Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There were good ways to start a conversation and then there were bad ones.

"Malfoy? Like the Death Eaters?" – Bad. Patients usually demanded another Healer after that sentence.

"Hey Draco, there's a guy in bed seven who got his head shrunk." – Good. Draco liked those freaky cases.

"Your patient's results came back ..." – Very bad. Healers never paused before telling you good news.

"Cortez will be at a conference in Spain for the whole next week." – Very good. Life was always easier without the Chief of Healing breathing down his neck.

"I think I killed Harry Potter!" – The worst. People generally liked their Harry Potter alive.

Draco whipped around to stare at the head of Blaise Zabini, which had just appeared in his fireplace.

“You what?!” 

Contrary to his expectations, Blaise didn’t appear to be joking. He did, in fact, appear rather panicked, which was a look Draco couldn’t recall ever having seen on him. 

“Pretty sure it’s him! He’s just lying there; I think he hasn’t moved in about an hour! You have to come through, hurry!” 

“You fucking kill someone and wait an hour until you get me?” Draco patted his scrubs to check if his wand was still in its designated front pocket and went through the Floo. To his surprise, Blaise had actually fire-called from his home. 

“You kill a Potter look-alike and take him to your house? What were you thinking?” 

Blaise had already grabbed his arm and was dragging him towards his bedroom. Draco wondered if he had ever smelled a dead body. Probably not, or he wouldn’t have stowed it there. 

“He doesn’t just look like him, it is him,” Blaise whispered as he opened his bedroom door warily.

Draco peeked inside eagerly. There on the bed lay a man with wild, curly hair and tan skin. His face was buried in a pillow, the bedsheet loosely bundled beneath his almost naked body. Draco didn’t have to see his face to know it was Potter. Apart from the fact that nobody else had hair that stupid, the rising sun clearly illuminated the massive purple bruise that spanned half of Potter’s torso where Draco had healed two broken ribs just two days ago. 

“Fucking hell, Potter is in your bed. Naked! What the fuck, Blaise?” Draco hissed.

“I didn’t know it was him,” whispered Blaise desperately. “He only turned back into himself a few minutes ago. That’s why I decided to get you.”

With a flick of his wand, Potter was lifted up and flopped back down, now face-up. Neither did Blaise react to his question nor did Potter protest to being manhandled like this. 

“Well he’s definitely not asleep. What did you do to him?” Draco asked, sitting down on the edge of Blaise’s bed. 

“Sooky knocked him out. It wasn’t even my fault, I swear! At first, I thought he was just unconscious, so we put him here. But it’s been over an hour now. Please tell me I didn’t kill Harry Potter. On his own national holiday. That would be, like, the worst timing.” 

“What could Potter possibly have done to your house-elf? Threaten to free her somehow? Rennervate!” 

And then Potter was most definitely awake as his fist connected painfully with Draco’s face. Draco didn’t even have time to react before Potter grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him face down into the mattress, his wand-arm twisted behind his back and Potter’s weight on him. 

“What do you want –?” Potter growled in his ear. “Malfoy?”

“Great, you’re alive,” Draco wheezed.

Potter seemed to decide that he didn’t pose a threat and let go of him, standing up and looking around. Blaise took a step forward from his place at the door, where he had stayed to watch the whole spectacle unfold like the useless git he was. Now that he wasn’t facing the prospect of becoming Britain’s most hated wizard alive, he seemed to be his usual overconfident self again. 

“Harry, nice of you to join us! Anything I can offer you? Breakfast, coffee? Some clothes perhaps? Also, Happy Belated Birthday!” 

“Er – that’s alright, I’ll just take my wand and leave, thanks,” Potter replied, looking slightly dazed. His hair, which was longer on top and usually styled forward to hide his scar under an abundance of curls, was all over the place.

“You will sit your arse right back down and let me examine you properly. Blaise, you can go get his stuff,” Draco commanded, pushing Blaise through the door before slamming it shut. “And you’d better knock before coming back in!” 

“Well this is awkward,” Potter said, already back on the bed. His hair was even more of a mess than it had already been, probably because he kept running a hand through it.

“Being naked in Blaise’s bed or getting your arse handed to you by a house-elf? Or maybe you are referring to the fact that I specifically told you to treat your bruise with essence of arnica twice a day and judging by that,” Draco gestured at the whole of Potter’s torso, “you clearly disregarded my medical advice?”

“I don’t like the smell of it,” Potter lifted his chin defiantly. “And you are not the boss of me.” 

“Thank fuck for that,” Draco said, beginning his examination. “I can’t even imagine how you managed not to die this far. It certainly wasn’t for a lack of trying.” 

For once, Potter didn’t seem to have a response. He just fumbled with the waistband of his pants (red – of course) and mumbled, “I’m not naked.”

Draco finished his diagnostic spells in silence. As it turned out, the Boy Who Lived would live on. When Blaise came back (knocking first like Draco had told him to, because at least one person in this room wasn’t a giant prick and still followed his instructions – sometimes), Potter took his clothes and wand, got dressed in a hurry and was out the front door about two minutes later, Disapparating not three feet from the threshold just as Blaise, ever looking for a business opportunity, called after him, “Hit me up if you ever need a decent broom!” 

Draco promptly turned to Blaise, a gleeful look on his face. 

“You owe me big time. And by that, I mean a first-hand account of everything that happened last night. Into the sitting room!” 

Blaise sighed, but led Draco into the sitting room regardless. “You’re a menace. Incredibly rude and intrusive. I don’t know why I put up with you, honestly.” 

“Shut up, just concentrate on Potter,” Draco aimed his wand at Blaise’s face. “Legilimens!” 

Blaise’s face vanished before his eyes and was replaced by flashes of his memory. He was in a dark club. Colourful orbs were dancing through the air while dozens of wizards and witches were dancing with each other. On a stage up front, a Weird Sisters cover band was playing their latest hit ‘Fiendfyre inside’.

Through Blaise’s eyes Draco looked around and realised he had definitely gone to last night’s underground Poly-Party. And then, without further notice, Blaise was snogging a handsome young man with short blond hair who looked exactly like at least forty of the other wizards present in that club. He was also wearing the same outfit Potter had just put on.

The scenery changed and they were kissing in a dark alley, hands wandering. Then they Apparated directly into the same sitting room Draco and Blaise were currently occupying, where the fireplace instantly came to life, casting a soft, warm light upon them. Clothes went flying as Blaise and the man he was suspecting to be Potter went at it again, landing on top of each other on the sofa.

This seemed to be the limit of Blaise’s exhibitionistic tendencies, because there the scene ended abruptly and was replaced by the image of Poly-Potter putting on his pants, back turned on Blaise, who appeared to be just opening his eyes again. Draco guessed that he’d fallen asleep.

Blaise got up slowly while Poly-Potter picked up his jeans. He must’ve been somewhat absent-minded, because he flinched massively when Blaise put a hand on his arm. He twisted with considerable speed and slammed Blaise against the wall with an arm against his throat and a hand around his wrist.

“Who are you? Are you with them?” he demanded roughly, a wild look on his face.

“Blaise Zabini,” he answered feebly, trying to pry away the arm at his throat with his free hand. “And I have no idea who they are, but this is my house, so take your bloody hands off me! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“No!” another voice squeaked from farther away. “Sooky cannot let the stranger hurt Master Blaise!”

What followed were a loud bang and all the lamps coming to life at once as Harry Potter, saviour of the wizarding world, was flung across the room, hit the far wall and instantly went down like a flubberworm. Draco didn’t know what exactly was in elf magic, but it seemed powerful. Potter’s crash against the wall seemed to generate a small pressure wave that rustled the curtains.

Having seen enough, Draco lowered his wand to lift the spell.

 “Do you have any idea how much this memory would go for if Potter hadn’t been polyjuiced? Provided you weren’t such a prude and would actually share the whole experience,” Draco said gleefully.

“You think there are people who would be willing to pay a few thousand galleons for a Pensieve … just for porn?” Blaise asked, still a little shaky from the unpleasant sensation of having had his mind invaded just seconds ago.

“I’m certain. You should turn your back on the broom business and focus on Saviour Porn instead,” Draco said. “That being said, did we know Potter fancies men?” 

Now Blaise started to grin. “Well, the Prophet clearly doesn’t. They have been awfully quiet about his dating life since the whole debacle with that Muggle girlfriend of his last year,” Blaise answered thoughtfully.

If anybody knew about the love lives of Britain’s celebrities, it was Blaise Zabini, gossip monger extraordinaire. 

“Could be because they’re a tad afraid of him now, don’t you think? He did shrink the editor-in-chief’s head to the size of a pygmy puff after that article. I was on casualty spell reversal that day, took us almost the whole morning to re-inflate Cuffe. It was brilliant.” 

“Now that’s a memory I would pay for”, Blaise said. “I just can’t imagine they will keep still much longer. Potter is their cash cow. His face on the front page sells twice as many copies as Shacklebolt’s and Celestina Warbeck’s combined.” 

Draco rolled his eyes. He’d probably never understand what people saw in Potter. Yes, there was that whole saving-their-lives business, but still. Their obsession with him was bordering on ridiculous.

“Well, it’s not like he doesn’t benefit from that. I’d imagine his merchandise sells like crazy. And if Healer Dayal is to be believed, the Falcons’ matches are always sold out, even the friendlies,” Draco said.

He got up from the sofa then, and not at all because apparently, just a few hours ago, a Slytherin and a Gryffindor had shagged there, which he still had trouble accepting. Of course, they had almost killed each other shortly thereafter and that was something he could easily believe.

“Anyway, I’m going back home. Aurelius was already waiting for his breakfast when I left and I’m afraid he will raid my cupboards if I take any longer. He was alone for the last twenty hours – St. Mungo’s was all wands on deck yesterday. You wouldn’t believe the weird shit people get up to on ‘Potter Day’.” Draco made quotation marks with his hands.

Blaise followed him to the door. “That bad?”

“You have no idea. You’d think it was a crime to stay inside and act like a sane person on his birthday. Maybe they get it from him. You certainly did. Get it from him, I mean.” Draco gave him a very pointed look. “And I told you not to go to that party. You don’t even know who brews that Polyjuice or where they get the hair. If it even is hair they use. And you definitely don’t know who goes there. Crazy axe murderers. Filch too, probably.”

They both shuddered at that thought. 

“Thank you very much for that disturbing thought.” Blaise didn’t look very thankful. “Though I doubt he could afford the admittance fee. Unless he sells his hair to the organisers. That’s where they get it from, Squibs – well, only the fit ones, obviously. So yesterday was a charity event, really.”

Blaise looked rather pleased with this discovery.

“There don’t seem to be that many fit Squibs then, I only saw the same few faces on everyone,” Draco replied. 

“It’s kind of a rotating system. I think they’ve got like a hundred samples and each month you can choose between ten of them. Who you choose indicates your preferences. There’s one for straight witches, gay wizards and so on. Makes it rather easy to find someone to take home with you.” 

“And Potter –?“ Draco began, eager to know what Potter preferred. Not that he was interested. Just for … science.

“Bisexual.” Blaise didn’t even let him finish.

Draco pondered this for a second and then asked, “So … how do you know you’re not snogging a relative?”

Blaise hesitated before answering, “You … don’t. Poly-Parties are underground for a reason.” 

“Well, I guess that’s not something Potter has to worry about,” Draco finally said.

Who would have thought there was an upside to being the last living member of your family? 

Chapter Text

Draco loved the summer holidays. With the students home from school, there were so many broken bones to fix and cuts to heal, often made worse by the parents' futile attempts at mending them themselves.

Just now, he was looking at the effects of a botched home-brewed love potion, the self-assigned summer project of three giggling sixteen-year-old witches. They had apparently tried to test it on their neighbour, who was now emitting pink fumes from his mouth and nostrils while humming Celestina Warbeck's greatest (which was to say worst) hits. 

Strictly speaking, this was a case for the Potions Ward. But since this happened on such a regular basis and the cure was fairly easy, Trauma usually just handled these cases too. Easier than listening to the Potions people bitch about the transfers.

“I'm assuming you didn't break the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery by doing the separating spells for the potion yourselves?” Draco asked casually while making a note on his clipboard.  

“Er – no, right. We didn't, of course,” one of them answered while the other two exchanged nervous glances.  

“He's of age,” Draco said, indicating the young, handsome man in the hospital bed. “Maybe he assisted you? A group project, perhaps?” he offered. 

All three of them were nodding profusely. 

“You do know, of course, that the effects of a love potion are not permanent?” he asked, “And that it's a crime to exploit the… erm… willing test subject while they're under the effect, or to erase their memories when they come to their senses and regain their true feelings?” 

The witches had gone very pale. 

“We would never,” one of them whispered hoarsely. 

“Splendid!” Draco exclaimed, “I really wouldn't want to report you and get you expelled from school. Not fun at all.” 

They were definitely not giggling anymore, but looked rather subdued now. Draco summoned the antidote from a supply room down the hall and was able to discharge the confused young wizard five minutes later. 

He looked at his chart, which was bewitched with a Protean Charm and linked to the front desk. His next assignment was another Quidditch mishap, which seemed to make up half of his cases every summer since he had started medical training five years ago. Those were always fairly easy to fix, since there was rarely any magic involved – provided there hadn't been a well-meaning amateur Healer present. 

“Training to get on your house team next term?” Draco guessed as he stepped around the curtain separating him from his next patient. 

“Er – no,” said Potter, sitting on the bed in what appeared to be joggers and a short-sleeved t-shirt. Not exactly his Quidditch get-up. 

Draco, who had not expected to see him again that soon, took another look at his chart. Yup, there he was. Bed No. 5. H. J. Potter, wizard, age 24. 

“Don't tell me you got injured in bed – again,” Draco said, eyeing his right arm, which was completely black and blue. 

“Will you shut up?” Potter was looking at the curtain suspiciously, as if he wasn't sure who could be lurking behind it. “It says Quidditch on your chart, doesn't it? Don’t tell me you haven’t seen the Prophet already?” 

“Could be a cover, no? And I try to keep away from that rag. You should too.” Draco motioned at Potter's torso. “Let's see it, then. Lose the t-shirt.” 

“Can't,” Potter grumbled, “Why do you think I'm still in my pyjamas? This is as far as it will go,” he added, lifting his battered arm a few inches. 

Draco drew his wand, making slow, deliberate moves. The first time he had treated Potter, five years and what felt like at least a thousand injuries ago, the stupid git had petrified him for drawing his wand unannounced. Nowadays, Potter barely even flinched, but it was always better not to take chances with him. 

When Potter's t-shirt was vanished (“Hey, that was my favourite, you tosser!”), Draco got a good look at the whole extent of his injuries.  

“What did you do – get hit by both Bludgers at once? Maybe the Quaffle too?” 

“I got hit by McCarthy, who got hit by a Bludger, that stupid hag. Wouldn't have happened if she had just dodged. Probably did it on purpose,” Potter grumbled, brushing away some hair that had gone astray.

Draco honestly didn’t know why he even bothered. But he did recall having heard that Felicity McCarthy, the Falcons’ Reserve Seeker, had come in with a concussion the day before. 

“Yes, I'm sure you're completely without fault here,” Draco agreed sarcastically and pressed his hand against Potter's ribcage, causing him to spout a long list of obscenities. 

“Fuck, what did you do that for?” he snarled finally. 

“To see if it hurts.” 

“I could have bloody told you, you wanker!” 

“You should've come here directly instead of sleeping on it first. Do you really have zero self-preservation instincts?” 

“Well it didn't hurt that much yesterday,” Potter tried to vindicate. “And I put your stupid essence of Angela on it, but it obviously doesn't do shit.” 

“Arnica doesn't mend bones, you flipping idiot,” Draco replied. “I told you to be at least a little bit careful, didn't I? I remember it vividly. 'Potter,' I said, 'do try to keep away from Bludgers. Freshly healed bones re-break easily.' Those were my words!”  

“And I just told you, I didn’t get hit by a Bludger! Why is it that every time I see you, I’m having the worst time?”

“Perks of being a healer”

“Is there no one else working here? Where's Dayal?” 

“Well, I could fetch Lockhart for you if you insist. I seem to recall he does have first-hand experience at tending to your broken bones.” 

“I hate you.” Potter looked about ready to murder him. Draco was enjoying himself immensely. 

“No, you don’t,” he said, aiming his wand at Potter's ribs. “Costas emendo!”

He waited for the crunching noise and Potter's inevitable expletives before adding, “Two days bed-rest, apply essence of arnica every three hours. I would keep you here for the night, but let’s face it – you’d just bail as soon as I turn my back. Again.” 

He looked at Potter reproachfully, but the bastard didn’t even have the good grace to look ashamed and just shrugged in agreement. 

“Also, I'm banning you from Quidditch for a week,” Draco added. 

“WHAT?” Potter was on his feet in an instant. “We've got a match in three weeks! I can't miss that much practice!” 

“It's just a friendly, that doesn't even count,” Draco replied cooly and took out his Quick-Quotes Quill.

Blaise had already invited Draco (who didn’t follow Quidditch at all anymore) to that particular match. He had gotten the tickets from Potter himself, who had come by Zabroomi’s first thing Monday morning and let himself be talked into test-flying the prototype of Blaise’s newest broom. Since the teams had to fly their official racing brooms at league matches, Blaise had apparently inclined Potter to demonstrate the Lightning Blast at the friendly match against the Tutshill Tornados. 

“What's that got to do with anything?” Potter said, watching the quill suspiciously. “Don't you dare write that down!” 

“He that will not hear must feel,” Draco replied, nodding at the quill, which began to fly over the chart (much to Potter’s protest). 

“An owl will be sent to Matthew Greyson,” Draco said and turned on his heels.

He definitely could not rely on Potter to deliver this note to his coach himself. Draco expertly dodged Potter's jinx (which burned a scorch mark into the curtain) and left him there to sulk in silence. 

Chapter Text

The morning of August 22^nd was a bleary one, though the week leading up to this Sunday had been warm and sunny. Draco had very much wanted to sleep in and then spend a lazy day with Aurelius, cuddling on the couch, going for a walk, just the two of them. Wasn't his life already hectic enough?  

Why did he have to agree when Blaise came around, brandishing two tickets – Tutshill Tornados vs. Falmouth Falcons – as if they were made of pure gold (which they might as well have been, considering how sought after they were)? Blaise had also promised Draco he could test the prototype of his newest invention. The Memoriculars were a type of Omnioculars that could store scenes up to two hours inside a built-in vial. You could later empty the vial into your Pensieve (provided you were wealthy enough to possess one) and store the memory there permanently. It could also be watched at any desired speed. 

Draco had kept to his principles and continued to boycott the Prophet, but he couldn’t escape his colleagues or patients, who seemed to have nothing in mind but Quidditch, even the one who had just lost his arm to an ill-placed vanishing spell. Maybe that was the reason he had gotten roped into this so easily. 

Heavy rain was drumming on the canopy of the Falcons’ stands. Around them, Matthew Greyson had cast a strong Impervius along with a mild warming charm. Draco felt more than a little out of place next to the Falcons’ coach, some of their reserve players and the team’s friends and family. He didn’t even know where the Falcons ranked this season.

He had not seen Potter play since their time at Hogwarts and he had to admit that he was more than just a little curious. Having seen Potter’s health record, he almost couldn’t imagine Potter had gotten any better. Strictly speaking, all of the Falcons had abnormally large files, which, in his opinion, was not exactly a testament to their flying abilities.  

“So – who did you have to kill to get seats in the Falcons’ own team stands?” Draco asked Blaise. 

Blaise was grinning broadly at him. “As you know, I only had to almost kill someone. This is all part of our little bargain. I also tipped off my friend Andrew Cole. He’s editor in chief at Which Broomstick. You can’t buy this kind of publicity.” 

Blaise pointed at the stands directly across from them. Draco took up his Memoriculars and zoomed in on a young and rather handsome wizard – no wonder Blaise was friends with him. He had a habit of surrounding himself with good-looking people. Next to Andrew Cole sat a wizard who was very obviously the Quidditch correspondent at the Daily Prophet. And next to him was –

“Welcome to today’s friendly match. The Falmouth Falcons are hosting the Tutshill Tornados and I have to say, this almost feels like a league match to me. Both teams are employing their strongest line-up,” the voice of Ludo Bagman filled the arena.  

“Since when is he back in Quidditch?” Draco asked incredulously.  

“You really need to read the paper again, darling,” Blaise answered. “Bagman was granted remission. He completed therapy and works with gambling addicts now. A reformed wizard, as it were.” 

The girl sitting next to Draco gave a snort.

“As if,” she muttered to herself. When he looked at her, she was rolling her eyes and throwing her long dyed-red hair over one shoulder. “People don’t change,” she said and Draco could have sworn her eyes flitted to his left arm. 

“And here they are – Haynes, Robinson, Mason, Armstrong, Montgomery, Mills, Potter! Give it up for the Falmouth Falcons!” Bagman announced and the crowd went wild. Draco couldn’t help but applaud as well. Peer pressure and all that.  

“And now a warm welcome to our guests – Sheppard, Wells, Payne, Hewitt, Pritchett, Wilkins, McCarthy! The Tutshill Tornados!”  

The following welcome wasn’t exactly what Draco would have called warm. It was clear whom the majority of the spectators were here to see. The players filed into the arena, circling the pitch one time and then forming a circle, the Tornados on one side and the Falcons on the other. Both Seekers were hovering a few feet above their Keepers, Potter in his robes of grey and white and opposite him Timothy McCarthy (brother to Felicity McCarthy), whose robes were already soaked so much they seemed midnight blue rather than sky-blue. McCarthy was staring daggers at Potter, who was smirking back at him provocatively.  

Draco knew both McCarthy siblings from his time at Hogwarts. Timothy had been the Slytherin prefect during Draco’s first year and fiercely protective of his sister, who had been sorted into Slytherin at the start of Draco’s third year. Draco rather feared for Potter’s safety. McCarthy was clearly out for blood, probably blaming Potter for his sister’s concussion three weeks ago. 

The Quaffle was released and McCarthy was on Potter’s heels immediately. His strategy seemed to consist of following Potter everywhere and occasionally blocking his path when he tried to make a turn. Potter was growing more and more irritated. When McCarthy got in his way yet again, Potter rammed him hard and then promptly did half a looping, putting some distance between the two of them, just as Easton Haynes shot a Bludger at the rival Seeker. McCarthy barely managed to swerve in time and seemed content to keep his distance after that. 

Draco soon realised the Falcons knew exactly what they were doing. Their rapidly growing medical files seemed to stem from their total disregard for their own safety in favour of winning the match rather than an inability to fly. They were absolutely willing to accept a broken arm if it meant bagging a goal. They were, in short, a perfect fit for Potter. 

The match was fast-paced and relentless, and after half an hour the Falcons were leading by ninety points. Phaedra Armstrong had taken a Quaffle to the face, which had probably broken her nose, but she didn’t even ask for a timeout to let Dayal (who was the St. Mungo’s Healer permanently assigned to cover the Falcons’ matches) heal it. Maybe she didn’t want to give the (by now exhausted) Tornados a chance to catch their breath.  

And then, there was the Snitch. Potter had seen it too – he was speeding up rapidly, shooting past McCarthy, who was caught completely by surprise. There was just no way he could catch up to Potter in time. But suddenly, there were the Tornados’ Beaters, blocking his way to the Snitch, their shoulders almost touching. Potter would have to swerve, losing valuable time. Only he didn’t – Potter flattened himself on his broom, rotating in a kind of corkscrew motion. There was a loud bang and Potter was just a silver blur, cannonballing through the tiny gap between the Tornados, knocking both of them nearly off their brooms. Their drenched capes were flapping behind them furiously. 

“Yes!” Blaise exclaimed, jumping off his seat and throwing his hands in the air triumphantly. “I love that boy! This is gold!” 

Draco assumed this was dedicated to the Lightning Blast rather than Potter himself. He grabbed the Memoriculars and zoomed in on Potter. He had to adjust the replay-speed three times before he was even able to follow Potter's movements. Potter was stretching for the Snitch now, straining massively against the wind and rain, pure bliss showing on his face. The Snitch was already touching his fingers – 

“NO!” the redhead beside him screamed. 

“Harry! No!” 

“Somebody catch him!” Bagman boomed. 

Draco dropped the Memoriculars. Everywhere around the stands people jumped to their feet, screaming and pointing at the same thing – Potter, who had apparently fallen off his broomstick somehow and was now plummeting rapidly. The Falcons acted almost as one, dropping their bats and the Quaffle, and speeding toward their Seeker, but none of them were close enough when it happened and Draco knew they wouldn't get there in time.  

Suddenly there was the Tornados' Keeper, coming in from the side and making a grab for Potter. She caught his robe and for a split-second Draco thought she had him, but then the fabric of his robes gave way and all Wilkins was holding in her hands was the torn dark-grey cape.

Draco could only watch in horror as Potter fell the last twenty feet and hit the ground next to the Tornados' left goal post. The impact should have made a sound, but they were too far up and the rain was too loud on the canopy. 

For a second nobody moved while all eyes were on Potter, who was lying in the mud, motionless. His legs were twisted at an odd angle, both definitely broken. Draco pushed the girl aside and grabbed Greyson's arm. 

“You have to disassemble the wards, now!” he urged the coach. 

He looked down and saw Dayal already dropping to the ground beside Potter, feeling for his carotid artery. The players were landing beside him now, yelling across each other, clearly hysterical. Dayal pointed his wand at Potter and did a motion Draco was far too acquainted to. He didn't have to hear him say the incantation to know what it meant.  

Greyson was pointing his wand at the sky now and he felt something like a weight lift from his shoulders. Draco grabbed Blaise, whose dark skin had turned ashen. “Go to Mungo’s and tell them we're coming in with an emergency. Tell them it's Potter, hopefully successfully resuscitated. They need to prepare for surgery. Tell them to call in Meadows.” 

Blaise was looking at him blankly, so he slapped him across the face, hard. “GO!” 

Draco didn't wait to see if Blaise did as he was told. He had already Apparated next to Dayal, who looked up at him, panic written across his face, and shook his head just ever so slightly. 

“Together, come on,” Draco said and he took Potter's wrist in his hand and pointed his own wand at Potter's broken body. “Rennervate!” 

The wind was still howling around them, whipping cold, hard rain across their faces, but Draco didn't feel it. The only thing he felt was Potter's cold, lifeless wrist. And then there was something tapping against his fingers, barely palpable. Draco cast a stasis spell on Potter to prevent the possible damages their imminent jump could cause.

“Let's go,” he said, grabbing Dayal’s arm, and he Apparated the three of them to St. Mungo’s. 

It was mayhem. Draco had worked every single official holiday for the last five years and he had never seen the place in such disarray. Healers were running around frantically, trying to keep out the masses that had apparently Apparated to St. Mungo’s as soon as the wards around the pitch had been lifted, probably to await Potter's arrival or maybe to get help. 

Meadows, Head of Trauma Healing, was already there and spotted them immediately, landing on their hands and knees and splattering mud everywhere. He floated Potter onto a stretcher and beckoned Dayal and Draco to follow. Together they crossed the repulsion line that separated the entrance from the treatment area. When Draco looked back, there was a bright red spot on the floor where Potter had been. 

“Report?” Meadows asked, looking at Dayal, who had, after all, been officially assigned by St. Mungo’s to cover the game. 

“I – I don’t – what the hell happened?” Dayal whispered incredulously. 

“He fell of his broom,” Draco took over. “He was approximately thirty feet up when he first fell and probably already unconscious then. He was halted circa twenty feet from the ground and then fell the rest unchecked. No vital signs on first contact, unresponsive to first revival, faint pulse after second joint resuscitation. Head lac and multiple fractures of the legs, arms and ribs.” 

“Alright, Malfoy, scrub in. Dayal, notify emergency contact,” Meadows allotted. 

Draco hurriedly changed into his navy-blue healing scrubs and then entered surgery. A mediwitch had already vanished Potter's clothes, applied the disinfecting spells and put him in a hospital gown.  

Draco took a look at the vital vials on the wall. They were small glass tubes filled with coloured sand and bewitched to react to the patient's vital signs. The red heart-vial was rising and falling steadily, but the blue sand in the tube next to it was ebbing away alarmingly fast. Meadows had finished with the head wound and was now working on reducing the cerebral swelling.  

“Malfoy, take a look inside and tell me what we've got,” Meadows said. 

“Corpus Inspicio,” Draco said, casting at his own eyes. He focused on Potter's heart first and the obstructing body-parts vanished before his eyes. 

“Heart intact, looking normal,” he reported and then moved on to the less vital organs. “Right lung punctured. Whole right side of the ribcage fractured. Spinal cord severed. Both legs fractured.” 

“Nash: lung repair. Abrams: bones,” Meadows said without looking up. “Malfoy, get started on the spine. And he’d better have a chance at walking again when you're finished.” 

~o~

It was dark outside when they finally emerged. Repairing a severed spinal cord was tricky business. Draco and Meadows had taken turns, alternating every solid hour so they could regain their strength. The two of them had located every single damaged fibre and magically fused them back together again.

The process was made more complicated by the fact that one had to concentrate very hard on just the damaged parts without altering the parts that were still intact. Only a few years ago, Healers still had to cut the patient open to see where they had to direct their magic. That was easier on the Healer but put considerable strain on the patient, which was why Meadows had invented Corpus Inspicio four years ago.   

Draco sat down on the floor of the locker room, his back against a bench and his head aching fiercely.  

“I'm never getting up again,” he groaned, leaning the back of his head against the seat. 

Meadows was raising his eyebrows at him. “You still need to inform Mr. Potter's next of kin,” he said matter-of-factly. 

Draco scoffed. “I'm probably the very last person they want to see right now. We're not exactly friends.” 

“You brought him in, you spent the last eight hours healing him,” Meadows replied. “That means you are his Primary Healer until he is released.” 

Draco groaned, pushing himself off the ground. “Why do you do this to me?” 

“I'm doing this for you,” Meadows corrected. “Come on, I'll do the talking. You just need to stand there and look professional.” 

 ~o~

The waiting room was full to bursting. As soon as they entered, a myriad of ginger heads turned to face them. Granger was there too, her tan skin and bushy hair standing out noticeably. She got to her feet instantly, but seemed unable to ask what all of them were dreading. For a second, the whole waiting room was holding its breath. Meadows smiled at them mildly. 

“Mr. Potter is out of the woods,” he said calmly and the relief on their faces was tangible. “His injuries were very severe, but I'm hopeful that we were able to heal all of them. He will stay in a magically induced coma for approximately two weeks to give his brain some time to adjust, but he should be fine. The paraplegia will likely persist for some time after that, but Mr. Malfoy and I were able to fully reconnect the spinal cord and there should be no lasting restrictions.” 

The Weasleys were hugging each other now, some of them laughing in relief. Mrs. Weasley got to her feet and embraced Meadows, sobbing into his shoulder. He endured this patiently, probably used to it by now. She finally released him to wipe away her tears.

And then, out of the blue, she embraced Draco too, blubbering out a “Thank you”.

He stood ramrod straight, unsure what to do. He couldn't even remember the last time someone had given him a hug. But before he had even time to pat her back or something, she had already let go of him again. 

“You may see him now,” said Meadows and they got up as one. 

“Somebody should go down to tell the team,” Granger said hesitantly, but none of them seemed eager to relinquish their chance to see Potter. 

“I'll do it,” Draco volunteered, eager for a chance to get away from this particular awkwardness. 

“Thank you,” Granger said gratefully. “They should be down in the cafeteria. And if Samantha Huxley's there too, would you please tell her to issue a short press release? Just enough to get the Prophet off our backs.” 

This seemed like something he could handle, so he took off with just a nod in her direction. 

When Draco entered the cafeteria, he was blindsided by the sheer number of people present. The Falcons were indeed there, but so were most of their family members who had been in the stands with him. And not just them – the Tutshill Tornados had set up camp as well.

All of the players were still in their Quidditch robes, but at least they had spelled them clean. Both McCarthy siblings were evidently missing. The door snapped shut and all eyes were on him.

He could not handle this. 

 ”Erm –” he said eloquently.  

The red-head who had made that snide comment earlier clapped her hand over her mouth, looking at him desperately.  

“Oh no – don’t worry, he’s alright!” Draco quickly elaborated. “He’ll pull through …” 

He didn’t exactly know how much Granger wanted him to tell all these people, who were in no way related to Potter (not that anyone was), so he stopped there.  

“You should all go home, he won't be taking any visitors for at least two weeks,” Draco said and immediately they started talking loudly among themselves, probably analysing what that could mean for Potter's health.  

Draco raised his voice, “Is there a Samantha Huxley present?” 

“Yes, yes, that's me!” a petite witch with bright pink hair called out and squeezed past a group of burly wizards. 

“Sam Huxley,” she said, shaking his hand firmly. “I'm Harry's manager, personal assistant, spokes witch, whatever you wanna call it.” 

He relayed what Granger had told him and then went to tell Greyson in private that Potter would be out of action for at least two months. The coach did not look happy.  

Draco wanted nothing more than to go home, take a very hot shower and then sleep for the next twenty-four hours, but he still had paperwork to do, so he dragged himself into the staffroom. He forced himself to fill out the accident report in full detail, writing down everything he could remember, and then went on to register every step of the surgery. It was almost midnight when he finally finished with the instructions for Potter's post-operative care.

After briefly checking in on Potter, Draco finally went home. He didn't even make it upstairs but collapsed on the couch and went to sleep instantly.  

Chapter Text

Draco woke up when something heavy landed on his back, breathing down his neck. 

“No, Lee!” he grumbled. “It's my day off. You don't have to wake me up. Go away!” 

Aurelius jumped down to the floor and then proceeded to lick his cheek repeatedly. “Yes, I know,” Draco sighed and sat up, “I'll go for a walk with you.” 

Aurelius wagged his tail excitedly. In front of the couch, he had placed not one, but three pairs of shoes despite Draco still wearing his hospital trainers. 

The sun was shining down on the suburb of Richmond. Most of his neighbours had already left for work, but Draco had a nice little chat with Mrs. Maloney, who lived a few houses down the street and was pushing her baby girl in a stroller. He invited them back to his place for a cup of tea and she accepted gladly, but as soon as they reached his front door, she suddenly remembered she still had lunch to cook and excused herself. Shame.

Draco went to take a long-desired shower instead, only to discover the water was already running and, seeing as it was cold, must have been for some time now. He took an icy shower and considered this his punishment for leaving Aurelius alone for that long. 

It was afternoon when he suddenly remembered he had dropped the Memoriculars in the stands. Blaise would probably lose it if Draco told him he’d left the prototype out in the open like that, so he Apparated immediately.

The stadium was deserted, which either meant that the Falcons had already completed their daily training or weren’t practicing the day after a match. Either way, Draco was glad he didn’t have to deal with people. He was especially glad that nobody seemed to have remembered to put the wards up again.

When Draco had finally climbed the stairs all the way to the top, he had a nasty scare at first, as the Memoriculars seemed to have vanished. But then he got down on his hands and knees and there they were. They must have fallen under the front seats when he had dropped them yesterday.  

The metal was a little dented but at least the glass was still intact. Blaise would probably let him live, provided they still worked. He fixed them on a very large eagle owl that was sitting inside the goal hoop in front of which Potter had crashed. But when he pressed the slow-motion button, a tinny voice piped up.

“Vial full. No further memorisation possible.” 

Instantly curious, Draco pressed the replay button and watched again as Potter stretched for the Snitch in slow-motion. The Snitch was touching his fingertips again – this was as far as he had gotten yesterday. But due to the time lag, the memory went on where Draco had broken off.  

Potter's hand closed around the Snitch, but the sharp acceleration seemed to be too much for the Snitch, which had been almost at a stand-still before. Both wings were ripped off and hit Potter square in the temple. He was out cold instantly, side-slipping and then falling like a stone. Since Draco hadn't been paying attention to what was happening in real-time, the Memoriculars had followed the Lightning Blast's path into the forest instead of Potter, who fell out of view.  

This seemed to be where he had dropped them, because all he could see after that were the feet that had passed his seat now and then. Draco sped up the memory to see if there was more. Nothing happened for a long time and Draco was beginning to think that was it, when a pair of neat, black boots stepped into view, framed by the long, scarlet robes of an Auror. 

Draco went down onto the pitch. If the Aurors had been here, it seemed rather futile, but he pointed his wand toward the forest nonetheless. 

“Accio Lightning Blast!”

Unsurprisingly, nothing happened. The eagle owl gave a hoot and ruffled its feathers. This gave Draco an idea. 

“Accio Snitch,” he said. Something broke free off the ground and landed in the palm of his outstretched hand. The golden body of the Snitch was missing, but in his hand he held its parted wings, both completely caked in dried mud and hardly recognisable. 

“Thank you very much for your assistance,” he said to the eagle owl and it cocked its head quizzically. 

 ~o~

Blaise was not at home when Draco came calling. He let himself in by touching the front door with his wand, but it was completely quiet inside. The sitting room, where Blaise spent most of his free time, was deserted. A half-full cup of tea stood on a little side table, but it was cold to the touch.  

Today's Prophet lay on the couch, on its cover a photograph of Potter, slipping through Wilkins' fingers and hitting the ground. The headline read ‘ZABROOMI'S LIGHTNING BLAST BREAKS SOUND BARRIER AND SAVIOUR'S BACK’.

Somewhere upstairs, Sooky seemed to be sobbing. Draco’s stomach dropped. This could mean nothing good for Blaise. 

 ~o~

The Auror Department was abuzz. Sky-blue intradepartmental memos were criss-crossing over their heads, and under a protective bubble in the middle of the room, there was the Lightning Blast. A balding wizard stood inside, his sleeves rolled up, and he was casting what seemed to be diagnostic spells. 

“Malfoy!” someone called across the room and then Weasley was at his side. “Have you come to give your statement?” 

“I'm looking for Blaise Zabini,” he replied coolly. “Is he here?” 

Weasley looked really uncomfortable now. “Yeah ... listen, I know he's probably innocent, but there's nothing I can do.” 

“You know?” Draco asked doubtfully. “How come?” 

“Hermione says Zabini'd have to be really dense to curse one of his own brooms and then give it to Harry,” Weasley said, rubbing his neck. “But you know how people are when it comes to Harry. They want the culprit caught. We have to follow any lead.” 

“Well, in that case, I'm here to give my statement,” Draco said calmly. “And then I'll take Blaise home if you don't mind.” 

“That has to be one hell of a statement, mate.”

Weasley scoffed and led him into his tiny office. They sat down in battered chairs on either side of Weasley's desk. 

“Alright, go for it,” Weasley said, parchment and quill in hand. “But I've already read your accident report, so I'm afraid that won't cut it for your mate Zabini.” 

Draco put the battered Memoriculars on the desk. “I think this will do.” 

Watching Weasley watch the memory was very amusing. He winced and held his breath animatedly and finally put the Memoriculars down.  

“Blimey! I swear to Merlin, one of these days he'll get himself killed and stay dead.” 

“You can keep the memory,” Draco said. He opened a small compartment of the Memoriculars and took out a vial containing a silvery substance that was neither gas nor liquid. 

Weasley took it and got up. “Wait here, I'll get Zabini,” he said and left the office muttering to himself about freak accidents. 

Draco took the time to look around. Weasley's office was exactly how he would have imagined it – messy and crammed. There was not an inch of the wallpaper to be seen, as Weasley had decorated the walls with countless photographs and Quidditch articles. He was evidently supporting the Chudley Cannons and his sister seemed to play Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies. Maybe that was the reason she and Potter hadn’t worked out.

Many of the photographs showed the three of them – Potter, Weasley and Granger. In some of them they were still really young, squarely in their teenage years, and almost always grinning at the photographer or laughing about something.

Then there was one of Potter, still years younger than he was now, with a small boy in his arms. The child had fair skin but Potter's messy hair and bright green eyes. Draco supposed he would have heard if Potter had a son, but maybe not? Maybe they had kept it a secret to protect it? But then again, he didn't think Weasley would display a picture like this if that were true. 

Draco searched the remaining walls for the child but came off empty-handed. He found another peculiar photograph instead. Granger was at the front, apparently the one who had taken the photograph (which was called a selfie, Mrs. Maloney had told him once). Next to her sat Weasley and Potter, both with champagne glasses in their hands and grinning broadly. But there was an empty space where Potter's other arm was hanging in the air, as if he had put it around somebody who wasn't there anymore. And all three of them were wearing what seemed to be Muggle evening attire. 

Draco was just examining the photographs a second time, this time looking for odd openings, when Weasley stepped inside, bringing Blaise along. Draco got up and handed him the Memoriculars.  

“There you go. Now let's get out of here, before they change their minds.” 

Blaise just nodded, looking just as pale as the last time Draco had seen him, back on the stands. They had only walked a few steps when Weasley called after them.  

“Hey, Malfoy! Thanks … You know, for yesterday. You saved his life, so … thanks.” And then he shut his door quickly, as if unable to look at him any longer.

Draco was still recovering from that quaintness when he got his second hug in as many days, this time from Blaise Zabini, who never hugged anybody if it didn't lead anywhere. 

“You should probably keep as far away from Potter as possible,” Draco said silently on their way out. “It seems your influence isn’t very beneficial to his life expectancy.”

“Also isn’t beneficial to my will to live in freedom,” Blaise muttered shakily. He took a deep breath, which seemed to steady him somewhat. “Good thing there isn’t such a thing as bad press, right?”

Draco strongly disagreed, but he wasn’t going to point that out now.

