"How are you feeling?" Draco asks, his voice soft, smooth, soothing, the same timbre Harry remembers from last night, where it rumbled deep from Draco’s chest before the world went dark and Harry had gone back to dreaming of nonsense, of terrifying things, of curling up small under his bed where all the lonely dust lives, playing with old toy soldiers; of a little Draco Malfoy wandering around London Zoo in his Slytherin robes, looking cross and lost; of Uncle Vernon angrily tossing his pint on the telly, sparks and smoke choking out the living room and burning acrid in Harry’s throat.