Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to the amazing JK Rowling, and sadly, not me.

Warning: If male/male relationships bother you, you don't want to read this story!

A/N: This is the sequel to "Please Wake Up." It is suggested that you read that before this, as I reference events from it quite a bit. If you have already read it, enjoy more Harry/Draco angst and hotness! I also have a one-shot that goes with these two stories, called "On Roses and Healing."

Like with "Please Wake Up," we start near the end of the story, then flash back to the beginning. I have labeled the flashbacks this time. The flashbacks are chronological, so I've almost got two stories going at the same time here, similar to "Please Wake Up," only this time we have an omnificent view-point, so we get both Harry and Draco's sides of the story.

Also, a huge thank you to HPalto87, who has not only been a great beta, but an inspiration to me as well.

And, a shameless plug:Although I love writing, I am primarily an artist. Visit my livejournal, pinkelephant42, for Harry/Draco fanart.

Enjoy!

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1

Harry stomped around the bedroom angrily, packing up his things. He couldn't take this anymore. After all he and Draco had been through together, it was just time to give up. How could they have thought this would last, anyway? They were just too different, and it turned out that they couldn't trust each other.

Despite everything, they just weren't meant to be together.

Harry shoved the last of his robes into a suitcase. The closet stood less than half empty now, Draco having accumulated nearly twice as many clothes as Harry.

Vain, materialistic git! Harry thought. He felt a strong urge to physically hurt Draco, but the blonde wasn't home yet. In fact, if all went well, Harry would be out of the house before he even got home that night. So instead, he took out his anger by kicking the pile of boxes at the bottom of the closet.

Bad idea.

The boxes tumbled over, spilling their contents at Harry's feet. This only fueled his frustration. He kicked a box of old Quidditch gear, and watched it slide across the floor and hit the nightstand.

What is all this? Harry thought, looking at the junk-pile. How did we accumulate so much crap in just five years, anyway? Oh, right, my boyfriend- no- ex-boyfriend- is a materialistic git!

He poked at the junk-pile with his foot. Photos, candles, shoes, books, an old camera that probably didn't work anymore, their old Hogwarts scarves, a broken umbrella, a working umbrella that Harry had forgotten about, a set of silk sheets, sex toys, a small wooden box that Harry had never seen before…

Curious, Harry picked up the box. It was plain oak with a silver clasp holding it shut. The clasp had a little moving dragon that nipped at Harry's fingers when he tried to open it.

"Ow!" Harry pulled his hand away. Only Draco would implement a lock like that.

Harry grabbed his wand and pointed it at the little dragon. "Alohomora," he said.

The box opened. Harry was surprised that Draco hadn't put a spell that was harder to break on it. Inside there was a stack of parchment and a small potion vial. Harry didn't recognize the black, swirling liquid inside of it. Potions were Draco's thing, not his.

He lifted the parchment. His name was written on the top on the first sheet in Draco's neat handwriting.

Harry,

You will probably never read this letter. If you live, I will have no reason to give it to you, and if you don't- oh, Merlin, I can't think about that. You can't d- I mean, you have to wake up. If I lose you, I don't think I could go on.

Harry flipped through the pages, looking for some indication of when this was written. There were days and times, but no dates. He skimmed through a few of the pages, and pieced it together.

...I knew why your name was famous, but had no idea of the prophecy or the battle that would come.

The one that would nearly destroy you.

The one that might actually have destroyed you.

I can picture it. You lay in that bed, white hospital sheets tucked neatly around you. The people who love you wandering in and out, holding your hand, talking to you in hopes that you'll just wake up…

The final battle, and a hospital, so this must be St. Mungo's. The letter was written during the few days he was unconscious after the Final Battle.

Or was it longer? A few weeks? It was all a bit hazy in his mind. He remembered being there, and fighting Voldemort, but not in detail. The next thing he remembered was Draco's voice, and comforting words.

Harry skipped a few more pages.

"…I mean, have you heard anything about Harry's condition?" I asked her more coherently.

"No one knows much. I'm sorry. It's kind of up in the air right now," she said. She did look sorry.

"They won't let me see him," I said. She already knew that of course, and nodded.

Why wouldn't they let Draco see him? Surely he had explained about their plan; that they had faked the break-up so Draco could get closer to Voldemort and spy for the Order. Didn't they believe him?

Harry had been there for nearly a month, and most of it was a blur of appreciative visitors and doting Medi-Wizards. He'd been given so many different potions, for healing, sleeping, pain reduction, and Merlin knew what else. As a side-effect of taking that many potions in such a short period of time, Harry was often tired or dizzy. He had a hard time trying to keep up with what was going on around him. He didn't know if he would have made it without Draco there.

Draco had sat beside him every day. Every day, he had brought Harry a rose, and every day they had just talked, and kissed, and made plans for their future. They had given the people around them no choice but to accept that they were together. Draco refused to leave each day until visiting hours were over, and Harry wouldn't cooperate with the Medi-Wizards unless they treated Draco with some measure of respect. Hermione had said the two of them were acting like children, but it had seemed to be the only way to get their point across at the time.

He had always assumed Draco had been sitting next to him, holding his hand, waiting for him to wake up from his comatose state. But if this letter was true…

Merlin. Draco must have been a nervous wreck.

'No, Malfoys don't break down like that,' Harry reminded himself. He's self-absorbed, and he hurt you, remember?

Right. Harry was in the process of leaving the arse. Draco could come home at any time, and he wanted to be gone before he did. He just couldn't face the git yet. He shoved the parchment and vial back into the box and shut it. He slammed his suitcase closed and grabbed some floo powder.

Harry suddenly realized he had nowhere to go.

He could run to Oliver, but that's what started this mess in the first place.

He could go to the Burrow, but Molly was in France at the moment.

Hermione would know what to do, and Ron would be happy. Although they had tried for Harry's sake, Draco and Ron had never really gotten along.

Harry took one last look around the room. The wooden box, with its little dragon lock, sat in the middle of the floor. He hesitated, but grabbed it, stepped into the floo, and shouted Hermione and Ron's address.