Chapter Text

Draco was sitting on the window sill in Potter's one-bed room. Strictly speaking, it was a one-bed wing, because Potter had gotten maximum security status. Two employees from Magical Law Enforcement were posted at the entrance to the corridor to ensure Potter's safety, but also to keep out the press and fans. This was standard procedure with high-ranking Ministry officials and celebrities, and apparently Potter numbered among them.

The only ones who were cleared to enter the wing were the Healers assigned to his case and the people Granger granted permission, as Potter had named her his healthcare agent in emergency situations such as this. 

Draco liked to come here in his down-time to read up on medical spells and practice his healing on anatomical preparations. It wasn’t weird. Yes, Potter had a constant stream of visitors, but when visiting hours were finally over, this part of the hospital was far less busy than the staff room or even the on-call room.

And for once in his life, Potter didn't talk back at him.  

Draco studied him over the top of his book. They had folded back his sheets as the day was extraordinarily hot and humid, and Potter wasn't wearing a shirt. Draco got up and traced the familiar oval scar on Potter's chest with his fingertips. It had already been there when Draco had first healed him years ago. He presumed Potter had gotten that one sometime in the war.  

“Burned,” Draco murmured to himself, speculating if maybe it was a souvenir from Potter's ‘Grand Theft Dragon’ at Gringotts. Whatever he had stolen from there, the Dark Lord had been very unhappy with Draco’s family.

Both of Potter’s arms were resting beside his body, palms up. There was a long, straight scar down his left forearm and Draco felt the same spot on his own arm itch uncomfortably.

“Marked,” he whispered, his voice breaking slightly.

Draco looked at Potters right forearm, where two sizeable round scars were hidden. Were those bite marks? Draco turned Potter’s hand around and looked at the lettering there.  

“I must not tell lies,” he read quietly.  

He knew perfectly well where Potter had acquired that one. He also knew there was another scar on Potter's thigh, but it felt wrong to pull away the blanket and look at him in his pants while he was unconscious and unable to punch Draco in the face. Even if Draco was his Healer. 

And then there was the scar on his forehead, of course.

Draco leaned over him slightly to brush away a lock of hair. He had never really looked at it that much, but now he was interested. When he had read about that scar as a child, it had always been described as a bolt of lightning. And of course he had imagined a stylised shape, three straight strokes. This was more like an upside-down tree without leaves; one short line starting at the hair line and then branching out towards the right eyebrow. Or maybe it did look like a real lightning bolt in the night sky, the almost white scar in stark contrast to his olive skin.

Draco touched it with one fingertip, just barely. It wasn't coarse and rough like the scar on his chest but almost smooth, just slightly raised. “One of a kind,” he whispered.  

Something knocked against the window and Draco pulled his hand away as if burned. Outside, a large eagle owl was flapping its wings.

As far as Draco knew, all owls were being redirected to Potter's assistant, so he was hesitant to open the window. Who knew what crazy spells people could come up with to deliver a curse directly to his sick-bed? But then the owl cocked its head and Draco recognised it as the same owl that had been sitting inside the goal hoop when Draco had found the Memoriculars. This owl had to belong to somebody on the team. Maybe Samantha Huxley had redirected it here?

He opened the window and the owl landed on the armrest of the visitor's chair next to the bed. 

Draco sat down in the chair and detached the get-well card that was tied to the owl's leg. It showed a silver falcon that was catching a Golden Snitch in its talons and then releasing it again. Inside, the whole team had signed their names, even McCarthy (whose signature looked a lot more frenzied than the rest). The card was flapping in his hands as if trying to fly away, something he assumed Potter would find funny. 

“Ouch!” Draco had tried to stroke the owl absentmindedly and it had bitten him. He scowled at it.  

“What did you do that for?” he asked, healing his finger with a tap of his wand. The owl just ruffled its feathers. 

“Shoo! Fly home,” he said, pointing at the open window. The owl made no move to leave, sticking out its leg instead, all the while staring at Potter intently. 

“He can't write back, he's in a coma,” he said, pointing at Potter now. “You'd have to wait here for another week at the very least. Do you really want to hold up your leg for that long?” 

The owl spread its wings suddenly, hitting him in the face, and then it was out the window, which he closed directly behind it.  

“Well, that was unpleasant,” he said to Potter and reclaimed his seat on the window sill. He opened the chapter on the healing of scars and resumed his reading.  

There was no way in hell that he’d let that beast in again.

Chapter Text

Potter's healing process was advancing according to plan, but two and a half weeks after his accident, he had still not woken up. They had lifted the magically induced coma and were waiting for him to recover his consciousness on his own now.  

The eagle owl had come back every single evening after that first encounter. Draco had no desire to be bitten again and had tried to ignore it at first, but that had proven to be pointless. The owl would just tap the glass with its beak relentlessly, using increasingly more force. This rather defeated the purpose of Draco being there, because now he couldn't concentrate on his research any more than he could down in the staff room.  

It had taken less than five minutes for Draco to yield and let the beast in. It would then sit on the arm rest, staring at Potter and casting glances at the clock for exactly an hour before leaving again. Draco supposed it was waiting to see if Potter would wake up and write his response at last.

But as the days went by, he entertained the thought that maybe this was Potter's owl and it was just concerned about him? Draco tried to get on its good side by bribing it with owl biscuits, but it just glared at him and wouldn't touch them even if he left them on the side table. 

Being Potter’s primary Healer, Draco had lodged Aurelius in at Blaise's and volunteered to spend the nights in Potter's room to keep vigil over him. He had conjured a luxurious four-poster next to Potter’s hospital bed and slept there for the last three nights. It was like being back in the Slytherin dormitories, only much quieter and also much more hygienic. Anybody who had ever lived with Crabbe and Goyle would agree in a heartbeat. 

It was the middle of the night and Draco was tossing and turning. He had yet to get used to sleeping in the same room as Harry fucking Potter. He kept imagining waking up in the middle of the night and seeing Potter standing over him, similar to what Blaise had undergone – even if he knew that Potter wouldn’t be able to stand. That was logic, and logic didn’t work at night. The night was ruled by irrational (and rational) fears.

“Fuck this,” he muttered finally and got up again.

He went over to Potter’s bed, determined to do something useful at least. Might as well check up on him if he had to be awake. Never let it be said that Draco Malfoy didn’t care for his patients.

He summoned a set of vital vials from downstairs and charmed them to float in the air above Potter. He was just attuning them to him, when suddenly –  

BANG!  

Draco wheeled around and could just make out the shape of an owl flying away from the window, when somebody grabbed him from below, wrenched him down and pressed his back into the mattress. 

“Expelliarmus!” Potter growled roughly, and Draco’s wand whirled out of sight.  

The vials fell out of the air, bounced off the bed and crashed to the floor. Potter tried to roll onto him, probably to strangle him or something, but of course his legs didn’t work and he overbalanced and tipped over the edge with a deafening yell. 

“Fucking hell,” Draco whispered, lying on the bed, transfixed. His blood felt like ice water in his veins and his heart was hammering madly.

Then he came to his senses and crouched down next to Potter, not daring to touch him. 

“Potter! Don’t attack please, it’s just me – Draco Malfoy. Are you alright?” 

Potter groaned, which he took as a good sign. Conscious and not overly hostile – he could work with that. Draco put a hand on Potter’s shoulder, testing the waters. He flinched slightly, but at least Draco got to keep his hand.  

“I’ll lift you up now,” he said, grabbing Potter under the arms and heaving him up. Potter was maybe 130 pounds soaking wet, but Draco was still exhausted when he had him back in bed. Something crunched under his feet as he went searching for his wand, finally locating it near the window.   

“Lumos.” 

The room was a mess. The vials had shattered, sending glass and multi-coloured sand all across the floor. There were two bloody handprints where Potter had lain.

Draco quickly cleaned his own feet and then approached the bed carefully. Potter was slapping his legs now, bleeding all over his pyjama bottoms. He didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he didn’t care. His shirt was sprinkled with multi-coloured sand, making him look like a human rainbow. A mashed one.

“Why can't I feel my legs?” he asked flatly. He sounded calm, but his eyes betrayed him, searching Draco’s face desperately.

“Because you broke your back like an idiot. Don't worry, you'll regain full function – it's just going to take some time.” Draco did his best not to sound too worried. Insults were always good with Potter, right? Familiar terrain.

Potter groaned and sank back into his pillow. “Don't tell me we lost. I won't be able to look McCarthy in the face ever again.” 

Draco took the Golden Snitch from the side table, where it had acted as a paperweight for the flapping get-well card, and chucked it at Potter, who caught it easily. 

“You won. 280 – 40. Not that it matters, as it was just a friendly match. Although I have to say it didn't seem very friendly.” 

Potter turned the Snitch over in his hand, grinning to himself. Then he threw it in the air lightly, clearly wanting to let it fly. The Snitch came right back down and hit him in the forehead, then fell to the floor and rolled away. 

“Good job. Now you've got the full set,” Draco said. 

Potter followed the Snitch’s path with his eyes, eyebrows drawn together in confusion.

“Where's the rest of it?” 

“The wings are evidence.” 

“What for?” Potter groaned again, seemingly coming to a conclusion. “God, are the Tornados trying to get our win revoked?”

Draco shook his head. By now he was pretty sure that Potter’s head was filled with a thousand tiny Snitches and nothing else at all. Or maybe it was just one giant Snitch. Or a single tiny Snitch and the rest was hot air. Most likely that.

“They’re prime suspects for the murder of Harry Potter.” 

Potter laughed, apparently under the assumption that he was joking. He quickly stopped when he realised Draco wasn’t laughing with him. 

“But I’m alive,” he said, like Draco was slow. “Or do you want to tell me that this is my afterlife? I didn’t think I’d deserve that much punishment.” 

Draco crossed both arms in front of his chest. “I’ll have you know some people find my presence very enjoyable. They’re generally more sophisticated than you, mind.” 

“Naturally,” Potter agreed, grinning to himself. 

Draco just ignored that in favour of getting on with his explanation. “And you may be alive now, but you certainly weren’t when you hit the pitch almost three weeks ago.”

“Three weeks ago?”  Potter’s brows drew together in concentration. “Do you mean my collision with McCarthy? It wasn’t that bad.” 

“No, what I mean is your match against Tutshill, which happened three weeks ago.” 

“No, it didn’t,” Potter said stubbornly. 

“Yes, it did.” Draco could see Potter was going to disagree with him again, so he held up a hand to stop him. “You ripped that Snitch to pieces, it hit you in the head, you took a really nasty fall, broke your back and then you poodled around in St. Mungo’s for three weeks,” Draco summarised. “Oh, and also, you died. Now let me see your hands.” 

Potter looked down at his palms, as if just realising they were injured. Which was good, because it meant he wasn’t concentrating on the dying part. Draco didn’t know if Potter did meltdowns, and he wasn’t keen on finding out.

“Did you acquire your sense of tact here or are you just naturally this gifted?” Potter asked drily, watching Draco clean and then heal his hands. 

“I’m usually really good at these talks. You’re just really, really irritating.” 

“Hey, that’s victim-blaming!” 

“You are a victim of your own incompetence, nothing more,” Draco said, charming the blanket over Potter’s legs. “If anything, the Snitch is the real victim here. You completely obliterated it. They should charge you for the replacement.” 

Draco waved his wand over Potter, vanishing the sand and then doing the standard diagnostic spells. He seemed to be alive and kicking. Well, maybe not kicking as such. He was definitely still paraplegic.

“Don’t be daft! They couldn’t have used it again anyway. Flesh memory.” 

“Shush, go to sleep already. Healer’s orders.” 

“But I just woke up!” 

“Yes, well, it’s the middle of the night, so you should be asleep.” 

Potter threw his hands up. “I slept for three weeks!” 

“That doesn’t count,” Draco said, climbing into his own bed. 

“Why not?” 

“Because I am tired and you are keeping me up,” Draco answered, extinguishing the lights. He’d rather have left them on, but then Potter would probably have stayed up the whole night.

“But –” Potter protested. 

“Shut it, or I’ll have to knock you out again. For healing purposes.” 

This did the trick and they remained silent for several heavenly minutes. Draco thought Potter had finally fallen asleep, when – 

“Looks like a unicorn exploded,” Potter said drily. 

Draco looked at the colourful sand coating the floor, sprinkled with fine pieces of glass that sparkled in the moonlight. Somehow, he had forgotten the mess Potter had made. He pinned that on him and his distracting nature. 

“Unicorns are silver or gold,” he drawled. “You should know that. But what was I expecting, with that incompetent oaf for a teacher?” 

“Don’t make me come over there!” Potter said angrily, throwing off his blanket, apparently ready to come and kick his arse. Wasn’t he always?

“Please, be my guest,” Draco said, smirking. He pointed his wand at the floor. “Reparo.” 

The vital vials reassembled in mid-air and landed softly on Potter's legs, which he wasn’t using right now anyway. The glass looked good as new, but there were some grains of green sand in the heart vial and the blue oxygen tube was flecked with yellow. He reckoned there was also some blood in there, but there was nothing to be done about that. Well, at least they could still be used for training purposes. He sent them into the chair with a wave of his wand. 

For a few moments, they were silent. Potter was probably sulking. Or trying to make his legs carry him over by sheer force of will. Most likely both. In turns though, not at the same time – tiny Snitch brains weren’t meant for multi-tasking.

“Where’s my wand?” Potter asked suddenly, as if just realising he didn’t have it. 

“Granger took it for safe-keeping.” 

“Shame. I’d really like to hex you right now.” 

“Mmmh,” Draco agreed, already half asleep. “Maybe that’s why she took it.” 

“It's a Muggle thing,” Potter said after a while.  

“What, wanting to hex me?” 

“Nah – The unicorns. They like to paint them with rainbow manes and tails.” 

“Well, that's just stupid.”  

“You’re stupid.”

“Remember the healing purposes!” Draco held his wand up in the air and shook it menacingly. “I won’t hesitate to knock you out.”

“I’ll knock you out,” Potter muttered, but it was silent enough that Draco could pretend not to have heard.

Not that he usually shied away from confrontation (especially not if it involved Potter) – he just wanted to sleep for once.

Chapter Text

Draco was just presenting his hospital badge to the wizard from the DMLE, when he heard the angry yell that came from Potter's room (“I said don't touch me!”), followed by the sound of something shattering. 

“Mr. Potter, please,” a female voice was pleading. “Calm down. I'm just here to help.” 

Draco exchanged a worried look with the security wizard, who gave a sharp nod. Draco took that to mean that he couldn’t leave his post, but would come to the rescue if Draco found he did need help. Draco hurried down the corridor, wand in hand, wondering why these brutish Auror types couldn’t just use their words for once. 

“I don't know you! So hands off!” 

When Draco opened the door, Potter had just lifted a second glass, ready to throw it. The first lay shattered on the floor next to the young therapeutic Healer, who was on the verge of tears. 

“Potter!” Draco said sharply. “Have you quite finished embarrassing yourself?” 

“Not quite, no,” Potter said defiantly, but he put the glass down anyway. “I don't want her help. I can manage on my own just fine.” 

“Is that so?” Draco flicked his wand, clearing the floor of broken glass. “Let's see it then.” He gestured at the window. “It's rather stuffy in here, isn't it? You should probably let in some air.” 

“Mr. Potter, you really shouldn't,” the witch said nervously.

This was, of course, the perfect way of egging him on more than ever. Potter’s features hardened and he shuffled closer to the edge of the bed. He raked one hand through his hair briskly, maybe as a warning not to get in his way now.

“Shush,” Draco said as Potter slowly put his bare feet onto the floor. “Don't wet your pants, Sanders. I'm taking full responsibility.” 

They both watched as Potter stood up determinedly, his legs wobbling dangerously underneath him. The Healer was twitching nervously at Draco’s side. 

“Go on,” Draco said, pretending to check the time on his pocket watch. “We can hardly wait.” 

Potter glared at him and took two small, deliberate steps toward the window. He seemed to think he had proved Sanders wrong and shot her a triumphant look – then his knees gave way and he tumbled to the floor with a startled yelp. Sanders rushed forward to catch him, but Draco held onto her arm and kept her back as Potter fell flat on his face rather ungainly. 

“This is a teaching moment,” he told her as they stayed there to watch Potter struggle to flip over. “Do you need help?” 

Potter gritted his teeth. “No,” he said irritably, “I don’t.” 

“Just as well.” Draco sat down in the chair next to his bed. “Sanders, you don’t have to stay. This may take a while.” 

Draco had to admit he was impressed with Potter’s stubbornness, when, fifteen minutes later, he was still trying to get up from the ground on his own. Draco had occupied himself with Potter’s chart, leafing through it and pretending to make notes while glancing at him every now and then and giving encouraging comments like “Any minute now” and “Whenever you’re ready.” 

Potter ceased his pathetic attempts at being independent and lay down flat on his back, staring at the ceiling in defeat. Draco looked at his pocket watch again.  

“My shift ends in fifteen minutes. If you’re still down there by then, I’ll have to tell Dayal to take over for me. But if you keep this up for another twelve hours, we can pick up right where we left off first thing in the morning.” 

Potter was clenching his fists and Draco was really glad that Granger had confiscated Potter’s wand until his release, just to ensure he couldn’t bail. He was probably keeping a tally of all the times he would have to hex Draco later. Potter muttered something under his breath, avoiding his eyes. 

“Beg your pardon?” 

Potter glared at him and said, “Would you please help me up?” 

“I thought you could manage on your own just fine?” Draco said innocently. 

“You know perfectly well that I can’t get up on my own,” Potter said through gritted teeth. “Is that what you wanted to hear? Are you happy now?” 

“Tremendously,” Draco said and hauled him up by both arms. “So, you’ll let Sanders help you with your physical therapy?” 

“Never in a million years!” Potter said, now back in bed. “She’s way too enthusiastic and it’s creeping me out. As if it were a stroke of luck that my legs don’t work anymore.” 

“Sanders has been excited about getting to work with you since Friday,” Draco objected. 

“I don’t trust her. Everybody's always trying to touch me,” Potter said bitterly, tugging at a lightly curled lock of his hair and watching it bounce back. “At least with you I know you'd rather punch me in the face than get in my pants.” 

“I'm thinking about it right now,” Draco said drily, eliciting a laugh. 

He was trying not to think about that time a few days ago when he had definitely touched Potter without his consent. But that had been for medical purposes. Research. Completely different. What Potter didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, right? Why did he suddenly care about his feelings? This was just ridiculous.

“Now what? Want to ask your friends to help you out with physical therapy?” Draco suggested, but Potter was shaking his head determinedly.

“I put them through enough already. I don’t want to worry them needlessly.”

“Needlessly?” Draco asked incredulously. “I don’t quite think not being able to walk qualifies.”

“My friends are out of the question, so let it go, Malfoy.”

“But –” Draco started, but Potter cut him short.

“Hey, when can I go home?”

“Quit asking, I already told you. You can go home when you’re steady on your legs or somebody confirms you won’t be alone at home,” Draco said irritably. He was sick and tired of having this discussion over and over again.

“That’s bullshit! I’m twenty-four years old. I’ve been living on my own for six years!”

“My condolences,” Draco said. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re disabled.”

Potter opened his mouth to argue, but Draco put up both hands.

“Granger agrees with me. And she also told me they offered to take you in and you declined.”

Potter was put out, spluttering for words and finally settling on, “That’s none of your business!”

“No, maybe it isn’t. But under these circumstances, I’m not discharging you. I’d estimate it will take you about two months to get back on your feet, provided you do all the exercises on your own,” Draco said.

He paused before going on. “Think about all the matches McCarthy will get to fly. Aren’t you playing the Harpies in October?” Another pause for emphasis. “Well, I guess not you.”

Potter gritted his teeth.

“You’ve made your decision, now you’ve got to live with it.”

And then, for maximum effect, Draco left.

Chapter Text

Draco missed the days when Potter had still been in a coma. He missed being able to check up on him without being glared at and having to argue about Potter’s care. And he really missed the quiet nights in his room, where he could study and really think for a second.

When he walked in on Abrams and Nash in the on-call room at the start of his night shift, he finally had enough. He marched right up to Potter’s wing, chose the largest of the empty rooms and furnished it to his liking. It was right opposite Potter’s room, but that wouldn’t be a problem. Practicing healing spells was usually a silent affair.

His rounds had been quiet and Draco was looking forward to taking a break in his brand-new quarters. His chart and badge would light up if there was a new case for him, but he had a feeling this would be an uneventful night. Thursdays were usually the calm before the storm.

He had just passed Potter’s room when he heard it – a hiss that made his hair stand on end and sent an ice cold shiver down his back. Draco didn’t think twice – he drew his wand and barged in.

“Lumos!”

Potter gasped and shot up.

A pressure wave radiated from his bed. It knocked over the chair and night stand, slamming the door shut. Draco was thrown back as well, connecting painfully with the now closed door. He was only able to hold on to his wand because he had already been gripping it like his life depended on it.

There was nobody in the room but the two of them.

Potter was drenched in sweat, his eyes wide open and horribly blank despite their vibrant colour. He was breathing heavily and his sheets were completely rumpled.

“Did you hear that, too?” Draco asked hoarsely.

His heart was hammering somewhere in his throat. For a second, he had been sure he had heard You-Know-Who, talking to His snake in that horrid language. But He couldn’t have been here, because He was dead – right?

But what else could it have been? Everybody knew that Potter wasn’t a Parselmouth anymore, because his ability had somehow been linked to Him being alive.

“Hear what?” said Potter flatly, crossing his arms in front of his stomach tightly and clutching his drenched t-shirt with both hands. And then, without further notice, he leaned over the edge of his bed and was sick.

Potter didn’t object to his help with getting to the bathroom to brush his teeth and freshen up. Draco could have used a spell for that, but found that he personally felt better after a cold shower.

He used the time to clean the floor, change the sheets and pick up the furniture Potter had blasted away. Potter didn’t resist when Draco put an arm around his waist to support him on his way back to bed, either. He took the vial of Dreamless Sleep from him wordlessly, all the while avoiding his eyes.

Draco left the room, stopping at the door to turn off the light.

“I’m right across the hall. Just call if you need anything,” he said, not expecting a response and raising his wand.

“Malfoy –” Potter said tentatively, brushing away a dripping lock of hair that was sticking to his cheek. “Could you … leave the lights on? Just … just in case I wake up and want to … read …”

The sentence trailed off awkwardly, like Potter himself wasn’t sure if it was finished.

They both knew Potter wouldn’t wake up for at least eight hours after taking the potion, but somehow Draco felt it would by hypocritical of him to point this out. It wasn’t like he was ever able to fall asleep with the lights out.

“Didn’t know you could read,” he answered instead.

“Night,” Potter said, his mouth quirking slightly.

If Draco didn’t know any better, he could have sworn he looked just a little bit grateful.

Chapter Text

Draco stood in front of Potter’s door, mentally preparing himself for what could await him after two glorious, quiet, work-free days. He had run into Granger and some of the Weasleys earlier and they had talked for a few minutes. They seemed to think Potter was in a rather good mood today. But who knew what their standards looked like?

He opened Potter’s chart to see what his colleagues and the DMLE had documented during his absence.

September 17^th 2004

Potter had apparently woken up early on Friday morning, despite the sleeping potion, and then declined breakfast. Longbottom and Lovegood had come to visit him and stayed for lunch. After that, Sanders had tried her luck again. Her note contained words like ‘vehement’ and ‘unreasonable’.

Later, a whole bunch of Weasleys had come by, accompanied by one Andromeda Tonks and Edward Lupin. Draco knew who they were, of course, though he had never met them.

The evening hadn’t ended that well – a mediwitch had found Potter on the bathroom floor, refusing her help. The Healer who was called in had healed his broken wrist and given him some sleeping potion.

September 18^th 2004

Granger, Girl-, and Boy-Weasley had visited first thing in the morning, which was probably the reason why Potter had eaten all of his breakfast. He had still declined physical therapy around ten and then not touched his lunch.

Sanders had tried again around two in the afternoon, to which Potter had replied with yelling and throwing his broken Snitch at her. Charming. Draco was pretty sure that Sander’s writing was getting messier, like she’d scribbled her notes in a rage.

Matthew Greyson had visited, but a girl called Katherine Greyson had been denied access because she was unauthorised. Draco obviously didn’t know what Potter and his coach had talked about, but his dinner had remained uneaten and the night hadn’t been any better – Potter had unhinged a door around midnight by causing what the mediwitch called a ‘shockwave’.

Draco stared at the last note in surprise.

‘11.56 pm: refuses calming potion against Healer's advice; asks after Healer Malfoy – D. Austin’

Well, that wasn’t very insightful. It could mean all sorts of things – had Potter asked for him? Had he just wondered where Draco was? Draco certainly wasn’t going to ask Healer Austin what her note meant.

September 19^th 2004

Potter hadn’t slept until three in the morning. Despite finally taking some sleeping potion then, he had already been awake by eight again. Also, he had only eaten two pieces of dry toast. Draco really wasn’t interested in convincing Potter to eat. Maybe that was his way of showing how little he liked being at St. Mungo’s. Draco wasn’t going to play this game. Potter could starve himself, for all he cared.

Draco was surprised to read that Sanders, who apparently had a death wish, had actually tried to convince Potter once again. Her (barely legible) note read:

‘09.30 am: refuses talk about physical therapy; sets fire to curtains (wand still with H. Granger?) – P. Sanders’

The last note stated that a whole bunch of people had visited for two hours just before lunch. This wasn’t news to Draco, who had run into Granger and most of the Weasley clan on their way out. Judging by that encounter, Draco somehow doubted that Potter would be in a good mood.

He took a deep breath and opened the door. Potter was lying on the floor in front of the window, throwing the Snitch into the air and catching it over and over again. He barely looked up when Draco entered his room. On the side-table stood his lunch, untouched.

“What are you doing?” Draco asked, eyebrows raised.

“Nothing. What does it look like?” Potter grumbled.

“It looks like you fell and now you're pretending you want to lie on the cold, hard floor,” Draco said suspiciously, coming nearer.

“No, it doesn’t,” Potter said pointedly. “Please, just go away. I’m not in the mood today.”

“Well, I’ve got news for you.” Draco caught the Snitch in mid-air and held it there out of Potter’s reach. “I don’t care.”

“Hey!” Potter sat up clumsily. He raked a hand through his hair angrily, but it wouldn’t stay down. Draco wondered how long Potter had been lying on the ground before he came in. His visitors had left over an hour ago.

“Quit buggering around! You should be doing your exercises.”

“I don’t want to. They are completely useless!” Potter yelled back.

“You’re just sulking because you’re missing Granger’s birthday!” Draco said. “And you’re missing it because you’re delaying your recovery! Because you won’t let anybody help you!”

Draco threw the Snitch at Potter’s stupid forehead, but unfortunately, he caught it. Fucking Seekers.

But the statement seemed to catch Potter off guard. “How do you know it’s Hermione’s birthday?” he asked, deflating suddenly.

“I saw them leave a while ago. And we do talk, you know?”

Potter hoisted himself up on the window sill and turned his back on Draco, probably hoping he would just leave.

“Alright, that’s it!” Draco said exasperatedly. He went over to the wardrobe, pulled out a pair of jeans and a jumper at random and threw them at Potter.

“Get dressed; I’m taking you to that stupid party!”

Potter just glared at him, clothes held loosely in his hands. He sounded almost hurt when he said, “Quit your bullshit, Malfoy.”

“I mean it,” Draco said, rolling his eyes. “On one condition, that is.”

“There we go. Can’t take the Slytherin out of the boy, can you?”

“Do you want to go or not?” he asked, ignoring that Potter had just called him a boy.

But Potter was already taking off his t-shirt and putting on the crimson jumper with a Golden Snitch stitched onto it.

“Just tell me what you want,” he said, pulling off his joggers. Draco couldn’t have turned around in time even if he had wanted to.

It wasn’t all that easy not to look at Potter’s body while not looking away like a blushing virgin either. He was a Healer, damn it! He knew what humans looked like! Even if this particular human had really nice, well-toned legs.

‘This is Potter!’ a shrill voice in his head supplied helpfully, snapping him out of it. Not that anything inappropriate was going on. Draco was allowed to have a completely objective opinion, right? Besides, this wasn’t the first time he saw Potter naked (well, almost), either. Blaise had definitely seen more.

And now Potter was looking at him. Right. He was supposed to state his terms.

“You have to let me help you with your stupid physical therapy.” Draco sounded a little too rushed for his own taste.

“Deal!” Potter said, struggling to stand on one shaky leg long enough to put on his jeans.

Well, that had been surprisingly easy. Then again, maybe Potter had just been waiting for an opportunity to accept some help without feeling guilty about it.

“I’ll probably regret this,” Draco sighed, as Potter fell back against the windowsill.

“Probably.”

Draco made sure to transfer all his cases to the other Healers before they signed off with Lancaster from the DMLE and went to the next fireplace. After his third meeting with the floor and Draco's third threat to call the trip off (“I mean it!”), Potter finally sat down in the wheelchair Draco had summoned.

They squashed into the fireplace together, since Draco didn't know if he would be able to access their destination on his own, without the golden ticket that was Potter. Also, he was worried Potter would just make a run for it if left to his own devices. Fine, maybe not a run. More like an awkward wobbly-legged shuffle.

Potter had told him the birthday would take place at a ‘burrow’ and Draco was seriously considering doing a quick examination of Potter's mental health. But “The Burrow!” was indeed what Potter said as he threw the Floo powder into the fire and they were swallowed by green flames, rotating rapidly around their own axis.

~o~

Draco just got a quick view of a very stuffed kitchen before Potter lost his balance next to him. Draco caught him around the middle and they both tumbled out of the fireplace and onto the hearth rug.

“Harry!” someone squealed and five red-heads turned to look at them, holding plates and pans and cutlery.

Draco let go of Potter and got up off his knees as one of the older Weasley siblings helped Potter up. Mrs. Weasley came bustling over, embracing Potter motherly and trying to smoothen his hair at the same time, which, of course, proved to be a waste of time and effort.

“Oh Harry, it's so good to see you,” she said happily.

“Malfoy agreed to babysit me; I hope it's okay,” Potter said, grinning.

“Of course it's okay,” Mrs. Weasley said, smiling at Draco warmly and making his stomach do an odd twist. “The more the merrier.”

And this certainly seemed to be the Weasleys’ family motto. She held on tightly to Potter’s arm and led them out into the garden, where an enormous table was laden with enough food to satisfy the whole of Hufflepuff House.

“Weasley said they were just doing a quiet family birthday,” Draco hissed, silent enough for just Potter to hear.

“Yeah, so?” Potter asked innocently, but Draco could see the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Longbottom, Abbott and Lovegood are family?” Draco asked, looking over at where the three of them were laughing with the Weasley girl.

“Aren't all the old wizarding families related?” Potter asked. “That means you're family too.”

“I didn't know Dean Thomas was from an old wizarding family,” Draco said suspiciously, ignoring the second part of Potter's sentence.

“He's with Luna, so he's family too.”

“Potter, this is not a quiet birthday,” Draco hissed.

But Potter just grinned at him broadly, a completely different person than he had been just twenty minutes ago. And then the rest of the family discovered them and they all rushed over to greet them and hug Potter, like they hadn't just seen him this morning or a few days ago, at most.

It was the most insane event Draco had ever attended. They started with a late lunch, that consisted of enough food to last Draco through the next week. Then came the cake, shaped like a giant pile of books.

Draco sat between Potter and Lovegood, who was incredibly open but also incredibly weird. He found that he didn't even mind that much, as long as he had someone to talk to. Nobody seemed to be hostile to him being there and he suspected it had something to do with his role in keeping Potter alive.

The She-Weasel even invited him to participate in their impromptu Quidditch match and certainly not for a lack of fliers. Merlin knew they had enough people there to man an entire Quidditch league.

“I can't possibly; I'm at work,” he protested. He had no desire to embarrass himself in front of the Weasleys (let alone two Quidditch professionals), seeing as he had not flown for the better part of five years.

“You're babysitting,” Potter corrected. “And look at that, I've got a ton of babysitters now.”

“I'm not babysitting, I'm looking after your health,” Draco said stubbornly. “Who else here is a certified Healer?”

Potter grinned sweetly, which had to mean that the following reply would be anything but. “Well, it would be of immense healing value if I could watch you lose pathetically.”

And of course now Draco had no other choice but to grab the Firebolt Girl-Weasley was holding out to him.

As it turned out, they were a few players short after all, which was why they agreed to play with just two Chasers and one Beater on either side. Since Weasley was a professional Chaser, it was decided to switch all of the positions around. She was now playing Keeper for the ‘Blibbering Humdingers’ (the task of naming the teams had apparently fallen to Lovegood).

The remaining Weasley twin was made Seeker and Draco was appointed as Chaser along with another Weasley brother, who was already pulling arm braces over his hands, which had burn marks all over. Thomas was given a bat.

Draco looked down at the robes they had given him. They seemed to be discarded robes of the Holyhead Harpies, dark green and charmed to remove the emblem. He could just make out the faint talon emblazoned on the chest.

On the other side of the field were the ‘Crumple-Horned Snorkacks’ (Draco suspected that he was missing a rather big joke). Hannah Abbott, who was apparently dating Longbottom (who would have thought he had it in him?), had volunteered to play as Keeper. The oldest Weasley (was that Charlie?) was talking Chaser strategies with Potter’s Weasley. Angelina Johnson, who had joined them after lunch, took up a bat.

And to everybody's surprise, Lovegood agreed to be Seeker. Draco suspected the reason were the Snorkacks’ robes, which were grey and white and came with a cape shaped like the head of a falcon. Draco dimly remembered she had a penchant for wearing animal heads to Quidditch games.

It was the most fun Draco ever had at a Quidditch match. The Weasley’s had a broad selection of excellent brooms, probably stemming from Weasley’s and Potter’s Quidditch careers. Since everybody played at a disadvantage regarding their positions, there was no pressure to present peak performance.

The most dangerous part of the game was when Thomas accidentally flung not only the Bludger at Draco but also his bat. The perilous bit wasn’t dodging them, but rather holding on to his broom while he laughed himself to tears.

The match ended unexpectedly when Lovegood caught the Snitch, securing the Snorkacks a 210 – 120 win. He later overheard her telling Potter over dinner that she had mistaken the Snitch for a Golden Snidget, an endangered bird. Potter looked at him over her shoulder and restrained his laughter. Draco couldn’t help but grin back.

They bowed out when the younger family members started a game of butterbeer pong, which was apparently a Muggle tradition of some kind.

Granger took Draco aside to thank him for bringing Potter while the latter was busy hugging everybody goodbye. Draco didn’t know how Potter could keep track of all these people, but in the end, he spotted even George and Angelina, who were snogging somewhere behind a bush.

Draco, in turn, was found by Mrs. Weasley, who took his hand in both of hers and smiled at him warmly.

“Thank you, Draco. It was lovely having you here.”

“Thank you for having me, Mrs. Weasley. The food was excellent,” Draco said politely.

“Malfoy, let’s go,” Potter disrupted them. “I’m all done.”

“I’m sorry, we’d better get back before the DMLE starts printing my wanted posters,” Draco said to Mrs. Weasley, grimacing at Potter’s rather rude disturbance.

“That’s alright, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said. “You’re welcome to accompany Harry again any time.”

She hugged Potter goodbye (for the second time) and then rushed off to stop George from spiking the beer pong beer with something that looked like it came from his joke shop.

“Do you always behave like a troll in a china shop?” Draco hissed, grabbing Potter’s upper arm (to support him on the way to the kitchen fireplace, of course).

“Ouch! Not so hard, Malfoy!” Potter exclaimed dramatically, but his eyes were shining brightly.

Weasley and Granger looked over at them from where they were sitting on the canopy swing, but they didn’t come to rescue Potter. Draco took this as a sign of trust.

~o~

It was almost eleven when he dropped Potter off. Potter fell onto his bed face down, not even bothering with taking off his shoes or clothes.

“Night, Malfoy,” he murmured, already half asleep.

“Night,” Draco replied and he dimmed the lights and closed the door on the way out.

He was pretty sure he heard a quiet “Thanks” from behind the door.

Chapter Text

When Draco got to Potter's room the next day, the door was slightly open and he could hear people talking inside. Knowing that Potter would be in a foul mood if he booted out his friends, Draco went into his temporary study instead. He took the time to work on his anatomical preparations, testing the new experimental spells he had found in his research.

Ordinary healing spells had proven ineffective against curse scars, but Draco had reason to believe that first cutting away the scar tissue and then healing the damaged skin would show promising results. Unfortunately, there was no way of telling how living tissue would react to the procedure, as it had some properties that were lost in the preparations. You couldn’t really curse those, for one.

What Draco needed was a guinea pig, preferably a human one. Someone with curse scars and no regard for their own safety. Someone willing to take some pain and risks. At least Draco hoped that there would only be some pain.

He had entertained the possibility of testing the spells on himself, but he wouldn't be able to use his magic properly if he was wounded. No, it had to be someone else. And he knew perfectly well who would be particularly suitable for this purpose. But he couldn't ask him, of course. Potter already had nightmares; Draco didn't need to make them worse.

“Alright, get well soon,” somebody said in the hallway and Draco heard a door close.

He put away his quill and went out into the hallway, where he came face to face with –

“Blaise?”

“Draco! Fancy meeting you here, at your place of work!” Blaise said, patting him on the shoulder.

“What are you doing here?” Draco asked incredulously. Blaise was not someone he had expected to see in this particular maximum-security wing.

“I was invited, what else?”

“Invited to do what?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow.

“To talk about the accident, of course. We're trying to improve the Lightning Blast,” Blaise said excitedly. “I'm afraid I'm a bit biased when it comes to my brooms, but Harry has some very strong opinions. He's exactly what this project needs.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Draco agreed. Potter certainly was no pushover, much to his chagrin.

“Alright, I'll see you on Wednesday.” Blaise grinned and left him standing there.

Draco looked after him until he was out of sight, very confused. Potter had invited Blaise here?

Potter was sitting on his bed cross-legged, playing with the Snitch again. When Draco entered the room, the Snitch pulled toward the door a few inches, causing Potter to miss it. It rolled down his legs and came to rest at the foot of his bed. Draco picked it up and put it on the side table, where it spun around its own axis slowly.

“Guess it's completely broken now.” Potter laughed. Well, someone was in a good mood. This just kept getting weirder and weirder.

“Or maybe it's just fed up with you,” Draco speculated. “First you rip it apart and now you just throw it about all day long.”

“I'm not throwing it about,” Potter protested. “I'm just playing with it.”

“So, you didn't throw it at Sanders?”

“That was different! She completely deserved that! And it's just a Snitch! Not like I could have killed her with it or anything!”

“Well, you managed to kill yourself with that very Snitch, didn't you?” Draco said pointedly.

“Shut it, Malfoy. You know what I mean!” Potter said, putting his arms across his chest. His fingers dug into his upper arms, the knuckles white. It rather looked like he was clinging to himself. So much for his good mood.

“I wasn't trying to seriously hurt her,” he added defiantly.

“So, you didn't try to set her on fire, as well?” Draco asked.

“And how would I have done that? Did I throw a match at her too?” Potter was really surging up now.

Draco just kept looking at him, which definitely didn’t help calming him down. “She thinks you are hiding your wand somewhere.”

Potter threw out his arms angrily. “Oh? Do you think so too? Do you want to search me, perhaps?!”

“No, not at all,” Draco said calmly. “I know perfectly well that you can set someone on fire even without your wand. Your anger issues and poor impulse control are seeing to that.”

“Are you done lecturing me now?” Potter bit out.

“Not yet,” Draco said, sighing. “Look, I couldn't care less for Sanders. She should have left you alone after you first threw the Snitch at her, at the latest. What I do care about is not being set on fire. Understood?”

There was silence for a second.

“Yeah, fine,” Potter grumbled.

Draco clapped his hands once, startling him.

“Alright, get up!” he said and Potter obeyed grudgingly.

“Okay, now close your eyes,” Draco instructed.

Potter knit his eyebrows. “I'm not doing that.”

Draco told himself to keep calm. He was a professional. Patients were difficult sometimes. He could manage. “Why not? I can't jinx you if I want to keep my job, can I?”

“Fine,” Potter pressed out. “But if you want to leave here with both your hands attached, you’d better not touch me.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” Draco said, putting his wand above his heart for emphasis. Potter closed his eyes reluctantly.

“Okay, now picture all the things you can't do right now.”

Potter's brow furrowed some more and he was swaying slightly on the spot. This was, of course, to be expected, since his sense of balance was screwed up, his legs were rather weak and his eyes were closed. Draco kept his hands firmly at his sides and just took a few steps back as Potter fell down on his hands and knees.

He hit the floor with a yell and then whipped his head up to narrow his eyes at Draco. “Did you plan for that?!” he asked furiously.

“No. I planned on catching you,” Draco said matter-of-factly. “But I also really like my hands. You see my dilemma.”

Potter glared at him some more and Draco decided he could stand to budge an inch.

“Tell you what: You can hold onto my arm and I won't have to touch you at all,” Draco offered. “You can even pinch me if you get too fed up with me, which I'm sure will happen sooner rather than later.”

Potter pulled himself up and then took a hold of his proffered right arm. It always felt wrong to have others touch his left, but offering it to Harry Potter of all people would have felt downright filthy. If Potter had noticed him switching to his left side, he didn't mention it.

“Alright, close your eyes again. Now think of everything you'll get to do once you're discharged.”

