomit or eat concrete if you keep doing this."

it's not kind, but not exactly cruel, just.. an observation by someone who studies you the same way he studies anything else in his general space. his gaze is locked on the fact your hands are trembling, the way you lick your bottom lip. "i'm fine," you mutter, already attempting to get up again, but you pause, blinking slowly.

there's water on the table, along with an ice pack long gone room temperature. what catches your attention is the fact your phone and bag are across the room, a neon sign that says he isn't planning to let you do anything but sit in bed until you can function properly. you'd call him caring if it weren't for knowing better.

"you're not fine," he corrects, surprisingly not followed by an eye roll. "you're sleep deprived, your stomach is trying to kill you, and you're severely dehydrated to the point of a raging headache. you, are malfunctioning."

your eyebrow twitches slightly. "and you know i have a headache how?"

you don't bother asking any further when he looks at you. it's the tiniest subtle shift that, a silent communication of sorts as if to remind you who you're talking to and how crazy it would be if he didn't notice you had a headache. he doesn't verbally respond and just lifts one of your hands so he can take hold of your wrist, counting your pulse. he doesn't reassure you, don't tell you that it'll pass or it'll okay, he never does; you don't test your luck by asking why he's even checking.

"i don't.. want to fall back asleep," you say, looking down, "i'm scared to."

he places your wrist back down, letting out an almost annoyed exhale. "you're scared either way, like always," he says, "though, when you're asleep, you aren't a ticking time bomb of getting sick." his tone and actions don't exactly match. while he's insulting your state of mind, he's also moving onto the bed to settle his back against the headboard; you aren't really given much of a choice when you're pulled between his legs.

his chest is oddly warm to your back and you blink at the wall opposite of you, not entirely sure how to process what just happened, because surely there was a reason behind it.

pr*ship dni

An Eighth Year Fic | Read Chapters 18, 19 | Rated E | 83k | Updates Mon, Wed, Fri

Excerpt:

“It’s just so odd, being single,” Hermione said to Harry one afternoon in the library. “I don’t want to date anyone else, but I could.”

Ron had a similar conversation with Harry a couple of days later in the common room.

“We’re just a couple single blokes now, huh?” Ron said, nudging him as they sat together at lunch. “Maybe we wingman for each other some Hogsmeade weekend, see what we can get up to?”

“Yeah,” Harry said absently. He glanced over to Draco, who was sitting further down the eighth year table and smirking like he’d heard every word Ron had said. “Just a couple single blokes.”

Tags: Rated E, Eighth Year, Getting Together, Secret Relationship, Incarceration Policy, Grief/Mourning, chapter-specific warnings in the notes, Fluff and Angst, Sexual Inexperience, Draco and Harry are little shits, this is both a love story, and a story of healing