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Harry slumps onto the bed with a grumble and glares at Ron as his arm falls off Harry's shoulders. Ron just lifts an eyebrow in response and leans back, crossing his arms across his broad chest, his Quidditch gear making his already stocky frame seem even bigger than usual. Harry glares balefully at him as he shifts back on the bed, trying to hold back a wince – and failing, based on the smug look on Ron’s face. Harry cradles his right arm closer to his chest and tries not to twist his torso more than necessary, to avoid another stab of pain from his aching ribs.
Hermione swishes into the hospital room, her robes swirling around her as she comes to a halt next to Ron. "The healer will be with us in just a moment."
"You really didn't need to bring me to Mungo’s, I would have been fine. I've fallen off my broom loads of times before."
"Yes, well, those times you weren't one hundred feet in the air and all of your breath knocked out of you from a bludger, preventing you from casting an appropriate cushioning charm. Nor have these things happened and the referee been distracted and equally unable to properly cushion your fall. And-"
"Thank you, Hermione!" Harry cuts in with a sullen glare. She’s impervious to his reaction and simply lifts her chin a little higher. Harry finally sighs and leans back with his eyes closed, attempting to lift his arm to rub his temples to stave off a headache but stopping with the searing pain spreading through his arm once more. "Well, since you've got me here and I'm in a shite mood, I could do with a little peace and quiet until the Healer arrives. Why don't you two go check on the game or Rose or something."
Hermione huffs, but then concedes, "Well, I would like to check in with Molly to see how she's doing, and I'm sure she'd like to know you're okay. Also, I'm certain most of the family is already here waiting for news, so Ron, you might as well go deal with them and let them know Harry is being an insufferable git and to save themselves the misery of attempting to care for him." With that jibe, she swishes back out the way she came.
Ron looks at Harry with a hint of sympathetic amusement, though his own stern resolve in their decision to bring Harry here stops him from fully pitying the man. He follows his wife, leaving Harry to rest in his humiliation alone.
He rests his head back on his pillow again and closes his eyes, mortification sinking in. He'd been really off his game recently, but he still couldn't believe that he'd completely missed the bludger flying right at him. He was terrified to find out the results of the game, and to face his teammates. It may not have been the Quidditch World Cup but still, while playing in a league his team counted on him. He was glad he'd banned delivery of the Daily Prophet to his apartment; he could only imagine the way he'd be ripped apart for this latest mess up.
"Well, well, well, look what we have here."
The familiar voice makes Harry's eyes fly open and he sits up with a start, only for his gasp to turn into a moan of pain as his ribs and arm scream in protest. He sinks back a little, his face a slight bit greener than before, but his wild eyes immediately land on the intruder.
"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" The demand flies from his lips even as he takes in the healer robes adorning Malfoy’s (admittedly handsome) body and the chart in his hands. Malfoy purses his lips as he looks at Harry with raised eyebrows, amusement sparkling in his eyes.
"I see your observational skills haven't improved with age, Potter." He says, before coming over to have a look at his arm. Harry instinctively pulls back for a moment, before reminding himself that it's been ten years, he'd long ago forgiven Malfoy and moved beyond childhood rivalries, and Malfoy had become a certified Healer. A rather skilled one, if the rumours were to be believed. (Harry would be the judge of that, having learned that most rumours were, in fact, not to be believed at all).
Something flickers in Malfoy's eyes at Harry's movement, but it's gone before Harry can figure out what exactly it was. Regret? Disappointment? Hurt? He’d seen enough that he knew to feel ashamed of himself, and his face flushed.
"I'm sorry, I - I'm just really embarrassed." His face flushes and he looks away. "It's ridiculous that they brought me here at all. I suppose I'm still resisting the help I'm here to receive."
"It's fine, Potter," Malfoy says, his voice devoid of emotion. His eyes flick over Harry's chart in a perfunctory way, and Harry finds himself studying the sharp lines of his jaw, the strong bone structure that had once seemed pointy and now simply seemed regal and, damn him, sexy. Harry forced himself to look away, clenching his jaw.
Malfoy puts down the chart and raises his wand a little, looking into Harry's face. "If you wouldn't mind?" Harry nods slightly, and Malfoy begins quietly scanning Harry's injuries. After a moment he lowers his wand again. "Well, your friends were correct to bring you in. You've broken your arm in two places and fractured it in one other. Two of your ribs have also fractured, one splintered so that it is almost puncturing your lung. One jarring movement could have shifted it the rest of the way. No remedial healing spells would have caught on to that. However, we'll have you out of here and back on the Quidditch pitch in no time."
Harry winces at this, his face drawn. Malfoy frowns and says "No worries Potter, it's not as bad as it sounds."