Potter looked rather distracted, a laborious expression on his face.

After half a minute, he muttered, “I can't think with my eyes closed and you standing next to me.”

“Quidditch,” Draco suggested. “Birthday parties. Sleeping in your own bed. Getting laid at illegal Polyjuice Parties.”

Potter pinched him hard. “We don't ever talk about that, because it didn't happen!”

“Ouch! Stop it, Potter!” Draco yelped.

He tried to wrench his arm away, but Potter was holding on tight, still pinching him. Using his left arm, Draco pushed him away by the forehead and Potter fell back onto the bed.

“You're not allowed to talk about that! That's a breach of Healer-patient confidentiality!”

“I am allowed to talk to the patient about it!”

Potter pulled his leg up onto the bed and put his arms around his knees, on which he rested his head.

“This is stupid. Your whole Zen charade is completely useless.”

“I'm trying to give you a goal to work for, but you're too busy feeling sorry for yourself! It’s quite pathetic, to be honest.”

Draco took a small, golden box out of his front pocket and slapped it on the side table. The Golden Snitch, still spinning, rolled over to it like it had been accio-ed.

“What's that?” Potter looked up at him, intrigued.

“An incentive.”

Potter took the box (and the Snitch, since it was sticking to it) and opened it. Inside were two delicate silvery wings.

“Where did you get these?” he asked and took them out gingerly.

“Found them on the pitch,” Draco said, still pissed off.

“I thought you said the wings were evidence?”

Draco shrugged. “I never said the Aurors found them, did I? Doesn’t mean they’re not evidence. Not very thorough, these professionals.”

“They look really pitiful,” Potter said, closing his eyes and also both hands around the Snitch and its wings. “Reparo.”

A faint light shone through his fingers and something jingled in his hands. When he opened them again, the Snitch was whole once more.

“First of all: show-off,” said Draco with a roll of his eyes.

But Potter just grinned at him and lifted it up between thumb and index finger before letting it go. It hovered in the air between the two of them and they watched the tiny wings flutter happily.

Potter opened his mouth to say something when his magic failed unexpectedly. The body of the Snitch dropped to the floor like a stone. The wings sailed down slowly, finally landing on Potter's legs. Potter seemed to be rather upset and it took him a few seconds to close his mouth.

“Second of all: You shouldn’t use magic while you’re still healing. It will only take longer.”

Potter completely ignored what Draco had said and instead offered the wings to him. “You fix them.”

Draco summoned the golden body and dropped it into Potters outstretched hand.

“No,” he said bluntly. “You'll have to do this yourself, when you get out of here.”

This set Potter off again. Of course. “Why? Because I’m not jumping at the chance to meditate with you? That’s really childish, Malfoy.”

“No, because there are things you have to actually work for! And some things are worth the effort!” Draco said sharply. “You can't just expect everything to magically fix itself! That’s childish.”

For a moment it seemed that Potter was going to fight him on it. But then he looked down at the Snitch in his hands, battered and broken, but still fighting, and there was resolution on his face.

“Yeah … You're right.” Potter pointed at him and added sternly, “Don’t ever tell anybody I said that.”

He put the wings back into their box and got up from the bed. Draco flinched when Potter took hold of his left arm of his own accord and closed his eyes.

A chill travelled up Draco’s arm, and he tried desperately to shake it off before Potter could notice. What the hell was wrong with him?

“Alright, I'm ready. Let's do this!”

Chapter Text

Draco was just discharging his last patient for the day when he heard the turmoil that was taking place at the entrance. Always in the mood for a little drama he could retell later, he went over to see what the racket was about. A middle-aged man with ginger hair was arguing with the Welcome Witch heatedly.

“I don’t care if he’s tending to the Queen of England! I need to see Malfoy right now!”

The man banged both his hands on the desk, unsettling the little sign reading ‘Please keep a respectful distance (Our Welcome Witch is authorised to use Body-Binds)’.

“Sir, you’ll have to wait like everybody else,” the Welcome Witch huffed, barely looking up from her paperwork. “Just tell me your name and emergency, then sit down in the waiting area until your name is called up.”

“I can’t wait for Malfoy to heal some measly measles or whatever he’s doing all day. This is a matter of life and death!” the man protested, running a hand through his hair with way too much force, like somebody who just had a haircut and wasn’t used to their hair being that short.

“You’ll have to make do with another member of our staff. Healer Malfoy has already retired for the day,” she droned out.

Draco put down the fire-proof bandages he was holding and went over to rescue the Welcome Witch. “It’s alright, I’ll take care of it.”

He pulled the man away from the desk by his arm. She just glared at him and muttered something about rewarding rude behaviour under her breath. Draco led the man into the next empty examination room and closed the door behind them.

“Alright, Potter. What’s so important it can’t possibly wait?”

“How did you –” the man spluttered.

“Oh please, don’t insult me.” Draco smirked. “You’ve got a tell.”

Potter just looked at him dumbfounded, for once lost for words.

“Well? Spit it out already. Won’t the Polyjuice wear off?” Draco guessed.

“No,” Potter said as he took off the locket he had stuffed under his plaid shirt. He changed right back into his normal self.

“Dayal won’t clear me for the game,” he complained. “He says there’s nothing he can do, because you estimated it would take me until the middle of November to fully recover.”

“Yes, I did, because you were being a stubborn moron. Once you agreed to let me help you, you progressed much faster.”

“Try telling him that!”

“Dayal is a little … let’s say meticulous,” Draco complied.

“Let’s say he’s a lot incompetent,” Potter said angrily. “Draco, please fix this!”

Draco’s heart skipped a beat at being addressed like this by Potter. He grimaced, a look that was immediately mirrored on Potter’s face. That was what instant regret looked like.

“Did you just –”

“Yeah, it felt wrong as soon as I said it,” Potter said. “Do you see what this is doing to me?”

“You must be really distressed to stoop that low.”

Why did it feel like they were exaggerating right now? True, they had never called each other by their first names, but was that really so unthinkable? Draco had a nagging feeling that they were mostly playing pretend by now, because that was what they were used to.

“You know how much I need this match. The only thing that carried me through the last month was imagining McCarthy’s reaction when I fly into the arena. I planned on hiring a photographer to follow her around and capture the look on her stupid face!”

“Yes, that’s totally healthy,” Draco agreed.

He summoned the vital vials and began his examination. He also made Potter do some exercises, watching for any restrictions he might have overlooked when he had discharged Potter a week ago. Apart from his unusually low body temperature (which he had apparently always had and never wanted to discuss), Potter was as fit as a fiddle. Draco filled out the certificate.

“There you go,” he said, holding it out to him. “You’d better hurry. Doesn’t the match start in less than an hour?”

Potter snatched the paper from him and then hugged him spontaneously, almost crushing Draco against his chest. He may have been only five foot five (not that Draco had checked his chart for the information) with the thin build that was typical for Seekers, but he was definitely stronger than he looked.

“Quit flirting, Potter,” Draco protested, supressing a grin. “I thought we’ve already established that doesn’t work for us. Just catch the Snitch, or I’ll be mortally offended.”

“Oh well, now that you say it,” Potter said, letting go of him and putting his locket back on. “I was planning on just chasing the Quaffle instead. But the Snitch works just as well, I guess.”

Draco snorted. Potter seemed to blush slightly, something Draco had never seen him do (probably due to the fact that his skin usually wasn’t as pale as it was now, glamoured as an honorary Weasley). He made to leave and then stopped at the door, his hand already on the handle.

“Hey, you get off now, right?” he asked suddenly, still flushed. “Would you like to come? You could take a photo of McCarthy for me. And bring Blaise as well. I’ll put you on the list. I owe him one for the disaster with the Lightning Blast.”

And then, before Draco had a chance to answer or even think about it, he was gone.

~o~

Potter had indeed put them on the list. The players were already doing their warm-ups when the usher led them up into the Falcons’ exclusive stands. The occupancy was much the same as last time – reserve players and family members were talking amongst themselves. Only Coach Greyson and his daughter (that fake-ginger bitch) were nowhere to be seen. Draco sat down and looked out at the field. To his surprise, McCarthy was currently doing her rounds around the goal hoops.

Just then, Potter entered the stands, shouldering his broomstick. He grinned at Blaise and him, and then went over to a young, blond man who was, judging by his robes, the Falcons’ vice-coach.

“David! I’m good to go,” he said, holding out his certificate.

David’s face fell. “Matt’s already put in Felicity for this match …” he said uncertainly. “Don’t know where he is ...”

Potter wasn’t deterred by this. “I’m First Seeker. That means he wants me to seek first, right?” he said confidently.

David seemed to be on the fence for a few seconds, but then he made up his mind and took the paper from Potter.

“Get warmed up,” he said, decidedly now. “And try to tell Felicity gently.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Potter said, catching Draco’s gaze. “Sensitivity is my middle name.”

“That’s not what your Chocolate Frog card says!” David called after him, but Potter had already mounted his broomstick and flown into the arena.

McCarthy turned around immediately, alerted by the sudden rise in noise from the crowd. Draco had never seen a more furious expression than the one she made when she spotted Potter, who was flying straight at her. She landed and threw her broom to the ground hard, storming off into the locker rooms. A broom-boy ran onto the field to collect her discarded (and ridiculously expensive) broom.

Greyson entered the stands fifteen minutes later. Draco expected him to be elated, since he had visited Potter at St. Mungo’s every other day and constantly pestered him for updates on his health. But the look on his face when he saw Potter in the air, hovering above the Falcons’ Keeper in starting formation, was one of pure shock. He turned to David immediately.

“What’s Potter doing out there? He doesn’t have clearance!”

“He does!” David waved the certificate at him, immediately on the defence. “Healer Malfoy cleared him an hour ago!” He indicated Draco with a nod of his head.

Greyson whirled around. His eyes narrowed when he saw Draco and Blaise in the stands. The referee chose that moment to blow her whistle, which was probably why he closed his mouth and sat down next to David, staring at Potter like he expected him to drop dead every second now.

“You don’t get to decide these things, David,” Greyson said under his breath. “You better hope he’s up to the task, or it will be your job on the line.”

Blaise leaned over to Malfoy, grinning at him. “Never mind him,” he said loudly. “I still trust in your healing abilities, or I wouldn’t have placed a very large bet on Harry catching the Snitch.”

Draco really hoped he wouldn’t be the one costing the vice-coach his job and Blaise a lot of gold. It wasn’t like Potter had wrapped him around his little finger. No, there had been nothing wrong with him earlier and Draco had just done his job. Clearing Potter had not been a favour.

The match was brutal. The Falcons were their usual reckless selves. Dayal and the Harpies’ Healer had their work cut out for them as players were Bludgered left and right or just plain barging into each other to clear the way. Potter, obviously in high spirits due to McCarthy’s dismissal from the line-up, was in top form. He seemed to evade everyone and everything effortlessly, a perfect unity of flier and broom.

But even the best Seeker could not win a match on his own. The Harpies’ Chasers, Ginny Weasley among them, were scoring goals left, right and centre. It was sheer impossible for the Falcons to keep up.

In the end it was Potter who caught the Snitch in an act of damage control. The game ended 480 – 310 for the Holyhead Harpies.

Spirits were low in their stands, which was why Blaise and Draco didn’t linger. They had just reached the exit when somebody called after them.

“Malfoy! Zabini!”

They turned around. Charlie Weasley was coming over to them from the Harpies’ stands, where Bill, Fleur, Granger and Weasley were still standing, apparently waiting for him.

“We’re having a victory celebration at the Burrow. Ginny’s team won and Harry caught the Snitch!” He grinned at them. “Do you want to join us? After all, it’s due to you that Harry could play.”

Draco looked over at the others. They all grinned and waved at them.

When had he become friendly with the Weasley clan? He supposed it had happened somewhere around the time when they had offered him the use of their first names on Granger’s birthday – even if he couldn’t bring himself to follow through with that completely. Potter, Granger and Weasley would always remain just that. That was just how it was. No matter what Potter called him in a moment of desperation.

Did he want to be friendly with them? He certainly knew how his father would want him to answer that question. Well, at least he couldn’t threaten Draco with disinheritance any more. That ship had definitely sailed.

He was just about to politely decline when Blaise beat him to the punch, elbowing Draco in the ribs.

“With pleasure! We’ve got nothing better to do anyway!” he exclaimed excitedly, grabbing Draco’s arm and dragging him over to the remaining Weasleys.

“I do!” Draco protested. “Aurelius is waiting for me at home!”

“He’s used to it by now,” Blaise said dismissively. “And he knows where you keep the food; he won’t starve.”

And then Bill grabbed Draco’s arm and Disapparated with him before could get in another word.

~o~

Attendance was near the same as it had been at Granger’s birthday party, with most of the Holyhead Harpies to boot. Draco could practically watch as Blaise’s eyes glazed over. The very next second, he was swarming out to find himself some company for the evening.

Draco joined Lovegood and Thomas at the bonfire that was already blazing in the garden. They were sitting on benches that seemed to be carved from tree trunks, drinking butterbeer.

The later it got, the more people joined them to warm themselves at the fire and eat self-roasting marshmallows, until it was fully dark and all the seats were taken.

Ginny Weasley was sitting between Draco and Blaise, entertaining all of them with her account of the match, when somebody put a hand on Draco’s and her shoulder. Draco looked up at Potter, who was now trying to squeeze between them.

When he finally managed, the bench was so cramped that it felt like their sides were fused together. Draco’s body was thoroughly warmed by the fire and Potter’s felt icy in contrast, which didn’t make ignoring it any easier.

“Here,” Potter said, holding out his closed left fist. Draco held out his hand automatically and Potter dropped the Golden Snitch into his right palm.

“There you go. Your Snitch.” He grinned, his face illuminated warmly by the flickering light.

As he closed his fist around the Snitch, Draco’s stomach did a very odd thing – it felt like something hot spreading through his body. The marshmallows couldn’t still be roasting inside him, could they?

“You shouldn’t have,” Draco teased, ignoring the tingling feeling in his stomach. “I hope it wasn’t too much of a bother?”

“No big,” Potter said cockily, looking over at the Harpies’ Seeker, who was sitting opposite him, her flaming red hair practically glowing in the fiery light. “It was just flying around; I don’t think Georgina even wanted it.”

Georgina Thompson chucked a marshmallow at Potter, who caught it in his mouth and grinned at her. “Thanks!” he said and she rolled her eyes.

“You’re a menace, Potter,” she said, but Draco could see she was grinning too as she turned to talk to her neighbour again.

Potter peered at Ginny, who was talking animatedly to Blaise, and then managed to lean closer still to Draco. He could now feel the muscles flex in Potter’s arm and leg, and Draco had the sudden realisation he hadn’t had sex for over a year now and – FUCKING HELL, this was Potter sitting next to him! Where did these thoughts come from all of a sudden? Could he really be this desperate for some affection?

He decided then and there to leave as soon as the opportunity would present itself. But why was it suddenly so hard to get up and just go?

“All right, tell me,” Potter said quietly and Draco flinched at the feeling of hot breath on his cheek. “What’s my tell?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know!” Draco laughed throatily. “But I’m not telling.”

He could feel the green eyes fixed on his profile and refused to face him. They were sitting way too close for that. It seemed that Draco had some things to work out before he was ready for that.

“Come on. I’ll give you the Snitch as payment.”

“But you already gave it to me,” Draco said smugly, trying with all his might to just act normal.

He quickly put the Snitch into his left pocket to prevent any funny business Potter could get up to. This was no mean feat, as he could barely reach his pocket without elbowing his neighbour.

“Malfoy, please! I’m dying to know!” Potter actually whined.

“If I tell you, how will I recognize you in the future?”

Potter grumbled, “I fucking hate Slytherins.”

“What did we do?” Blaise clutched at his chest as if Potter had personally wounded him. Why was he even listening in on their conversation? And wow, way to keep your cool, Draco.

“Not you, Blaise,” Potter said placatingly. “You’re quite alright for a Slytherin.”

Draco suddenly registered that Potter didn’t call Blaise by his last name anymore and also hadn’t earlier, when he had invited them to the match.

Could there be something going on between the two of them? Had Potter invited him to the match to have a reason to see Blaise? And most importantly: Why did Draco suddenly care about Blaise’s love life?

He told himself it was because he didn’t want Blaise to end up on the front page of the Prophet yet again. He was still getting hate mail for almost permanently killing the Golden Boy.

Some of the pressure against Draco’s right side vanished suddenly. Blaise and Ginny had gotten up and were on their way toward the broom shack, talking about different builds. Potter looked after them, seemingly so distracted he didn’t even think to slide away from Draco, now that there was more than enough room on their bench.

Draco got up as well and Potter almost tipped over, suddenly off balance.

“I have to go. Aurelius is waiting for me at home and I don’t want him to eat all of my cereals,” Draco said, which was almost true. Aurelius was waiting for him, after all. Potter didn’t need to know that Draco had forgotten to buy cereals. That wasn’t the essential part of his sentence, anyway.

Potter shot him a confused glance and then quickly looked back to where Blaise and Ginny had disappeared.

“All right. Nice of you to drop by,” Potter replied after a few seconds, running a hand through his hair and not meeting his eyes again. Had his voice gone colder as well? Did he think that Blaise and Ginny were up to something?

Draco decided that he didn’t care and Apparated home. After all, this had nothing to do with him.

Chapter Text

When Draco knocked at Blaise’s door for their usual Wednesday Dinner, he wasn’t home. Sooky opened the door and informed him that the Master had yet to come back from the workshop. Draco declined her offer to wait for him in the parlour and borrowed Blaise’s owl instead.

Blaise,

This is the third time you stood me up in the last four (!!) weeks. I’ve gone home to plot my revenge. If you know what is good for you, you’ll be there in the next 30 minutes. Bring pizza, or else.

D. M.

~o~

According to his stopwatch, his doorbell rang exactly twenty-nine minutes later. Draco threw his book onto the table and went to open the door when he heard something unexpected – people talking at his front door.

“Blaise, stop fucking with us,” someone said right outside. And fucking hell, he knew that voice. “This is a Muggle neighbourhood. Why would Malfoy ever live here?”

“Yeah, we’re not entirely stupid,” a female voice agreed. “And only one of us hit his head lately.”

“Hey!” the first voice protested. “Is that how you show your love for me?”

Draco opened the door and was greeted with the sight of Blaise, carrying four large pizza boxes. Ginny and Potter were standing on either side of him, shouldering a Firebolt Gold and a Lightning Blast each. All of them were dressed in extremely tight-fitting long-sleeved shirts and trackies.

Draco’s stomach dropped, as did his face. Fuck this, Potter was seriously fit. It was simply unfair that he could look even better in that than half-naked. Well, maybe not better-better. Draco would have to see him without the clothes again to really be able to compare and fuck, where did all that come from all of a sudden?!

“Surprise!” Blaise exclaimed, pushing past him into the hallway. “Move it, I think she is glued to her window already.”

Draco looked across the street at Mrs. Capitelli’s house, where the curtains were moving suspiciously. It was dark enough already that Draco was hopeful she wouldn’t be able to make out what exactly Potter and Ginny were carrying. He still hurried to close the door behind them. The two of them exchanged confused looks.

“You don’t really live here, right?” Potter asked suspiciously, placing their brooms in a neat row by the door.

“Why not?” Draco asked pointedly, leading them into the kitchen. “What’s wrong with it?”

“You’ve got a fridge!” Potter said, opening the grey monstrosity Draco stored his leftovers in.

Draco examined the thing. The previous owner (a sweet old lady who had to move into a retirement home) had never told him its name, and Blaise didn’t know either, of course.

“Oh, is that what it is called?”

“Yes! What are you calling it?” Potter asked.

“The cooling cabinet, of course. That’s what it does.”

Blaise and Ginny had already cleared the table from books and parchment and were now busy cutting the pizzas.

“Why is the light not working?” Potter said, leaning into the fridge and tapping the glass tube at the top.

“Is there supposed to be light? That would be really convenient,” Draco said. Why had nobody ever told him about the food light?

Potter closed the door and went to look behind the fridge.

“Malfoy! It’s not even plugged in!”

Draco raised an eyebrow at him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Potter.”

Potter was now handling one of the tiny white levers in the wall. Draco wasn’t entirely sure what he was expecting, but it clearly was not happening.

“There is no electricity!”

“Well of course not, it gets confused when there’s magic,” Draco said. “Everybody knows that.”

“Then why are you storing food in your fridge?” Potter sounded exasperated now.

Draco really didn’t know why this bothered Potter so much, but it definitely was a stupid question. “Because that’s its purpose?”

Potter threw his hands up in frustration. “But it’s not working!”

“It is so! I put a cooling charm on it!”

Blaise and Ginny were now sitting at the table, watching them argue. “Wow, this really is a train wreck,” she said under her breath.

Draco glared at her, but instead of cowering she held his gaze and took a bite of her pizza demonstratively. Well, he couldn’t argue with that.

Draco sat down next to Blaise, and Potter took the seat opposite him. Blaise handed him his Hawaiian pizza and they began to eat.

“Where’s Aurelius?” Blaise said, probably to change the subject.

“He’s asleep upstairs. Probably waited up for me all night, the clingy bastard,” Draco said, not quite managing to sound annoyed. “And then he hid my alarm clock. I overslept by an hour!”

“Ah, you should be thankful there’s someone waiting for you at home,” Blaise said. “All I’ve got is Sooky.”

Draco was pretty sure he saw Potter flinch. He looked at Ginny, but she seemed oblivious. Potter was staring at him, shaking his head slightly. Draco smirked and Potter’s eyes narrowed.

“Well, she does look out for you, doesn’t she?” Draco said ostentatiously.

Potter kicked him under the table, hard. His legs were definitely back at full strength. Draco kept a straight face. Barely. His shin was throbbing quite a bit.

“I guess so …” Blaise agreed hesitantly, glancing at Ginny as well.

Didn’t he want her to know about his one-night stand with Potter? Was it even just a one-night stand anymore?

“Hey, Malfoy? Why are all your mugs on the floor?”

Very smooth, Potter.

Draco followed his gaze. His mugs were, indeed, on the floor in front of the couch. He had been so absorbed in his reading that he hadn’t even noticed.

“You know what? I have no idea. You’d have to ask Aurelius,” Draco said earnestly.

This didn’t seem to be the answer Potter wanted to hear. He rolled his eyes and was suddenly very interested in his pizza. Draco exchanged a confused look with Blaise, but he just shrugged.

“So,” Draco said casually, like he wasn’t dying to know the answer. “How did you come to bring these two to our Wednesday Dinner?”

“We’ve been working on the Lightning Blast all day. Didn’t even remember to eat lunch,” Blaise said excitedly.

And then they were talking about broomsticks for the rest of the meal.

“Hey, it's Bill’s birthday this month,” Ginny said when all the pizza was gone. “You two should definitely come to the party. It won't be as quiet as the last, though.”

“Quiet?” Draco said disbelieving. “I think a Weasley get-together stops being quiet as soon as it passes the Three-Weasleys-Mark.”

“You'll be there then?” she said, grinning. “It's on November twenty-ninth. The party starts at eight at Shell Cottage.”

“Of course we'll be there!” Blaise agreed instantly.

Draco was more hesitant. The last party he had attended hadn't ended all that pleasantly and he wasn't too keen on witnessing any more of the love triangle between Potter, Blaise and Ginny.

Ginny seemed to sense his lack of enthusiasm. “Come on, Draco! You can bring Aurelius if you like,” she offered. “Then he won't have to pine for you all night. Ouch, Harry!”

Potter had apparently kicked her under the table and was now glaring at her, probably because she didn't take this as quietly as Draco had. Well, at least now he knew that Potter wasn't keen on having him there either.

But why had he come here, then? Had Blaise and Ginny talked him into it, like she was trying with Draco now? Or maybe he hadn’t actually believed that they would be visiting Draco? He and Ginny had been very surprised to see him here.

“I have the night shift,” Draco lied effortlessly. “I'll see if I can switch it around.”

Which meant, of course, that he would most definitely not make it.

Chapter Text

Being friends with Blaise Zabini often had its perks. Blaise was almost always in a good mood, incredibly charming and the life of every party. And he could make almost anything happen, be it a reservation at a fancy restaurant or a meeting with some high-up Ministry official. Blaise either knew someone or he at least knew someone who knew someone.

The downside to being friends with Blaise Zabini was that he could make almost anything happen. If Blaise wanted something, he could not be deterred. And Blaise wanted Draco to go to that party with him.

When Draco left his house for work on Monday evening, Blaise was waiting for him, leaning against his hedge.

Draco stopped dead in his tracks and instantly wished he had just Apparated from inside. Screw the neighbours. He’d rather they get suspicious about him never actually leaving for work than endure this.

“Draco, you need to get out more,” Blaise said gravely. “Go back in and put something on that will get you laid.”

“I already told you. I can't go with you; I have to go to work.”

“No, you don't. I talked to Grimm and he was willing to switch shifts with you. You're welcome.”

“You did what?” Draco asked incredulously.

“Yes, indeed. I know you already asked him, but he seems to have forgotten,” Blaise said casually. “Seemed to think you switched to night shift only a week ago. Absurd, I know. If that were true, you’d have to have done it on purpose so you wouldn’t be free tonight. He isn't getting any younger, I reckon.”

“Blaise –” Draco started, but Blaise turned him around by the shoulders and led him back inside.

“No arguments! You can't rely on the Malfoy name anymore; you need to start networking. And nowadays that includes anybody that Potter is friendly with.”

“I know you, don't I? You seem rather friendly with him.”

“It's not a network if it only consists of one person,” Blaise said, leading him upstairs.

“Fine,” Draco relented. Not that there was any way for him to get out of this. “But I'm bringing Aurelius.”

“Good idea! He's a chick magnet!”

“Blaise!”

“Don't worry, the men will like him as well,” Blaise assured him. He snatched the pullover Draco had pulled from his wardrobe out of his hand and threw it somewhere beside his bed. “No green, you don't have to remind them you're a Slytherin.”

And then Blaise swept him out of the way and dove into his wardrobe himself, which was why Draco ended up in black, form-fitting jeans and a light-blue shirt that allegedly brought out his eyes. Not that Draco knew how one could highlight eyes that were such a boring grey. Now, Potter's eyes on the other hand ...

And why was he thinking about Potter's eyes now? They weren't even talking about him right now! What was wrong with him? It was probably because he had seen so much of Potter lately. He would just try to keep out of his way tonight and everything would go back to normal eventually.

~o~

Draco was hammered. Bill's party was nothing like the ones he had attended at the Burrow. There were no grown-ups present (if one followed Draco’s example and thought of grown-ups as people over forty years old), but instead a very large crowd of young wizards and witches. Some of them were Curse Breakers at Gringotts (and most of those were probably Gryffindors). Then there were a ton of students from Bill's graduating class and a respectable amount of French people.

Draco had managed to avoid Potter so far, which was not hard at all, since he was notably absent. Though he had resolved to stay out of Potter's way, Draco found that he was scanning the crowd for him with increasing frequency. It was only because his absence was so strange. Rude, even. No other reason.

Draco had talked to Luna and Thomas, Longbottom and Abbott, as well as Granger and all of the Weasley children, but he had not yet seen a single stupid lock of Potter's stupid hair. He had heard his name mentioned several times, but always by people who were wondering if he wasn't attending, and none of them were people Draco knew.

Draco had been given a glass of Firewhisky as soon as they arrived and he hadn't let go of it since. The glass was charmed to refill itself constantly, which was a blessing because Draco had taken to have a sip whenever he thought of Potter or his stupid bright eyes or his stupid not-quite-curly hair or his stupid, thoroughly fit body. Stupid.

It was half past twelve when Draco decided he had enough. He could barely walk in a straight line anymore and his head was swimming, which was rather pathetic for a Malfoy. He was supposed to always keep his composure, but here he was, smashed because a guy he definitely didn't fancy wasn't here. Blaise was right – Draco was in desperate need of getting laid.

He would just go home now. Right now. He would just ... just find Aurelius and then go home. Curse that dog, why did he always have to make his life harder than it had to be?

He went over to where Ginny was playing a game of butterbeer pong with some of Bill's former classmates.

“Hey, have you seen Aurelius?” he asked, trying to focus on her face. Wasn’t as easy as it sounds.

“Oh, did you bring him?” she said excitedly. “No, I haven't seen him at all. What does he look like?”

“Er –” Draco had trouble concentrating. “Golden, medium height and brown eyes, I guess? And he's really friendly, ran off as soon as we got here.”

“I'll send him your way if I see him,” she promised and threw a small ball into one of the cups on the opposite side of the table. The boy next to her cheered loudly.

Draco made his way through the garden and also searched the kitchen, where Aurelius liked to spend most of his time at home. When that didn't yield any results, he went outside again and then down some winding stairs until he reached the shore. Golden retrievers loved water, right?

The further he got away from the cottage the quieter it was, and when Draco reached the bathing jetty, he could only just hear the beat of the music. Aurelius was there, lying next to a young man who was sitting cross-legged, stroking his fur.

“Lee!” Draco exclaimed, plonking himself down on Aurelius' other side. “You're a fairy friend! No, that's not right ... a fair ... something.”

“Fair-weather friend?” the stranger suggested. Draco looked at him, squinting his eyes to stop his vision from blurring.

“Hey, did anyone ever tell you that you look a bit like Potter?” Draco asked bluntly. “Only your eyes are the wrong colour ... and your hair is not as stupid, I guess. And then there's the scar, of course. Be glad you don’t have that.”

The guy, maybe a few years older than Draco, looked at him perplexedly with his bright blue eyes. He ruffled his wavy brown hair with one hand while the other kept stroking Aurelius. His forehead was indeed unscathed, but he had roughly the same olive skin tone as Potter. If Draco squinted his eyes some more, he could probably pretend it was Potter. And Draco had to stop thinking about Potter, for fuck's sake.

“I get that, sometimes,” Not-Potter said, screwing up his face.

“Don't like to hear it?” Draco asked. His eyes were fixed on the waves splashing against the shore, which certainly didn’t help with his light-headedness.

“He seems like a big-headed bastard, doesn't he?” Not-Potter went on. “So what, he killed Vo- er … You-Know-Who. Big fucking deal.”

Draco arched one of his brows, which wasn't that easy, because his face felt somewhat numb. Whether this was due to the cold wind or the alcohol, he couldn't say.

“What?” Not-Potter said. “You're no fan of him either, are you?”

“He's not half bad,” Draco shrugged. “Unbelievably stubborn, but at least he knows what he wants and goes for it. I can respect that.”

The guy frowned. “Are you friends or something?”

“I wouldn't go that far. We're friendly, I guess.”

“Right, I forgot. You treated him, didn't you? It said so in the Prophet.” Not-Potter leaned a bit closer, suddenly very interested. “What was that like? Got any good stories?”

Draco tickled Aurelius between the ears, making his tail thump against the wood.

“I'd rather not talk about Potter,” Draco said shortly, because he also didn't want to think about Potter. “I'm not allowed to, anyways. Confididenti-thingy ... you know. Means I legally can’t.”

They were silent for a moment, both stroking Aurelius and looking out at the water.

“Who names their dog Lee?” the man said suddenly.

“Name's Aurelius,” Draco said. “Way too long to shout. Should've thought of that when I named him.”

“That's Aurelius?” the man asked sharply, a note of disbelief in his voice. Draco nodded confusedly.

“And I'm guessing he's not an Animagus?”

“An – why would he be an Animagus?” Draco laughed.

But Draco never got to know the answer, because suddenly, the guy was kissing him. Draco's mind was moving a bit slower than usual, which was why he froze on the spot, one hand still on Aurelius' head. Not-Potter backed off almost instantly.

“I – sorry, I thought you were –” he stammered, apparently horrified.

Draco's mind was racing. Not-Potter had kissed him. He had been kissed. He had a crush on Harry fucking Potter, which was a total fucking disaster, and here was a guy who looked like his older brother, kissing him willingly. And maybe this was an opportunity. Maybe this was what he needed to get Potter out of his system.

“No, I am,” Draco said roughly and then he was pulling the guy in by the neck and kissing him fervently.

He barely noticed when Aurelius startled and scarpered and he certainly didn't care. Draco had not kissed anyone for over a year and this guy was good. Suddenly he didn't feel cold at all anymore and when the guy began nipping at his bottom lip, Draco grew bold as well and slid a hand under his t-shirt.

Not-Potters torso was wiry and cool under his fingertips – exactly like Draco imagined Potter's body would feel like. Scratch that, Draco had examined Potter enough times, he knew what he felt like. Great.

And with his eyes closed now, it wasn't hard at all to imagine it was Potter who pushed him onto his back by the shoulders. Potter, who promptly followed and was leaning over him now, his forearms resting on either side of Draco's head. Potter, who kissed him hungrily while Draco's hands moved from his flat stomach to his muscular back.

Not-Potter broke the kiss to draw a deep, shuddering breath and something fell out of the front of his t-shirt, landing on Draco's chest. He looked down and saw that it was a silver pendant on a delicate golden chain, but before he could get a clearer view, the guy had already snatched it up and put it back.

But the spell seemed to be broken. Not-Potter got up on his knees, shot a quick glance to the top of the stairs and then looked at him, clearly on the fence. Draco propped himself up, head swimming and very confused.

“Sorry, I've got to go,” the guy mumbled and then he was on his feet and almost sprinting up the steps, leaving Draco with nothing but a racing heart and mind.

Draco stayed on the jetty for a good fifteen minutes after the guy had fled. When he finally had himself under control again, he straightened his clothes and went back up to find Aurelius and then bail.

The golden retriever was napping at Granger's feet. Draco approached her casually, trying not to look like he had just made out with a total stranger.

“Hey Granger,” he said friendly. “I'll have to hijack my dog now.”

“Oh, that's too bad,” she said, giving Aurelius a final pat on the side. “Did you have fun?”

“Yes, thank you, it was really ... something else,” he said, bending down to rouse Aurelius.

“That's one way to put it,” she smiled. “So, did Harry get a chance to talk to you?”

Draco furrowed his brow. “No, I haven't seen him at all tonight. Is he here?” Potter had wanted to talk to him? He hadn’t even wanted Draco to come!

“Yes, of course,” Granger said like it was a dumb question. “I think I saw him go down to the shore a while ago.”

Draco looked up at once as a cold shiver went down his spine.

Had Potter seen him make out with his look-alike? Would he know that their uncanny resemblance was the reason Draco had made out with him? Would he avoid him even more than he was already? Would he tell someone? This was bad. Really, really bad.

“Draco?” Granger said hesitantly. “Are you alright? You don't look so well.”

“Fine,” Draco said feebly and he hurriedly took Aurelius and bailed. No need to find Blaise. He would figure out that he had gone home eventually.

Chapter Text

Potter must have caught them; Draco was sure of it. He hadn’t seen Potter for almost two weeks. The Quidditch season was over, which meant injuries were at a low, if not necessarily non-existent.

Potter hadn’t been at St. Mungo’s since the party, which was a rather long hiatus for him. He usually came in at least once a week, as the Falcons’ daily trainings were still brutal. Draco knew for a fact that Potter hadn’t been to the hospital, because he kept checking his case files daily. For medical reasons.

Blaise, on the other hand, had seen Potter several times and for hours on end. They were still working on the Lightning Blast together and Blaise had been waxing lyrically about their progress over Wednesday Dinner, which had taken place at Draco’s again. Blaise had been almost forty minutes late. Draco didn’t want to know what had made him forget the time.

For a wild moment, Draco had dared to think that maybe Potter would be accompanying Blaise again, but that hadn’t happened. Blaise had told him that he had invited Potter, but he had feigned a slim excuse and then left the workshop in a hurry.

Draco didn’t know if he should be disappointed or relieved. He wasn’t sure if he could look into Potter’s eyes ever again, but at the same time, he longed to see him, maybe exchange some insults and be glared at. That always made him feel better.

Now it was Friday evening and Draco was sitting on his couch with a book in his lap, staring into the roaring fireplace and thinking about Potter. It wasn’t that he had planned to do it – he had been reading about rare curse scars, but then the book had mentioned Potter’s scar in passing and Draco’s concentration had gone out of the window.

Draco really didn’t want to know how long he had been staring into the flames when the doorbell rang. His stomach grumbled on cue and Draco grabbed his wallet and went to open the door.

It wasn’t the delivery boy in front of his door. In fact, there was nobody at all. Draco looked up and down the street, but the only person he could see was Mrs. Capitelli, who was clipping her rose bushes. The Jones’ boys had probably played a prank on him again.

“I fucking hate children,” Draco muttered to himself and motioned to close the door again, when something blocked it suddenly.

“Malfoy! It’s me,” whispered an urgent voice. And Draco knew perfectly well who ‘me’ was.

“Potter?”

But Potter, still invisible, had already pushed past him into the house. Draco closed the door mechanically and Potter appeared out of thin air, the Invisibility Cloak in one hand and curled in his other arm was –

“Is that a boomslang?” Draco asked, panic-stricken, and he retreated a few steps until his back hit the wall. “Are you mental?”

“Don’t worry, she won’t hurt you,” Potter said, hanging the Invisibility Cloak on his clothes-stand and then rushing into his kitchen uninvited.

“She?” Draco was sounding a bit hysterical now. “Potter, that is a highly venomous snake!”

“She was attacked by a raptor. I found her near the pitch,” Potter said, completely ignoring what Draco just said. “You’ve got a dog. You know how to heal pets, right?”

“Pets?” Draco squeaked. He wasn’t even ashamed about it. That was a highly logical course of action, unlike what Potter was currently doing. “That’s a murder noodle!”

“Malfoy, I promise you she's not dangerous,” he said, clearing the table with his wand and then placing the snake on it carefully. “Trust me on this, alright?”

“That's a lot of trust you ask for!” Draco said, still standing in the door, as far away as possible from the dangerous animal Potter had just delivered into his (until now) perfectly safe home.

“Well, I trust you, so could you please trust me too?” Potter pleaded.

Draco looked down at the snake. It was wrapped in bloody bandages and squirmed oddly, clearly in pain.

“Why didn't you go to the Scamander Centre?” Draco complained. “They're experts!”

“I trust you,” Potter repeated, but Draco could hear what he didn't want to say outright: Potter trusted him, but he didn't trust them.

Draco took a hesitant step forward. Potter sighed with relief and sat down on the kitchen chair, stroking the serpent's head with two fingers.

“Are you actually suicidal?” Draco exclaimed, taking a sudden step forward to wrench Potter's hand away.

The snake whipped around, baring its fangs and hissing at him, ready to strike. Potter pointed his wand at him with lightning speed and Draco was pushed backwards against the wall.

“She thinks you were going to attack her,” Potter said reproachfully. “Watch what you're doing!”

“You're one to talk,” Draco shot back. “You just went and touched it. Did you apply those bandages too?”

“She knows I'm not going to hurt her,” Potter said, stroking her head soothingly.

“Well, then you should tell her that I don't want to hurt her, either,” Draco said sarcastically.

And then, to his great surprise, Potter did. At least Draco assumed that he did, because he couldn't understand a word of what Potter was hissing at the snake. It seemed to work though. She slackened and hid her fangs. Draco took a careful step forward, but the serpent didn't seem to want to attack him anymore, though she still eyed Draco suspiciously.

“I thought you couldn't do that anymore?”

“Yeah, well, that's called 'protecting your privacy',” Potter said, unwinding the bandages at the same time.

Draco grimaced at the sight. The snake had several deep, lacerated wounds that could well have been caused by the talons of a predator bird.

“That doesn't look good,” he said grimly, rolling up the right sleeve of his jumper and taking out his wand.

And then Draco was in his element. He didn't dare put the snake under, because he had never actually healed a snake and didn't know how much sedation she could take. He began with cleaning the wounds, always keeping an eye on the serpent's head. She had apparently allowed Potter to keep it still, which was somewhat reassuring.

Draco started on knitting the torn flesh back together while Potter talked to it quietly. Potter's Parsel wasn't harsh and cold like His had been. It flowed steadily, naturally, and Draco could feel himself relax along with the serpent.

It only took ten minutes for him to close the deepest wounds and he was just getting started on healing the skin when the doorbell rang again, startling them.

“Are you expecting someone?” Potter asked, glancing at the kitchen window.

Since it was already getting dark outside, this was rather pointless. Draco shook his head, still concentrating on the wounded animal on his table. Potter said something to the serpent and got up, his wand already drawn.

“Stay here,” he said authoritatively, sliding into the hallway.

Draco's stomach rumbled again and suddenly he remembered. “Potter! Don't kill him, please!” he yelled. “It's just my food!”

“Since when do owls know how to ring a doorbell?” Potter yelled back suspiciously.

“It's from a Muggle place! Just pay him and take it, okay? I think my wallet is still somewhere on the floor. Pretty sure I dropped it when you jumped me.”

Potter was silent for a few moments, then –

“You've got Muggle money?”

“Don't act so surprised! And get a move on, before he runs off with our food.”

Potter was back a minute later, two bags in hand. “Are you sure he's a Muggle?” he asked, unconvinced.

“How would I know? I didn't see him, did I?” Draco said distractedly, still working on the snake.

“Indian teenager with really white teeth and a nose-ring,” Potter described, unpacking four large containers.

“Yeah, that's Sanjay. He's definitely a Muggle.”

“But he kept staring at my scar,” Potter grumbled.

“Yeah, well, that's probably because it's massive, isn't it? Really stares you in the face.”

He could feel Potter glaring at him. “I'll hex you later,” Potter said shortly, opening a container. “That's Chinese.”

“Yeah, so?”

