wosi9.cc 
He sits down on the chair across Draco and lets the weirdness and the overall awkwardness of the situation sink in and settle. This is the first time he’s here without Narcissa to talk to, just him and Draco, who’s currently awake but is off in some other world in his head.
Draco Malfoy. From Slytherin.
Who lied to the Death Eaters to save you.
When he closes his eyes, he can still remember the heat of the flames of Fiendfyre licking his clothes. Draco screaming “DON’T KILL HIM” and the tight grip that Draco had on his waist as they flew above and out of the inferno.
That wasn’t the grip of someone who wanted to serve Voldemort.
That was just the grip of someone who wanted to stay alive.
He turns away, from Draco’s soft hair and the memories of fire.
He picks up his fork, takes a pancake from the serving plate, and lets it plop on his own.
“Potter.”
His fork drops in surprise. Flushing, he looks up. “Malfoy.”
“You’re…” Malfoy squints.
Harry shrugs nervously. He feels like he’s just been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing. He supposes that it is weird to suddenly wake up and have your long- time enemy in your house eating your pancakes. “Yeah.”
Harry sees the moment that Draco confirms that he really is indeed Harry Potter.
Draco slowly glances out towards the garden. “Is this the Manor?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.”
And it’s this conversation again and Harry’s tense, wondering if what happened before will repeat itself. Narcissa isn’t here to help him anymore and Harry wouldn’t know what to do.
But this time, Draco seems to reconcile what he’s seeing with whatever’s in his head, and he visibly relaxes, leaning back on his wheelchair. “Come to observe me in my misery then?”
And Harry realizes that Draco remembers him, remembers a lot more about him, if he’s going to go back to old habits and his usual snark. He feels unbearably happy at that.
“No, Malfoy, I’m just here to eat your pancakes.”
Draco furrows his eyebrows at him, and then at the pancakes on the table. It takes a while for him to respond, but his eyes clear and he says, “Get your filthy fingers off my pancakes.”
“Well, you’re not eating them.”
Draco, as he has always done, responds to the challenge. He lifts a hand, reaches towards the table. It’s slow, but his palm manages to land on the fork. His fingers shake and Harry understands, with another pang in his chest, that it’s probably been a while since Draco used his limbs.
He doesn’t think his help will be welcome, but it’s better than watching Draco struggle like this, and Harry looks up, but the words die on his lips when he sees Draco’s gaze is vacant again. He’s not moving anymore.
All of a sudden, the now familiar sense of despair takes hold of him and makes his fingers cold. His eyes are rapidly becoming warm and he blinks to keep them at bay. A swallow pushes down the lump in his throat and a deep breath eases the pain in his chest, just a bit.
Draco Malfoy isn’t supposed to look like this.
He’s not supposed to be like this.
With another deep, shaky inhale, Harry steps forward and arranges Draco back in his chair.
He removes Draco’s hand from the fork, and Draco’s fingers are long and soft to the touch, but they’re cold, and Harry rubs them with his own to bring the blood back into them. Never mind that it’s his first time touching Draco Malfoy’s hand since that handshake during first year. His hand had been small then. Smooth, like it had never done a day’s work in his life.
His hand’s bigger now, of course, but it’s calloused, and the nails are bitten to the edge, or scraped, or whatever it is that Draco did with them in those three months in his cell.
He looks at the untouched pancakes and wonders if Draco will get angry if he cuts them up for him.
He cuts them up anyway, because he wants to see Draco angry.
Angry is better. Anything is better than this.
When Draco comes to again, the pieces of pancake on his plate have gone cold. Harry’s already on his third.
“Wipe that syrup off your face, Potter,” is Draco’s way of greeting him.
Harry does it automatically, out of shock and embarrassment. “You’re back,” he states dumbly.
“I didn’t leave,” Draco mutters, glaring at his plate. Harry doesn’t know if Draco’s glaring at it out of spite, or if he remembers that it wasn’t cut up thirty minutes ago and is now trying to recall how it got to that state. Finally, Draco raises weary eyes at him and asks, “Did you just slice my pancakes?”
Harry shoves more pancakes in his mouth, just to save him the awkwardness of talking. He nods while chewing.
Draco goes back to glaring at the pancakes, and Harry finishes his third pancake mechanically. Once he’s done and there’s nothing left on his plate for him to stuff his mouth with (and there’s no more excuse for him to shut up), he tries, “Do you want me to feed you?”
He braces himself, readies himself to stand up and run should a fork come for his head, but Draco just snorts and looks at him pointedly. “Weasel’s going to have an aneurysm from laughing too much if he finds out that you’re feeding me breakfast.”
He raises an arm and tries to curl his fingers around the fork again.
It’s slow and it’s shaky, but Draco’s there and he’s trying, so Harry gets another pancake and respectfully looks away.
He’s not really hungry anymore. In fact, he’s fucking full, but he likes this, eating pancakes like this. By the time he’s finished eating the fourth, Draco has managed to swallow three pieces. There’s syrup on his lap and the front of his nightgown, and there’s also some dripping down his arm, but Harry respectfully looks away from that, too.
Draco makes it through half of his plate, before the fork slips from his fingers and clanks loudly on the marble floor of his balcony, and Harry looks up at him, ready to ask if he should get it for him, but Draco’s gone again.
His gaze is vacant, staring blankly at his plate.
Harry stands up before the squeezing pain in his chest can settle, and he goes around the table so he can pick up the fork near Draco’s feet.
On his way up, he glances at Draco’s face. There is no recognition, no life, but there is syrup at the corner of his mouth.
Harry sighs and reaches for a napkin. “You’re the one who should wipe the syrup off your face,” he mutters and gently dabs at Draco’s cheek.
It’s definitely weird, taking care of Draco Malfoy.
Or, well, he isn’t really supposed to be taking care of Draco Malfoy. He’s just really here to keep him company, avoid the media while he’s at it, and eat the breakfast that Malfoy doesn’t eat.
