(Drarry) Faking My Own Death

"I didn't ask to melt to the floor
I didn't ask to even be born
Both those happened when my eyes met yours
I don't remember life before
I hope it's worth dying for"

Before, anytime Harry fainted, he used to see visions of Voldemort getting up to no good. Now, it was eerily quiet. It didn't even feel like he had been asleep. It was more like blinking. One minute he was in the Great Hall, then he blinked and found himself in a bed in the infirmary wing.

Harry groaned as he felt his head, his eyes adjusting to the flickering candles around him. By his bedside sat a blurry figure. He reached out his hand towards the figure, who patted him back and handed him his glasses.

"Hey." The figure softly spoke. Harry recognised his voice. It was Ron.

Harry put on his glasses and peered around him. White dividers were erected around his bed, keeping him somewhat private from the rest of the infirmary. He wondered who else was there, how they were doing, how many people had gotten injured during the battle. He heard some soft whispers and coughing in the distance. They probably deserved their privacy as much as Harry.

Madam Pomfrey veered into view, checking his head, and handing him a few potions. Harry had learned not to question what was in them, and to ignore the taste. He downed the medicine quickly and his headache cleared. She asked him a few more questions and determined he needed more rest, giving no other cause to the fainting spell than exhaustion and stress. Whatever injuries he had sustained during the battle and after Voldemort killed him, the potions seemed to clear them right up. Or at least, his kind caregiver didn't give it any further mention.

Someone vomiting a few beds over made her hurry off. She left Ron and Harry alone.

"How are you feeling, Harry?" Ron broke the silence.

Harry eyed him. The gurgling in his stomach from before hadn't returned yet. He sighed. "I'm fine."

It was an obvious lie. Harry knew he would be fine soon, once he got the truth out there, but for now he'd rather pretend he wasn't stressing out.

"Where's Draco and Hermione?" Harry asked, changing the subject.

"They got into a fight. I sent them to cool off." Ron answered, his forehead wrinkled in worry.

Harry nodded, ignoring the tingling sensation of a fingernail dragging across his skin, only to realise it was his own. He dropped his hands back to the covers of the bed.

Ron continued: "I know you probably don't like hearing that, but you also prefer not to be left in the dark."

"It's alright, thanks for telling me." The air around Harry suddenly felt pressing and hot, and he parted his chapped lips to exhale deeply. "Sorry I didn't tell you about Draco before."

Ron dropped his gaze and became very interested in muddy spot on his jeans. He scratched at it and shrugged. "I mean... I don't even know how long this has been going on. I don't even know how mad I'm supposed to be. If I... If I were to be mad at all."

"You're... not mad?"

"I don't know yet."

"But Hermione is, if she's picking fights with Draco."

"Yes, it seems so. She seemed fine at first, but it overturned when you fainted. They'll get over it, though. They always do. Right? We're friends. We can get through anything."

Ron met his eyes again and Harry felt his anxieties slip away. Tears sprung from his eyes. His lip quivered as he sobbed out another sorry. Ron got up from his chair and cried, too, moving over to hug his friend.