“The kid was Indian.”

“Don't be so narrow-minded and stop criticising my food,” Draco said and then, when he heard munching, “And stop eating my food.”

“Ah, but you said it was our food, just a minute ago.”

“I most certainly did not!” Draco protested.

“I've got the memory to prove it!”

“Yeah? Want me to take you up on it with a Legilimens?” Draco smirked and put away his wand. “There, good as new.”

The snake seemed to think so too, because she wasn't lying flat anymore but coiling this way and that, as if testing for pain. Her bright green body was punctuated with slashes of lighter skin where Draco had healed her wounds, and there was a tiny scar forming on her underside that Draco could do nothing about, but all in all she was looking good.

Potter said something to her and she hissed back. Potter grinned at him, apparently satisfied with her answer.

“She says to tell you she loves you,” Potter said, now rummaging in his drawers for cutlery. Raised in a barn.

“Did she really?” Draco said, disbelieving. Could snakes even be thankful?

Potter sat down at the table, handed him a fork and a plate, and began distributing his food. Draco didn't even try to stop him, as it wouldn't do any good anyway. The serpent had slithered down onto one of the empty chairs.

“Yeah, you're her hero now,” Potter grinned. “They’ll open an animal clinic in your honour and name it Saint Malfoy’s Centre for Slitherin’ Things. Guess what kind of animal they’ll put on the emblem?”

Draco really looked at Potter for the first time that day. Before, he had been too distracted by the deadly animal in his home, but now he could actually focus on him.

Potter was wearing his black, close-fitting Quidditch gear, sans the grey-and-white robe. His trackies had grass stains all over them and his hair was just ridiculous – like he had just fallen from his broom and tumbled all over the pitch. He was still wearing his arm guards and the left one had two very odd holes in it, like the leather had been etched away.

“Potter, did she bite you?” Draco asked suspiciously.

“No?” Potter tried, immediately hiding his forearm under the table.

Draco went around the table and seized his arm. There were a few smaller holes next to the big, corroded ones, definitely bite marks.

“You said she was harmless!”

“She was scared and I hadn’t gotten a chance to talk to her yet!”

“You’re unbelievable!” Draco said, unfastening the damaged arm guard.

“Nothing happened; I’m completely fine!” Potter protested, wrenching his arm out of Draco’s grasp.

“You’re an idiot, that’s what you are!” Draco said. “Boomslang venom is very slow-acting, it could take hours until you even notice that something is wrong, and by then it’ll be too late!”

“Fine,” Potter said, taking off both arm guards and placing them neatly on the last empty chair. “But be quick about it, I’m starving.”

Draco pushed up the sleeve. Almost instantly, like he suddenly remembered, Potter tried to wrench his arm away again, but Draco held his wrist in a vice-like grip. There were no fang marks on his arm, but several bruises in all stages of healing. Draco looked up at him in disbelieve.

“I can explain!” Potter said instantly, but then didn’t follow up on it.

“Please do,” Draco said cooly.

“Er … Quidditch accident?”

“Yes, I can see that. And you didn’t heal them, because …?”

Potter dragged a hand through his hair, which didn’t make it any better. “It doesn’t even hurt that much, I just forgot about them,” he said unconvincingly.

Draco raised one eyebrow and poked a rather large, purple bruise. Potter flinched mightily and slapped his hand away.

“Ouch! Fine, I’m rubbish at healing spells, okay?”

“You could’ve put arnica on it, at least!”

“I must have misplaced it. Now stop interrogating me!” Potter pulled his sleeve back down hastily.

“Take off your shirt.”

“I – you – what?!” Potter stammered, crossing his arms in front of his chest tightly, as if waiting for Draco to jump him. “I’m not stripping in your kitchen!”

“Would you rather do it somewhere else?” Draco said, drawing his wand.

Potter stared at him, his bright green eyes flitting across Draco’s face. Draco felt exposed all of a sudden, felt as if this was the first time somebody really looked at him. He swallowed nervously. Why was his throat so dry?

Draco knew that Potter wouldn’t budge. Potter had never before made a fuss about getting half-naked in front of him, but now he did. He had seen him and his doppelganger together and now he felt uncomfortable. Perfect.

But Draco had to see.

“Strip or I’ll tell the Prophet about your Parseltongue,” he said, disgusted with himself.

If looks could kill, Draco would have dropped right then and there. Potter grabbed the hem of his shirt with both hands and pulled it over his head slowly, cursing under his breath. Draco heard the word “Slytherin” several times and felt so very, very dirty. But that thought vanished as soon as he saw Potter’s torso.

There were bruises, but they were not the worst of it – on the side of his stomach, there was a new, round scar, several tones lighter than the surrounding skin. It seemed to stem from a puncture wound.

“What did you do?” Draco said faintly, circling around him once. There was another, similar scar on the back, where the exit wound had been.

“It was just the fat tissue!” Potter said defensively, crossing both arms in front of his stomach.

“Just some fat – of which you have practically none, by the way – so it’s okay to just walk around with a gaping wound and let it heal all by itself?” Draco said angrily.

“It wasn’t gaping! It was just a metal rod that went through and Blaise immediately healed it, so it’s all good now!”

“You let Blaise heal that? And what a fucking good job he did too. Just look at that scar – completely unnecessary!”

“I’m sorry my scar offends you somehow!” Potter yelled. “I just didn’t have time to go to Mungo’s alright? Get off your high hippogriff!”

“Why don’t you just save us some time and admit you’ve been avoiding me?!”

“Because I haven’t been avoiding you!”

“Quit your bullshit, Potter,” Draco said cooly. “I know you went down to the shore, alright?”

Potter just looked at him open-mouthed and did what he always did when he didn’t know what else to do – he messed up his hair some more.

“How …?” he finally managed.

“Granger told me,” Draco said and added, when Potter opened his mouth angrily, “It was afterwards and she didn’t know what she was actually telling me.”

Had he just defended Granger against Potter? Something must be seriously wrong with him.

“And now?” Potter asked, crossing his arms again, this time in front of his bare chest. It was only now that Draco noticed the necklace – two miniature wings of a Snitch on a thread.

“What do you mean ‘now’?” Draco said emotionlessly. “Now nothing. You’re blowing this way out of proportion. It was just a kiss, nothing else. I was really drunk. And if it helps, I wouldn’t have done it if I had known.”

Potter turned his back on him then and put his shirt back on, which took rather long. Draco suspected that his injuries were more painful than he let on. Fine by him. Potter could stand to suffer a little if he didn’t want Draco’s help.

When Potter faced him again, he seemed oddly calm all of a sudden. “So, it meant nothing to you?” he asked flatly.

“It wasn’t even that good,” Draco lied through his teeth. “Listen, I like to think we were finally getting to a point where we can tolerate each other, maybe even spend some time as something resembling friends. I’d really like to keep it that way. So, if we could just forget any of that ever happened?”

Potter nodded shortly, but Draco had a feeling that his heart wasn’t in it. Getting back on Potter’s good side – if he even had been there before – would likely take some time and effort. Well, Draco had nothing better to do, anyway.

Draco took out his wand (Potter flinched again) and floated their plates over onto the coffee table in front of the sofa, where he sat down. He looked over at Potter, who didn’t show the slightest inclination to follow.

“Sit down and eat, will you?” Draco said plainly.

“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” Potter said, bending over the snake, which was now curled up in his chair, her head hidden somewhere beneath her body.

Draco knew bloody well that he was just searching for ways to avoid looking at him. Some Gryffindor he was.

“Well, you already did. The polite thing would be to stay for dinner, now,” Draco said, trying to appear at least a bit friendly. “Besides, you shouldn’t wake her now, anyway.”

Potter came over reluctantly, but then he merely picked at his food listlessly.

“What’s wrong now?” Draco sighed.

“Nothing. I’m just not that hungry,” Potter said blankly.

“You said you were starving!”

“Well, I’m not anymore.”

Just then, there was the sound of paws on the stairs and before Draco could tell Potter how stupid he was, Aurelius came in. He didn’t even seem to register that there was a snake in his territory, but walked right past her and jumped onto the sofa next to Potter, who instantly started to tickle his favourite spot between the ears. Aurelius’ tail was working overtime. When his ears were apparently satisfied, the golden retriever rolled over and presented his belly.

“That little whore,” Draco said, rolling his eyes.

“They say that dogs and their owners are often alike,” Potter mused, apparently already in far better spirits than he had been all evening. “But I really don’t see it. He’s much friendlier than you are.”

Draco flung a spring roll at Potter, who couldn’t catch it, because both his hands were busy rubbing Aurelius’ belly. It hit his chest and Aurelius caught it in his mouth expertly, whacking Potter in the face with his upside-down tail.

“That’s a good boy,” Draco said praisingly.

Potter leaned over and, fast as lightning, stole his last spring roll in retaliation.

“Hey, stop stealing my food!”

“There’s no way you can eat all that by yourself!” Potter exclaimed, gesturing at the containers that were still on his kitchen table. “Why did you even order all that stuff?”

“I like to take the leftovers to work,” Draco lied.

He sure as hell wasn’t about to tell Potter that the delivery boys always looked at him pityingly whenever he ordered just for himself. It was, after all, a small neighbourhood and he was sure people talked amongst themselves about Draco Malfoy, the eternal bachelor.

Mrs. Capitelli had tried to set him up with her granddaughter more than once, until Draco had just up and told her that he fancied men, thank you very much. She hadn’t tried advertising her granddaughter after that, but was now constantly telling him about men she suspected to be gay – Mrs. Waverly from her Bridge Club had a nephew who wore an earring, for example. Also, her other granddaughter was apparently a lesbian. Draco didn’t know why he needed to know that. He was pretty sure she didn’t want to date him.

“Reasonable,” Potter agreed. “The food there is disgusting.”

He had taken up his plate again and was shovelling food into his mouth. Draco debated making a snide remark, but ultimately decided against it. He was trying to get on Potter’s good side, for fuck’s sake.

“So, the food is the reason you always bail when I try to have you admitted?” Draco asked instead, knowing that it sure as hell was not.

“Yeah, why not,” Potter said and then, as subtle as a Bludger to the face, immediately changed the subject. “How did you come to own a golden retriever?”

Draco looked at Aurelius fondly, who was now splayed across Potter’s lap. “He was training to be a service dog for the neighbours’ daughter, but failed miserably. He knows all the tricks, but he just does them whenever he feels like it,” Draco explained. “So, I took the loser in.”

“Aw, that’s really touching,” Potter said, looking at him doe-eyed, clearly mocking him. “Don’t tell me Draco Malfoy has a heart?”

“Don’t tell,” Draco said seriously, trying to memorise the way his name had sounded coming from Potter’s mouth. And wasn’t he just pathetic?

Potter mimed locking his mouth and then swallowing the key, which didn’t even make sense.

“No wonder you don’t ever shut up,” Draco laughed. “Can’t even shut your trap properly.”

“Well, keeping quiet never got me anywhere!”

“And running your mouth did?”

“I’d like to think so,” Potter pensively. “I can’t think of anything right now, but I’ll get back to you.”

“No need, I remember now,” Draco grinned. “It was detention.”

Potter seemed to think the best way to punish him was to steal his food. Draco was left to stare at the spot where his fortune cookie had been seconds before.

“Hey, it’s bad luck to take another man’s fortune cookie!” he complained, holding out his hand as Potter tore open the wrapper.

Potter held his gaze and licked the cookie once, then held the wet cookie out to him.

“Still want it?” Potter offered, grinning deviously.

Draco had the sudden urge to grab him and wipe that stupid look from his face. Preferably with his tongue. Give back as you were given, and all that. But he wouldn’t do that, of course. He was a Malfoy and a Malfoy always kept his temper. He contented himself to get up and search the plastic bags instead.

“I’ll just eat yours, there you have it.” Draco smirked to himself as he searched.

Potter just watched him, grin still firmly in place. “You do that.”

“Did you take the other one too?” Draco asked incredulously, turning the bags inside out.

“Didn’t have to,” Potter grinned. “The kid apologised profusely, because they only gave you one. They’ve got you all figured out.”

“You knowingly ate the only fortune cookie?”

“Yep,” Potter said, popping the p.

“How positively Slytherin of you.”

“You take that right back!” Potter said, pointing a finger at him. He’d probably jumped to his feet as well, had Aurelius not been there. That was definitely a service the dog was doing him.

“I do take it back. No Slytherin would have manners this appalling,” Draco conceded, settling into the armchair opposite Potter.

“There, you can have the fortune.” Potter slid it across the coffee table. “That’s selfless, right?”

“That’s calculating, which is a very Slytherin quality,” Draco disagreed, unfolding the paper while Potter rolled his eyes and huffed.

“’Help, I'm being held prisoner in a Chinese cookie factory’,” Draco read out loud, handing it back to Potter. “I think that’s addressed to your hero complex.”

“I’ll get to that later,” Potter said, pocketing the tiny paper.

They were silent for a few moments, both busy cleaning their plates. When he was finished, Draco pulled his legs onto the arm chair while Potter stretched himself out next to Aurelius, stroking his fur lazily.

“Ever thought about getting a dog?” Draco asked, watching Aurelius blink sleepily.

“Can’t. I’ve got a snake now, haven’t I?” Potter murmured over the crackle of the fireplace.

“Potter, you can’t keep a deadly serpent as your pet.”

“Too late,” Potter said simply, looking over at the snake fondly.

Draco knew he couldn’t win this one and decided to count his losses. He turned his body sideways, letting his legs hang over the arm rest. His feet were now dangling in front of the fire, getting nice and toasty.

“Are you sure it’s a female?”

“Yeah, why?”

“The green ones are usually male. She should be brownish in colour.”

“Maybe she’s transgender,” Potter suggested.

“Maybe you’re transgender,” Draco replied, thinking vaguely that his brain must not be working right. He felt warm and comfortable, like somebody had wrapped him up in a tasty pancake. But that comparison didn’t make any sense either, did it?

“Oh wow, really mature. My cousin has better comebacks.”

“You have a little cousin?” Draco asked curiously. He knew that the Potter family had no other descendants, but nobody knew anything about Lily Potter’s relatives.

“Nah, he’s a month older than me,” Potter replied, grinning at him drowsily. “He’s just really stupid.” 

Draco motioned to punch Potter, even though he was several feet away and there was the coffee table between them. Potter just chuckled quietly as Draco’s arm dropped to the floor, where he left it.

“Remind me to punch you later,” he muttered, already half-asleep.

He didn’t even hear Potter hum in agreement.

Chapter Text

Draco stood in front of the fireplace, the only source of light in the room. The fire roared, but Draco felt cold. It didn’t matter that it was the middle of summer – the Manor was never warm these days.

Lying on his back at Draco’s feet was the boy, eyes closed and breathing heavily. Every visible bit of skin was covered in blood, but his white Quidditch robes were spotless. Draco’s head was swimming, vision blurring in panic. His wand felt like it might snap in his hand.

“More, Harry, or shall we end it and feed you to Nagini?”

He was standing right next to Draco and it felt as if His sheer presence was sucking the warmth and light out of the room, as if He were a Dementor, only much, much worse. So much worse. The giant snake was there too, circling them, hissing at Harry, flicking her tongue. And Draco couldn’t look away, too terrified of what she might do if he dared let his guard down.

“Draco, give Harry another taste of our displeasure,” He said.

And Draco knew that he didn’t have a choice, that he had to do it, but Merlin, he couldn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to lift his wand, to point it at Harry, to say the words like they didn’t mean what they did. Like they didn’t hurt him too.

“Do it, or feel my wrath yourself!” He commanded, and Draco knew what His wrath felt like, what it would cost him. He couldn’t do this to Mother.

And Draco lifted his wand, which was so very heavy in his hand, and he looked down at Harry without really seeing him, his mind already far away. Nagini was no longer moving. She had stopped next to Him and they were talking, a constant, sinister noise that seemed to envelop all of them.

“Crucio,” he said tonelessly.

Harry was screaming, lifting off the ground uncontrollably, trashing. Suddenly, a girl cried out, yelling “MURDER! MURDER IN THE BATHROOM!” and Harry's eyes flew open, his acid-green eyes fixed on Draco’s chest, which was soaked with blood, sticky and black.

And then Draco was screaming too.

Strong, cold hands grabbed his shoulders, shaking him, and Draco was terrified. He never touched him, He always used His wand to hurt him, to hurt all of them. Why was He touching him?

The hands were like lead on his shoulders, weighing him down. And Draco couldn't stop screaming, but if he didn't, He would surely punish him too. Draco mustn't show weakness. But how could he not, when weak was all he was?

And then his upper body was lifted up – why had he been lying on his back? He hadn't been a second ago, it had been Harry on the ground, not him. Had the Dark Lord thrown him to the ground? Had Draco dropped down on his own? Would He end it now, feed him to Nagini?

And maybe that would be for the best. He couldn't go on like this much longer, he wasn't ruthless like them or calculating like Mother, he didn't have what it took.

Then there was someone else holding him tightly against their body, and it couldn't be Him – He would never touch anybody like that. He wasn't capable of sharing warmth or comfort, because He had none.

Draco clung to the person blindly. They were stroking his back now and there was something soft tickling his face, smelling comfortingly of grass and earth and rain, like something that was real.

He opened his eyes and was blinded. His sitting room was ablaze with light and kneeling in front of his armchair was Potter, hugging him to his chest. Draco released a shuddering breath, forcing himself to let go of Potter's shirt.

Potter let him back down carefully and then sat down on the floor, his back leaning against the coffee table. Aurelius leapt up onto the armchair, almost crushing Draco, who didn't mind. The dog could always make him feel better when it got like that.

“Well, this is embarrassing,” Draco said hoarsely. The fire was still going, but Draco shivered nonetheless.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Potter said matter-of-factly. “I never have nightmares.”

Draco couldn't help but snort and Potter's mouth twitched.

“Was it the snake?” Potter asked carefully. Draco busied his trembling hands with stroking Aurelius' fur.

“Partly,” he answered shortly. “How did you know?”

Potter looked over his shoulder at the couch where he had lain. The boomslang was draped over the back rest. “She woke me up. I thought you might have heard her too.”

They were silent for a while, Potter staring into the flames, Draco looking at Aurelius, who had placed his head on Draco's chest.

“Want to talk about it?” Potter offered.

“Not really,” Draco said.

Telling Potter about his nightmare was the last thing he wanted to do. He didn't need to know what Draco had done for Him – to Rowle, not Potter, he now remembered – and Draco just wanted to forget it ever happened, not dwell on it.

“Okay.”

“What are you going to name her?” Draco asked, searching for a safer topic.

“Well, I rather like Murder Noodle,” Potter deadpanned, looking at him.

Heart still racing, Draco let his head fall back against the backrest while maintaining eye contact. “You're the worst.”

Potter smiled softly. “Yeah, I try.”

“And really?”

Potter took a moment to think, looking over at the sleeping snake. Draco looked up at the ceiling, where Potter had conjured a giant floating orb of golden light.

“I really like her scales, so I think I'll call her Emerald,” Potter said finally.

“You're naming her after her colour? How original,” Draco said sarcastically.

“I'm sorry, not everybody can be as fancy as you are,” Potter mocked, a grin tugging at his lips. “What's Aurelius mean, then?”

Draco looked down at his dog, who was now half asleep on top of him.

“It's Latin,” he said shortly.

“For ...?” Potter pressed on.

All right, that one was on Draco.

“The golden one,” he admitted sheepishly.

Potter laughed suddenly and then immediately yelped in pain and pressed a hand against his side.

Draco rolled his eyes and leaned forward in his armchair. “Come on, you're being ridiculous. Let me just heal that real quick and then you can go back to laughing at me.”

Potter sighed but lifted his shirt obediently. Draco suspected that maybe he did it to get him off his back and also lift his spirits a little. Truth be told, Draco didn’t really care why he did it, as long as he did. He took his wand from the coffee table and bore down on the bruises.

“Care to tell me what exactly you rammed through your body there?”

“It was nothing,” Potter said half-heartedly. Draco just raised an eyebrow, inspecting the scar. “Fine. It was a footrest.”

“How on earth –” Draco started, but Potter cut him off, apparently deciding to just get it all out at once.

“So, I was testing the Lightning with Blaise. We curbed it some, but I reckon it's still too fast. Well, we were going in opposite directions and we … er … grazed each other. And his footrest went right through, I guess.”

“That broomstick already broke your back and impaled you, Potter!” Draco exclaimed in disbelief. “Why are you still flying it?”

Potter smiled at the ceiling with a dreamy look on his face, completely unperturbed by his rather grisly track record. “You've never flown it, have you? It's magic.”

“That's what all of them are!”

“But that broom is something else. I want to die on that broom.”

“You already did, you bloody moron!”

“And it was the best of all my deaths,” Potter concluded.

Draco rolled his eyes. “You'd need to have died at least twice to actually be allowed to rank that experience.”

“And what do you know about my death count?” Potter asked, brows raised.

“I've got full access to your medical files.”

“That!” Potter said, scandalised. “I bet it also says I'm not a Parselmouth anymore.”

“I'll give you that,” Draco said. “But that's hardly proof of anything.”

Potter just shrugged and reached over to stroke Aurelius. “You won't tell anyone, will you? Or put it in my chart?” Potter asked casually, his tense shoulders betraying him.

“I'd never give up blackmail material that easily,” Draco said, waving his hand in dismissal.

Potter grimaced. “That's two Slytherins with dirt on me, now.”

“Have you ever heard of 'fighting fire with fire'?”

Potter leaned further away from Draco, as if he would be able to see him better. “What ... want me to spy on Blaise and you?”

Nobody was that dense, right? Draco banged the back of his head against the armchair softly. “You're completely hopeless, Potter. You don't need to find something to hold over our heads. You have plenty already.”

“I have?”

“Sure you do. You could probably get Blaise sent to Azkaban for attempted murder if you really wanted to. Or aggravated assault at the very least. And you do know that Poly-Parties are illegal?”

“But I was there too!”

“Nobody's going to throw you into Azkaban,” Draco said exasperatedly. “They'd probably fine you a symbolic ten Galleons and then ask to take a picture with you.”

Potter did his best impression of a fish underwater, opening and closing his mouth uselessly, before finally managing, “Then why did I even end up bribing Blaise?”

“Because Blaise knows how to turn the tides in his favour. And don't tell me he ever explicitly told you that you had to showcase his broom to keep him quiet.”

“It was implied!”

“No, it wasn't,” Draco disagreed. “He just led you to believe that it was. As far as he's concerned, you just wanted to help him out.”

To say that Potter looked appalled would have been an understatement. He seemed to take it as a personal insult that Blaise had manipulated him that easily. “How is anybody supposed to see through that?”

Draco smirked. “You're not. That's the point.”

“Bloody hell ... Fine, what have I got on you?”

“Potter, don't tell me you are really this stupid.”

There was the glare again. Did he really think that making out with a Potter-look-alike wouldn't seriously hurt Draco’s image? He could already imagine the rumours it would spawn. They'd say he was a creepy stalker. And he had been a Death Eater, of course. The public would never tolerate him lusting after Potter. They'd want his head. Pitchforks would be involved.

“Just don't tell anyone anything about me that you wouldn't want to read about yourself.”

“So never even mention your name again?”

Potter looked up at his orb of light again, giving Draco an unobscured view of his neck. It was a rather nice neck – strong, but not too buff, and the flickering firelight made Potter’s tan skin look even warmer. Draco could just make out the fine golden necklace, which drew attention to his delicate collarbones and –

Merlin, making out with his look-alive had been supposed to make it easier! Now Draco was marvelling at Potter’s neck instead.

Telling himself that he was into Pansy in year five had definitely been easier than convincing himself he was not fancying Potter. All the evidence suggested otherwise. He had the sudden notion that he was rapidly turning into what Blaise liked to call a ‘disaster gay’. Excellent.

Potter looked back at him and Draco tore his eyes away immediately. Right, Potter had said something. Talking. He could do that.

“Why, did you talk about me before?”

“Maybe once or twice,” Potter allowed. “Usually about what an insufferable git you are.” Then he got up and sat back down on the couch, the deadly snake just inches from his very unprotected skin.

“What time is it?”

“Quarter past three,” said Potter, unfolding one of Draco’s blankets and tucking himself up.

Draco dimmed the orb and then split it into a myriad of smaller ones, scattering them across the ceiling like tiny stars. They didn't talk again and ten minutes later, Draco finally drifted back to sleep, listening to Potter's deep, calm breathing.

When Draco woke up again, the sun had risen and Potter and his snake were gone. The empty food containers had vanished and his table looked just as it had before Potter had barged in, clutter and all. The arm braces lay on a chair, forgotten.

Chapter Text

Blaise was actually home when Draco came calling on Wednesday evening. They had not seen each other for a week, as Draco had been completely immersed in his research and Blaise had been at the work shop constantly.

Draco was surprised that Blaise had not forgotten their dinner again. Maybe his work on the Lightning Blast was coming to an end? Or maybe Potter didn’t have that much time anymore? He had played a charity match on the weekend.

Also, it was almost Christmas. Draco couldn’t say that he would be sad to hear that Blaise and Potter hadn’t seen each other all that much lately.

Draco followed Sooky into the dining room, and there he was. Harry fucking Potter, sitting at Blaise’s mahogany table and eating canapés. And again, he was in his sportswear. Skin tight and completely unfair! Draco wasn’t prepared to suffer today!

“Draco!” Blaise boomed, grinning at him from his place at the head of the table. “Look who made time for us!”

“Hard to miss him,” Draco said, sitting down opposite Potter. “Busy day at the ‘shop?”

“We’re so close! If we keep this up, we’ll crack the speed problem before New Year’s!” Blaise said enthusiastically while Potter mumbled something in agreement around a full mouth.

Draco’s stomach did an unpleasant twist. Blaise and Potter seemed determined to keep working over the holidays, when the workshop was closed. Nobody there but the two of them, working closely together. Chasing each other on their brooms. Impaling each other – and that was just plain wrong! Where did that thought come from, all of a sudden? He definitely wasn’t jealous of Blaise Zabini!

Right?!

“You’d better be careful then,” Draco advised. “You know Mungo’s is always full to bursting during the holidays.”

Blaise laughed this off with a wave of his hand. “We’ll survive.”

Draco glared at him. “And no amateur healing! I’m looking at you, Blaise.”

“Oh, so you heard about that?” Blaise chuckled. “I think I did a rather good job.”

“You disfigured him.”

Potter made a sound that Draco took as a noise of protest. He couldn’t be completely sure, as Potter had already stuffed another canapé into his mouth. He seemed to only have two options when it came to food – he was either starving himself or inhaling anything that crossed his path. Given his speed, Draco wasn’t even really sure if he chewed.

“Harry didn’t bleed out on my workbench, so I’ll call it a success.”

“Very high standards you have there.” Draco gave Blaise another stern look. “Just come and get me next time.”

“Certainly,” said Blaise, winking conspiratorially at Potter and not even trying to hide it.

Potter snorted and Draco turned to give him a look that said ‘I dare you’.

Potter stopped chewing and looked back at him with big eyes, his mouth still full. He swallowed laboriously and then nodded. “I solemnly swear,” he said, grinning. “Also, you’ll be pleased to hear that we’re planning to completely redesign the footrest next spring. And now get off our case.”

Draco was not pleased to hear that their tinkering would continue into the new year.

The tray of canapés suddenly lifted off and floated away while half a dozen platters soared over from the kitchen and landed in the middle of the table.

“So, what are your plans for Christmas?” Potter asked, helping himself to some sausages.

Blaise looked at Draco, like the question wasn't directed at him too, and said in a rather reproachful tone, “He's probably working as many shifts as legally possible.”

“It's not like I beg them to schedule me for every available shift,” Draco lied, taking some potatoes. “But most people like to take some time off over Christmas and I'm free, so why not?”

“Because it's pathetic,” Blaise said, gesturing at him with his glass. “So which shifts did you get?”

Draco cut his potatoes and then, for something to do, drowned them in a little more gravy than was strictly necessary. “I've got all the afternoon shifts.”

Blaise sighed deeply, like Draco was some troublesome child. “So, you'll get home around half to midnight, eat a piece of toast and then sleep until it's time to go to work again?”

Why did that sound like an accusation? Draco was doing the entire Wizarding community a service here.

“Don't you celebrate Christmas with your parents?” Potter fork hung in the air uselessly, half a sausage in imminent danger of dropping onto Blaise’s pristine table cloth. Blaise really should’ve known better than to have Sooky lay that out when he knew Potter was coming too.

“No,” Draco said shortly, stabbing an evasive carrot.

“Why not?” Potter pressed on, looking rather confused. There was a steady drip of grease hitting the table now, but he didn’t even seem to notice.

Why couldn’t Gryffindors just mind their own fucking business for once? No sense of tact, either.

Draco didn’t look at him. His voice cut like ice through the stuffy air. “Because we're not doing Christmas anymore, simple as that.”

Potter opened his mouth to ask another stupid question, but Blaise cut him off. “Let it go, Harry. It's been like that for years.”

Potter ate in pensieve silence while Blaise and Draco made small talk. Pansy had apparently just divorced her second husband and Millicent Bulstrode seemed to be rather successful with her business, which specialised in the breeding of exotic Kneazles.

“You could catch up with us on Christmas Eve,” Potter said suddenly.

Instant suspicion gripped Draco. “What's on Christmas Eve?”

The answer came almost immediately. “We'll meet some friends and do a pub crawl. It's a Muggle tradition. It’ll be fun.”

And there it was. That sounded like work. He knew practically nothing about Muggles, but if they all were like his neighbour, Mrs. Capitelli, then they were way too nosey for him to handle.

“I've been assured that it will be positively boozy.” Blaise grinned at him. “We'll send an owl around eleven to tell you where to find us.”

This sounded to Draco like Blaise had already been invited. By now, Draco was almost sure that there was something going on between the two of them. They were calling each other by their first names, working together day and night, seeing each other at parties and now they were spending Christmas together? And then there was the fact that they had already shagged, of course.

He wondered if the Weasleys already knew? It was highly likely.

“I don't know. I'll probably be exhausted by then,” Draco said casually, concentrating on his plate again. “But you have fun.”

They tried to change his mind all through dessert and the following game of three-way wizard's chess (which Potter was absolute rubbish at), but Draco didn't budge.

He didn't need to put up with that on Christmas.

Chapter Text

When Draco finally left work at quarter to midnight on Christmas Eve, it was pouring. He produced a shield over his head, which sheltered him from the worst of it, and went down the street towards the spot he usually used to Disapparate. His shoes and socks were soaked after seconds, partly because he overlooked a rather large puddle.

Draco was already looking forward to a hot shower, a cup of tea and then his warm bed.

He was almost there when he suddenly noticed the sound of footfalls behind him, mostly covered by the rain. But when he looked around, nobody was there. Draco gripped his wand tightly and turned around to face the deserted street.

“Who’s there?” he demanded composedly, though his heart was already racing.

Maybe it hadn’t been a good idea to linger outside too long. He should go back to using the Floo, even if he hated the taste of ash that lingered in his mouth afterwards. Better that than be maimed or killed. One never knew who was lying in waiting – potions addicts, bereaved family members, in his case even vigilantes, who couldn’t accept that he was not in Azkaban.

The footsteps were still there – slower now, but also nearer and then Potter took off the hood of his Invisibility Cloak.

“Merry Christmas.”

He grinned, just a split-second before he grabbed Draco’s arm and Disapparated with him.

~o~

They reappeared in a dark alley and Potter released him. Music and laughter were wafting over from the building to their right. Draco turned to stare at Potter, who was folding his Cloak into a tiny bundle and then stuffing it into the pocket of his jeans.

“What the hell was that?”

“I wizard-napped you, what else?”

“Where are we? Where’s Blaise?”

Potter pushed down Draco’s arm, which was still raised into the air. “Blaise and I split up. And this is Muggle London, so put away your wand.”

“You split up?” Draco repeated, his heart still racing. He had not even heard the rest of Potter’s sentence. “Why?”

“So you wouldn’t slip through our fingers, of course,” Potter seemed massively proud of himself. “He’s waiting to ambush you at home.”

And Draco watched numbly as Potter conjured his Patronus and sent it to inform Blaise of their operation’s success. They hadn’t broken up, just branched out. Working together, yet again.

With a plop Blaise appeared next to them, clutching a small bag. “Here, get changed,” he said, offering it to Draco.

“You want me to change my clothes in the back alley of some shady dive bar?” Draco asked in disbelief.

“Yes, please,” Potter said sweetly. “And hurry up. We’ve been gone for close to an hour now, you really left us waiting.”

“I didn’t know you would abduct me, did I?”

“You should have expected it, seeing as we did send an owl an hour ago. Which you straight up ignored. That was rude, by the way,” Blaise said. “And you could’ve changed at home if you had just taken the Floo. So that’s on you, really.”

Draco narrowed his eyes at him, but there wasn’t really anything to say to that if he didn’t want to outright admit he didn’t want to be here.

So, Draco emptied the bag. Inside were a pair of black trousers, a white shirt and a crimson jumper with a Christmas tree stitched onto the front. The trousers and shirt belonged to him, but he had definitely never seen a jumper that ridiculous before.

“You can’t expect me to wear that,” Draco said flatly. “That’s not even mine.”

“You can’t go inside in your scrubs, that’s not very festive,” Blaise argued. “Just reminds people of their elderly family members who they haven’t visited in forever.”

“You’ll stand out. Look,” Potter added, opening his jacket. His jumper was dark blue with snowflakes on the front.

“This is ridiculous,” Draco said.

But he still turned his back on them and changed. The jumper was made from soft, thick wool and when he pulled it over his head, a familiar, pepperminty scent enveloped him. He had to work quite hard to get his face under control before turning around again. After all, he couldn’t let them know that he did not hate this outfit. At all.

“All right, let’s see,” Blaise said, making a twisting motion with his hand while Potter stuffed his scrubs into the bag.

Draco sighed and slowly turned around his own axis once. He could feel their eyes scrutinising him. No problem. That didn’t make him nervous at all.

“You’re definitely taller than me. I guess we’ll have to lengthen it some.”

Potter pointed his wand at one of the sleeves, which ended a few inches above Draco’s wrist. Right on cue, the sleeves knit themselves further down his arms until they were finally long enough.

It was alright. Whatever, really. Draco had worn countless jumpers before. So what if this one belonged to Potter? That didn’t make Draco want to smell it a second time. No, thank you.

“Perfect,” Potter said, stuffing his wand up his own sleeve. “Alright, let’s go. Remember: When in doubt, just assume everybody is a Muggle. So, no magic talk and also no magic.”

“Wait!” Blaise said and then he was ruffling Draco’s hair with his hands, messing it up with a complicated twist of his wrist. “Better. From Mr. Right to Mr. Right Now in under five seconds.”

“Blaise! I’m not here for that, okay? I don’t even know why I’m here at all!”

“To prevent you from turning into a reclusive prune!” Blaise said dramatically and then he was pulling Draco out of the ally and into the pub.

Finding Potter’s friends wasn’t hard at all. As soon as they entered, several people at a huge table in the back cheered. Potter waved at them eagerly and then took Draco by the arm and dragged him over there. As if Draco would flee if the opportunity presented itself. Which, admittedly, he was still thinking about.

Granger, Weasley, Longbottom, Abbott, Luna, Thomas and Ginny were there, as well as some people Draco didn’t know and assumed to be the aforementioned Muggles.

“All right, let’s see,” Potter said, looking around. “This is Callum, Ella, Lauren and Olivia.” 

He gestured at all of them in turn – a tall, dark-skinned boy (Callum) with his arm slung around a girl with freckles and a platinum bob (Ella), a thoroughly fit girl with Potter’s skin colour and her dark hair in a high ponytail (Lauren) and a very petite girl with big round eyes and long, blond hair (Olivia) – and they raised their glasses or nodded at him. Then Potter grabbed Draco’s shoulders from behind, as if to present him.

“Everybody, this is Ma– Draco. He’s twenty-four years old, a Gemini, works as a doctor and loves long walks on the beach. I assume.”

Draco raised both his eyebrows as Potter’s friends laughed loudly. Blaise took the last empty chair next to Ginny as Potter sat down next to Olivia in the booth.

“Shove over, will you?” he said eagerly.

Then he grabbed Draco’s arm again and pulled him down to sit beside him. Seemed like Potter didn’t have any problem at all with being touched when it was somebody he knew. Or maybe it had something to do with who was initiating it, who knew? Draco wasn’t even sure if Potter himself would know what it was.

“We could’ve just found another chair!” Ella complained loudly.

“It’s fine, I didn’t want to breathe anyway,” Lauren wheezed.

“Suck it up,” Potter laughed. “I remember a very crowded trip to the shore in your four-seater. I believe we were six people? I still couldn’t feel my legs half an hour after we got there.”

“I don’t even know why you came with us,” Lauren said in mock-accusation. “You didn’t even want to go swimming!”

“Just admit it already – you need somebody to keep your other side warm, because you’re a nesh!” Ella (who was wearing a yellow jumper with a stick of rock on the front) said accusingly.

Potter crossed his arms and pretended to be hurt. “Would you stop slandering me?”

“So, if I managed to organise another chair, you would sit on it? All by yourself?”

“I think Blaise has an announcement to make!” Potter talked over her, completely ignoring her question.

Blaise (a black jumper with snowflakes that matched Potter’s blue one suspiciously) jumped to his feet.

“Yes,” he boasted. “It so happens that I bet a rather large sum on Harry … er … deciding the charity match for his team. And again, he didn’t disappoint! So, the rest of the night is on me!”

The whole table cheered and Ginny, Luna, Thomas and Longbottom got up and made their way over to the bar. Lauren (white with a red stocking) reached over Olivia’s shoulder to pat Harry on the back. Potter, who got pushed against the table, groaned silently. Draco could feel it where their bodies connected.

“You bet on Harry?” Granger (green with a red-and-white bobble hat) asked contemplatively. “Are you even allowed to? Seeing as you are ... friends.”

And wasn’t that just a suspicious choice of words? Draco tried to lean a little away from Potter and nearly fell off the bench, swaying on the edge for a second. Then Potter grabbed his arm firmly and pulled him even closer, smirking at him before letting go again. Well, that hadn’t worked in Draco’s favour.

“Don’t worry,” Blaise said offhandedly. “I checked and rechecked the rules. Not about to go to prison for betting fraud, am I?”

“You’d better not, I really don’t want to have family outings in jail,” Weasley (a horrible orange with presents on the front) said.

And what did he mean ‘family outings’? Was Blaise family already?

“It’s only illegal if you’re on the extended team. Harry wouldn’t be allowed to bet on their games, of course. Neither would the referee, for obvious reasons. Coaches, board members and team Healers are also banned, but everybody else – suppliers, for example – can participate freely.”

“Healers?” Callum (red with a Christmas wreath) laughed as Blaise froze. “What type of paramedics do you employ? Are they specialised in hands-on healing?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Potter objected. “They use healing herbs, of course, and sometimes voodoo dolls.”

The whole table laughed. Draco saw Potter and Blaise exchange a glance.

“Hey, Harry? What’s your team called again?” Lauren asked. “I always mean to look it up at home and then I forget the name again.”

“You’re getting old,” Olivia (brown with eyes and antlers but also a red bobble where the nose would be?) teased her, earning herself a light dig to her side.

“You couldn’t remember, either!”

“I told you, it’s something starting with S ... SSC or something.”

“It’s the FFC,” Potter corrected her, grinning. “As in ‘Falmouth Football Club’?”

“Oooh right,” both girls said. Lauren took out a pen and grabbed an unused beer mat. “I’ll write that down right now.”

But her pen wasn’t working and nobody else had one on them. She made Olivia promise to remind her later, but of course that wouldn’t happen either.

“I can’t believe you haven’t got a pen,” Callum said to Potter. “What do you write your autographs with?”

Potter laughed. “You lot can’t even remember my team’s name; I think nobody is queuing up anytime soon.”

“You can’t really blame us,” Lauren said loudly. “We’re almost always pissed when we get together. How is anyone supposed to remember anything?”

“Hear, hear,” said Ginny (red with a golden shooting star), who had just reappeared. She was closely followed by the others, all of them carrying trays. Luna (whose jumper seemed to be knit entirely out of tinsel) distributed shot glasses.

“I can’t even remember where Grace was from,” Ella admitted as the others sat down again.

There was a sudden shift in the mood. Granger and Weasley exchanged worried looks, Ginny, Thomas and Longbottom stopped handing out their various beverages and Abbott glanced at Potter nervously, who looked like he had just been hit with a Bludger. Only Luna seemed to be completely unconcerned, which, admittedly, didn’t mean a lot.

“Australia,” Potter said shortly, grabbing his shot glass and gulping it down. He looked rather miserable. Draco’s stomach twisted oddly.

“And why did she have to leave again?” Ella asked hesitantly.

“Her student visa was revoked,” Granger said anxiously. “So, she had to go back.”

“And then she completely forgot about Harry,” Luna added lightly. Granger and Abbott turned to stare at her in disbelief.

“So, she hasn’t been in touch?” Olivia asked. “I tried texting her, but she must have changed her number.”

“Don’t worry, she’s fine,” Potter said, emptying her shot glass too. “She’s back with her ex.”

“Oh, Harry,” Olivia said compassionately, putting an arm around his shoulders and hugging him to her side. “I’m so sorry. We won’t bring her up again.”

“Unless you get so smashed you don’t remember ever having made this promise,” Ginny said, trying for humour.

“Not that unlikely.” Callum raised his glass to her.

