Do You Still Believe?

Enlighten me
reveal my fate
just cut these strings
that hold me safe
-- Breaking Benjamin - Follow
-o0o-

Draco lead the 'raid' on Littlewood's house himself the very next day. The fact that he spent more time chatting with her than doing his job didn't bother him in the least; that was the reason he'd brought others with him, more suited to the task of cataloguing a potentially dangerous collection of weapons.

After the room had been taken care of, Mrs. Littlewood gave them permission to search the rest of her house, even going so far as to open up the secret passageways and other hidden storerooms for them. More than once, Draco thought he caught a sly look on her face, but it was gone before he could get a clear look at it long enough to catalogue what it could mean. She'd even taken veritaserum with her tea and assured them that there was nothing actively dangerous in her home.

Satisfied, Draco and the other Aurors left and spent a good hour and a half at the Ministry, filing the paperwork. He thought it was odd that Potter wasn't there, but seeing as how it wasn't an official work-day, decided that even Potter's workaholicism could afford to take a break every once and again. He did, after all, have the enviable reputation as the single best Auror in the entire department, and that mostly partnerless. Smugly, Draco told himself that that reputation would only gain from their partnership. It was only a matter of time now before they collared the man killing the purebloods, and after that anything the MLE could throw at him would be a walk in the park.

He spent the weekend studying his Potions texts, putting in as many practice hours as he could to ensure that he had a stockpile of various healing potions. He also studied the potion that had foiled his Mastery test, but he didn't attempt to brew it; it took several days of uninterrupted care, and he didn't have the time just then.

By the time Monday rolled around, he was exhausted, but happy about it. Littlewood had been crossed off their rather short suspect list - a new record, Draco was sure, as she'd been on it less than twenty four hours - and he once again found himself facing an empty cubicle. "This is ridiculous," he muttered to himself. Potter's supposed to be here all the time. What the hell's he getting up to these days that I have to go and fetch him every day?

-o0o-

The fever had morphed into a body-wracking cough, and in one of his more lucid moments, Harry reluctantly admitted that it wasn't the result of poison. He felt weak, as the fire within him seemed to consume him from the inside out, leaving a hollow husk behind. He lost all sense of time in between fevered hallucinations and burning moments of clarity - it could have been minutes, or years that he'd lain there, helpless.

As the endless decades sped past, he finally realised he'd been forgotten. He was going to die here in his own flat, of some damn fool sickness he'd caught for not paying enough attention to how much magic he was expending at Fliven's house. His fever seemed to have broken at last, and while he still coughed, he was able to sit up and take stock of his room. He'd peeled off his clothes at some point during his illness, and he took the time to gingerly make his way off the bed and pull on some pajama bottoms. He took some floo powder off the mantle above the fireplace, but before he could throw it to the flames, he was overcome with a wash of dizziness and nausea.

The floo powder fell uselessly to the floor, and he followed it moments later, moaning quietly at the horrible weakness of his own body. The fever returned as quickly as it had left, and he was lost again.

-o0o-

Draco was supremely worried by Tuesday, and Potter still hadn't shown up. No one had been able to reach him by floo, and once again Shacklebolt called him into the office for a personal favour.

"This constant worrying that you're going to find him in pieces is getting tiresome," he said, "but I'd appreciate if you'd simply... make sure he was still breathing?" Shacklebolt rubbed the top of his bald head, a sure sign that he was worried and nervous - more so than he was letting on.

"Certainly, sir," Draco said respectfully, and made his way out of the building. Potter's absence had left the entire Auror department feeling - lighter, somehow, like his presence dampened the joy that spread from a job well done. Apparating to Potter's flat, he knocked loudly, in case the man were sleeping or in the shower. When he received no answer, he went ahead and pushed the door open.

Immediately, his eyes went to the body on the floor, and his heart leapt up into his throat.

"Potter!"

-

He'd been in the waiting room of St. Mungo's for an hour, waiting for some word on his partner. The shock of finding the other man sprawled in front of his own hearth that way had worn off, especially after he'd realised that Potter was sick, not bleeding out. Potter's ridiculously large hearth - designed to keep sparks and flame off the carpet while providing a place to kneel - had kept him hidden from view when Shacklebolt had firecalled him.

Draco had no way of knowing how long he'd been there, or how long he'd been sick before the sudden collapse, and the first thing he'd done had been to call it in to Shacklebolt, and then take Potter to St. Mungo's. Unfortunately, partner or not, the medi-wizard hadn't allowed him into the room while they were running their diagnostics. When the medi-wizard came into the waiting room, he was smiling, and Draco rose to his feet, relieved.

"He'll be alright?"

"He'll be fine. It's a simple respiratory infection that wasn't caught in time and settled into his lungs. He should be out of here in a day or two, as soon as the potions have time to work through his system." The medic, Domuch according to the name emblazoned across his robes, fixed Draco with a piercing stare. "It was brought on by a mass expenditure of magic, lowering his defenses. Any idea what he was doing?"

Draco spread his hands, puzzled. "Not one," he admitted. "He was in here the other day visiting his friend Granger, but he was fine when I saw him the next morning." Draco paused, considering. "He'd slept in and was late for work, however, something I'm told is out of character for him."

