"Why should we believe you?" Ron said, hysterically. He was holding his wand, pointing it shakily at Draco and holding back a tear, but allowing a snarl to escape. Draco has set down Harry and Hermione was crying over him, his condition worsening by the second.

"Ron, we don't have time to argue whether his story is plausible! Harry's barely breathing and his pulse is so low, he might as well be dead!" Hermione cried, unlike Ron she was letting tears flow and falling onto Harry's cold, pale cheeks.

"Either way, run off, Malfoy! Your 'debt' to him is paid, so get out!" Ron yelled, violently and had thrown an inkwell at him, with his free hand. Draco ducked and watched the ink run down the mantel of the fireplace, spilling onto the maroon carpet and overtaking the space it touched with pitch black liquid, but Draco stayed put.

"Listen, I—" Draco started, but before he could finish Ron's temper had bubbled over and he wasn't in the mood to hear Draco's apologies or attempts to help.

"I told you, GET OUT!" Ron roared, his voice was louder and scarier than anyone had ever heard, but who could blame him. He thought that Draco was the one who caused his friend to be slowly dying on the floor, his arm decaying. Who would want the killer of their friend to stay with them? But Ron's assumption wasn't true and despite Draco's better judgement, a small, but strong part of him was refusing to allow him to leave the boy with a hot-headed mess and a crying girl who's not thinking straight.

Draco didn't turn to leave, nor did he respond with a witty comment or a comment at all. He looked away from the boy, who's ears were on fire, and went to take a seat in the armchair beside him. With the first step, a thought emerged from the pile of junk that was his brain, a piece of treasure in a pool of dirt. He could save Harry. Why hadn't he seen it before? He'd be sacrificing himself, but he could do it.

He squatted down next to Harry, viewing the bloody, blackish-purple mess that had once been smooth pale skin, and he lifted the frail wrist, merely staring for a moment. A moment felt like a long enough wait, with no time to spare and a dull urge filling his mind, he dug his teeth into the boy's forearm.

No one stopped him. No one moved. The world was still for a moment, but not just. Draco wasn't thirsty in the slightest, but the sensation and taste of the blood that was being drained from the boy without his knowing. The taste was fantastic, but tasted bitter and sickly at the same time. It wasn't smooth, but thick and unappetizing. Venom.

The purplish, black was rapidly dissipating from the arm, seemingly disappearing, but everyone knew it was still in the world, just in another's veins now. Draco stopped when the color was gone, left feeling terribly ill. The room was spinning, but there was a small movement Draco focused on. Not the two students, cautiously approaching him, but the twitch of an index finger on the sleeping young man. It might've been imagined, but it was motivation enough to keep Draco squatting next to Harry rather than collapsing on to him.

"Malfoy?" A voice echoed throughout the room, over the small talk of some students. He'd awoken the entire house of Gryffindor.

"Someone get a teacher! Harry is dying!" Another voice yelped, the voice of another young Weasley, or Weaselette. No one cared of Draco's condition. Although, who would when the blood was dripping from Harry's forearm and Draco had a drop running down the side of his mouth.

Draco reached out, held Harry's hand and spoke a truth he truly believed in that moment. "Harry'll be alright. No, he is alright." A small smile erupted from his mouth, before being lost in the confusion of darkness taking over his vision. The venom was taking affect.