“Let’s better take the photo now while we all still look somewhat presentable,” Lauren said.

And then she flagged down a waitress and handed her a camera. She had to take several steps back until she could fit them all into the frame and then they still had to squash together until she was satisfied. Potter put his arm around Draco’s shoulder for maximum closeness and Draco shivered slightly. He told himself it was because he could feel the coldness of Potter’s hand on his shoulder (even through his jumper and shirt), but deep down he knew that wasn’t the reason. Every inch that was pressed up against Potter was tingling.

“So, Draco,” said Lauren as she was putting away her camera and Potter let go of him. “With a name that fancy, you surely went to the same preppy private school as the others?”

“Well, I do remember wearing a uniform,” Draco admitted. He wasn’t at all prepared to answer questions about his fake Muggle education! He didn’t even really know what subjects Muggles had. He thought Sarah from next door might have mentioned failing Chemistry once?

“You better believe he was there!” Potter exclaimed.

“You were friends back then?” Ella asked.

Weasley choked on his beer. Granger and Ginny rapped him on the back, both laughing loudly. The others joined them, Blaise’s thunderous laughter the loudest of all.

“Oh goodness, no. We hated each other,” Draco said matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, we were arch-enemies from the moment we met when we were eleven years old,” Potter agreed.

“No eleven-year-old has an arch-enemy!” Callum objected loudly.

“He tried to have me expelled!” Potter protested.

“You threw mud at me!”

“Well, you started that smear campaign against me! You even made badges for the whole school to wear and told that Skeeter woman all that rubbish about me!”

“You got my father arrested!” Draco shot back. They were glaring at each other now, which was rather intense if one happened to sit right next to the person one was glaring at.

“You tried to – !” Potter started, but Draco never got to know where he was going with that sentence, because Olivia interrupted him.

“Harry! His father went to prison because of you?”

“Well, to be fair, he was guilty,” Draco said, shrugging and breaking eye contact with Potter.

Everybody else was looking at them now, transfixed. Longbottom’s mouth was open, a pretzel stick forgotten in his hands.

“That escalated quickly,” Lauren said quietly, which broke the tension.

“And you’re friends now?” Ella asked incredulously. “How?”

“I don’t know. Potter just sort of grows on you, I guess.” Draco elbowed Potter in the ribs. It wasn’t his fault if he did it a little too hard – it wasn’t easy coordinating something like that with his elbow pressed against his body. “Like a tumour.”

“Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer,” Potter said, grinning at him and not even complaining.

“Why would you do that?” Blaise asked and Draco had to admit that he was puzzled, as well.

“So you can keep an eye on them?” Potter said uncertainly. “How would I know? It’s from The Godfather.”

“Whose godfather?” Draco asked confusedly. Was this about Potter’s godfather? But Black hadn’t been close to any of his enemies, had he?

“Nobody’s,” Ella said. “He’s talking about the movie.”

Draco exchanged a glance with Blaise.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never seen it?” Ella exclaimed and then looked around at the others. “The rest of you know it, right?”

All of the Muggles nodded, as did Granger, Thomas and Potter, but everybody else shook their heads.

“Movie night at our flat, first thing next year!” she decided, looking at Callum, who nodded.

His dark mob of curls, which shaped his head to look like a Bludger and seemed even more rebellious than Potter’s hair, would probably bounce for another few minutes. Maybe that was why Potter was friends with him? Two men who never brushed their hair.

“Ella loves movies,” Potter explained. “She’s a film critic for the TV paper.”

“Wow, that’s fantastic,” Draco said to her and she smiled. Well, he assumed it was fantastic, because he had never heard of this TV Paper. At least he had learned from Mrs. Maloney that a movie was where all the famous Muggles came from.

She blushed and ducked her head. “Harry makes it seem much bigger than it is. I’m actually a waitress, the paper is just what I do for fun. I mean, I would do it seriously, but it doesn’t pay that much.”

“Who cares about the money?” said Draco. “As long as you like doing it, you’re allowed to boast a little.”

Weasley scoffed. “Sure, that’s what people with money always say.”

Draco took a deep breath and told himself to stay civil. Weasley didn’t know about his financial situation. Draco wasn’t there to revive an old feud. Not that he knew why he was there, yet. Potter must have felt addressed too, because he was giving Weasley the evil eye.

“And what are the rest of you doing?” asked Draco in an attempt at lightening the mood.

Callum, Ella’s boyfriend, was working as a teacher in primary school. Lauren was a personal trainer and Olivia was working as a yoga instructor.

“Yoga?” Draco said, trying to concentrate. “That’s the thing with the mats, right? I think my neighbour does that in her front yard. Wears real tight clothes too.”

“Uuh, is she fit?” Callum asked, wagging his eyebrows.

“She’s eighty – you tell me,” Draco complained.

Potter snorted into his beer and shot him a look. He was definitely not sober anymore. His eyes were somewhat dazed and where they were touching, Draco could feel Potter’s body tension dwindling. But then again, Draco felt rather tiddly himself, so who was he to judge?

Chapter Text

An Erumpent was tap-dancing inside Draco’s head and his back was killing him. This was probably because his bed seemed to have sagged to the floor dramatically. His blanket was gone, but he was still wearing his clothes, minus the shoes.

Also, his legs were intertwined with someone else’s. This was new.

“They’re so cute,” someone said and then there was giggling.

“Shush,” someone else giggled back.

The tap-dancing felt more like stomping now. Draco groaned and opened his eyes.

The room was brightly lit by the sun, and his face was just a foot away from Potter’s. Draco drew his head back instantly. Potter was still sleeping and also fully clothed, thank Merlin. Not that Draco really thought that there was even a chance Potter would not be clothed while lying next to him.

“Merlin’s beard,” he groaned, untangling his legs from Potter’s.

This was met with roaring laughter, which woke Potter in an instant. He shot up, causing the mattress to wobble dramatically and catapult Draco away from him. Draco rolled sideways twice and then hit the floor, which seemed to be almost at the same level as the mattress. He felt about ready to vomit now. The laughter intensified tenfold and there was the sound of someone banging on the table.

“Oh goodness, my sides,” someone wheezed.

Draco pressed both palms against his head to keep it from spinning and looked around. He was in the living-kitchen area of what appeared to be a small flat. Olivia and Lauren were sitting at a tiny round table, doubling up with laughter. Lauren was holding her sides and Olivia had tears in her eyes.

He looked at Potter, who seemed somewhat less confused, but still a little disoriented. He was sitting on what was apparently a plastic mattress, albeit a very wobbly one. Draco poked it and it gave way easily.

“What’s that?” he asked in bewilderment.

This seemed to be a dumb question, because the laughter intensified again. Lauren’s long, dark hair, which she was wearing in a bun, was starting to come undone from all the shaking.

“Our lilo is pretty old,” Lauren pressed out.

“Your what?”

Another hilariously stupid question, it seemed. Olivia held onto Lauren’s arm to keep herself from falling off the chair. Lauren laughed so hard it didn’t make a sound anymore. Potter closed his eyes, as if he couldn’t believe Draco would ask something like that.

“Their air mattress,” he said in the kind of tone people would use when talking to a very young child. “It’s inflatable. How much did you drink?”

“No idea,” Draco admitted, massaging his temple now. “But I feel about ready to die.”

“Oh, you were both absolutely pissed,” Lauren laughed. “Harry, you forgot you live alone. You just repeated that you couldn’t ‘appear home’ that drunk. As if there was somebody home who would tell you off, or something.”

“Oh, but he couldn’t even pronounce it right anymore,” Olivia added. “He kept saying ‘apparate’.”

“And you,” Lauren directed at Draco, “agreed that he wouldn’t make it home in one piece. Then you tried to flag down a night bus by waving your arm around.”

“There wasn’t even one to be seen and Harry kept saying that you were using the wrong arm. It was hilarious. “

“We’ve got pictures,” Lauren concluded. “I think we’ll make them our Christmas card next year.”

Potter tried to get up but kept losing his balance because the mattress was constantly caving under his weight. Lauren and Olivia came over to pull him to his feet (though Lauren seemed to be doing most of the lifting), and then deposited him on a chair.

“That thing is definitely not hangover-proof,” he said, clutching his stomach.

“Well, our bed is barely big enough for the two of us. We maybe could’ve managed to fit one of you, but never both.”

“And we definitely didn’t want to have to explain why we chose Draco,” added Lauren while she undid her bun. Without having been asked, Olivia leaned over and started plaiting her hair.

Potter narrowed his eyes at Lauren. “And here I thought we were besties.”

But she just smiled in response. Draco couldn’t blame her – she looked like she could end him without breaking a sweat. A little glaring certainly wouldn’t intimidate her.

“You lost your bed privileges when you pushed us out of it.”

Olivia elbowed Lauren lightly and then said softly. “Give him some space. You know he had a bad dream.”

“I just want to know how he managed to kick both of us out at the same time.”

Draco got up and leaned against the wall to stop the world from spinning so much. He could barely follow their conversation. It felt like his brain was lagging miles behind. There was something about a bed that was nagging at him.

“I said I’m sorry!” pleaded Potter.

“Your ...” Draco frowned and massaged his temple more thoroughly. Did they only have one bed? And then, suddenly, it dawned on him. “You are a couple?”

Three heads turned to stare at him.

“Oh wow, he’s even worse than Harry,” Olivia whispered in awe.

“That’s so sad,” Lauren agreed. “But it also explains so much.”

Now that Draco was aware, he noticed the picture frames that occupied every flat surface and also the walls. Looking back, their constant touching at the bar should have clued him in. But then again, he had been pretty preoccupied with Potter accidently touching him now and then. Or looking at him. Or saying his name. Breathing. Existing.

He should probably go home and take a very strong hangover potion.

“I’ve got to go,” he said, looking around for his trainers.

“Oh! But we’ve got the perfect hangover cure. You should really stay for breakfast,” Lauren said.

Olivia nodded along. “Yeah, it’s a secret recipe. Egg whites, vinegar and cinnamon, whisked until foaming. We serve sausages and baked beans with it.”

Draco’s stomach turned violently. Potter closed his eyes and breathed very hard, probably fighting off his nausea. When the moment passed, he got up as well.

“I’ll come with you. I can show you where the next tube station is.”

Draco had no idea what kind of ‘tube’ he was talking about, but he assumed that it was a Muggle thing.

They put on their shoes (leaning against the wall for support), found their jackets and then took the lift downstairs.

“Alright,” Draco said as they reached the front door. “Until next year, I guess.”

Potter put a hand on his arm. “You can’t Apparate from here. They’ll be watching from the window.”

So they went out onto the sunlit street.

“Ugh,” said Draco, shielding his eyes with a hand. This was almost as bad as being catapulted out of bed. “This is the worst. I really need some potion.”

“Seconded,” said Potter, looking up at the building and waving half-heartedly. “I just don’t think I’m fit to Apparate. I’d probably be sick.”

“Knight Bus?” Draco suggested.

“You’ve never actually been on that thing, have you?” Potter said. “You’ll be sick before you even manage to sit down. Besides, people would definitely recognise us.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve got a broom on you?”

“I can’t risk an FUI! Do you want me to get suspended from Quidditch for life?”

Draco closed his eyes for a few paces. “Fine. What do you propose we do, then?”

“Take a cab to St. Mungo’s? It’s not that far.”

“I work there, I can’t go in there hungover! I’ve got a reputation to lose!”

“You mean your reputation as an unsociable hermit?”

Draco barged into him with his shoulder, making them both stumble. Potter just managed to catch himself on a street lamp, holding Draco upright by an arm.

“Alright, not St. Mungo’s,” Potter said (without even complaining?) and let go of him again. “Then let’s take the tube; there is a station in your area.”

“What is this tube you keep blethering about?”

“We’re taking the underground train,” Potter said, leading him towards some stairs in the foot walk.

“I’m not doing anything illegal!” Draco jerked to a halt. “I can’t afford to get caught.”

“It’s not underground because it’s illegal,” Potter argued. “It is literally under the ground. It’s faster that way.”

“You’d better not trick me,” Draco said suspiciously, but he still followed Potter down the stairs.

Draco didn’t know what he had expected, but it wasn’t this.

The underground was jam-packed with Muggles, carrying small children and bags full of presents and food containers. Potter grabbed his wrist (a chill travelled up his arm, which Draco expertly ignored) and pulled him through the crowd until they were standing in front of ... was it a billboard?

All Draco could see were colourful lines that were connecting dots and sometimes crossing each other. The lines were labelled and Draco assumed all those names were other tube stations. Potter was studying the map intently, apparently able to read it. How he did that was beyond Draco. Not that Draco was trying very hard, as Potter was still holding his wrist. Merlin, were his hands always that cold?

Potter seemed to have found what he was looking for. He led him through the crowd again, then through a peculiar metal construction and into a tunnel. By then, Draco was quite glad that Potter was holding onto him. The prospect of losing him and braving this Muggle thing on his own was even more terrifying than being dragged along by Harry fucking Potter.

It turned out that the tube really was some type of train, only without the steam and much more stream-lined. Also, it was full to bursting. He and Potter stood pressed against a metal wall and each other.

The only thing that made this a little less awkward was Draco being significantly taller than Potter, which meant that they didn’t have to stare into each other’s eyes the whole time. Thank Merlin for small mercies. He didn’t think he could have stood staring into those damn green eyes for longer than a few seconds.

“This is just totally backward,” Draco complained. “Why do they do this?”

“It’s not usually this bad,” came Potter’s voice from somewhere near Draco’s shoulder, which his face was pressed up against. “It’s Christmas.”

Suddenly, there was a faint chiming noise, which seemed to come from … Potter? He was moving already, one arm brushing against Draco’s as he tried to manoeuvre his hand into his coat pocket. After a few seconds, the noise stopped and Potter looked down at something he was holding. His forehead was pressed against Draco’s chest.

Was it getting hotter all of a sudden? It was definitely too full in here. Maybe Draco should’ve taken off his coat before getting on this thing.

Harry straightened again, and Draco could see something small and square in his hands when he looked down.

“It’s Ella. She wants to remind us that we agreed to movie night at their place next year.”

“She told you with that thing?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, holding the device up for him to inspect. It was black and foldable. “It’s a mobile telephone.”

Living in a Muggle neighbourhood, Draco had heard of those before. But he’d never quite been able to picture them. “And you can just send each other messages whenever you like?”

“Yeah,” said Potter with a crooked grin. “Well, technically. It’s useless at home or at work or …” he glanced at the Muggle next to him, hesitating, “similar places. I only get the messages when I’m outside.”

“Still, that’s really practical for people like them.” Draco sounded really excited now. “How long does it take?”

“Just a few seconds,” said Harry, grin spreading.

Something twisted inside Draco’s stomach and he straightened again so he didn’t have to look at those stupidly captivating eyes. It was much too early and they were way too close for that.

“We should really find a way to use those at our places too,” said Draco thoughtfully. These messages sounded way more convenient than owl post (slow) or Patronus messages (total lack of privacy).

Potter just chuckled and wrestled the mobile phone back into his pocket, pressing closer against Draco in the process. It really was hot in here.

The ride took a good twenty-five minutes (more like twenty-five years) and Draco spent the whole time contemplating how Muggles could stand wasting so much time on traveling. Also, why was it named ‘Underground’ when most of the rails were, in fact, above ground?

When they finally arrived in Richmond, the station clock showed one in the afternoon, which meant that he still had time to eat, shower and take a walk with Aurelius before his shift started at three.

The following bus ride was much more bearable – they had no trouble getting seats and the bus was much quieter. Potter leaned his head against the window and dosed off while Draco studied the landscape outside. He had never seen so much of Richmond before.

The bus stopped again a few minutes later and a small child got on, followed by three blond teenage girls.

“Hermione!” one of the girls called after the child, which had dashed away to look for empty seats. Draco glanced at Potter, who had tensed up all of a sudden, but kept his eyes closed.

Hermione stopped right next to them. When the girls (of which Draco assumed at least one to be her sister) caught up to her, she pointed right at them and the girls did a double take. Draco looked up at them coldly and lifted one eyebrow, which caused the blondest of them to snatch up the girl and sit down somewhere in the back.

The other two took the seats right behind them and began whispering excitedly, which caused their voices to rise and fall more than they were probably aware. Draco caught scraps of their conversation here and there.

“... best Christmas ever.” – “... will be so jealous!” – “on a Muggle bus, of all things!” “... looks so soft too.”

“... opportunity. I’ll do it!” one of them whispered resolutely and Draco didn’t like the sound of that.

He felt the muscles in Potter’s arm flex nervously and when he looked down, Potter’s fists were clenched. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the girls reach out for Potter’s hair.

Draco knew there was such a thing as bad press, because he had gotten plenty of it over the years. He also knew that electrocuting teenagers on a Muggle bus would certainly not fly, even if it was the Saviour himself who did the frying.

He didn’t really think about it and just caught her wrist in a death grip.

“I wouldn’t do that if you want to keep that hand,” he said sharply.

He looked from the girls, who were both staring at him, petrified, to Potter, who was also staring at him. If Draco hadn’t known any better, he would have described the look in his eyes as pleading. He pushed her hand away roughly and got up, pulling Potter up by the arm with him.

“Come on, this is us,” he said briskly and Potter pressed the button that could make the bus stop.

“He’s that Healer,” one of the girls whispered furiously.

“Mum says he was one of them ... a Death Eater!”

Potter turned to glare at them and they blushed deeply and shut up instantly. In the back row, Hermione was practically vibrating in her seat while the girl next to her stared out the window intently. The bus stopped not a minute later.

They stood on the pavement until the bus was out of view. As soon as it turned a corner, Potter looked around to make sure nobody was watching them. He then took out his Invisibility Cloak and vanished.

“We’re still a fair way off,” Potter said. “Do you know the way?”

“Me? You are our navigator,” Draco said. “I’ve never been in these parts before.”

“Point me,” Potter whispered. “We have to turn left soon.”

They walked quietly, Potter leading the way by taking Draco’s arm and pushing or pulling him whenever it was time to make a turn. This was fine. Potter just wasn’t in the mood for talking. Draco’s arm wasn’t tingling or anything.

They reached Draco’s neighbourhood after fifteen minutes. Potter squeezed his arm lightly and then let go, whispering a soft “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Draco said, trying to keep the lip movement to a minimum. Mrs. Capitelli was known for staring out of her window, after all.

They made it into the house and Potter took off the Cloak, stuffing it into his inside pocket. Aurelius came thundering down the stairs instantly, alternating between barking and whining. Potter dropped to his knees to ruffle his fur enthusiastically, which caused Aurelius to howl even louder. They both cringed. Something was hammering inside Draco’s head like it was trying to break out. Probably the Erumpent.

“Silencio,” Draco said, pointing his wand at the dog.

“Thank God,” Potter groaned, getting back to his feet ponderously.

Draco summoned two vials of potion and gave one to Potter, who emptied it in a heartbeat. Draco vanished the empty vials and then led the way into the kitchen, where all his cupboards stood open and several cereal boxes were spread out on the table.

“That was to be expected,” Draco said more to himself, whipping out his wand to tidy up while Potter sat down on a chair.

“That is hilarious.” Even without looking at him, Draco knew that Potter was grinning. “Does he always do this?”

“Oh no, this is still tame,” Draco said, sitting down next to him and wondering why Potter hadn’t found it quite that hilarious when Aurelius had done it with his mugs last month. “Sometimes he turns on the shower or clears out my wardrobe. Maybe it’s his way of telling me that I need new clothes.”

“Or that you smell,” Potter added.

“That too,” Draco agreed, but he was drowned out by his own rumbling stomach. “Merlin, I can’t decide if I want to eat or shower first.”

“I could cook if you want to shower,” Potter offered instantly. Then he closed his eyes, like he was regretting it already.

Too bad. Draco wasn’t going to turn down an offer like that.

“Deal. Just rummage through the kitchen and take what you need.” Draco jumped to his feet at once, not bothering to ask if Potter could even cook. It couldn’t be worse than what Draco could heat up.

When he came back down, feeling like a whole new wizard, Potter was in the middle of a complicated choreography that involved much wand waving. Draco sat down just as a plate landed in front of him. Spaghetti rose out of the pot like a snake and arranged itself on Draco’s plate, forming a perfect mound. Potter floated the sauce pot onto the table and then sat down as well.

“How did you get so good at cooking spells?” Draco said, marvelling at his perfectly arranged plate. He was a little hesitant to just plunge his fork in there.

“I cook when I am wrought-up,” Potter admitted, drowning his Spaghetti in tomato sauce and then making a wedge of cheese grate itself above his plate.

“So, you’re always cooking?” Draco grinned.

“Feels like it,” Potter answered, offering him the sauce.

“I would have thought you the type to cook like a Muggle. That’s what you grew up with, right? People usually take comfort in things that remind them of their childhood.”

“Assuming their childhood was comfortable, you mean?” Potter’s voice sounded strangely harsh. He wasn’t meeting his eyes either, just stabbing the pasta with his fork.

And wow, where did that come from, all of a sudden?

“Want to talk about it?” Draco asked carefully, dribbling sauce onto his spaghetti and trying not to show his curiosity.

“Not even under threat of torture,” Potter said shortly, forking spaghetti into his mouth at the same time.

“Alright ... Hey, do you remember how we got ‘home’ yesterday?” Draco said, illustrating the quotation marks with the hand that wasn’t holding his fork.

The last thing he remembered was talking about Potter’s Muggle ex-girlfriend – the one the Prophet had written about last year, earning their editor-in-chief a shrunken head courtesy of Potter – and then some stuff about old Italian women in yoga pants. Maybe he had gone a bit overboard with the alcohol after that.

Potter frowned. “My memory stops right after the point where Olivia persuaded you to do some yoga poses with her.”

“I did not!” Draco exclaimed, scandalised. He thought about the poses Mrs. Capitelli did and felt his face grow hot. Most of those involved raising her bum into the air.

“No, you didn’t,” Potter grinned. “But only because you couldn’t even keep standing straight for more than five seconds.”

Draco grumbled and pointed his wand at the cheese. It soared over gently, closely followed by the grater, which had much more speed and whacked Draco in the forehead with its plain side before he could so much as duck. He touched his forehead gingerly and felt the already developing bump. Potter laughed loudly.

“Here,” he said, commanding the cheese to grate itself for Draco. “You have to be really precise. I always imagine what I want it to look like.”

“Thanks,” Draco said sheepishly, picking up his fork again. “What’s with you; are you in a hurry or something?”

Potter frowned, his fork frozen in the air. “Why?”

Draco, who had barely even started eating, looked at Potter’s clean plate pointedly. “You eat like a wizard on the run.”

Potter placed his fork on the plate like he thought that would cover up the emptiness of it. “I don’t want it to go cold.”

“You could place a warming charm on it,” Draco suggested.

Potter was crossing his arms now and leaning back in his chair. “Well, I don’t want to. Keeping it warm screws up the texture.”

“If you say so,” Draco said, focusing on his own plate again.

“When does your shift start?” Potter changed the subject expertly.

Draco checked his watch. “I still have an hour. But I will have to kick you out soon, I have to walk the dog before I leave.”

Potter leaned forward again, both hands gripping the table. He sounded alarmed when he said, “Hasn’t he been out since yesterday?”

“That’s your fault, not mine! You abducted me,” Draco said, rolling his eyes. Then he pointed at the back door, which led into the fenced-in garden. “Don’t worry. He can go out whenever he wants to. He knows how to open the door.”

Somehow, this seemed to worry Potter even more. He was frowning and ruffling his hair with one hand.

“So, anyone can get into your house through the garden?”

Draco shrugged. “Certainly, if they manage to get into the garden in the first place. I locked the gate and the fence is charmed to be unclimbable.”

“Don’t your neighbours get suspicious if your dog is in the garden all the time?”

“No, they can’t look inside. The garden will always look empty to Muggles, as well as the house. They could stand right outside the window and they would still not see us.”

Potter nodded thoughtfully. Then he charmed their plates to scrub themselves in the sink, and stood up. “I’ll tag along.”

So Draco leashed Aurelius, Potter threw on his Cloak and they went back out into the bright December sun.

“Alright,” Draco said after a few minutes of silence. “What’s football?”

Potter chuckled, which had Draco thinking that he may have anticipated the question. “It’s a Muggle sport. Two teams with eleven players each, but just one ball and one goal per side.”

Draco actually turned to look at Potter to see if he was serious, remembering too late that it was pointless. Well, he had sounded rather serious.

“Over a whole Quidditch team worth of players more and just half the amount of the balls?”

Draco nearly jumped when Potter bumped his shoulder, stifling his laughter. “Not half. A quarter of the balls. There’s one in total, not per side.”

“How the bloody hell does that work?”

“Okay, so there’s one keeper per side and the rest of the players kick the ball across the field and try to hit the opponent’s goal.”

Draco waited for the rest of it, but Potter didn’t seem to want to say anything else. He couldn’t help it – he looked in his direction a second time.

“That’s it?”

Another shoulder bump. This was starting to border on assault. “Pretty much, yeah.”

Draco huffed. “So, you chose some obscure, boring sport so they wouldn’t get suspicious?”

Potter laughed silently. “I don’t know how to tell you this, Malfoy, but football is the Muggles’ most popular sport.”

“Merlin,” Draco muttered to himself. “Poor bastards. And how does Blaise fit into this? I doubt the Muggles think he produces brooms for your weird, boring sport.”

“We told them that he produces sportswear. He knows a thing or two about that. After the … you know,” there was some rustling from Potter’s cloak before he continued, “… after the footrest thing, he had this idea for impenetrable Quidditch gear.”

Oh great. Another thing they could work on together. Blaise would probably get Potter to showcase that too. Draco’s enthusiasm truly knew no bounds.

“And how’s that going?” Draco’s voice didn’t sound flat, right?

There was a sigh. “It’s not. There’s rules against charmed gear.”

Draco told himself that that was nothing to be excited about. Truth was, impenetrable gear would be rather nice. Maybe it would even reduce the number of serious Quidditch injuries. Figured that the Ministry was against it. Not that Draco was going to point out how brilliant Blaise’s idea was.

“So,” said Draco instead, “how do you feel about Blaise just ditching you yesterday?”

“He ditched you too!” Potter laughed. “All of them just left us with those two.”

“But you went there together, didn’t you?” Draco objected. “That’s different.”

“We all went there together?” Potter replied, maybe in an attempt to be really, really thick. Not that he had to try very hard.

“Come on, you know what I mean!”

“I really don’t,” said Potter.

It suddenly felt unfair that he could see Draco but Draco couldn’t see him.

“It’s different if he just leaves you there! I don’t think Weasley would just leave without Granger, would he?”

Potter grabbed his arm suddenly and pulled him into a narrow laneway. His head appeared in mid-air and Draco rather suspected that the whole point of this stunt was to allow Potter to glare at him.

“If you are referring to what happened in July –” he began irritably, bright eyes flashing at him in the dark alley.

“Not just that!” Draco objected.

Potter grabbed his shoulders and pushed his back against a wall, glaring up at him while Aurelius was sniffing a spot on the ground, being no help at all.

“There was nothing else!” he hissed, narrowing his eyes dangerously. “And we agreed to never talk about that again. Last thing I need is for Ginny to hear about that.”

“Ginny?” Draco said, quite confused. “Why would she care? Didn’t you call it quits years ago?”

“Not because of me in particular, you flipping idiot. I just don’t believe she would be very happy to hear that her boyfriend is still seeing his hook-ups regularly.”

All the blood inside his head suddenly dropped to his stomach. “Her what now?”

Potter let go of him, leaving his shoulders slightly colder than they had been. “Malfoy, you do know they are dating, right?”

“Since when?” he demanded. Why was he just now hearing about this?!

“Officially? Bill’s birthday party, I guess,” Potter said, putting his hood back on. “From what I heard, that butterbeer pong game got really intense.”

“That was over a month ago!”

Did that mean that Draco’s obsession – no, that was a bit much, let’s call it a curiosity – about Potter and Blaise’s thing had been entirely unfounded?

“You gotta settle that with Blaise,” Potter said, his voice moving away from him. “I’m keeping out of it.”

They circled back silently and had just reached his front garden again, when Potter whispered “Incoming!” and then squeezed past him to avoid colliding with Mrs. Capitelli, who was just catching up with them.

“Oh Draco, dear,” she huffed. “What a coincidence to meet you outside! I was just coming over to borrow some sugar.”

Draco looked down at the rolling pin she was still holding in her hands and rather doubted that it was that much of a coincidence. Potter, who was stuck between Draco’s left side and his rose bushes, held onto his arm, probably trying to keep away from the thorns as much as possible. Why did it always have to be his left arm?

“I saw you coming home an hour ago, didn’t you spend the night at home?” Mrs. Capitelli asked casually.

“No,” Draco answered carefully. “I slept in the city at some friends’ home. They’ve got an air mattress.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” she answered, sounding delighted (probably at having found out something new – nobody should be delighted about air mattresses). “Was your boyfriend there too?”

Draco gaped at her. The hand around his upper arm twitched slightly. “My ...?”

“That handsome young man you had over the other day?”

“Er – do you mean Blaise?” Draco asked confusedly. There weren’t exactly a lot of options. He practically never had guests.

“Oh, don’t be silly,” she giggled. “I know Blaise. He always comes over to talk if I’m outside. Such a nice young man.”

“Yes ...,” Draco agreed, gesturing at his front door lamely. “Well, I’ve got to ...”

“I mean that Italian boy,” she talked over him. “I think he spent the night a few weeks ago? I never saw him leave.”

“Italian boy?” Draco asked, even more confused now. She couldn’t mean Potter, could she? He wasn’t even Italian.

“He’s rather small, I think? With really lovely hair,” she described. And this didn’t fit Potter at all, but who else was there?

“Mrs. Capitelli, are you trying to make a pitch for one of your nephews?” he asked casually, trying to ignore the hand that was vibrating on his arm. Potter seemed to grow rather restless, hemmed in as he was.

“Oh no, my dear. I would never if you are already with someone,” she breathed, clutching the rolling pin to her chest. “And my nephews are too old for you and all of them already married.”

“Oh well, then I don’t really think I can follow,” Draco said. “Are you sure it was my house?”

“Oh yes, quite sure,” she said. “Sanjay saw him too. He’s got this ...” and then she gestured at her forehead while looking at the ground bashfully. “Shame, really. He’s got such a handsome face, apart from that. And a really nice bum,” she added candidly.

Potter and Draco yelped in unison. Potter because he had probably pricked himself on some thorns, and Draco because Potter gave him a mighty pinch in the process. Mrs. Capitelli took a startled step back.

“Roses,” Draco explained, rubbing his arm.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed,” Mrs. Capitelli assured him. “He looks like a rather good catch.”

“Yes ...,” Draco said slowly. “He’s really ... unusual.”

Mrs. Capitelli beamed at him. Potter jabbed him in the side hard. Her beam lessened slightly, probably because she saw Draco grimacing.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, darling,” she said, grabbing her rolling pin with both hands again. As if.

“Oh no, that’s alright,” Draco assuaged her. “It’s just a rather new development. If we could maybe keep this between us for now?”

“Certainly,” she assured him, stepping much closer now, as if to conspire with him.

Draco wasn’t fooled by this. By the end of his shift tonight, every single one of his neighbours would be fully informed, just as Sanjay had informed her. She had probably caught a glimpse of Potter when he had accepted their food, and hounded the delivery boy for information afterwards.

“Thank you,” he said, motioning to leave, but she put a hand on his forearm and leaned in. This caused Draco to lean away from her and consequently into Potter, who had to hold onto him even tighter to keep from tumbling into the shrubs.

“So, what’s his name?” she mock-whispered.

“Er – Harry?” he answered uneasily.

“What are you doing?” Potter whispered into his ear urgently. His warm breath on Draco’s neck definitely didn’t help. Draco bumped him with his elbow slightly.

“Oh, but that’s not an Italian name!” Mrs. Capitelli sounded gravely disappointed. She looked down at Aurelius, like he could do anything about it.

“I guess not?” Draco agreed. “He’s quarter Greek, you see …”

“Maybe his name is Enrico? So many of them try to fit in nowadays, it’s a shame, really.”

“Yes … er … no. I mean ... I think Harry is his given name? And he definitely isn’t Italian, sorry.”

“Draco, dear,” she said, shaking her head gravely. “I know it when I see one of us. He did cook for you, didn’t he?”

“Er – I guess so, but that was just ...,” he tried to explain, but she cut him off, patting his hand affectionately.

“And what did you eat?”

“Spaghetti, but –” he began, but she had already let go of his hands to throw her own into the air, rolling pin included.

“There you have it. So, where did you two meet?” she continued instantly and now it definitely felt like an interrogation. Potter’s hand was twitching nervously.

“Boarding school – listen, I’ve really got to ...”

“Oh, I love a good teenage romance!” she exclaimed, clutching the rolling pin to her chest in a by now familiar manner. “And you found each other again after all these years?”

“No, nothing like that,” Draco said, but she wasn’t really listening. She looked like Christmas had come early, which was a pointless thing to think on actual Christmas Day.

“Listen, Mrs. Capitelli. I’ve got to go to work now.”

“Work. Yes, of course!” she exclaimed and for one second, Draco thought he had actually managed to get through to her. “What does he do for a living?”

“He’s a professional … er … footballer,” Draco said shortly, remembering Potter’s cover story. “I really need to ...”

“An athlete, you can really tell!” she said loudly, rendering their closeness completely unnecessary now.

“Yes, certainly. Look, Mrs. Capitelli –”

Mrs. Capitelli opened her mouth again, the next question already on her lips, when Potter let go of him. Something whooshed by Draco’s face and Mrs. Capitelli’s eyes slid out of and then back into focus.

“Excuse me, Draco, dear,” she said distractedly. “I’ve got to finish my preparations for our Christmas dinner.”

And then she hurried back to her house, the pretence of wanting to borrow some sugar completely forgotten. Potter pushed him away slightly and let go of him. Draco made haste to unlock his door and get inside, where Potter took off his Cloak.

“What the hell was that?”

“Well, she is unbelievably nosey,” Draco explained.

“No kidding,” Potter agreed. “So, why did you tell her those things?”

“Because she already believed it to be true anyways. Not much to be done about that.”

“You could’ve told her we’re just friends.”

“No way she would have believed that! That is the lamest excuse ever.”

“But it’s not an excuse!”

“Yes, I know that, thank you,” Draco said coldly. “I’m sorry if I offended you somehow, but there was no way to avoid that. Unless you wanted to listen to her waxing on about what an athletic arse you are?”

Potter crossed his arms and then immediately let go again to ruffle his hair, which was apparently really lovely. First those girls on the bus, now Mrs. Capitelli – was the whole world going blind? Maybe he had Italian hair. Draco really was no expert on the matter.

“I’m not,” Potter said shortly, staring into his eyes defiantly.

“You are being a colossal arse right now,” Draco objected.

Potter rolled his eyes. “I mean I’m not offended, you stupid git.”

“Oh, okay. Fine ... good,” Draco said lamely, caught off-guard. “Maybe now she will stop trying to set me up.”

“With her old, married nephews, you mean?” Potter grinned.

“Or with her lesbian granddaughter’s bisexual friend, who is apparently really funny.”

“So, he’s hideous?”

“I’m assuming.”

“Why are you living in a Muggle neighbourhood again?”

Draco bent down to unleash Aurelius and then watched him bound upstairs. “Well, at least they are happy to see me. Maybe a little too much, but still better than people switching to the other side of the street when they see me.”

“They don’t!” Potter said, scandalised.

“Of course they do,” Draco said. “And who can blame them, really?”

“You were acquitted! And your parents paid their reparations.” Potter sounded almost angry now. What did he have to be upset about?

“You just said it: acquitted, not absolved of all sins,” Draco said bitterly, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on one of the hooks.

“But –” Potter started, but Draco held up a hand.

“Don’t. I’ve got a respectable job and a steady income, that’s more than I could have asked for.”

Potter looked like he still might argue, but then Draco’s alarm clock went off upstairs. They were left staring at each other silently. The alarm stopped and Aurelius barked three times.

“My shift starts now,” Draco said, opening the door for Potter again, who vanished and bumped into him on his way out.

Chapter Text

Draco was already exhausted halfway through his shift. Little sleep (while lying practically on the floor) and an ambush by Mrs. Capitelli would do that to anyone. Then there was that constant back and forth with Potter. One moment they got along brilliantly and the next they were almost ripping each other’s throats out.

Worst of all was that Draco found he liked it. Arguing with Potter was always a rush, and Draco’s heart was hammering when he thought back to Potter pressing him up against the wall in a dark alley. If only that had been as filthy as it sounded.

Well, at least he didn’t have to worry about Blaise anymore, he thought as he tended to this shift’s fifth Christmas meal gone wrong (a witch losing control of her self-carving knife and cutting into her own leg instead of the turkey’s).

He didn’t manage to get away until half past midnight, an hour and a half after his shift officially ended. His last patient, a femur fracture, hadn’t deemed it necessary to mention his dragon pox infection until after spending two hours in the crowded waiting room. After that, it was all Draco could do to drag himself to the fireplace and Floo home.

He had barely stepped out of the fire when he was suddenly grabbed from behind and pressed into his couch face down. The intruder pushed him down with one knee against his back, wand pressed against his throat. Draco’s own wand was stored safely inside his scrubs, completely out of reach as he was lying on top of it.

“What do you want?” Draco spat out, and he was relieved to notice that his voice didn’t quiver, even though his heart was racing madly and he felt ice-cold all over.

“Just demonstrating how easy it is to break into your house,” said a rough voice right next to his ear, warm breath tickling his neck.

Draco shivered violently. He knew that voice. He dreamt about that voice, regularly, and not the kind of dreams you told your mother about. Not even the kind he would tell Blaise about, honestly.

“Potter?”

The weight on his back vanished as well as the wand at his throat. Draco rolled over and looked up at Potter, illuminated by the flickering fire, standing over him like some type of predator.

And this was definitely doing something to Draco. Suddenly he didn’t feel tired or cold at all anymore. The blood inside his head was rushing down fast, apparently feeling it was needed somewhere else. And Draco wanted to agree, but there was still the pressing matter of Potter having broken into his house. And also the small inconvenience of Potter not wanting him, of course. Even if he seemed to be roaming his whole body with his eyes.

Draco felt almost naked under his gaze and wanted nothing more than to be naked under him. Wishful thinking, of course. Draco was severely sleep-deprived, that was all. He forced his mind out of the gutter with massive effort and pushed himself up.

“What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

“Please, as if that’s a challenge.” Potter scoffed, walking over to Draco’s kitchen area. “You gave Blaise unrestricted access. All I had to do was use his Floo.”

“So what? Doesn’t sound that bad to me. Anyone planning to break into my house has to break into Blaise’s first!”

“He has guests over all the time. Piece of cake,” Potter said. “He has a soiree once a month. All you have to do is look rich or famous or influential and you’re in.”

“And which rich, famous and influential wizard would want to break into my house?” Draco asked sarcastically, coming over to stand in front of his dinner table.

“They don’t have to be all that, just look like it,” Potter explained in a tone like he was talking to a child. “A few drops of Polyjuice would be enough.”

“And where would they get that? It’s crazy expensive and you have to be a registered customer to even be able to buy the potion.”

“Brew it themselves?” Potter suggested, opening Draco’s fridge and taking out a dozen containers that had definitely not been there yesterday.

“That’s not exactly easy!”

Should he even ask what Potter was doing? Draco didn’t know anymore. This whole thing just kept getting weirder and weirder. Was that what associating with Harry Potter was usually like?

 “Oh please.” Potter set the table with a flick of his wand. “A twelve-year-old can do it.”

“You can’t even get all the ingredients on the open market. You even have to register to buy boomslang skin.”

“I’ve got a boomslang!”

“By chance!” Draco said. “You didn’t buy it from a certified breeder and I would be surprised to hear that you registered it with the Ministry.”

Potter sidestepped the unasked question. “There’s still the black market and underground events.”

“Potter, this is all highly theoretical! I don’t think anyone would go to such lengths just to get into my house, when they could just throw on a glamour and easily jump me at Mungo’s.”

Contrary to Draco’s expectations, Potter did not seem amused by this. He glared at him while jabbing his wand at the containers. The contents arranged themselves on a plate, forming a miniature Christmas Dinner.

There was a tiny roast turkey complete with mashed potatoes and vegetables, mince pies, Christmas pudding decorated with holly, and two enormous slices of Christmas cake, one of which Potter placed opposite where Draco was standing. Potter sat down in front of it and looked up at him expectantly.

“Sit down and eat, and afterwards I can bully you into letting me improve your security spells.”

“I can hardly wait,” Draco said, sitting down. “Where did you get all this and why did you bring it here?”

Potter grinned broadly. “Blaise mentioned that you have to work tonight and Molly was very distressed. She is really worried because you look so malnourished.”

“I am not malnourished!” Draco protested, but Potter just laughed at him, which made Draco scowl. “You seem rather happy.”

“Oh yes,” Potter said, starting to eat his cake at an exceptionally slow pace. “It’s always nice when she worries about somebody else. Oh, that reminds me.”

Potter waved his wand and a squishy package materialised out of thin air. He caught it and slid it across the table towards Draco.

“She made me promise I would deliver this to you.”

Draco regarded the package suspiciously. It was wrapped in green paper and topped with a silver bow. In short, it looked very much like a present. Why would Mrs. Weasley give Draco a present?

Potter was watching him, so Draco got to unwrapping the package very carefully. It finally fell open and Draco stared down at it wordlessly.