"You're told?"

"We've been partners less than a month," Draco explained. "Much of the past three weeks have been spent with him ignoring me." It hurt to admit, but the man could hardly use it against him. Potter's skill as an Auror was legendary, but his reputation as antisocial was almost as great.

"I see. He's awake now, if you'd like to see him." Domuch consulted the stack of papers in his hand, and left the room muttering. Draco considered simply leaving, but he knew that Shacklebolt would have his head if he left without ensuring that his partner was alright. It was one of his strictest rules, one Potter had gotten around by being his usual attention-seeking self, that while on the job, you went nowhere without your partner.

Draco let himself into Potter's room. His eyes were closed, his glasses resting on the small table beside the bed. He was no longer flushed and trembling, and his forehead felt cool beneath Draco's fingers. He found himself playing through the soft strands of hair covering Potter's famous scar; even eight years after the war, Potter's hair was an untameable mess and Draco had always thought it would feel rougher, more like straw than strands of silk.

"Is there something I can help you with, Malfoy?"

Draco jerked his hand back as though he'd been burned at Potter's words. Vibrant green eyes were staring at him as though his every secret were printed across his forehead. Draco coughed to hide the mild embarrassment he felt at having been caught with his hand in the jar, so to speak. "Certainly not," Draco said loftily. "I was just making sure your fever was down. You gave me quite a scare - again," he added pointedly. "Your death-wish needs talking to. What on earth were you doing that stripped so much of your magic out of your body?"

Potter shrugged as well as he was able, and struggled to sit up. Draco bit back the admonishing words he wanted to say, about Potter needing rest, and then seated himself in the chair beside the bed, waiting for whatever fantastic and unbelievable reason Potter deigned to give.

"Crime scene re-creation," Potter said simply. Draco gaped at him; he'd heard that sort of thing mentioned in the books during the testing phase of Auror training, but he hadn't seen anything about anyone actually accomplishing it.

He chuckled to hide his surprise. "Is there nothing you can't do?"

A haunted look came over Potter's face suddenly, and Draco regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. "Yes," Potter said succinctly. "Get out of my room."

For once, Draco didn't argue with him. He simply let himself out, and thanked the healer lingering in the hallway.

-o0o-

Harry was back at work the next day as if he'd never been sick. He hated himself for allowing his defenses down so far that he'd actually become ill, and Kingsley had lectured him for nearly an hour about it starting the minute he was in the front door.

Almost relieved, he let himself out of Kingsley's office and padded towards his cubicle. He nearly walked right past it; Malfoy's changes turned it into something completely different, almost home-like, and he fondly recalled the look of dignified outrage on Malfoy's face when he'd referred to his partner as Martha Stewart.

The blond was already seated at his desk, bent over some paperwork and scowling magisterially. Harry sank into his chair with almost palpable relief. He despised hospital visits for any reason other than Hermione, and if he were to be totally honest with himself, even those were becoming something of an imposition.

"Potter," Malfoy said suddenly. Harry paused mid-motion, in the process of drawing the large stack of paperwork towards him. "Someone who lives there, eight letters."

"Excuse me?"

Malfoy waved what Harry had mistaken for papers at him, and he realised it was a crossword book. "Eight letters. Someone who lives there."

Harry remained silent a moment, considering whether or not to answer. The word was out of his mouth before he'd even come to a concrete decision. "Resident."

"Aha!" Malfoy turned back to his desk, scribbling furiously. Harry stared at the back of his head for a moment, trying to figure out what he ought to feel about that, and then put it off in favour of returning to the stack of papers waiting for his signature.

"Evil," Malfoy said half an hour later. "Six letters."

Harry didn't even have to think about it. "Malfoy."

Malfoy turned around slowly, gaping at him. Harry ducked on instinct, dodging the quill Malfoy launched at him. "Prat," the blond muttered, and retrieved his quill.

"Wicked?" Harry suggested as Malfoy regained his seat. The blond flashed him a grin, and turned back to his crosswords. Harry shook his head in disbelief, drawing another page towards him.

-o0o-

kori is listening to: Gerard McMann - Cry Little Sister (Theme from The Lost Boys)

Not a lot going on in this one - and normally I'd drag it out until something happened, as it's not good to have filler chapters, but that's the novelist in me talking, and I want to show the progression of their relationship. 83

thrnrbooke: You'll see soon! Thank you for reviewing! I'm updating as quickly as I can get it written again, while still maintaining the balance of large chapters.

yaoiObsessed: You're one of my favourite reviewers~ Not much gets by you, does it? Thank you for leaving such detailed reviews; you make me want to twist the story, just to see if I can surprise you at all.

Dragon: Thanks! Haha, she's actually kind of fun to write. I'm glad she gives you the creeps though, in a weird, authorly way. (It means I'm doing my job right.) As for the rest of it, well, you'll just have to wait and see, yes? x3

MightyGryffindor: O.O What an intriguing idea! Absolutely wrong, I'm sorry to say, but that WOULD have been interesting! I'm almost sorry I didn't think of it myself.