"No, that's not it. I -" Harry takes a breath. "Is there any chance you'd be willing to keep me here a little longer? Tell them it'll take some time to be observed or something. Or tell them I also hit my head and can't get back out there right away." Harry feels shame at asking but can't keep the pleading out of his eyes as he stares at Malfoy.
Malfoy's frown has deepened. Surprisingly, he doesn't say anything about Harry asking for "special permission" or taunt Harry about using his fame to get his way and flout the system. Instead, he looks at Harry in concern.
"Why, is there something else wrong? Did you hit your head? I didn't catch anything, but my scans were focused on the clearly injured areas I was informed to look at."
"No, no," Harry rushes to assure him. "It's not that." He sighs again and looks down at his lap. "I just need an excuse to get me out of practice, maybe even the next game. I just need a break." He lifts his uninjured arm and runs a weary hand down his face.
"You? The most famous seeker in the world, who’s been on a broom since his first year at Hogwarts and was basically born to play Quidditch - you need a break from the game?" Malfoy's voice is incredulous, and Harry sees genuine bafflement on his face.
"I liked playing for fun, but this - this isn't what I want any more. There's so much pressure, so many people counting on me and expecting me to constantly be doing the best. I thought I had left that behind when I left Hogwarts, and then when I left the Aurors. I jointed the league for fun, for a hobby, because I loved Quidditch so much when I was in school and nothing beat the exhilarating thrill of being in the air. But I want it to be just that - a hobby. And that's not what everyone else expects, wants. The team expects me to be their star player, and while they may be genuinely good people, they also crave the publicity and notice that comes from having me on their team. I just... I want to be normal." Harry buries his face in his hand, all of the weariness he'd been feeling recently overtaking him. "it's so exhausting," he says, nearly whispering.
"I'm sorry," Malfoy suddenly says. Harry had almost forgotten he was there, lost in his own misery, and he certainly hadn't expected those words to come out of Malfoy's mouth. Harry looks at him in confusion.
"What for? It's not like you made me sign up for the league."
"No," Malfoy rolls his eyes, and for some reason the familiar hint of disdain makes Harry feel a little better. "I mean I'm sorry for what I said and thought when we were in school. I thought you were some spoiled git, arrogant for all your fame, living a charmed life and loving the spotlight. I said a lot of nasty things, to you and about you. And I'd like to officially say I'm sorry. I know now that you're not like that. I'm sorry for assuming you were. I-" He pauses and draws in a breath. "I know what it's like to be in the limelight, getting attention you don't want, and wishing more than anything that you could just have a little anonymity for a little while."
Malfoy looks down at his clipboard and fidgets with his quill, writing notes with aching slowness so, Harry knows, he doesn't have to look up and face the vulnerability he'd just showed. Harry swallows and looks down. While he'd known, after the war, that Malfoy regretted most of his actions during their Hogwarts years, and that much of the darker tasks he'd undertaken had been against his will, Harry had not expected to understand Malfoy on such a level. But now, thinking about it, there were few out there who understood his position quite so much as the man standing across from him.
"Harry," Harry suddenly blurts out. Malfoy looks startled.
"What?"
"Harry. That's my name, you should use it."
Malfoy pauses for a moment, scanning Harry's face, likely to see if he was attempting to take the piss out of him. Apparently he doesn’t see anything troublesome, because he nods once with finality. "Alright. Then you can call me Draco. It seems mostly fitting -- Healers are often called by their first name when their patients are familiar with them outside of the hospital. Classmates from school ought to be okay being equally as informal."
"Alright...Draco." The two men stand staring at each other for a moment, unsure of what to do next. Then Harry shifts and winces, and Draco's eyes fly back to his arm.
"Right, I'll get that fixed right up for you. I'm going to do a few spells, and then I'll get you a Blood-Replenishing Potion and a Calming Draught for the pain." Malfoy waves his wand a few times, muttering the incantations, and Harry feels his arm and chest burning momentarily and then the heat and pain both subside until he's left with just aches and exhaustion. He slumps back onto the bed and gingerly moves his arm. "I'd keep that fairly still just for a little while, it will still be tender." Draco cautions.
He moves to the door but before he crosses the threshold he turns back. “Oh, and I almost forgot. Due to the nature of your injury, I’d suggest staying off your feet for the next week or so. Unfortunately, you won’t be able to make practice for at least two weeks to give your body proper time to heal from all the damage from today’s accident, and I’m sorry to say that likely means you won’t be in proper competitive level for the next game. Healer’s instructions.” Draco flashes him a blinding smile and a wink. “Harry.” He strides out the door.
Harry is left smiling at the empty doorway. “Thanks… Draco.”