“It’s her thing,” Potter explained, daring Draco to say a bad word about it.

Draco unfolded the emerald green jumper. It looked just like the ones Potter and the Weasleys often wore, only that this one had the head of a golden retriever stitched to the front.

“That’s really nice,” Draco said in a husky voice. He cleared his throat and then concentrated very hard on his plate. “She didn’t have to make this for me.”

“She disagrees very much. Saving my life makes you an honorary Weasley, I’m afraid.”

“I’m not charming my hair red.” Draco grimaced, even though he knew for a fact that there were worse families to belong to. Take the Malfoys, for example.

“I’ll tell them,” Potter said, grinning broadly.

They were silent for a minute, Potter savouring his cake and Draco trying his hardest to eat slowly instead of imitating Potter’s usual style and just devouring everything at once. He had not eaten since lunch, more than ten hours ago, and he was starving. He thought about the cornflakes he would undoubtedly have eaten and about the zero presents he had anticipated.

He felt close to tears. Sleep deprivation really did make people rather emotional. Better find a safe topic to take his mind off how pathetically lonely he was – not right now, necessarily, more as a general theme in his life.

Draco cleared his throat. “Did you Confund my neighbour this afternoon?” he asked casually, cutting his brussels sprouts.

“That would be highly immoral,” Potter said. “Seeing as she is a Muggle and all that.”

“And everybody knows you are the embodiment of morality.”

“Yep.”

“Never used magic on a Muggle ...,” Draco continued.

Potter nodded, concentrating on dividing the last tiny bit of cake yet again, but Draco could hear him mutter under his breath, “... who didn’t deserve it.”

Draco was all ears. “Do tell. Knowing that even our Saviour has his moments of weakness always makes me feel better,” he said eagerly, pushing his empty plate aside and starting on his slice of cake.

“You weren’t supposed to hear that!” Potter protested. “And don’t call me that name.”

“Well, I did hear, so spill.”

“Only if you let me improve your warding.”

Draco thought about it for a few seconds but in the end, his curiosity won out. “You may do reasonable adjustments.”

“Deal. Okay, let’s see ...,” Potter said, rocking his chair back and forth on two legs. “There was this one time when I blew up my uncle’s sister, obviously.”

“Obviously?” Draco asked. “And that was justified, because ...?”

“She badmouthed my parents and suggested drowning me would have been a more sensible course of action than taking me in.”

“Ah yes, that would do it. Do go on.”

“I used a tripping spell on some bodybuilder type who was looking for a fight at the pub. He would have obliterated me.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “And you didn’t at all contribute to this fight developing?”

“Well, he might have said something about my scar, so I might have said something about having to compensate some things with muscles.”

“Naturally.”

“And then there was that incident when I sicked a boa on my cousin and his friend. But that was before I knew I could even do that, so I don’t think it really counts.”

“You accidentally set a snake on your cousin because you didn’t know it could understand you?”

“Oh no, that I knew. I just didn’t know I could make the glass at the zoo vanish.”

Draco was very confused. “You didn’t ... why?”

“Because I was only ten years old,” Potter said matter-of-factly.

“You didn’t manifest until you were ten?” Draco asked, disbelieving. “Hard to believe your impulse control was better back then.”

Potter didn’t seem bothered at all. “Oh no, I did loads of stuff before that. I just didn’t know it was magic I was doing.”

Draco put away his fork to fully concentrate on Potter. “What did you think it was?”

“I thought it was some type of whirlwind when I suddenly ended up on the roof of my old school,” Potter said thoughtfully. “And my hair growing back in one night after a brutal hair cut was definitely due to a genetic abnormality.”

Draco laughed. “Sad to hear there is nothing anybody could do about your hair. But I definitely agree with you, that mob is an abnormality beyond compare.”

“Nice of you to notice,” Potter said, and then he leaned over and stole the last of Draco’s cake.

“So, you didn’t know about any of it until you got your letter? Your relatives didn’t know about us?”

Potter scoffed, frowning at his empty plate. “Oh, they knew alright. They just hoped it would go away if they hushed it up.”

“Go away?” Draco was appalled. He had never considered that anyone would rather their relatives were not magical. And Harry Potter’s family had hoped he were a Squib? That was just absurd!

“They wanted the perfect suburban life, you know? You have the perfectly attentive housewife and the perfect husband, who wears a suit to work, and the perfect son, who goes to a prestigious school.”

“And what was your role?” Draco asked, thinking about all the social events his parents had hosted in the past, always introducing him to important people.

“Mostly to hide and pretend I didn’t exist,” Potter said matter-of-factly.

Draco just gaped at him open-mouthed. He couldn’t even think of something to say to that. Never in a million years would he have thought that Potter, of all people, would be someone his family wanted to keep a secret.

“Don’t look at me like that. It wasn’t even that bad. I was more bothered by having to pretend to attend a special school for dangerous boys later on.”

“You’re taking the piss now, right?”

“I wish,” Potter said tonelessly, charming the empty plates and containers to scrub themselves in the sink. Before Draco could ask anything else, Potter got up and rolled up his sleeves. “Alright, on to the fun part.”

Watching Potter fix his security spells wasn’t fun at all. Draco had a hard time dissuading Potter from making his house an invisible, unplottable fortress.

In the end, they settled on banning anyone but the residents from entering his house directly. Nobody but Draco would be able to Apparate directly inside and every single Floo transport had to be approved by him. Draco had a small victory in persuading Potter to still allow Floo calls, as nobody would be able to come through just because of that.

Potter did all the spells nonverbally and Draco had to admit he didn’t recognise most of the wand movements. Potter clearly was an expert when it came to these things. Or maybe he was just insanely overcautious.

As Draco laid in bed an hour later, thinking about Potter’s Invisibility Cloak and his glamour and his nightmares and the way he didn’t want any strangers touching him, he was sure that it was the latter. Potter was definitely not okay and probably hiding behind a vast number of spells, even six years later.

~o~

Draco was woken up by the tiniest owl he had ever seen steadily tapping against his window. He opened the window and the owl flew in, promptly orbiting his head. He had to catch it in mid-air (calling on every last bit of Seeker’s skill he still possessed) to be able to untie the small scroll of parchment from its leg.

Malfoy,

just making sure owls still reach you.

Also, wanna come to our New Year’s Bash at Shell Cottage? The Falcons and Harpies will be there and also some of Bill and Fleur’s friends. You can have it out with Blaise there too. Send your answer with Pig so I will get it directly.

Harry

Draco summoned a new piece of parchment (even though he easily could have fit his answer on the back of Potter’s letter – so what if he wanted to keep it?) and wrote his reply.

Good Morning to you too, Potter,

I am not entirely sure if you can call this feathery Snitch an owl, but yes, I got your letter.

I am pretty confident I will be able to get New Year’s Eve off. See you there.

Draco

He was on the fence for a few seconds about how to end his letter. Signing his initials somehow seemed wrong, as Potter had just put his first name. Draco wasn’t entirely sure what that meant. They never called each other by their first names, and thinking about Potter as Harry felt really weird.

But maybe Potter wanted to get to a first-name-basis? He at least seemed to want him there at the party.

And he had brought him Christmas Dinner. Had they really become friends somewhere along the way? That was something friends did, right?

Draco hoped the party would clear things up for him.

Chapter Text

It felt like the whole of Wizarding England and France had come. A huge magical dome had been erected above the garden, keeping the cold wind and occasional rain out and the warmth from several bonfires in, while still letting out the smoke. It rather felt like sitting inside a snow globe, only with confetti soaring down from the dome instead of snow.

Potter had spotted him immediately and grabbed his arm to tow him through the crowd, introducing him to a ton of people as ‘the bad-ass Healer who saved his life and career’. Draco found that people were infinitely friendlier and more willing to talk to him when someone as influential as Potter introduced him like that.

At the end of their tour (which took more than half an hour, as there were so many people) Draco was pulled into a heated discussion about experimental healing techniques with a group of French mediwitches and only realised fifteen minutes in that Potter had vanished.

He spotted him sitting around one of the bonfires with his team, feeding scraps of food to the salamanders flitting through the flames. He was laughing happily and Draco’s heart clenched suddenly.

He didn’t hear the witches anymore as a horrible realisation gripped him tight.

Merlin, no. Why did it have to be him?!

He didn’t have a crush on Potter.

When had been the last time he hadn’t been thinking about him for fifteen whole minutes, apart from at work (and even there, he couldn’t guarantee it)? He was always looking for him, thought about him constantly, everything reminded him of Potter.

He had kept that ridiculous jumper and wore it around the house sometimes, for fuck’s sake! And the reason for that certainly wasn’t that it was just so comfortable, however much he told himself that. If he was being really honest with himself, he probably wouldn’t even have washed it if he hadn’t worn it to a pub and then slept in it. How was that for pathetic?

He should have bailed long ago, broken off the contact, but he had been too weak and now look where it had gotten him.

He actually liked Harry fucking Potter. Like-Liked him. With feelings and everything.

What was he supposed to do? It clearly would not go away on its own – waiting had only made it so much worse. Draco almost wished that Potter were seeing Blaise.

There was nothing else for it – Draco had to tell him.

He had to come clean and then wait for Potter to cut him off. Staying away would be so much easier if Potter didn’t surprise him at home all the time or invite him to parties.

Yes, he would tell him. This would be his New Year’s resolution. He would tell him first thing after midnight and be done with it. Start the new year fresh. This meant he still had two hours to mentally prepare himself.

A waitress dressed in black and white robes came by and Draco put his empty cup on the tray she was carrying. If he wanted to do this right, he had to keep a level head. He had to keep a firm grip on his impulse control to avoid a repetition of what had happened the last time he was at Shell Cottage.

Jumping the real Potter definitely would not help Draco get over him.

He risked another glance at Potter and instantly wished for his drink back as their eyes met.

Potter seemed to hesitate for a second and then grabbed Beater Leona Robinson’s cup and emptied it on the spot, much to her protest. He grabbed both his neighbours’ shoulders and pulled himself up, looking over at him once more. Merlin, he looked pretty determined.

He wasn’t coming over, was he? Draco wasn’t ready to face him right now!

“Draco!” Blaise spun him around by one arm suddenly. “There you are! I’m going crazy!”

‘Get in line,’ thought Draco, only panicking a little bit.

And then Blaise pulled him away from the mediwitches, flashing them his most charming smile, and over to the patio, which was momentarily deserted.

“It’s a nightmare. Did you know there is a thing called ‘Wanda’s Wandless Waiters’? She employs only Squibs.”

Draco shook his head, frowning at Blaise. Maybe it was his recent catastrophic epiphany, but Draco wasn’t following. “Squibs are a nightmare?”

“They are if they sell their hair for Poly-Parties and then get booked for my girlfriend’s New Year’s Bash!”

Draco raised an eyebrow expertly, finding solace in the fact that he was neither too drunk nor too freaked out to not be able to still do this. “Your girlfriend, you say? I would not know about that.”

“It’s not my fault you don’t recognise attraction when it stares you in the face,” Blaise said, rolling his eyes. “I’m sorry that I clearly overestimated your observation skills. Can we please focus on the real problem now? This feels like a convention for all the people I’ve shagged. And of course, the Squibs don’t know me, which makes it even worse somehow.”

“I think it’s hilarious,” Draco said, but he only managed a rather weak grin. “Reaping what you sowed and all that.”

“Don’t act so high and mighty. I’m not the only one who goes to those parties!”

“I don’t see Potter running around like a hippogriff with its head cut off,” Draco said, looking over to the bonfire automatically.

Oh no.

Potter had vanished and his place had been taken by Ginny, who was now talking to Leona Robinson animatedly. Draco resisted the urge to turn around and search the crowd for him. He could imagine what Blaise would have to say about that.

“Fine, so maybe I’ve gone to more of those parties than he has and he doesn’t know the donors from earlier cycles. But still! This is a matter of principle.”

Draco just snorted. “You will live. You manage to face Potter all the time, and with her there too.”

“That’s different,” Blaise said with a wave of his hand. “We have other things to talk about, so it’s easy to just pretend it never happened.”

“That sounds like healthy coping,” Draco said, looking around to check out the Squibs (and keep himself from asking how Potter was in bed). “Which ones did you sleep with?”

Blaise pointed out a pretty blond guy and a rather muscular man with very broad shoulders. Yeah, Draco wouldn’t have turned down those two either.

“My advice: just pick a waiter whose Poly-Twin you haven’t done unspeakable things to and stick with him for the rest of the night.”

“They are just ‘unspeakable’ because your dry spell has gone on for so long that you don’t even know how sex works anymore,” Blaise countered. Rude.

Draco opened his mouth to argue, but Blaise just patted his arm and tried leaving him standing there. Draco followed him to the bonfire and they sat down next to Ginny (after checking that Potter was still nowhere to be seen).

Draco had just sat down when Potter reappeared out of nowhere, offering Robinson a cup.

“Here, mixed it myself,” he said, grinning crookedly. He definitely didn’t look all that sober anymore and his hair was standing up in all directions.

“Your concoctions could paralyse an Erumpent! You could’ve just brought me the same drink you stole from me,” Robinson protested, sniffing at the cup. “Why do you always do this to me?”

“Because you’re the only one who even still drinks them.” Potter grinned dazedly, giving Draco a sidelong glance that made his stomach drop. Drunk Potter had bedroom eyes. Perfect.

“Sit down already, before you topple over and into the fire,” Flynn Montgomery – one of the Falcons’ Chasers – said. “Matt would skin you alive. He said you’re not allowed to injure yourself until after our match against Puddlemere.”

“When is that?” Draco asked in a desperate attempt at concentrating on anyone but Potter, who was still hovering behind Robinson. Much too close.

“On the sixteenth,” said Robinson.

“Good luck with that.” Draco laughed. He sounded normal, right? “No way he can manage that long.”

Potter tried to shoot him what Draco suspected to be a scathing look, and failed miserably because he didn’t seem to have his eyebrows under control anymore. His eyes didn’t seem to fully focus on him either.

Draco stood up and gestured at his seat. “There, you can sit here. I need to find something to eat anyway.”

“Comin’,” Potter said at once, sounding more inarticulate by the minute.

Draco had the nagging feeling that Potter wanted to talk to him, which was the complete opposite of what Draco wanted right now. He needed time to come to terms with what he was about to do. Maybe make up a speech or something. Or, if he was being honest, talk himself out of it before midnight.

He shook his head and guided Potter over to the empty seat by his arm. “You should really sit down; I’ll send someone over to you with food.”

“But –” Potter protested, trying to stand up again and failing.

Blaise put a hand on his arm to keep him down. “Maybe you should also stop drinking,” he said matter-of-factly.

“I didn’t even –” Potter began, but then he seemed to lose his thread and just stared into the flames instead.

“Lightweight,” Montgomery scoffed and the rest of them laughed.

Draco took his chance and cleared off. He found himself some food, sent a waitress over to Potter with the greasiest food she had and then joined Luna and Thomas in a game of Exploding Snap to keep his mind off things. And if he was procrastinating, who could blame him?

After the third round, he spotted Potter coming towards them and hurriedly ducked into the crowd and fled. It was definitely not midnight yet; he still had some time left.

Now he was sitting on the ground in front of the cottage, picking at some bread on a stick. This did not count as hiding, thank you very much.

“Draco. We need to talk,” someone said above him. He looked up at Blaise, who was standing there with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

“What did I do?” Draco asked, instantly suspicious.

“Are you avoiding Harry?” Well, if that didn’t sound like an accusation.

Draco frowned at him. If he could do one thing, it was faking total calmness. “What makes you think that?”

“Well, he seems to think so. He’s been sulking all night and drinking his weight in alcohol too, by the looks of it.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“He’s been stumbling around for the last ten minutes, asking for you. Not a pretty sight, I can tell you. It would be funny if it weren’t so pathetic.”

Draco groaned and tipped his head back so he could look at the dome. Some confetti got caught in his eyelashes and he blew it away.

“I may have been avoiding him a little bit,” Draco admitted reluctantly. “But I’m not really looking forward to what he could want to talk about, especially when he is that drunk. He probably has some kind of speech prepared, about how he forgives me for my sins, because he is just that heroic.”

“Since when are you such a chicken?” Blaise said. “Just go talk to him, please. Before he finds another waiter to supply him, preferably.”

“Fine.” Draco groaned again, letting Blaise pull him to his feet. “But just five minutes, tops!”

Blaise steered him over to the house. “Have it your idiotic way. Come on, we put him on the couch inside.”

But just as they approached the back door, it opened. Both of them stopped to watch Potter, who was leaning against the door frame with his eyes closed, taking shallow breaths. He was unnaturally pale and his hair was sticking to his forehead.

“Need Malfoy,” Potter mumbled, almost imperceptible.

Draco dashed forward just as Potter lost consciousness, barely catching him before he hit the floor.

“Get Granger!” Draco yelled. Then he Disapparated.

Chapter Text

The Healers had to purify Potter’s blood three times over as many hours until the poison was completely cleared out. Since they did not know how or with what Potter had been poisoned, it was hard to tell what the long-term consequences would entail.

Draco was not allowed to help with the healing, as he was not completely sober and this was not his ward. He had to stay in the waiting room with Potter’s family instead, forced to wait for news.

Nobody said anything, which meant that Draco had time to thoroughly beat himself up over what had happened. He was a Healer; he should have recognised the signs. Nobody declined that quickly just from alcohol. But Draco had done his best to avoid Potter, who had asked around for him the whole time.

Had Potter even wanted to talk to him? Maybe he had felt ill much sooner and tried to get a hold of him because of it? Had Draco endangered Potter’s life because he could not deal with his unrequited feelings?

~o~

Around half past two, Healer Redwood came to take the family for a quick visit while Draco stayed outside his room with Blaise, feeling more than a little out of place. This was where the Aurors found them.

All three of them were wearing shield vests and wand holsters. They had forgone their long scarlet robes, which Draco found quite unsettling. When an Auror went to make an arrest, they typically did not wear an immensely impractical robe but something they could actually fight in if need be. And they had suspected Blaise once before already.

Draco recognised the greying wizard in the middle as William Mulberry, Head of the Auror Office. Splendid. With him were Auror Lancaster, who had stood guard at Potter’s wing the last time, and a young witch with short, frizzy hair and a thin scar that went down the length of her throat and vanished underneath her shirt.

“Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Zabini,” Mulberry said calmly, “We’ve got a few questions.”

“Are we in trouble?” Blaise blurted out, like an idiot. Way to seem unsuspicious. Draco stepped on his foot to keep him from saying anything else.

“No, we are not, because we didn’t do anything,” he said pointedly, holding Mulberry’s gaze. “Please ignore what he just said. Blaise is still a little traumatised by the last time he was wrongfully accused of attempting assassination.”

“Not to worry,” Mulberry replied, exchanging a glance with the young witch to his right. “We are only taking everybody’s accounts of the events that took place at tonight’s party.”

Mulberry jerked his head in Lancaster’s direction, who promptly took his place at Potter’s door, crossing his arms in an intimidating display of biceps that threatened to burst through his shirt sleeves.

Mulberry indicated the vacant room opposite Potter’s. “In here, Mr. Zabini. Mr. Malfoy, please follow Auror Jenkins.”

Though he was anxious to leave Blaise alone with Mulberry, there was nothing Draco could do about it.

He followed Jenkins into a room at the end of the hall and sat down in the only guest chair at her behest. She stood leaning against the wardrobe next to the door, effectively blocking the only exit.

“My name is Carys Jenkins, personnel number A 15735. This memory will be extracted by an authorised Auror for further investigation. Please state your name and occupation.”

“I am Draco Lucius Malfoy.” His voice broke there and he had to clear his throat, closing his eyes briefly.

The last time he had been interrogated had been right after the war, for days on end. He couldn’t think of that now, he had to keep calm. He wasn’t facing Azkaban this time, because he had done nothing illegal, for once. Just stay calm.

“I am a Trauma Healer at St. Mungo’s.”

“You were at the Weasleys’ New Year’s Party at Shell Cottage?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Please tell me everything you remember.”

Draco had to give it to her – though she couldn’t have been older than him, she was definitely good at her job. He had the displeasure of encountering all kinds of Aurors over the years and it was very easy to spot the bad ones. They usually asked all kinds of pointed questions, trying to get the answer they wanted and not the one they needed. Jenkins seemed at least willing to listen to his own account of the events.

“I arrived at Shell Cottage around nine. Potter introduced me to some of the other guests and then went to sit with his Quidditch team at the fire. I made conversation with some French mediwitches. Then Blaise fetched me to come over to the bonfire. Potter came back there some time later. He gave Leona Robinson something to drink. Seemed like he is somewhat notorious for mixing his own drinks. He also seemed to be quite drunk already.”

“What time was that?” Jenkins prompted.

“Definitely after ten. Maybe a quarter past?”

“Please continue.”

“I went to find some food. Potter wanted to join me, but I thought he looked unwell, so I told him to stay. I sent a waitress over with something to eat, to get him to sober up.”

Draco decided to omit the fact that he had tried to avoid Potter at any cost. It wasn’t relevant and might have looked suspicious.

“Blaise had already told him to stop drinking. I ran into Luna Lovegood and Dean Thomas, and we played a few rounds of Exploding Snap. Then I went for some bread, that was maybe around eleven. I briefly saw him in the crowd. He seemed rather drunk, could hardly walk in a straight line.”

Draco broke off, staring at his feet. His hands were twitching nervously, so he folded them in his lap.

“Mr. Malfoy?” Jenkins said cautiously, as if afraid he might snap.

He cleared his throat again, trying to swallow the lump that had built up inside of it.

“Sorry,” he croaked. “It just seems so idiotic in hindsight. I should have noticed something. I’ve seen him drunk before and he could still talk then, even if it didn’t necessarily make sense. But last night, he just stopped talking in the middle of a sentence, like he couldn’t remember what he was doing a second ago. That was uncharacteristic.”

“But you did bring him in, didn’t you? You caught on eventually.” She uncrossed her arms, maybe to seem less aggressive, more approachable.

“I still thought it was alcohol poisoning when I brought him here. Blaise told me that Potter went around looking for me, and that they put him on the couch inside. So, I went with Blaise. Potter collapsed right in front of us, right there on the threshold. I told Blaise to get Granger. I Apparated us to St. Mungo’s. Later, Healer Redwood informed us that Potter ingested a large amount of some potion. Far too much for somebody of his stature. He could still die.”

Draco turned to look out of the window, trying to get his burning eyes under control. He was a Malfoy, for crying out loud. This was humiliating.

“Potion doesn’t make its way into anybody’s cup by accident. Somebody did it on purpose, but who would? I didn’t meet a single person there who did not seem to like him,” he concluded, just to say anything and distract from his emotional display. Simply embarrassing.

“That’s what we are trying to find out,” Jenkins said, giving him a small smile. Was she trying to cheer him up now? Or trying to lull him into a false sense of security? She looked down at her pocket-book, ticking some things off and skipping others.

“Mr. Malfoy, did you see anybody give Mr. Potter something to eat or drink?”

“Well, the waitress I sent probably did. She was a little shorter than me, maybe forty years old. I think she was a brunette.”

“Anybody else come to mind?”

Draco tried to remember but came up empty-handed. He hadn’t exactly paid attention to that kind of thing. He had been more concerned with processing his enormous epiphany. He shook his head sullenly.

“I see. And who invited you to the party?”

“Potter sent me an owl a week ago.”

“And how would you describe your relationship with Mr. Potter?”

Complicated.

“Unlikely as it sounds, we are friends.”

Until Draco tells him, that is.

“I also treat him frequently. He spends a lot of time at St. Mungo’s, most of it trauma-related. That’s what I specialised in.”

“And what is Mr. Zabini’s relationship with Mr. Potter?”

One shag too many.

“They are friends, as well. Blaise is dating Ginny Weasley, which is why they see each other all the time. They are also working on a broom together. The three of them.”

Without him. Not that he’d want in on that catastrophe. It was just that they could definitely have used a Healer now and then.

“That wouldn’t happen to be the Lightning Blast?” she inquired, raising an eyebrow. “The one Mr. Potter had his accident on?”

“They are improving it!” Draco said defensively. “They are searching for ways to make it safer. No foul play there at all.”

“I didn’t say there was, did I?”

“Your face told me,” Draco replied coldly. “Look, Auror Jenkins. I’ve known Blaise since I was four. He’s boastful and vain and materialistic and incredibly proud. But he is not an evil person. He never joined the Death Eaters, never showed any inclination he was even considering it. He would never do something like this.”

Draco remembered Blaise’s face rather vividly, the horror in his eyes when he thought Sooky could have killed Potter. Draco knew what murderers looked like and Blaise was not one of them.

Jenkins closed her notebook and gestured towards the door. “Thank you, Mr. Malfoy. You are free to go.”

~o~

Granger was waiting for him in front of Potter’s room, talking to Lancaster quietly. When he approached them, she looked up anxiously.  

“Blaise went home with Ginny. Harry’s still unconscious. Will you stay and wait for him to wake up?” she asked silently. “They won’t let us, but you work here, so I can authorise you.”

Draco just nodded and went in. And this was why, once again, Draco was keeping vigil by Potter’s bedside, though he had to leave his wand outside this time.

Draco did not read or practice spells like he had last time, since he did not feel like he could concentrate on anything besides staring at Potter’s lifeless hand, which was lying beside his body above the blanket.

‘I must not tell lies’, it read. Draco felt addressed. He should have told Potter the truth instead of putting it off until a later time. He took Potter’s icy hand into his own and squeezed it slightly.

“I am sorry,” Draco whispered. “Please do me a favour and don’t die.”

“–’m getting good at it,” Potter mumbled back, opening his eyes just the teeniest bit. His hand remained still in Draco’s.

Draco laughed desperately, sounding more like he was about to cry. “You’re the worst at dying. Never manage to stay dead.”

But Potter’s eyes were already closed again and there wasn’t a response, though he was still breathing steadily. Draco couldn’t make himself let go of his hand again, so he stayed in his chair for the next five hours.

Chapter Text

“Malfoy!”

Draco’s eyes flew open. He was still sitting in his chair, upper body bent over. His head was resting on Potter’s legs. He let go of the hand he was still holding and sat up groaning, much to the protest of his back.

Potter was watching him intently. “Something is wrong. Everything feels inverted.”

“What do you mean, ‘inverted’?” Draco asked, instantly alert.

“I mean that this happens when I try to lift my hand,” Potter said, raising his left hand a few inches.

Draco let go of the anxious breath he’d been holding. “Looks good to me?”

“I’m trying to lift my right hand, you idiot.”

“Looks slightly less good,” Draco agreed, getting up. “I’ll find a Healer.”

“No!” Potter yelled, sitting bolt upright. “You are a Healer. I don’t need another one.”

“I’m on Trauma, not on Potions, Potter.”

“Please!” Potter said, reaching out with his left hand and completely missing Draco, who stood to his right.

“Calm down,” Draco said, putting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing. “I will not just find the next best Healer I stumble upon, alright? I’ll find someone absolutely trustworthy.”

“Can’t you just do it?” Potter pleaded.

“You don’t really want me to do it. I’m not exactly up-to-date when it comes to potion complications.”

It took another few minutes (and the promise to inform Granger promptly) to persuade Potter to let him go find someone else.

As it turned out, Potter must have taken a massive overdose of what seemed to be Confunding Concoction. This was not a poison per se, but had the effect of slowly paralysing the recipient’s organs when taken in larger doses.

Healer Patil (the Ravenclaw one) estimated that it would take a good three weeks to fully shake off the symptoms. This alone was enough to make Potter’s blood boil, but when she proceeded to tell him that he would have to spend one week of that time at St. Mungo’s, Potter flat-out refused and sent Patil to prepare his release forms.

“Harry, be reasonable,” Granger tried to argue with him, as the door closed behind Patil.

“I am not spending another night here, Hermione!” Potter said adamantly.

“Fine, come live with us then,” Granger said. Potter shook his head before she had even finished the sentence.

“I don’t want to burden you. You’ve both got work, you can’t babysit me all the time.”

“You are not a burden, Harry! How many times do I have to tell you?” she said exasperatedly, but Potter just looked at her coldly. “Fine, then stay at the Burrow. Molly doesn’t have to work anyway, and you know she would gladly take you.”

Potter just looked at her blankly, his mouth pressed together in a thin line. Draco had a feeling that Potter had more than one reason not to stay at the Burrow, none of which he wanted to reveal to Granger.

“Malfoy can stay with me,” he blurted out suddenly, startling all of them.

“I can?” Draco said.

“Yeah, why not? I’ll just pay your wage for the whole week, overtime and all,” Potter seemed very enthusiastic all of a sudden. “You can do whatever, read or something. It will be a walk in the park. Just see that I don’t stumble down the stairs or something.”

“Harry, are you sure?” Granger said hesitantly. “I don’t know if that’s the best idea.”

Draco wasn’t sure either, but probably not for the same reasons as Granger. How was he supposed to survive a whole week cooped up with Potter at Grimmauld Place?

He had resolved to tell Potter about his feelings, but now was hardly the time, was it? You just didn’t tell someone you liked them right after they almost died (again). That was the easiest way to make them believe it was just a spur of the moment thing.

“It’ll be fine, don’t worry. He knows CPR and everything,” Potter said, looking up at Draco with his bright green eyes.

And that was all it took for Draco to cave. Not that he knew what weird Muggle thing ‘CPR’ even stood for. “Fine, I’ll do it – if Meadows goes along with it!”

Granger sighed heavily, but Potter beamed at him and that was all the affirmation Draco needed. He would have to send an owl to Blaise so he would know to take care of Aurelius for him. He certainly wouldn’t be leaving Potter alone to walk the dog and he sure as hell wouldn’t take Potter outside with them.

When Patil came back with the papers, Granger signed them reluctantly and then helped Draco transport Potter to the next fireplace. They had decided that this would be the safest way to get Potter home, as he was definitely not fit to Apparate.

Granger handed Potter’s wand over to Draco for safekeeping and then helped both of them squeeze into the fireplace. Draco put an arm around Potter’s waist as a precaution and then threw some Floo powder into the flames.

“Number twenty-two, Grimmauld Place,” Potter said and they were off.

~o~

When Potter stumbled out of the fireplace this time, Draco was prepared and managed to keep both of them on their feet. He deposited him on the chair that stood nearest to the fire and then looked around.

They were in the dining room, which looked nothing like the ones Draco was used to from his childhood. The floor was made from white marble, but the walls were painted a plain cream and not panelled with wood like the ancient Pure-blood homes usually were.

Then there were the paintings – the one above the fireplace depicted abstract blue-and-green shapes and another next to the door showed a blue potions bottle. Draco wasn’t even sure if they were magical paintings, as not a single one showed a witch or wizard. The door itself was enormous – two-winged, arching and with glass-panels at the top.

Even the fireplace was new, black and white like the table (which had a glass top), the eight chairs grouped around it, and the carpet underneath them. Two of the walls were completely comprised of windows.

They were on the ground floor and Draco could look out at the street, where a few people were passing by, never once looking at them. He was pretty sure that the building was completely invisible to them.

Draco had always assumed that Potter did not set much store in Pure-blood heirlooms. But when he thought about what all of the Black interior must have been worth, his stomach turned. He really hoped Potter had not just vanished everything.

“This is Grimmauld Place?” Draco asked, just to make sure.

“Yeah, this is where I live,” Potter said, looking up at him. “Why?”

“What did you do to it?”

“I ... renovated?” Potter said, puzzled. “That’s what you do when you move in, right?”

“I didn’t,” Draco said.

Potter grinned. “Is that why your wallpaper has a flower pattern?”

“Only in the hallway!” Draco protested. “What did you do with all the stuff that was inside the house?”

“Nothing. It was empty when I bought it,” Potter said. “You know this is not the Black house?”

“You have another house at Grimmauld Place?”

“Yeah. That way I can keep an eye on it,” Potter said, gesturing at the window. “And nobody would suspect that I live right across from it.”

Draco looked outside. “Which one is it?”

“You’d know it if you could see it,” Potter said. “But nice to know that you can’t.”

They made their way into the kitchen, which was situated right across the dining room. Going straight was not so much of a problem for Potter, it was only the directions that were tricky. Draco still supported him with an arm around his waist. Potter was paying him, after all.

“You smell like smoke,” Potter declared, wrinkling his nose.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I did not get a chance to shower in between dragging your arse to St. Mungo’s and making sure you don’t just snuff it during the night,” Draco said sarcastically.

“You are forgiven,” Potter said generously, taking a sniff at himself. “I smell like hospital.”

“You smell like magic,” Draco corrected. “Mostly the hygienic spells they do for healing.”

“I hate that; always makes me feel really artificial. Like a robot,” Potter complained, sitting down at the kitchen island.

“What’s that?” Draco asked, looking around.

The kitchen was just as modern as the sitting room, apparently completely made from steel. It was also entirely free of clutter. A tea kettle stood on the worktop, which was completely empty beyond that. There were no wall cupboards, as two of the walls comprised of windows from the worktops up. This seemed to be the general theme of Potter’s house.

“It’s a construction Muggles use to do things for them. They are metal and can perform tasks,” Potter tried to explain. He must have noticed the confusion on Draco’s face, because he seemed to think for a few seconds. “Imagine if you could use the Imperius on a suit of armour and make it do whatever you want. That’s basically what a robot is.”

“Impressive. Without using any magic?” Draco said, opening some of the cupboards at random. All of them contained cookware, neatly stacked.

“Yep,” Potter said, “They go to great lengths. What are you searching for?”

“Food. Don’t you have any? All I see are pots and pans. Nobody needs that many.”

“I do,” Potter disagreed. “Food is in the pantry, that’s the door right there.” Potter pointed out at the street. Draco raised an eyebrow at him and Potter frowned.

“Wrong side, again,” he grumbled and then lifted his other hand to point at a door opposite the window. “There it is.”

Potter’s pantry was full to bursting and still the neatest Draco had ever seen. Everything seemed to have its place. Jugs of milk were placed in precise rows and even the potatoes were stacked to form a pyramid. Draco felt like he had fallen into one of those glossy interior design magazines his neighbour Mrs. Maloney liked to read. Potter’s house was too tidy, without that lived-in feeling Draco’s house had. It reminded him of the Manor.

Draco went searching for any of the convenience products he usually bought, but couldn’t find any. What was he supposed to do with all this? He usually ate some cereal for breakfast, but that was completely missing from Potter’s pantry. All he managed to find was some bread and jam in a plain jar.

As he turned to enter the kitchen again, he noticed the quill that was flying across a piece of parchment on the wall, writing down ‘whole-grain bread’ as well as ‘strawberries’, ‘jam sugar’ and ‘vanilla’.

“Do you make your jam?” Draco asked, placing his findings on the table.

Potter grinned. “I’m full of surprises.”

Now that he had successfully escaped St. Mungo’s, he seemed to be in exceptionally high spirits. He was looking at the hallway door – or rather the wall next to it, which Draco hadn’t been able to see before. It looked like it didn’t belong in Potter’s neat, completely impersonal house. A plethora of children’s drawings were pinned to it, most of them signed ‘Ted’.

“And you are an artist as well,” Draco added with a smirk. “I don’t know why you even bothered with Hogwarts.”

“But who would’ve wiped that smug look off your face if I hadn’t been there?” Potter said, turning the long way around to face the kitchen island.

Draco refrained from engaging and instead spread jam on a slice of bread and placed it in Potter’s left hand, which seemed to be operating more steadily than his right one.

“Just imagine you’re holding it in your right hand and you should be fine,” Draco advised.

Potter managed to eat his breakfast pretty well, if at a much slower pace than usual – which Draco saw as an added bonus if he was being honest. They were just finished when the window opened on its own and that bloody eagle owl flew in, landing on an empty barstool.

“That yours?” Draco asked with a disdainful glance at the owl. “I hate that creature.”

“Nah, Odysseus is Matt’s owl. What did he ever do to you?” Potter grinned, feeding the owl the last of his bread.

“He bit me!” Draco protested. “And he kept vigil by your bedside after your last near-death experience, every night at the same time. Bloody creepy.”

“He must like me more than you,” Potter said smugly, picking up his letter with some difficulty and then struggling to break the seal. “Little help?”

Draco took the letter from him, steering clear of the owl, which was glaring at him intently. He unrolled the parchment and read it out to Potter, who wouldn’t be able to read for a few more days at the very least.

Dear Harry,

I just got word that you’ve already been discharged. The whole team was immensely worried about you. They told me that everybody at the party has been thoroughly interrogated by the Aurors. They seem confident that they will find the person responsible.

I wish you a speedy recovery. Is there any estimate on when you will be back with us?

Best wishes,

Matt

Draco looked at Potter, who had flinched intensely. He was looking back at him, apparently thunderstruck.

“Puddlemere! How could I forget about the match?” he said, banging his left hand onto his empty plate, making both of them jump and causing Odysseus to give a startled shriek.

“Could have something to do with being severely Confunded?” Draco said. “I was thinking you were suspiciously calm about the whole ordeal.”

“Which ordeal?” Potter asked, massaging his hand.

“You know ... being poisoned at your own New Year’s party?”

“Poisoned?” Potter said, looking positively puzzled.

“Why else would the Aurors get involved?” Draco asked, narrowing his eyes at him.

Potter frowned. “What’s that about Aurors?” He seemed to have already forgotten what Draco had just read to him.

Draco hated potion overdoses. The effects were much more unpredictable than spell damage could ever be. You never knew how the body would react to it, and Potter’s had apparently chosen to ride the waves.

“That’s it, I’m confining you to your bed,” Draco said, pulling Potter off the barstool by his arm. Potter slid right off, landing on his arse and pulling Draco down onto his knees as well.

“Guess you won’t be much help,” Draco grumbled, standing back up. “I will just levitate you, alright?”

Potter just looked up at him in confusion. Draco wasn’t sure if he was even aware of what was going on anymore. Draco took out his wand and Potter’s eyes were fixed on it instantly.

“Mobilicorpus!”

The spell bounced off the protective shield that suddenly flared up around Potter.

“Brilliant,” said Draco, putting his wand away.

How the hell was he supposed to transport Potter upstairs now? He clearly was in no state to simply walk. Draco sighed and squatted down in front of Potter, who was still surrounded by his shimmering force field.

“Hey, it’s me,” he said casually. “Can I lift you up or do you want to stay on the cold, hard floor?”

“Draco?” Potter said, looking at him with round eyes.

“Fine, why not,” Draco agreed, reaching out a hand.

It went right through the shield, a tickling sensation dancing across his skin. He took this as permission to carry on. He lifted Potter up by both arms and then grabbed his legs and threw Potter over his shoulder with much effort. This was met with some vague verbal protest, but Draco supposed that overall, Potter was already disoriented enough that this didn’t add much to it.

Draco carried Potter up the stairs, all the while complaining under his breath. Potter might have been small and lean, but Draco was not exactly muscular and definitely not used to doing heavy lifting without using his wand.

To hell with Potter’s overcautious nature and his high-ceilinged house, which made the staircase longer than it had to be. Every single step felt like the last one Draco could manage and he was severely out of breath when he finally arrived at the top of the stairs. He looked around and saw four doors, none of which indicated what was behind.

“Where’s your bedroom?” Draco asked, wiggling his shoulder to rouse Potter.

“Always knew you wanted to get me into bed,” Potter mumbled uselessly.

Draco sighed and tried the first door, which revealed a sitting room. The fireplace was identical to the one in the dining room, but this room was, all in all, warmer than the one downstairs. The floor was made from dark wood and the abstract paintings had a crimson colour scheme.

Draco briefly debated just leaving Potter on one of the cream-coloured couches but ultimately decided against it. He would probably just roll off it and break his neck on the coffee table, which was made from massive wood. And who would believe Draco that that was not his fault? Fat chance.

Behind the next door was the bathroom, also with one entire wall made of glass. This house was definitely invisible to outsiders, Draco promptly decided.

The third door finally led to the bedroom. Draco immediately dropped Potter onto the bed, which was neatly made (something Draco never got around to do himself). He didn’t fancy pulling the blanket out from under Potter – his arms were aching as it was already – so he just enveloped him in it like a bird closing its wings around itself. Or maybe like a crimson burrito.

Odysseus was still in the kitchen when Draco came back, glaring at him as usual. Draco took the pantry quill and wrote an answer, assuring Matthew Greyson that Potter would be up and about in approximately three weeks and therefore not be able to play against Puddlemere on the sixteenth.

He didn’t dare touch Odysseus, so he just offered the scroll to him and managed to avoid his talons (if barely). The owl clicked its beak twice (which rather felt like a threat to Draco) and then took off. The window closed behind it on its own.

Draco went back upstairs, more attentive this time. It was just now that he noticed the Snitches. Potter had fused delicate golden chains to them and hung them up in neat rows on the wall next to the stairs. There were dozens of them and the sunlight was bouncing off of them, sprinkling the wall and stairs with tiny golden lights. Draco was baffled at having missed this earlier, but then again, he had been rather focused on the next step he would have to heave Potter up.

There was another surprise at the top of the stairs. In front of the huge, wall-filling window stood a small tree inside a glass planter. The leaves were rustling slightly and then, out of nowhere, appeared the head of a boomslang.

Draco took a startled step backwards and almost tipped over the edge of the stairs, managing to grab the banister at the last second. Emerald flicked her tongue and hissed at him, somehow managing to not make it seem as menacing as it could be. He persuaded himself that her posture was relaxed, and gave her a weak smile – which was really all he could muster at the moment, with his heart still racing madly.

