[a/n: Did you really think I was going to do a timeskip? Nah... the characters revolted, again.]
Draco Malfoy had come to breakfast early, wanting to review a few intricate spells in case they were needed in Defense today. Snape was well off his syllabus, and didn't seem to be particularly interested in returning to it. Draco knew what the Professor would say if confronted (by, say, a nosy Gryffindor): "No plan survives contact with the enemy." He was nearly done, when the Gryffindors arrived, as a pack, as usual. No Potter.
Draco frowned, and - instead of leaving in pursuit of someplace quiet, decided very abruptly to stay.
Granger and the Weasels looked worried from the moment they sat down (though they were good at hiding that). Draco's eyes looked up at the high table, where he noted that the teachers looked unmoved, as if whatever was wrong, they were fully briefed.
In Draco's experience, that was when the problems with Potter generally started. He seemed to excel at getting himself in yet more trouble. If I keep my ears open, I may learn something profitable.
Throughout the hall, "Where's Harry Potter?" was on people's lips (it was on Greg and Vince's at the Slytherin table, everyone else pretending disinterest).
Apparently rampant curiosity was not enough to force the High Table to disgorge information. Draco would watch, and if that didn't work, he'd request information. Politely.
Harry Potter blinked his eyes open, in the sterile white that was the school infirmary.
Madame Pomphrey bustled over, all officious, "Oh, you're awake!" She smiled down at him.
Harry didn't trust doctors who smiled, never had. "How bad is it?"
She stopped smiling. That was good, meant it was serious, but not too serious. Harry had wondered, a while back, if she smiled when she told children they were terminal. Probably not, that would be too professional for the Wizarding World. "Well, Mr. Potter. For the scale of the injury, I am happy to tell you that we will have you right as rain. Eventually."
Harry paused, remembering in a flash, just how nasty the injury had been. "How long?" Harry asked, not caring as much about anything else. Glory, but he hated the infirmary.
"Two nights. We'll have you up and functional in time for Friday classes." Madame sniffed, "You'll be confined to light work, but as Severus assures me that your DADA classes are on Mondays and Wednesdays, you needn't worry. You'll be fit enough for classes."
Harry felt something niggle in the back of his head, "And Hogsmeade?"
Madame Pomphrey said, "That fits within the purview of 'light duty', so long as you don't go running on that leg of yours. Be lucky you can use a crutch."
Harry was suddenly just very glad it wasn't a cane.
Being stuck in a bed was boring, Harry thought, and turned his attention to his pillow. He wanted to work on his wandless magic. And here was a convenient receptacle. Maybe he could make it one of those ornamental pillows from Mrs. Figg's old house. With cats on, even!
He kept trying for hours, but in the end, only managed to make it a little ovalloid (was that a word?), and a bit more compact. Harry didn't mind. He hadn't slept with pillows when he was young, and he'd never minded then. A harder pillow, and a flatter one, was generally his preference.
[a/n: Draco is adept at skimming over the part where he was getting Potter into more trouble. Details, he'd say, waving them off.
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I just finished coming up with a full backstory to Snape's vow to Dumbledore, which combines Draco's kiss of Hermione with Harry's kiss of Pansy. I feel proud of myself. It'll show up sometime in the story, or I promise I'll put it in as a note at the end. In the meantime, happy guessing!]