“Hello Emerald,” he said soothingly, while carefully edging past the tree and into the hallway. She flicked out her tongue as if to say that this was fine with her.

Draco re-entered the bedroom, which was empty apart from the bed and two glass-topped bedside tables on either side of it. The bed was huge, which made Potter look all the smaller. He had curled up into a ball and thrown off the blanket in the process, which was probably why he was shivering.

Draco sighed and bent over Potter, nudging his shoulder tentatively. He needed to wake him up to be able to pull the blanket out from under him, but he was also not keen on startling Potter too much and being attacked.

He needn’t have worried about that. Potter squinted at him sleepily and then grabbed him and pulled Draco into bed next to him, hooking both arms and legs around his body like he was the Giant Squid. Draco tried to get away, but this only made Potter latch onto him even more.

“Potter, would you please let go of me so I can get you a blanket?” Draco said, doing his best to ignore the feeling of Potter pressed against him.

“Don’t wanna,” came the faint answer.

“You will want to when the potion wanes off again.”

“Nah,” Potter just said, followed by a few seconds silence. “You’re so warm.”

“You know what else is warm?” Draco said. “Your blanket. Feels like a down duvet.”

“Mhhm …,” made Potter and then his eyes closed completely and he was silent.

Draco surrendered to his fate (already resigning himself to a rather rude awakening) and folded the ends of the blanket around the two of them. Potter, who really was rather cold, seemed to mould himself to Draco and it didn’t take long for the latter to fall asleep as well.

~o~

The sun had set when Draco woke up again, feeling more rested than he had in a long time. The room was illuminated by a small golden orb on one of the bedside tables.

Their arms were wrapped around each other, their legs entangled intricately. Draco’s head was resting atop Potter’s, soft hair tickling his chin and neck.

Draco did not dare to move, fearing he would wake Potter and shatter the moment. He wanted to stay like this forever, feeling warm and secure and loved. He could almost deceive himself into believing this were a typical Saturday, the both of them hiding away from the rest of the world in Potter’s safe haven, where nobody could get to them.

Draco was just getting started on imagining what a late Sunday breakfast prepared by Potter would look like when Potter began stroking his back lightly. This meant two things. One: Potter was clearly not sleeping anymore. Two: Potter was definitely still very much Confunded.

Draco was on the fence. How very wrong was it to just exploit the state Potter was in and pretend to still be sleeping? He was pretty sure that Potter would not want to cuddle with him if he were of sound mind, but nobody was making him do it now either, right?

But then again, was this not the same as preying on someone who had been given love potion? They might think that they wanted it while the potion was still at work, but afterwards they would feel all the more abused. Draco’s stomach dropped significantly. Was he abusing Potter? Would Potter resent him for it when he was back to normal?

Draco was just pulling himself together to end this, when suddenly, there was a hiss and then the faint sound of Emerald slithering across the floor. Potter answered, almost imperceptibly. Draco had the unpleasant feeling they were talking about him. Would she know that Potter was not himself at the moment? Would she realise that Draco was using this to his advantage? Would she attack him to protect Potter?

There was a faint thudding noise and then suddenly, he felt her cool, smooth scales against his bare arm, which was still wrapped around Potter. Draco flinched massively and made a very unmanly noise which he would have described as a whimper, had it not come from him.

If Emerald was planning on defending Potter, his best course of action would be to let go of him immediately, but Draco found this impossible to do. Instead, his arms and legs tightened considerably around Potter.

“There is a deadly snake in your bed, do something!” he hissed, slightly panicky.

“She just wants to cuddle,” Potter said, entirely too calm.

“Potter, you might not be aware, because you are basically a confused baby owl at the moment, but you cannot cuddle with a snake!”

“I’m not confused,” Potter protested. “And owls shouldn’t cuddle with snakes. Too dangerous.”

The snake was past Draco now and coiling around a pillow next to Potter’s head. Draco let go of him and got up hastily. Potter did not prevent him from escaping, though he did look somewhat disappointed to lose his primary source of warmth.

“Not confused my arse. What day is it?” Draco asked, pretty sure that Potter had no idea.

“New Year’s Day. Do you think I am stupid?” Potter raised an eyebrow.

Okay, fine, maybe he was slowly returning to his senses. “Alright. What was the last match you played?”

“The S.U.M.O. charity match before Christmas. Gudgeon of the Cannons played Keeper on my team and the opposing Seeker was Georgina Thompson.”

“And S.U.M.O. stands for ...,” Draco prompted.

“Oh, come on, nobody knows what all those acronyms stand for!” Potter protested, sitting up in bed. Emerald bumped her head against his arm affectionately. “I know it’s got something to do with orphans.”

“It’s the ‘Society for Underprivileged Magical Orphans’,” Draco said pointedly. “You are to stay in bed for at least another day.”

“I more or less said that! I’m not Confunded anymore, alright?”

Potter swung his legs out of bed energetically without falling over, which he took as an overall good sign. Draco took a hasty step forward and prevented Potter from standing up by placing both hands on his shoulders. There still was the thing about Potter cuddling with him. That was definitely not normal behaviour and therefore reason to worry. But then again, Potter did seem to have detailed memories.

“Tell you what. You can get up if you can tell me when your birthday is,” Draco offered.

“Easy! June 5^th; let’s go,” Potter said, pushing both of Draco’s hands away and standing up. They were now very close, Potter looking up at him excitedly with bright green eyes and Draco staring back confusedly.

“That’s not your birthday,” Draco said, pushing him back down and ignoring that his heart seemed to have abandoned sinus rhythm just a second ago. “That’s mine.”

“No, it’s not,” said Potter stubbornly.

“Yes, it is.”

“I think I know my own birthday,” Potter argued, trying to get back up again, but Draco didn’t let him.

“It seems that you don’t,” Draco said.

He put a hand in his pocket and took out a tiny, shrunk-down bag, containing everything Potter had had on him the previous night. Draco un-shrunk it with a flick of his wand, which he had stowed in his sleeve. He handed Potter the chart that lay on top of it.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“That’s your patient chart,” Draco said, pointing at the top of it. “And that’s your birthday, July 31^st.”

Potter just frowned down at it. Draco could practically see his brain working behind that massively distracting scar.

“What’s the matter?” Draco asked innocently.

Potter just shrugged nonchalantly and began flipping through the many, many pages of his chart. “You know more about me than I do,” he finally said.

“Just admit you can’t read a word of it,” Draco said, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“Because I’m not wearing my glasses! You can’t hold that against me.”

“I bloody well can, because you had this Muggle thing done, what’s the name –” Draco snatched the chart from Potter and leafed through it. “Laser surgery?”

“Oh right, I forgot about that,” Potter said, ruffling his hair.

“I rest my case,” said Draco. “Just stay in bed until tomorrow and I’ll bring you anything you need.”

Potter laid back in bed reluctantly, pulling the blanket over himself and also Emerald. He stared at the ceiling silently while Draco stood next to the bed like an idiot.

“So … do you need anything?” Draco asked.

Potter seemed to take stock of himself for a few seconds. “I need to pee.”

Draco took a deep breath, closing his eyes for emphasis. “Why didn’t you say so a minute ago?”

“I didn’t know it then.”

“Fine. Bathroom, then back to bed for at least another twelve hours.”

“You are really bossy,” Potter said, getting up and walking to the bathroom under Draco’s watchful eyes.

“Me being here was your idea,” Draco said. “You were very determined.”

That was when Potter closed the bathroom door in his face, though Draco was pretty sure he heard him say “I like bossy Draco.”

Why had he agreed to come here again? The first day wasn’t even over and Draco was ready to throw in the towel. Injured and grumpy Potter he could handle, but quasi-drunk and affectionate Potter? That was a whole other story.

Draco was just a man, after all. An overworked, attention-starved, lonely man, who wanted nothing more than to give in to Potter, who seemed to crave some physical contact as well. At the moment, at least.

That man would be the death of him.

Chapter Text

Potter’s sitting room suite was made from dark, solid wood and cream-coloured leather, and it looked like it must have cost a fortune. This was the reason why Draco had not dared transform one of the sofas into a bed, which was in turn the reason why Draco fell onto the floor when a heavy THUD woke him early on Sunday morning.

He grabbed his wand from the coffee table and hurried into the hallway, where Potter was just getting to his feet, leaning against the wall for support.

“What did you do?” Draco asked, his heart still racing from this abrupt start to his day.

“Fell on the way to the bathroom,” Potter muttered, thoroughly dusting off his joggers (even though the floor looked like it had not seen any dust ever) and not meeting his eyes. He looked like he had barely slept at all. Maybe that had something to do with having slept the entire day away yesterday.

Draco was just getting ready to scold Potter for not calling for help, when a movement on the ceiling caught his eyes. He closed his mouth and looked up at a very large silver sigil, made up of two intertwining serpents.  

“What in Merlin’s name is that?”

“How would I know?” said Potter dismissively.

“You live here.”

Potter neither looked at the snakes nor at Draco. “It was already there when I bought it. It didn’t come with instructions.”

“Did that thing move just now?” Draco demanded.

Now Potter looked up too, ruffling his hair at the same time. “No. Trick of the light.”

Draco narrowed his eyes at him. He knew by now that something was up when Potter messed up his hair. Was it because he had something to hide? Or maybe it had nothing to do with that at all, but rather with his cuddle ambush the day before? Draco reckoned that Potter would be pretty embarrassed about that. One thing was clear, at least: Potter did not want to talk about what was bothering him.

“If you are done interrogating me now …,” Potter said, squeezing past him and disappearing into the bathroom. The sound of running water told him that Potter was taking a shower. Draco spent another two minutes staring up at the ceiling but the serpents didn’t show the slightest inclination to move.

~o~

They spent the day in front of the sitting room fireplace. Potter was stroking Emeralds head while poring over what seemed to be instructions on a new set of Seeker’s moves, which Coach Greyson had sent around noon. Somebody must have told him that Potter couldn’t read, because the instructions consisted entirely of little moving diagrams.

Draco (who could still feel where Odysseus had bitten him when he had taken the parchments from him) had caught one glimpse of a little stick-figure Seeker jumping from his broom to catch the Snitch, and decided he did not want to see the rest.

Instead, he had immersed himself in a collection of his own handwritten notes on the healing of scars. But the longer he stared at them, the more the idea of flinging himself off a broom appealed to him. There had not been any progress in his research in the last two weeks. He seemed to have reached a deadlock and the only way out seemed to be through human experiments.

“What’s eating you?” Potter had put his diagrams down and was watching him from his place in front of the fire.

Draco honestly didn’t know how Potter could stand being so close to the flames. He himself had only hesitated a minute before taking off his jumper. Draco was now sitting there in his short-sleeved t-shirt, careful not to bare his left arm to Potter, while that maniac was still wrapped in a blanket.

“I’m short a guinea pig,” Draco sighed, rubbing at his burning eyes.

“Can’t you just buy one?” Potter raised an eyebrow at him. “Want me to put it on the list?”

“The list?” Draco asked distractedly, trying to bring his notes in order again.

“My shopping list for Sam. She usually comes by every Wednesday, but if it’s urgent I could tell her to do it tomorrow instead.”

“It’s not an actual guinea pig I need,” Draco objected. “I need a test person. I don’t think Samantha Huxley will be able to help me with that.”

“What are you working on?” Potter asked. He wrapped his blanket a little tighter around himself and came over, plonking himself down next to Draco and then leaning against him to look over his shoulder at the photograph of a particularly gruesome Expulso scar.

“Shit,” Potter commented tonelessly. Draco turned to look at him, but Potter’s eyes were fixed on the picture. “How old is he?”

“He was eighteen when he died of late complications,” Draco said glumly. “A scar that large can harbour a tremendous amount of dark magic.”

Potter nodded, still staring at the scar. Draco turned it over and some tension seemed to leave Potter’s body. He looked up at Draco at last, his eyes considerably wider than usual.

“What do you need a guinea pig for?” he asked interestedly. “Are you going to try and heal scars like that?”

“I think I found an approach that could work on curse scars,” Draco said, shuffling his notes for something to do. Potter really was sitting awfully close. “But nobody will want to volunteer for that. I’ll have to cut into their flesh for it to be effective.”

“Sounds less than ideal,” Potter grimaced. He tilted his head back and stared up at the ceiling, as if lost in thought.

“So, are you going to do that kamikaze jump?” Draco asked, gesturing over at the diagrams, which Potter had put onto the coffee table, neatly stacked.

“Depends. How low would I have to fly for it to not be life-threatening?”

“A foot off the ground could kill you if you managed to hit the ground in a less than favourable manner.”

“So … your advice would be to not do that?”

“Preferably,” Draco said. “I would rather not be the one to break the news to your family. I have a feeling I’ll see a lot of Ginny in the future. That could get awkward and I wouldn’t want to do that to Blaise.”

“Knew you cared,” Potter chuckled next to him, elbowing him in the ribs a little rougher than necessary. Draco decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and blame that on the Confunding Concoction. He was feeling charitable.

Draco put his notes away and leaned back as well. The room was getting darker by the minute and he wasn’t making any progress anyway. He closed his burning eyes, tired from hours of reading. The crackling of the fire had a rather lulling effect on him and Potter showed no inclination to get up again. Their arms were constantly touching, and he did not seem to mind.

When Draco opened his eyes again, it was close to midnight. Potter’s head was resting on his shoulder and he seemed to have covered Draco with half of his blanket. Or maybe Draco had stolen some of it during the night, though he somehow doubted that, as the fire was still burning. Draco had a feeling that it was charmed to never go out. Potter’s house sure was a lot warmer than any other Draco had been to. He resisted the urge to find a more comfortable position and went back to sleep.

Chapter Text

Potter was gone when Draco woke up the next morning with a horrible crick in his neck. The shower was running, so he went downstairs and made porridge.

Potter joined him a few minutes later, dropping down on the barstool and smelling exactly like Draco did since the first time he had showered here – like soap and peppermint-scented shampoo.

Draco could handle this. Who cared that they smelled like they belonged together? Not Draco. Draco was fully concentrating on the way Potter had managed to hit the barstool on his first try.

Draco really had to give it to him – he was adjusting to his condition with impressive speed. So far, he’d only walked into doorframes three or four times and just once had he smacked himself in the face in an attempt at messing up his hair. Maybe that would teach him to leave it alone.

“Porridge again? Don’t strain yourself, Malfoy,” Potter said, looking into his bowl unenthusiastically.

“Want me to take you back to St. Mungo’s?” Draco offered, smiling at him sweetly. “Mondays it’s mashed potatoes.”

“Every day at Mungo’s is mashed potato day,” Harry muttered. “You’ll have to go one better.”

“Well, you could ask Sanders to do some physical exercises with you after breakfast. You still owe her some. Be sure to bring something to throw at her face, though, or she won’t recognise you.”

“Did I really ask you to live with me for a whole week?” Potter grumbled, picking at his porridge. “Doesn’t sound like something I would do.”

“Oh yes, you could hardly wait,” Draco confirmed, starting on his own bowl. “You even turned down several invitations in favour of this. You must really enjoy my company.”

“Must have been the potion speaking,” Potter said. Then he added, more enthusiastically, “Hey, how about pancakes?”

“Sure, just don’t expect me to make them.”

“Anybody can make pancakes!”

“Well, not me. I hate cooking. It takes forever and then, when you’re just about to go into a food coma, you have to do all the cleaning. Just not worth it.”

“Fine, I’ll do it,” Potter said, pushing his bowl away. “Where’s my wand?”

Draco laughed in his face. “There’s no way I’ll give that back to you already.”

Potter jumped to his feet at once. “Malfoy, come on. I’m completely fine!”

“You are fine when Patil says you’re fine,” Draco objected. “And that means no magic for a whole week.”

Potter strode around the kitchen island determinedly. Draco put down his bowl, half-expecting Potter to attack him, but he just stopped right next to him.

“See? Fit as a fiddle. No disorientation at all,” he declared, jumping on the spot for emphasis.

“Good for you,” Draco said, glancing at him sideways. “Still a no.”

“Why?”

He grabbed Draco’s arm and turned his barstool around to face him, using so much force that Draco was almost thrown off. He had to grab both of Potter’s arms to stabilise.

“Because some of the potion might still be lingering in your bloodstream. Which is why you still can’t read, by the way, so maybe you should not question this fact.”

“How about fifty galleons?” Potter offered suddenly, looking up at him slyly.

And why was he standing so close? Draco could practically feel Potter’s breath ebbing against his throat. Not helpful.

“Are you trying to bribe me?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow.

Potter’s legs were pressed against Draco’s knees, which, frankly, was very distracting. Almost as distracting as Potter biting his lower lip, looking up at him with his stupidly vivid green eyes.

“Is it working?” Potter asked softly, putting his second hand on Draco’s other shoulder.

And was he coming nearer? Was he doing this on purpose? That bastard knew he was Draco’s type and now he was exploiting it shamelessly. ‘Confunded,’ supplied a little voice at the back of Draco’s head. Right.

“I swore an oath, Potter. I’m not going to break that for some gold,” Draco replied, swallowing hard. He found it very difficult to stop his eyes from drifting down to Potter’s lips.

“Anything else you would break it for?”

One of Potter’s hands twitched and Draco had the sudden suspicion that he was restraining himself from ruffling his hair. Instead, both hands slid from Draco’s shoulders and down the length of his arms, leaving them ice-cold and burning at the same time, before they came to rest around Draco’s wrists.

And then it dawned on Draco.

That bastard was the most Slytherin Gryffindor he had ever laid eyes on! Merlin, that thought should not turn him on even more than he already was. Pull it together, Draco!

“I don’t have your wand on me, you tosser,” he said coldly, withdrawing his hands and shoving Potter away with a push against his chest. “So you can stop patting me down.”

Potter did ruffle his hair now. He was just about to say something when the window flew open and, not a second later, a newspaper narrowly missed Draco’s head, crash-landing on the kitchen island. Potter immediately lifted it up, unearthing his ridiculously tiny owl.

“How many times do I have to tell them not to send you with the heavy things?” Potter said angrily, stroking the miniature owl so all its feathers were smooth again. Pig hooted softly and took some of the porridge Draco offered.

“Of all the owls to choose from, why did you have to take the tiniest one available?” Draco asked curiously.

“Well, unlike some people,” Potter shot him a sidelong glance, “I don’t have anything to compensate.”

“I don’t even have an owl,” said Draco, but Harry just ignored him.

He was looking down at the Daily Prophet he was still holding and his features hardened.

The whole front page consisted of various photographs of Potter, mostly taken during Quidditch games and all of them showing him getting injured. The largest one was a loop of Dayal and Draco Disapparating with Potter. Draco took the newspaper from him and dropped it into the rubbish bin unceremoniously.

“Just stop reading that trash,” he advised, sitting back down on his barstool. “You can’t make them stop writing about you, but you can pretend they have.”

“Everybody reads that!” Potter protested. “They don’t pretend those articles don’t exist!”

“Fuck everybody,” Draco said. “You don’t have to care about everybody. The people that really matter won’t take these things seriously anyway and the rest can piss right off.”

“You don’t know what it’s like,” Potter grumbled, stroking Pig’s feathers.

“Don’t I?” Draco asked in disbelief. “You are such a self-absorbed prick, Potter. What do you think the Prophet did when the Wizengamot acquitted me? Completely ignore it? Sing my praise? Think they congratulated me when Meadows agreed to take me on?”

“They wrote about you working at St. Mungo’s?”

“Oh, they were sure that I Imperiused Meadows. My evil plan was to infiltrate St. Mungo’s and poison Muggle-borns.”

Potter looked at him dumbfounded, still stroking Pig absentmindedly. “I’m –” he began, but Draco interrupted him, holding up a hand.

“I don’t need your pity. I worked my arse off to get to where I am now and I won’t let anybody ruin that. Especially not some bloodthirsty reporter with a vendetta. And neither should you.”

Potter looked at him thoughtfully, biting his lip again. Something like resolution showed on his face and then he pushed away from the kitchen island and went into the pantry, only slightly bumping his shoulder against the door. He reappeared with various ingredients, which he arranged in a neat row on the kitchen island.

“I’ll show you how to make pancakes,” he said, taking out two large metal bowls and two whisks.

Potter refused to divide the tasks between the two of them, insisting that they make two batters, so Draco could ‘memorise every single step’. Potter did everything the Muggle way and then told Draco which spell to use.

When they had produced two almost identical mixtures (Potter’s somehow fluffier than his), Potter put two pans on the stove, which Draco turned on with his wand.

“Alright, now pour some of the batter into the pan, like this,” Potter instructed, demonstrating on his own pan. Draco imitated him, earning an approving nod from Potter.

Things took a turn when the time came to flip their pancakes. Potter managed to do it without the spatula, tossing his pancake into the air with a flick of his wrist and catching it again. Draco pointed his wand at his own pan, trying to imitate the move Potter had done. The pan jerked violently and his pancake hit the ceiling and then landed on the steel counter with a splash.

“You know, rumour has it you can’t cook,” Potter said bluntly.

“That so?” asked Draco, vanishing his culinary mishap. Some of the batter was still dripping from the ceiling and he vanished that too.

“Uh-uh,” said Potter, the corner of his mouth twitching.

And then they were laughing. The sound of both their voices was filling the room and Draco was hit with the realisation that this was the first time they were both laughing about the same thing. Until now they had usually laughed at the expense of one another. He decided, then and there, that he really liked how their laughter blended together.

Potter poured some more batter into Draco’s pan and then got behind him. Draco tensed up as Potter put his right hand on Draco’s from behind, back and chest pressed against each other.

“It’s a rather delicate motion,” Potter said quietly.

And Draco was sure that Potter must be able to feel his hand shaking, or the blood pounding through his whole body with every heartbeat. He could hardly concentrate on the wand movement Potter was guiding him through. And he most certainly was not focussing on his pancake.

Merlin, Draco was completely out of his depth with Potter ever since he had realised he felt something for him. It felt like being tossed into the raging sea, never sure when the next wave would hit and from which side. All he could do was stay afloat.

“This isn’t a ploy to steal my wand, is it, Potter?” Draco said quietly, desperate for anything to say, struggling to keep his head above water.

He did not really think that was what was going on, but now that he had said it, he caught himself wondering who would win in a scuffle. Somehow, he doubted it would be him. Draco was taller, sure, but Potter was definitely in better shape. He did nothing but train every day and probably ate a lot of vegetables. Draco only ever worked way too many hours, but never out, and then ate complete rubbish without a single vitamin to be found anywhere near it.

“Do you think me capable of something like that?” Potter said in his ear. “Just taking something from you as important as your wand?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Draco said, only half-accusingly. He knew Potter did not have a choice back then. He didn’t want to think about what would have been if Draco had held on to it a little bit tighter.

“All is fair in love and war,” Potter said silently, tightening his grip on Draco’s hand, as if to make sure he could not just pull it away.

“The war is over,” Draco said hoarsely, his heart hammering against his rib cage. He felt Potter seize up behind him, and then he let go.

“‘Course it is,” Potter said in a husky voice, stepping away from him. “Let’s finish up, I’m starving.”

But when they were finally finished with their pancakes, Potter barely ate any, cutting them into increasingly smaller pieces instead.

Chapter Text

The room was pitch black and cold. Draco was lying on his back fully clothed, not daring to move. His whole body was aching and even just breathing too deeply set his whole body aflame.

The Dark Lord had not been pleased with them at all. Potter had been delivered directly into their home, completely unexpected. And he had not only managed to escape, but also taken the prisoners with him. Never before had Draco seen Him so furious.

He wished he still had his wand to ease some of the pain, to knock himself out, to kill himself with, maybe. Mother would be devastated, but then again, he could not see a way out of this mess that would end any better than that.

If He managed to kill Potter, if He managed to win the war, He would be free to do whatever He wanted with them. Not that He wasn’t already. If, by some miracle, the other side won – well, the Malfoys had not exactly covered themselves in glory.

Draco thought he’d rather die than spend the rest of his life in Azkaban with a bunch of Death Eaters who would probably blame his family for thwarting Potter’s death today.

He could hear them stalking by his room, keeping watch. As if he could have fled if he wanted to. The thought alone of moving his legs was enough to send a fresh wave of pain throbbing through his body. He wished he could just fall asleep and not feel for a while. He wished he did not have to hear the pained groans that came from the room across the hall, the one they had thrown Father into. He wished Nagini would stop slithering through the halls, making his hair stand on end every time he could hear her hiss or slide over the marble floor.

Father was screaming now, begging them to stop, please, stop hurting her, calling out for her. And Draco wished he could just wake up from this nightmare.

And then he did.

“Hermione!”

Draco was sitting bolt-upright, flinging the blanket away and grabbing his wand. He could hear Potter thrashing in his bed despite the bathroom between them.

When Draco pushed the door open, Potter was completely tangled in his sheets, his eyes screwed up and a terrified expression on his face. Both pillows were lying on the floor and Draco suspected the only reason Potter was not down there with them was because his bed was so large he could lie in it sideways.

Draco’s first instinct was to shake Potter until he woke up, but that would certainly result in a broken nose at the very least. So he held himself back and instead cast a Calming Charm over Potter. His whole body relaxed visibly and only a strained frown remained on his face.

Draco pointed his wand at the glowing, golden globe on the bedside table and it grew steadily brighter until the whole room was ablaze with light. Potter’s eyelids twitched, but remained shut, and his breathing became very even all of a sudden. Draco stepped into the room and a muscle in Potter’s arm tensed. He was waiting for his chance to strike, Draco realised suddenly.

“Potter, don’t!” Draco yelled, but too late – Potter had already thrown one arm up, his open palm facing Draco.

He just managed to cast a desperate Protego, and then the scarlet shock wave was crashing into him, completely obliterating his shield and ejecting him from the room. Draco collided with the punchbag hanging in front of the hallway window opposite Potter’s room and then landed on the floor face down. He heard his wand clatter across the floor.

He had to get up before Potter got a chance to attack again, but his body was glued to the floor, like something heavy was pinning him down.

For the first time in a very long time, Draco was terrified of Harry Potter – who was so overflowing with magic and power that he could pulverize a grown wizard half-asleep and wandlessly. Who had overthrown the Dark Lord. Who had survived the fucking Killing Curse not once, but twice.

“Malfoy!” Potter called out, voice breaking. And then he was dropping to the floor beside him. The weight lifted and Potter turned him around with trembling hands. “Shit, Draco! Are you alright?”

Draco groaned, looking up at Potter, who was illuminated from behind by the light emitting from his bedroom. It created a halo around his body while his face was in the dark. Which was a shame, because Draco really would have liked to see the guilt in his eyes.

He stretched out a hand to tilt Potter’s face to the side, but the stupid git grabbed it and squeezed it tightly, as if that would help. Which, strangely, it seemed to do, but that was completely beside the point.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to,” Potter whispered. His hand was trembling considerably. “What can I do?”

“Stop crushing my hand,” Draco wheezed. It was getting more and more difficult to breathe and his whole chest hurt. “I need my wand.”

“Yes. Wand,” Potter stammered, holding out a hand.

Draco’s wand rolled across the floor towards them and then bounced into his hand. He thrust it into Draco’s right.

The diagnostic spells revealed the obvious.

“Thoracic contusion,” he whispered, lying back flat on the floor. “If anybody asks, tell them I put up a fight, will you?”

“Can you heal it?” Potter asked anxiously, ignoring Draco’s attempt at gallows humour. He put a hand on Draco’s arm and began stroking it lightly, just as he had done when Emerald had been hurt. Had that really been less than a month ago?

“Not myself,” Draco said laboriously. “It’s hard using your magic to the fullest when you’re hurt. If you’re not careful you can end up making it much worse. Just Floo me to Mungo’s.”

“You don’t look like you can Floo,” Potter said doubtfully. “Why don’t I just –”

“No!” Draco said, sitting up jumpily and then instantly doubling over in pain.

His thorax was burning, like someone was sliding white-hot blades between his ribs. Potter grabbed his biceps determinedly and before Draco could catch his breath to object a second time, there was the familiar twist and the air tightened around him, pressing down on his chest.

Draco was screaming when they appeared at St. Mungo’s. Tears were streaming down his face, blurring his vision, and Potter’s hand was still around his arm. Draco grabbed it in his own and squeezed it as hard as he could, hoping to break at least a finger or two.

“No means no, Potter!” he yelled, glaring up at the stupid prat.

His lungs were protesting vehemently at being abused like that, but Draco felt it helped with the pain, if just mentally.

“I know you’ve got a hero complex as big as that stupid scar, but you need to listen when the professionals tell you not to do something as whacky as Apparating a wounded person while under the influence of Confunding Concoction!”

Hurried footsteps disrupted Potter’s answer (which would have been quite insufficient, Draco was sure) and then Draco was lifted onto a stretcher. Dayal’s face appeared above him, looking very confused. Due to the fact that he was with Potter or that their roles were reversed for once, Draco could not say. Being the Falcons’ Team Healer, Dayal was probably not used to seeing Potter out and about while at Mungo’s.

“Work accident,” Draco croaked. “Fell down a whole flight of stairs while on a special assignment. I already diagnosed a thoracic contusion. Should be no big deal.”

Dayal did his own spells (Draco rolled his eyes, even though he always did the same) and then confirmed his diagnosis. He healed Draco’s injury with three quick spells and then left him to catch his breath, disappearing into an adjoining room with Potter.

When they came back, Potter looked oddly pleased and did not object to taking the Floo home.

They ended up sitting at the kitchen island, two identical mugs in front of them. Painted on the side was a falcon, which opened its wings and took flight if you touched it. Draco did this once and promptly burned his fingertip. He charmed his spoon to stir his hot tea while Potter held his mug firmly in both hands.

“Sorry for that,” Potter finally said, staring into his tea. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. Forgot you were here.”

“Don’t mention it,” Draco answered, waving his hand dismissively.

Potter turned to look at him, a frown on his face. “Why didn’t you mention it? Earlier I mean, to Dayal.”

Draco shrugged and touched his mug to see if the temperature was tolerable yet. “Didn’t think it quite necessary to immortalise that in your chart,” he said, taking a small sip and burning his tongue.

“But what if there’s some other damage they wouldn’t check for if you just fell down the stairs?”

“You won’t do lasting damage by blasting me with an Expelliarmus,” Draco said disparagingly. “It’s not a curse, even if it was obnoxiously strong. Talk about casting Reducto to crack a nut.”

Potter let go of his mug to turn around on his barstool and face Draco with a strained expression. “That was an Expelliarmus?”

“Why so surprised?” Draco taunted. “Isn’t that the only spell you know?”

“Yeah,” Potter said slowly, much to Draco’s surprise.

He had expected a snide remark aimed at Draco’s own magical shortcomings and Draco had been eager to know what those were, according to Potter.

“I’m really sorry. I should have warned you that could happen,” Potter continued, holding his gaze.

“Please, don’t insult me,” Draco said, rolling his eyes. “I know perfectly well that’s part of the reason you don’t like to stay at Mungo’s. Your nightmares are not exactly a well-kept secret.”

Potter turned away from him then, taking up his steaming mug again and gulping half of it down in one go. Draco thought his whole oesophagus must have gotten boiled from the inside, but Potter didn’t even flinch.

“So, how did you keep that from happening to your girlfriend?” Draco asked casually.

Potter squared his shoulders and gripped his mug tight, white-knuckled. “I never stayed overnight. Too dangerous. You heard Lauren and Olivia ... I was really lucky they only got pushed out of bed that one time.”

“Couldn’t you have put a Protego around her before going to sleep?” Draco suggested. He found it hard to believe that Potter had never thought of that.

“Not without telling her,” Potter said, emptying his tea and then prodding the falcon on his mug repeatedly.

Draco blew on his own tea, watching Harry’s falcon do a looping. “Telling her what?”

“About magic, what else? I doubt she would have missed a fucking glowing bubble surrounding her.”

“She didn’t know?” Draco asked in disbelief. “How could you keep that a secret?”

“Wasn’t that hard. I just pretended I were normal.” Draco could hear the pain underneath his sullen voice.

“Normal?” Draco echoed. He had never met anyone less normal than Potter. “And she believed that?”

“Well, up until the bloody Prophet knocked on the window of her attic bedroom at three in the morning. To talk about me.”

“And she –”

“Called me, completely hysterical.”

“And you –”

“Apparated there and hexed him, of course. He fell off his broom and broke three ribs.”

“And then ...?”

“She called the police on both of us.”

“Muggle Law Enforcement?”

“That’s the one,” Potter confirmed, looking grim. At least in profile, which was the only view Draco had of him, because Potter was still staring at his mug, harassing the falcon.

“What did you do?”

“Sent a Patronus to Ron. He called up some colleagues from the DMLE. They had to Obliviate the whole street and also two police officers.”

“And how did she take it?” Draco asked carefully. “The whole magic thing?”

“We decided it would be best to Obliviate her too,” Potter said flatly.

Seeing him like this – emotionless, resigned – felt like a cold hand closing around Draco’s heart. He had seen what Potter had done to the editor in chief back then, fuelled by his boundless rage, but now there seemed to be only emptiness.

“And you broke up after that?”

“Didn’t have to,” Potter said, staring out of the window into the starry night. “I erased myself from her memory and sent her back to Australia.”

“Why?” Draco asked, grabbing Potter’s lower arm. He tensed but did not pull away or throw him off.

“It was bound to happen again and she was clearly not equipped to handle it. At least now I know not to date Muggles anymore.”

“Maybe she would have reacted differently, had the situation presented itself more favourably?” Draco suggested, squeezing Potter’s arm lightly.

He did not know why he said it. He didn’t want Potter to get back with his ex or try dating other Muggles, for fuck’s sake. He just couldn’t stand seeing him like that. Potter was supposed to be happy or irritated or, at the very worst, angry but not sad.

Potter shook his head, still staring out the window. “You didn’t hear her that night. It was ... bad.”

Draco didn’t have any more encouraging words, so he just leaned over and hugged Potter around the shoulders. Potter didn’t react for a few seconds and then patted his hand tentatively, maybe because Draco was restricting his arms and this was the only movement Potter could manage.

“This is really awkward,” Potter said quietly and Draco had to agree. They were both still sitting on their barstools in their pyjamas, upper bodies twisted at an odd angle.

“Yeah, well, then maybe next time find yourself a Hufflepuff if you want to cry your heart out,” Draco said mockingly, letting go of him and getting to his feet.

Potter jabbed him in the side twice in quick succession, but Draco could see the corner of his mouth twitch. “Sod off, you insufferable git.”

“Sissy,” Draco retorted, massaging his ribs. He sent their mugs into the sink and left the kitchen.

One foot already on the first step, Draco turned around to see if Potter would be able to handle the stairs alone, and found him missing. Frowning, he turned around and went back into the kitchen. Potter was doing the dishes. By hand, for a lack of options.

“Really?” said Draco with more than just some disbelief in his voice. “Quarter to midnight and you’re washing up?”

Potter didn’t even look in his direction, but Draco could see in the set of his shoulders that he had tensed up when Draco had spoken. “You go ahead, I’ll just be a minute.”

“I can do it tomorrow,” Draco offered.

Potter shrugged, pulled a kitchen towel from one of his cupboards and started drying up their mugs. “I’ve got it.”

“Why didn’t you just leave it until tomorrow?”

Still not a glance in Draco’s direction as Potter put everything back into its place. “Now it’s out of the way.”

Draco just sighed and waited for him to finish up. He could’ve thought about a thing or two to say about the whole thing, but his chest was starting to throb in a dull pattern, and if he was being honest … he just wanted to go to bed. Not everything had to be made into an argument, right?

They went upstairs in companionable silence and then stopped dead at the top of the stairs.

The hallway was filled with down feathers, hanging in the air motionlessly, frozen in time. They were illuminated by the golden light emitting from Potter’s bedroom and the flicker of the sitting room fireplace. It felt like stepping inside a snow globe. Draco nudged one of the feathers and it drifted away from him in slow-motion.

“Guess that was your bedding,” Draco said drily, holding out his wand. “Finite Incantatem.”

His spell passed through the room like a knife through butter and hit a single feather, which sailed to the floor slowly. The rest of them stayed put. Potter snorted at his failure.

“Your house, your magic, your problem,” he told Potter, putting his wand back inside the sleeve of his pyjama-top.

Potter put out a hand, as if to feel for his magic. His brows furrowed as he whispered under his breath – nothing happened. His frown increased. “I can’t feel it.”

“You’ve probably overexerted yourself,” Draco said. “Wandless magic takes way more strength than is necessary. And then you Apparated both of us to St. Mungo’s like some mindless buffoon. Can’t be that much left.”

Potter at least had the good grace to look slightly ashamed. “I already apologised, didn’t I?”

Draco gave him a small smile. He was too tired to argue any more. “We’ll deal with it in the morning. Just go to bed and I’ll give you some sleeping potion. You look dead on your feet.”

“Look who’s talking,” Potter muttered, but he still went into his bedroom obediently, where even more feathers hung frozen in the air.

Draco conjured new pillows and a blanket and then summoned a vial of Dreamless Sleep from his bag. He handed it over to Potter, who sat leaning against the headboard.

“Could you stay with me?” he blurted out and then closed his eyes, as if wishing to take it right back. “I mean – just as a precaution. In case the potion wears off ... God, just forget I said anything.”

Draco sat down on the empty half of Potter’s bed so they could speak eye to eye. He thought back to all those times Potter had woken up way too early after taking the potion and asked, “How long does it usually last?”

“Five hours, give or take,” Potter said, unstopping the vial.

Draco grimaced. The dosage they gave Potter should be sufficient for at least eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. “Your body is getting used to the potion. How often did you take it unauthorised?”

Potter downed the whole vial then, maybe to keep Draco from taking it from him again. “Maybe once or twice.”

“Overall?” Draco asked to clarify. That was the first thing Healers learned. Patients generally weren’t known for their straightforwardness.

“Not exactly,” Potter said, sliding down until he was flat on his back.

Merlin, always with the riddles. “A year?”

“A week,” Potter admitted. He looked Draco in the eyes unapologetically. “Usually on the weekends, when there’s no training. So, will you? Stay? I promise not to attack you.”

Draco couldn’t help but groan. He didn’t know what he had expected, but it hadn’t been Harry Potter abusing Sleeping Potion that badly. Not that it was bad for him per se. But it was definitely something his Healer should know, so he could adjust the dosage accordingly.

“You couldn’t, even if you wanted to,” Draco said mockingly, deciding to let all of that slide graciously. “You’re all dried up.”

And so, Draco summoned his blanket from the couch and lay down beside Potter, both of them staring up at the ceiling. Draco nudged a few of the feathers, and soon they were gliding through the air above them. It was like watching a snow flurry from inside your house. Warm and cosy and very calm.

“Malfoy?” Potter whispered, his speech already slurred by fatigue.

“Mhhm?”

“You can use me,” Potter mumbled incoherently.

Draco’s heart skipped a beat. He turned his head to look at Potter. “Come again?”

But Potter had already fallen asleep, a calm expression spreading over his face. What the fuck had he meant by that? Draco lay awake for another hour, mulling the words over and over in his head.

Chapter Text

Something was tickling his face. Draco scrunched up his nose and, when that didn’t help, tried to wipe it away with the back of his hand.

Somebody sneezed next to him and Draco opened his eyes. Feathers were slowly sailing down upon them, covering them like a thin blanket of snow.

Draco turned on his side and came face to face with Potter, whose tan skin and black hair stood out in stark contrast to the white feathers. Damn, how was he supposed to not stare at that?

“Morning,” Potter said, smiling slightly. Like it was totally normal to wake up in bed beside your childhood nemesis.

“Looks like your magic is back,” Draco said, keeping his eyes firmly on the feathers in his hair and far away from his eyes. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I could eat a hippogriff.” Potter yawned lazily. “You?”

Draco stretched his back experimentally, trying for pain, but there was only a little bit of stiffness. He peered down his t-shirt, inspecting the blossoming bruise. “Have been worse. If you’ll excuse me.”

He stood up to use the bathroom and then rummaged through the medicine cabinet, which was filled with all sorts of cremes and potions, most of which Potter should not be able to purchase without a prescription. He also found multiple bottles of Dreamless Sleep, but that wasn’t really a surprise anymore, was it?

Draco treated his chest, put his t-shirt back on and then stomped back into Potter’s room, holding up the jar full of essence of arnica. Potter had already put on a pair of jeans.

“I thought you misplaced this?” he said accusingly, waving the jar about.

“Come off it, Malfoy, we both know I was clearly lying,” Potter said bluntly, even though he could just have pretended to have bought it after he had brought Emerald to Draco last month.

Without any warning whatsoever, Potter took off his t-shirt, displaying his unfairly toned body. The tiny wings on the thread around his neck fluttered slightly and Draco felt his concentration slip considerably. A distant memory was struggling to get to the forefront of his mind, but Draco couldn’t grasp it.

“So what,” said Draco to distract himself, “You just like your body black and blue?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Potter said. He ruffled his hair, dislodging some feathers.

Draco narrowed his eyes in suspicion and Potter turned his back on him and disappeared into an adjoining room.

Draco, who refused to be fobbed off with that, followed him. “What else could –?” he began, but then he caught sight of the wardrobe they had walked into.

To say it was large would have been an understatement. Potter’s actual bedroom was smaller than this, and Draco suspected that an expanding charm was at work here. They had a perfect view of the houses on the other side of the street, where the Black house had to be as well, as the outer walls were completely made of glass, safe for a small strip in the middle and at the top, along which clothes rails were attached.

Everything was sorted by category and then by colour, and Draco felt like he had just stepped inside the storeroom of Twilfitt and Tattings. He could see instantly that these clothes were high-quality and fashionable – safe for a small section that seemed to consist of leisure wear. Draco recognised almost everything from that category, having seen Potter in practically nothing else ever.

“Why do you always wear those rags if you could be wearing this?” he asked reproachfully, gesturing at an emerald dress shirt made from silk, which would probably accentuate Potter’s eyes enough to make Draco swear off all other men forever.

“I do wear that,” Potter said, rummaging through a vast collection of hand-knit jumpers.

“When? I’ve never seen you in anything even remotely tasteful.”

“You know ... on occasions. Press conferences, balls, ceremonies. Boring stuff.”

“You give interviews?” Somehow Draco found that very hard to believe, given Potter’s less than ideal history with reporters.

“I don’t, but my team does,” Potter clarified, settling on a crimson jumper with a golden lion stitched to the front. “I just sit there and ignore every question that isn’t Seeker-related while Sam tries to glare me into being more ‘approachable’.”

He pulled the jumper over his head while Draco browsed through designer clothes he would never be able to afford on his Healer’s salary. Well, maybe if he stopped buying food, which … no. But Merlin, he missed his elaborately Pure-blood wardrobe. Admittedly, there hadn’t been much colour, only blacks and whites and greys, but still, the quality of the fabric and the craftsmanship had been excellent.

It had been no use, of course. He couldn’t wear those things in the hospital and selling his clothes had provided him with enough gold to put down a deposit for a reasonably decent house. And he had to admit, these Muggle clothes were rather comfortable, if just to relax at home. But sometimes he longed for a soft cashmere jumper or a pair of dragon-skin gloves.

Draco picked up a flat box and opened it. Inside was a rich, emerald green scarf. He took it out and turned it over in his hands, the cool silk gliding through his fingers like water.

“Get a room,” Potter suggested drily.

“I wish.” Draco sighed, turning the scarf over in search of a label or signature. “Where’s this from?”

Potter shrugged. “No idea. Sam does all my shopping.”

“Well, that certainly explains why everything is so tasteful, excluding what you actually pick out to wear,” Draco teased, gesturing at the whole of Potter’s outfit.

He didn’t catch Potter’s protest, as his fingers brushed over a slight rise in the fabric then – a tiny lightning bolt, stitched with a single shimmering thread.

Draco frowned. “I don’t recognise this signature.”

Up until now he had prided himself in knowing every designer there was to know. There were footsteps and then Potter was right beside him, looking down at the scarf in Draco’s hands, their arms touching.

“Oh, I think that one was actually a present,” he said, snatching the empty box from its shelf.

Draco had to consciously close his mouth, as it wouldn’t do that on its own anymore. “You mean it’s self-made? Who gave it to you?”

Potter clicked his tongue, turning the box over to no avail. “No idea,” he admitted.

“You don’t even know who bestowed this masterpiece upon you?”

“Do you have any idea how many people send me stuff?” Potter said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t maintain a register. It’s just a scarf, right?”

“Just – just a scarf?” Draco echoed, holding it up in front of Potter’s face. “This is finest silk and the signature is clearly made out of unicorn hair. You don’t find this in the bargain bin.”

“You’re such a posh git, Malfoy.” Potter grinned at him almost fondly and took the scarf from him to put it back into its box, which he placed back on its designated shelf. Draco’s longing gaze followed.

And then Potter stepped into his field of view, green eyes locking with grey ones. Their feet were almost touching, Draco could feel warm breath fanning against his throat. Potter reached out for his face slowly and, Merlin, was he going to kiss him? Draco had not even brushed his teeth yet!

“You’ve got something there,” Potter whispered and then his cool hand was in Draco hair.

Draco fought hard to resist the urge to close his eyes, to lean into his touch. He would just have to lean forward a bit to be able to taste Potter’s lips. He wouldn’t, though. No, definitely not. He could stay strong. He was here as his Healer, for fuck’s sake.

Draco squared his shoulders, determined now, and just a second later, Potter withdrew his hand, holding up what Draco suspected to be a down feather. He couldn’t tell for sure, because he found it impossible to break eye contact with Potter. It was like Potter’s eyes were on a whole other plane of existence than his determination.

“What did you mean last night?” he whispered, searching for an answer in Potter’s face. Potter looked up at him questioningly, cocking his head. “You said I could ‘use’ you,” Draco elaborated. “Use you for what?”

“Oh. As your guinea pig,” Potter said, taking a step back. “The scar thing. I’ve got a few cursed ones you could practice on.”

Draco cleared his throat and then shook his head vehemently (to clear his head but also to make a point). “No way. I’ll most definitely not cut you up.”

Potter seemed actually surprised. “Why not?”

“Because it will fucking hurt, for one,” Draco said, crossing his arms.

“It hurts no matter who you choose.” Potter actually had the audacity to frown, as if Draco were being unreasonable. “And I don’t mind.”

“Which indicates a serious mental health issue. But that’s not new, is it?”

“Yeah, I’m a basket case,” Potter agreed. “Skeeter informed me ages ago. And if I remember correctly, she got that from you. Which is why you owe me this.”

“I spread rumours about you ten years ago, so you want me to make up for it by cutting into your flesh while you’re fully conscious?”

Potter actually winked at him. “You got it.”

Draco shook his head again. “You really are a loon. Or maybe it’s still the potion speaking. Either way, I’m definitely not using you.”

And then Draco left the room to find something to wear other than his pyjamas.

~o~

There was a knock on the door around four in the afternoon. Draco, who had expected a horde of Potter’s adoring relatives much sooner (though not knocking on his door, but rather using the Floo), opened it to reveal his assistant Samantha Huxley instead.

“Hi,” she said, levitating three boxes past Draco and then coming in herself. She put her flat hands on either side of her mouth and shouted up the stairs. “Harry?”

Potter stuck his head out of the kitchen. “Sam, what are you shouting for? Come on in.”

Samantha rolled her eyes and directed her boxes to land on the kitchen island. “One can never be too careful around you,” she said accusingly, looking completely out of place in the sterile kitchen with her pink hair and bright blue robes.

“Preach,” Draco said and she shot him a sympathetic glance. Somehow, he didn’t think she could grasp the extent of the anguish he had to endure in Potter’s home.

Two of her boxes emptied themselves into the pantry. Potter’s eyes were fixed on the third one and he was tugging at a wavy strand of his hair nervously. A feather, which must’ve gotten lost somewhere in the mess, sailed to the floor.

“Have you heard anything from the Aurors?” Potter said suddenly, as if unable to keep it in any longer.

“Yeah …,” Samantha said hesitantly, giving Draco a sidelong glance. “Do you want to …?” She gestured at the door, evidently trying to have this conversation out of his earshot.

Draco pushed himself off the kitchen island he had been leaning on. “I’ll be upstairs; I still have some cleaning to do.”

“It’s alright,” Potter held him back with a hand on Draco’s arm, eyes fixed on Samantha, “Malfoy won’t sell me out. We’re friends.”

Draco’s heart skipped a beat in time with both of Samantha’s eyebrows rising up. He knew they hadn’t been enemies for years, but it still felt weird to hear Potter call them friends. Potter actually trusted him. This wasn’t news for Draco, since Potter had practically invited him to live in his house for a whole week, but still. It seemed awfully official, all of a sudden.

“There isn’t really much to say,” Samantha said dejectedly. “They haven’t found the person responsible, but Ron mentioned that they might have a lead. He wouldn’t tell me more, since it’s an ongoing investigation. Sorry, Harry, I’m not very optimistic about it.”

“Do you suspect anybody?” Draco asked, but Potter just shook his head.

“I wouldn’t put it past McCarthy – she’s been after my spot ever since Matt made her Reserve Seeker. But she wasn’t invited. Everybody who was there, I or my friends trust.”

“What about the waiters?” Draco said thoughtfully. “Did you know them beforehand?”

Potter scoffed. “Why would a Squib want to poison me?”

“The same reason anyone would want to poison you? Which would be your abnormally annoying personality and that mob you call hair.”

Samantha’s eyebrows vanished underneath her pink fringe as Potter snorted in an attempt not to laugh. “Didn’t you say you two were friends?” she said doubtfully, her hand flexing around her wand.

“Yeah.” Potter grinned. “He takes some getting used to; I’m not denying that. But don’t worry, he definitely didn’t poison me.”

“I’m still in the room, you know,” Draco complained. “I can hear you.”

“You just insulted me to my face. Don’t dish out what you can’t take.”

“Because you asked. It would have been rude not to tell you.”

“Well, it would also have been rude to let Sam believe you’re after my life,” Potter replied, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh boy.” Samantha sighed heavily. “There was nothing about this in my contract.”

And before either of them could say anything else, she grabbed the third box, opened it and took out grey and white Quidditch robes, the Falcon emblazoned on the front and Potter’s name and the number seven embroidered on the cape. The robes looked much cleaner than the ones Draco had seen him play in, the white of it almost blinding.

“New attire?” he asked curiously, trying to see if they had changed anything about it. Not that he knew the old ones in detail, but still.

Potter shook his head jerkily. “Photoshoot,” he said quite unhappily. “What charity is this for?”

“None,” said Samantha, holding his gaze. “This is for your actual job. The one that pays you, you know?”

Potter crossed his arms immediately. “You know I only agreed to do one a year. It’s in my contract and everything!”

“And they’re cashing that one in now,” Samantha said resolutely.

“I just did the calendar shoot two months ago. They can’t possibly be shooting next year’s calendar already.”

“They are not.” Now Samantha grinned broadly, like she had been looking forward to saying what came next. “These are for your Chocolate Snitch card.”

“My what now?” Potter frowned. “I’ve already got a Chocolate Frog card.” He glanced at Draco and added, “Horrible, by the way.” As if Draco had never seen that one.

“They’re doing Chocolate Snitches now. They’ll have collectible cards for Quidditch Players.” Samantha took out the rest of Potter’s Quidditch gear and placed it on the counter neatly. “I already fire-called the company and made them limit the number of cards they’ll print of you.”

“That’s really smart.” Draco nodded approvingly while Potter just furrowed his brows, staring at the black clothes in front of him. “Nobody gets excited for something they already have twenty of.”

“Thank you!” Samantha exclaimed, pointing at Draco. “At least somebody understands what I’m trying to do for you, Harry.”

“Fine,” Potter groaned, and he picked up the clothes and unfolded them. “Hey, this is not my size.”

“Come on, Harry. You don’t have to play in them. So what if they’re a little tighter than what is practical?”

“What for?” Potter demanded, clenching his jaw and crossing his arms again.

“You’re very fit Harry, obviously. And I’m desperately trying to market your assets, but you’re giving me a really hard time.”

“I don’t want you to market me,” Potter grumbled. “I need the exact opposite. I want people to think about me as rarely as possible.”

“Well, that’s dumb,” Draco commented drily. “You should have thought of that before you got into professional Quidditch. But if you really want to be forgettable, you could always give your position to McCarthy, right?”

“Over my dead body,” Potter snarled, crumbling his clothes in both hands.

“Then think of it this way,” Draco said smoothly. “People will be so busy gawking at what’s going on here,” he gestured at Potter’s body, “they’ll completely forget to stare at what’s going on there.” He pointed at Potter’s scar. “Which is a lot.”

Potter stared at him in disbelief, a muscle in his jaw twitching. Samantha took an unconscious step back, as if fearing the two of them could attack each other at any given moment. Which, frankly, Draco would not be all that much surprised by.

His mouth had just run itself, like old times. Potter’s fault, really. That never happened with other people. Maybe he should apologise.

But then Potter said, “Really think that’ll work?” and the twitch in his jaw transformed into a lopsided grin.

Draco grinned back, trying not to seem too relieved. “Well, Samantha is a woman and she seems to think your body is an asset. And we both know she has far better taste than you, so you should probably trust her on that one. That’s what you hired her for, is it not?”

“Yeah,” Potter admitted sheepishly, ruffling his hair.

“Don’t tell me that actually worked,” Samantha said perplexedly. “I’m definitely in favour of this very bizarre friendship. Even though I’m not entirely sure what the hell is happening, like, at all.”

“I don’t think anyone does,” Potter said, putting his pristine Quidditch uniform back into the box. “When and where?”

“I’ll pick you up on the fifteenth around noon. And please, I beg you, don’t do anything to your hair.”

“Like what?” Potter said, shooting Draco, who had snickered quite involuntarily, a scathing look.

“Like trying to charm it to stay down. You’ll only offend it and make it so much worse.”

“Worse than that?” Draco said, raising both eyebrows at once. “Impossible.”

“You would think,” Samantha agreed. “But I’ve got the photographs to prove you wrong. Never published them, obviously.”

“Yeah alright, my hair is an abomination, yada yada yada,” Potter said, grabbing Samantha by the shoulders and steering her towards the door. “I’m sure you’ll meet again and I wouldn’t want you to use up your insults all at once. See you next week.”

Draco followed them into the hallway. “Until next time, Samantha. Please excuse Potter’s terrible rudeness. I’m trying to pin that on the Confunding Concoction.”

“Oh, not at all,” Samantha said cheerfully, not even resisting being pushed out of the door. “Usually I’m the one apologising for Harry’s improper behaviour. Being on the receiving end is actually way less hassle.”

Draco assumed she would have bid him goodbye too, but Potter had already slammed the door in her face. They were looking at each other in the sudden tranquillity.

“So,” Draco said. “When are we expecting your friends to descend upon us? It’s been three days already.”

“We’re not.” Potter went back into the kitchen to fold his uniform more neatly. “I’ll see them on Sunday for lunch at the Burrow.”

“So, you’re not seeing them for a whole week?” Draco clarified.

“That’s right,” Potter said, shutting the box more forcefully than was necessary. “I’ll take this upstairs.”

Draco decided against going after him. It sure felt wrong to think that Potter didn’t want his friends visiting him when he had spent the majority of his time at St. Mungo’s sulking when left alone for too long.

Maybe this had something to do with the potion? But surely somebody would have come around by now, since they couldn’t know about it? Fact was: Potter didn’t seem to want to talk about it.

Chapter Text

The sixth day marked a distinctive setback in Potter’s recovery. Draco had gotten up at eight and, feeling generous, made pancakes. When those were done, he went up to check on his patient.

Potter was still fast asleep, hugging his pillow (which looked somewhat lumpy despite Draco’s best Reparo) with both arms and legs. His head was buried underneath the second pillow, as if to block out the sunlight streaming into his room. This seemed rather odd to Draco, since Potter could not possibly hope to notice intruders while he was buried like that.

But he was clearly breathing and also catching up on lost sleep, so Draco let him be and went back down to eat his share and put a warming charm over the rest. Potter would just have to deal with the ‘screwed-up texture’ of his pancakes. Something about snoozing and losing.

After reading another chapter of his current book (‘Scarred for life?’), Draco went up again to find Potter lying spread-eagled on top of his blanket. He cast a precautionary Protego and then proceeded to prod Potter’s shoulder very gently, firmly gripping his wand.

It felt massively anti-climactic when Potter just blinked at him and yawned extensively, and Draco had to actively tell himself to release his tense muscles.

“What time is it?” Potter asked while sitting up and stretching his arms above his head, which exposed his newest scar at the side of his stomach.

“Half past ten.” Draco ended his spell. Potter didn’t seem intent on attacking him, for a change.

“Shit!” Potter jumped out of bed and vanished in his walk-in wardrobe in a hurry. “What day is it?”

“Thursday,” Draco said, frowning.

When Potter came out, he was dressed in black cloth trousers and a black jumper with a white shirt underneath. He was also wearing a red tie, which he had tied rather sloppily. “Have you seen my robes?” he asked and then dropped to his knees to look under his bed.

Draco eyed Potter’s quite formal get-up suspiciously. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Charms!” Potter said exasperatedly, rummaging through the top drawer of his bedside table. “I can’t find my wand either. Or my glasses! Why didn’t you wake me earlier, Ron?”

Draco, who usually considered himself a rather quick-witted wizard, was dumbfounded. “I’m not –”

“My personal assistant? Yeah, if you were, I definitely would have fired you by now. What did you tell Slughorn?”

“About ...?”

Potter, still kneeling beside the bed, stopped searching and looked up at him as if he were dense. “Why I wasn’t in Potions.” He moved on to the bottom drawer.

“I think you’re ill, P– Harry,” Draco said. Might as well use Potter’s hallucinations to his advantage now. “Why don’t you lie back down and I’ll get you something to eat?”

“Ill?” Potter echoed. He stopped his frantic search and sat back down on his bed. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. Tell Flitwick I’m sick. No need to tell Trelawney, the ‘fogs of the future’ have probably already told her all about my ‘unfortunate indisposition’.”

Draco was unable to suppress his laughter. “Will do. Now, get back in bed.”

“Nah,” Potter grinned up at him. “I think I’ll see what Malfoy’s up to.”

The smile slipped from Draco’s face instantly. “Malfoy?”

Potter rolled his eyes and huffed, quite irritated. “Save it. I swear he’s up to something. And he has a free period before lunch, which would be the perfect opportunity to sneak off.”

Draco’s heart was hammering in his chest. Potter hadn’t really memorised his timetable in sixth year, right? He hadn’t been following him?

He cleared his throat and managed to say, “I don’t think he’s up to something. Actually, I think I saw him in the library earlier.”

“Really?” Potter perked up at that information. “Maybe he’s doing research for whatever task Voldemort gave him.” Potter must have seen Draco flinch at the name, because he frowned up at him. “Get over it already. Alright, let’s see.”

He took a quill from the open drawer of his bedside table and held it out like a wand. Draco quickly stepped out of the line of fire. “Accio Map.”

There was the sound of breaking glass and then a piece of parchment landed in Potter’s lap. He tapped it with the tip of his quill. “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

Before Draco could question any of it, letters and lines blossomed on the parchment, forming what seemed to be a map. Little black dots scurried across it like tiny ants. Draco stepped nearer and looked down at it.

Excitement spread through him like firewhisky. This was a map of Hogwarts. A map that apparently showed all of its occupants at any given moment! He found the Slytherin Dungeons, which were empty at the moment, since everybody was in lessons.

Was this how Potter had evaded detention all those times? How he had found Draco in that bathroom? That had been a rather large coincidence, one which Draco had had a lot of time to think about in the Hospital Wing.

Where did Potter get this map? Draco’s imagination went wild, picturing what he could have done with it. Maybe it was for the best that Draco had not had it. Definitely for the best.

“Sorry, Ron.” Potter said excitedly. “Malfoy’s not in the library. As a matter of fact, he’s not even on the Map. He’s definitely in the Room of Requirement.”

“Wha- how can you know that?”

“Come off it, mate!” Potter said, still studying the map. “You know it doesn’t show the room because the Marauders didn’t know about it.”

“The Marauders,” Draco said flatly. He was clearly missing crucial inside information.

Potter just shot him a look, but didn’t explain. “That’s weird. The corridor is empty. Maybe he couldn’t get Crabbe or Goyle to keep watch?”

Draco had to sit down. Potter had known about that too? About his task, the Room, the Polyjuice? He had been much closer to finding him out than Draco had thought.

If only he had. Dumbledore had offered to protect his family, but there had been no time to really consider the offer. Maybe if he had found out earlier, without an army of Death Eaters already in the castle? If only there had been time to think about it. Would Draco have agreed to do it? Would Dumbledore really have been able to hide them away from Him? He had managed to keep Potter safe, mostly – barring the times Potter had run off on his own accord. But Potter was the Chosen One. The most important wizard of their time and age. The Malfoys had most definitely not been. Still weren’t and would never be.

“Alright, wish me luck,” Potter said, getting up. He pointed his quill at the map and said “Mischief managed,” which wiped it clean.

“Wait!” Draco said, getting up as well. “You can’t just wander the corridors; you’re supposed to be sick.”

“I’m not daft, Ron,” Potter said, grinning and clasping his shoulder. “I’m taking the Cloak, of course.”

Draco’s mind was working overtime. It would certainly not do to have an invisible Potter running around the house while under the influence of Confunding Concoction. What he needed was a distraction.

“What about Quidditch? You’re our Captain and you haven’t even decided on a strategy for our match against Slytherin yet. The team is getting nervous.”

Potter looked at him flabbergasted and ruffled his hair. “I completely forgot about that!”

“Well, better get to it, then!” Draco said enthusiastically.

He grabbed Potter’s arm and guided him into the sitting room. Potter didn’t choose his usual chair in front of the fireplace, sitting down on the couch further away from it instead.

“Alright,” Potter said, putting the empty map down on the coffee table. “I need a quill. Did you bring one?”

Draco pointed at the one in Potter’s wand hand. “You’ve got one right there.”

Potter looked down at it as if seeing it for the first time. “Oh, I do. Thanks.”

And then he leaned forward to scribble something down on the parchment. Draco managed to snatch it away just in time, and Potter’s quill left some ink on the very expensive coffee table instead.

“Not that one; that’s my homework,” Draco said, pocketing the map. He slid one of his own empty parchments over to him. “Here, take this one.”

Potter drew seven tiny stick figures at the top and another seven at the bottom, and then labelled them. At least Draco supposed he did, because his handwriting was completely illegible, and not just to the usual extent. He wasn’t even sure there was a single real letter on the parchment.

As his quill was no longer a wand, Potter was unable to charm his players into moving. He settled on drawing a collection of very confusing lines, which somehow reminded Draco of the London tube map.

“Hey, how tall are you?” Potter asked suddenly. His cheek was smudged with ink and his hair resembled a bird’s nest more than anything else. Albeit a very cosy one.

“What do you need that for?” Draco asked, trying to evade the question. How should he know how tall Weasley was? He couldn’t exactly say, ‘Taller than Draco Malfoy.’

“I wanna find out how far you can reach when you’re dangling from your broom by your ankles.”

“Are you mental?”

Potter rolled his eyes at him. There was some ink smudged across his cheek, which diminished the effect somewhat. “Come on, Ron. We talked about this!”

“I have no memory of this conversation whatsoever,” Draco insisted.

“Well, I do. It was the Sunday before last, when Gin scored three goals in a row.”

“That must have been quite embarrassing,” Draco commented blankly.

“Nah, don’t worry ‘bout it, mate,” Potter lied. Draco wondered if Weasley usually believed these remarks obviously meant to spare his very fragile self-confidence. “Gin was just in peak form. But then you saved the next one upside down. It was spectacular.”

Draco translated that to mean that Weasley had slipped on his broom and hit the Quaffle purely by accident. He had a feeling Potter knew this too.

“And I agreed to do that again? What did Granger have to say about that?”

Potter frowned up at him and Draco suddenly realised that he had used her last name.

“We agreed not to tell her, obviously. Listen, you don’t have to do it if you’re not comfortable with it,” Potter said, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Maybe I should try it. Could also work for the Snitch, right?”

“Neither one of us should do it,” Draco said promptly, even though they were just pretend-strategizing and Coach Greyson would talk Potter out of it (Draco hoped) if he did end up remembering any of this later.

“Did you tell Hermione about this?” Potter asked suspiciously, as if that was the only explanation for Weasley to advise against this whacky endeavour.

“No, I didn’t. I’m just a little worried about, you know, falling off and dying.”

Potter furrowed his brow. “Dying? Because of Quidditch?”

“It’s not that far-fetched. Did you know the Falmouth Falcons’ Seeker died during a match just a few months ago? You would think he knows what he’s doing, right?”

“Well, I won’t fall, so don’t worry,” Potter said with conviction. “Flying just feels natural, like the Firebolt is part of my body.”

“You still fell off your broom in our third year,” Draco reminded him harshly.

“You know that was because of the dementors,” Harry pressed out. “You try flying while Voldemort murders your parents and your mother pleads for your life.”

Draco felt his stomach drop through the floor. Not once during his school years had he wasted a single thought on what Potter heard when the dementors got near him. He simply had not cared, content to gloat in Potter’s weakness. He felt like a right arse about it now. Potter’s mother had died protecting her son, just as Mother would have done for him. Both her and Potter had said so during the trials. He could not imagine having to listen to her last moments, over and over again. No matter what their relationship was like now.

“I’m sorry,” Draco said silently. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just concerned about you.”

But Potter wasn’t ready to be appeased – he seemed rather enraged. The parchment was crumbled up in his hand and his quill looked close to snapping in two.

“I’m sick and tired of everybody trying to protect me. It doesn’t work, alright? I know everybody wants me to be the Chosen One who saves the Wizarding world from Voldemort single-handedly. But I’d much rather die up in the air than –” Potter shook his head, as if trying to shake a painful memory, “– than all alone in a dungeon! Or poisoned by a Basilisk! Getting swarmed by dementors. In a graveyard next to Cedric’s body, who I persuaded to be there in the first place! Leading my friends to their deaths in the bloody Ministry! Or whatever shitty thing is going to happen this year!”

There was a loud snap and Potter threw the broken pieces of his quill onto the coffee table, jumping to his feet at the same time. His fists were clenched and he was shaking with anger, though he seemed to be in control of his magic.

Draco got to his feet automatically, not wanting to cower before Potter. He felt completely useless – he did not know what Weasley would say in this situation. Talking about feelings was considered to be in very bad taste, so Pure-blood families never did it. Well, at least the proper ones didn’t.

Draco wondered if Weasley had ever gotten the chance to say anything, or if Potter had always kept those things locked up. He did not seem like the type of person to talk it out. And how could anyone deal with trauma like that?

He needed to focus, think like a Gryffindor. What would a Gryffindor do? Ironically, the first thing that came to mind was that there was no way to think like a Gryffindor, because Gryffindors did not seem to think much before acting. They just did.

So Draco did too, even if he didn’t really know how to do it. He embraced Potter, squeezing him tightly. He told himself it was to convey a sense of security, but part of it was definitely to ensure that Potter had no room to punch Draco in the face. Potter tensed up for a moment, taken by surprise, and then hugged him back just as fiercely.

“Sorry, mate,” Potter croaked. “Guess I blew a fuse.”

“Don’t mention it,” Draco said, patting his shoulder awkwardly. He really was no good at hugging – it just felt like a horrible invasion of personal space, especially considering Potter assumed he was hugging Weasley.

Draco let go of him immediately – he had resolved to stop preying on Potter’s confusion, for fuck’s sake! Why did he always end up in these completely inappropriate positions?

Draco cleared his throat and gestured to the door. “Let’s go down and see what’s for lunch.”

Draco supplied Potter with a steady flow of pancakes and encouragement while the latter resumed his Quidditch preparations at the kitchen island. He refrained from challenging Potter’s more adventurous moves – it wasn’t like he would really utilise them.

“So, what’s a fuse?” Draco asked as the plates scrubbed themselves in the sink.

“A Muggle thing for electricity. If there’s too much tension, the fuse is tripped, killing the electricity. It’s to prevent fires,” Potter looked up from his notes, a crease forming between his eyebrows. “I think that’s how it works. I don’t think I ever got a real explanation.”

They spent the afternoon in the sitting room again. Draco was reviewing his notes, searching for a revelation, but there did not seem to be one. Maybe he would have to find another Healer to partner with? Then Draco could act as the test subject and his colleague could do the spells.

It was a good idea – in theory. Problem was, Draco did not want to share his research. This was his calling and he wanted his name connected to it, and nobody else’s.

He felt Potter’s gaze on him and looked up. Potter’s eyes were darting between the scroll of parchment in his own lap and Draco, who was sitting opposite him. Draco looked at him questioningly.

“Hey, Malfoy? Why am I writing an essay on the Patronus Charm?” Potter was rubbing his arms in an absent gesture.

“I thought it a bit cruel to assign History of Magic,” Draco replied smoothly, quietly impressed Potter could apparently read the hieroglyphs on his parchment. “Also, I didn’t want to have to dissuade you from procrastinating all afternoon.”

“Let me rephrase that. Why am I writing an essay, period?”

“Because you’re sixteen and still in school, of course.”

Potter groaned and dropped his head on the backrest of the couch. “How long have I been out of it?”

“It’s been close to eight hours now,” Draco said, glancing at his watch. “You’re really making the most of this potion, I’ll say.”

Potter just groaned some more and looked back down at his three scrolls of parchment. “You’d better give me top marks for that one. Or else.”

“Hate to disappoint you, Potter, but I can’t read any of that. You’ll have to tell me what this ominous ‘else’ entails.”

“Are you telling me I just wrote all of that for nothing?”

“That’s as much your fault as it is mine,” Draco replied smoothly. “I asked for one scroll, the additional two are on you. Who would have thought you were such an overachiever?”

Potter chucked a scroll at him, which hit Draco squarely in the chest. “You take that back right now!”

“Can’t if it’s true,” Draco said, tossing the scroll into the fire.

“It’s not! I just happen to like Defence.”

“‘Like’?” Draco scoffed. “You don’t start an extremely illegal underground club for something you just like. I was pretty sure you would try for the teaching position after the war.”

Draco didn’t mention that his first guess had been that Potter would become an Auror. Knowing what he did now, Potter would not have made a good Auror. He was distrustful and unpredictable, and the stress of the job would surely have done disastrous things to him.

Truth be told, Draco was actually rather impressed that Potter had not just pushed all his issues aside and followed his hero complex down this doomed path.

Potter snorted and leaned over to the next sofa to retrieve his blanket. “Spending practically all year cooped up in the castle with a bunch of teens? No thanks.”

“I’m pretty sure you don’t actually have to stay there. Nothing stops you from Apparating home at the end of the day. Some of them just seem to have nowhere else to be, which is rather pathetic if you stop to think about it.”

“Wow. That’s even sadder than I realised,” Potter said thoughtfully. “But still, I’m not going to deal with homework for the rest of my life. Imagine having to read fifty essays at once, all of them on the same topic, year after year.”

“You may have a point,” Draco agreed, stacking up his own parchments.

“Believe it or not, I actually wasted a thought or two on what I want to do with the rest of my life.”

“Consider me converted,” Draco said with a smile.

Now that Potter seemed alright to be left alone for a moment, he was free to leave the room and return the map to its place. Finding it was easy – the fourth door, the one he hadn’t opened until now, stood ajar.

It was a study. On the wall hung a pinboard full of children’s drawings and photos. There were several of friends and family and also a snippet from the Prophet – it showed Felicity McCarthy getting hit by a Bludger and crashing into Potter. A small banner above the pinboard read ‘Harry’s Happy Wall’ in a neat, cramped handwriting that couldn’t be Potter’s.

Upon the otherwise empty desk lay a picture frame, the glass smashed to pieces. Draco placed the map inside, repaired the glass and righted the frame.

“Malfoy? I’m hungry! Come downstairs so I can teach you how to make pizza!”

“Coming!” Draco shouted, leaving the study in a haste. He wasn’t really sure if he was even allowed to be in there in the first place.

Chapter Text

It came back to bite Draco in the arse faster than he would have anticipated. He had barely opened his eyes on Friday morning when Potter’s harsh, somewhat panicked voice reached him in the sitting room.

“Shit, shit, shit … Malfoy?!”

Draco stumbled off the sofa, grabbed his wand and followed Potter’s voice almost blindly, wondering just what the hell could have happened now.

The door to the study stood open and from inside came the frantic sound of paper rustling. Potter was bent over the desk, flipping through a folder full of newspaper clippings. There was a small tower of identical folders on either side of him.

Potter only glanced at him when he came in, and Draco jumped when the door snapped shut on its own.

Wand still held at chest level, Draco took a few tentative steps towards the desk. You really couldn’t be too careful with Confunded patients and Potter certainly didn’t seem all there.

“What exactly are you doing?” asked Draco carefully as he took a look over his shoulder.

Potters hands ghosted over every newspaper cut-out, tracing the publishing date for a second and then moving on to the next one. All of them seemed to concern him, and most had notes scribbled in the margins.

Potter muttered something and then closed the folder when he had reached the last page. He gave Draco a look and then pointed at the picture frame containing his map. “Somebody moved it. It’s always right here,” he said urgently, sliding it maybe ten inches to the left.

Draco dropped his arm immediately, fixing Potter with a very dubious look. “You’re kidding right?”

“I never … I … somebody –“ He was stammering now, as if he couldn’t find the right words to explain why that was such a big deal.

“I moved it, you idiot,” said Draco pointedly. “You smashed the glass during your little school recap yesterday.”

Potter froze and turned around in slow motion. His face was unreadable. “You … why?”

Draco sighed in irritation. “I just told you. Merlin, Potter, I really thought you burned through most of the potion yesterday.”

“I’m n-“ started Potter, but then he stopped mid-sentence, staring at a spot somewhere behind Draco before continuing in a much calmer voice, “Yes … guess I am. Are you hungry? I’m starving.”

In a flash, he turned back towards his desk, grabbed all the folders at once and placed them in one of the tall filing cabinets on either side of the desk. He waved a hand at it (something clicked audibly) and then turned around (the door opened on its own) and practically pushed Draco out.

Merlin, this was worse than working with any trauma patient he’d ever had. Draco couldn’t fathom why anybody would ever choose the Potions ward. He would definitely never transfer there. Also, Potter definitely needed to get out of the house.

Draco took his chance when they were sitting at the kitchen island a few minutes later. “So,” he said casually, pretending to fully concentrate on buttering his toast. “Granger and Weasley invited you to dinner tonight.”

Potter dropped his toast back onto his plate. “They did?” he asked, perking up visibly. He seemed to come back to his senses now.

“Yes,” Draco assured him. “The owl arrived while you had your little freak-out. I could drop you off and pick you up afterwards.”

“Yeah,” Potter said thoughtfully, brushing a hand through his hair.

He must’ve showered before his freak-out and since his hair was still wet, this did not have the same catastrophic effect it normally had. Draco wondered if the soothing aspect of it was therefore lessened.

“Or you could stay and eat with us?” Potter said suddenly, looking at him expectantly.

Draco nodded slowly, wondering which of his life choices had led to him getting into this situation. “Sure, I guess I could. I’ll owl Granger and ask if it’s alright.”

Potter smiled at him and continued to eat his toast and then five more while Draco nibbled at his own and began drafting his letter to Granger. When he was finally finished, it read:

Dear Granger,

As being cooped up inside this practically sterile environment is detrimental to Potter’s (mental) health, I would recommend dinner at your house tonight. I already told him that you invited him, so you can just go ahead and tell me what time would work for you. Also, he wants me to ask you if it would be alright if I came along.

Best regards,

Draco Malfoy

He assigned the letter to Pig, who gently nibbled at his little finger before taking the parchment (that was how owls should behave!), and began hoping that Granger did not have anything scheduled for her evening already. Draco didn’t really fancy telling Potter that their plans fell through. Or worse – that there never had been any plans to begin with.

Draco was pretty sure that Granger had not written the answer that arrived an hour later, because it only read ‘6 pm’ and wasn’t even signed. He informed Potter and then ordered his queen to slaughter the last of Potter’s bishops, which didn’t seem to bother him at all. When Draco won their fifteenth game at quarter to five, Potter got up and stretched his legs.

“Guess I’d better start cooking now. Wanna help?”

“What for?” Draco asked. “We’re invited for dinner, remember?”

Potter seemed completely unfazed by that piece of information. “Yeah, I know.”

“And do you also know what it means to be invited? Usually the host provides the food.”

“Trust me,” Potter said. “It’s necessary. I’m surprised they even invited us for mealtime.”

“Wonders never cease.”

“So, you helping?”

“Guess that’s what I’m here for,” Draco said. “Wouldn’t want you to impale yourself on a knife or something. If anyone can do it, its you.”

Potter threw one of the pawns at Draco’s chest. Draco caught it before it could hit him and then tried very hard not to show how much his hand hurt. Potter really was a strong thrower.

“Not bad,” Potter acknowledged. “You should really get back into Quidditch.”

Draco couldn’t help but flash him a cocky grin and Potter grinned right back at him.

‘Helping Potter cook’ turned out to be code for ‘doing all the work while Potter issued instructions from his place at the kitchen island’. Potter seemed really opposed to cooking the Muggle way and also had very strong opinions on how a spell was supposed to be performed to achieve ideal results. Draco started to wonder halfway through if Potter had somehow deduced that Draco had invited themselves and if this was his way of punishing him for it. Nobody could be that much of a tyrant in the kitchen.

Maybe it was a good thing that Potter wasn’t interested in him. Draco wasn’t sure if he could put up with this on a regular basis. And it was somewhat reassuring to see that even the Saviour had his flaws – apart from his self-sacrificing ways, the trust issues and the fleeting grip on his temper, that was.

Yes, Draco was definitely getting over him.

~o~

They stepped through the Floo at six sharp, the food containers shrunken and tucked away in the pocket of Draco’s trousers. They were not greeted by Granger and Weasley but rather by their voices drifting over from where Draco assumed the kitchen was.

“I swear to God, Ron, if this one turns out to be inedible too …!”

Weasley sounded like he was going to throw in the towel any second now. “I’m trying, but it just won’t water down! It just gets more solid the longer I stir.”

“How is that even possible? We followed the recipe exactly. Oh, they’ll turn up any minute now. This is just typical.” 

Draco glanced at Potter, who looked like he would rather be anywhere else than here, where he had to listen to his two best friends bickering. Draco, on the other hand, was having a great time. This was every Slytherin’s dream.

“Maybe one of us should just Apparate to Bamboo and get something to eat,” Weasley said in resignation. “I don’t have much hope for the stew. You’ll be able to cut it any minute now.”

“This someone would be me, I presume?” Granger said, a dangerously sharp note in her voice.

“Yeah, well, you speak Muggle.”

“‘Muggle’ is not a language, Ronald. It’s also not rocket science.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about!” Weasley cried. “What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a figure of speech. Meaning you don’t have to be a genius to converse with Muggles. How will you ever learn if you’re avoiding every single opportunity to talk to them?”

“Please don’t say it,” Potter whispered. “Come on, Ron.”

“Why do I even need to learn? I’ve got you to translate, haven’t I?”

Draco closed his eyes as Potter groaned beside him. Even he knew that was a stupid thing to ask your Muggle-born wife.

Granger’s voice was several octaves higher now. “Some of our best friends are Muggles. My whole family consists of Muggles! Do you think we’ll just stick to your magical family from now on and completely forget about mine? Or that you’ll just be able to sit by and be silent for hours on end?”

She was really getting into her stride now. Potter grabbed his arm and tried to drag him back to the fireplace. “Let’s go back and come through again, come on.”

“Are you kidding me? No way I’m leaving now,” Draco protested while Weasley stammered something about misunderstandings. “I love when Weasley talks himself into trouble. This is the best dinner I’ve ever attended.”

“Where not even officially here yet,” Potter argued, glancing at the Floo longingly.

“Irrelevant.”

“Hermione!” Potter shouted suddenly, apparently realising Draco wouldn’t budge. “We’re here!”

“Oh shit,” Weasley said, and there was a splashing sound, like he had dropped the cooking spoon into the pot.

“You wouldn’t have lasted a day in Slytherin,” Draco said drily, scarcely trying to hide his disappointment.

“That’s not what the Sorting Hat said,” Potter said.

And before Draco could ask what he meant by that, Potter left him behind and went off in search of his friends, who had stopped arguing the instant Potter had announced their presence. Draco followed him into the kitchen more hesitantly.

“Harry! It’s so good to see you. How are you?”

“Brilliant,” Potter lied through a mouth of Granger’s bushy hair. “Apart from the fact that I’m starving.”

Weasley and Granger exchanged a look that spoke volumes.

“How ‘bout some Chinese? ‘Mione can entertain you while I pop over to Bamboo Dynasty.”

“Nah, I’m not really in the mood for Chinese,” Potter said. “How about some lasagna?”

“No problem. Ron can swing by Alessio’s. We haven’t been in ages.”

“Or we could just eat the one Malfoy made,” Potter suggested.

“Malfoy?” Weasley and Granger said in disbelieving unison.

“Me?” Draco asked as well. Not that it wasn’t true. He had just not expected Potter to give all the credit to him that easily.

“Well, you did perform all the spells, didn’t you?”

“I don’t even know what I did and did not do. All I remember is constant nagging and a never-ending stream of insults aimed at my cooking skills.”

Draco took out the insulated food container and spelled it back to its original size. Granger and Weasley exchanged a significant look that Draco couldn’t read.

“You let Harry boss you around and produced something edible?” Weasley said.

“Well, I don’t know about edible ...” Draco answered. “Potter really isn’t the best instructor. More like the worst. Ever.”

“Ever?” Potter protested. “I told you exactly what to do!”

“You only told me exactly what not to do!” Draco replied drily. “‘Malfoy, don’t flick your wrist like the posh git you are!’ ‘Malfoy, don’t stir it so slowly, you dramatic prick!’ ‘Malfoy –’“

“Yes, I think we get it,” Potter said while his two best friends tried to contain their giggling. “Let’s eat this lasagna and then all of you can start congratulating me on my mad teaching skills.”

“Something about you is mad alright,” Draco agreed.

They ate the lasagna, which was not only edible but downright delicious. Draco dithered between wanting credit for his hard work and not wanting to endorse Potter. He could do without his boasting and the smug look on his face. But then Potter smiled at him, mouth stuffed to the bursting, and Draco didn’t care anymore. He was such a goner.

~o~

Potter lasted longer than Draco would have thought possible, though he addressed the Erumpent in the room as soon as they were finished eating. Granger was still holding her fork.

“So, got any leads on my case?”

Weasley charmed the table clean before he answered the question. Draco was pretty sure that Granger had everything to do with this.

“Well, for one, we’re pretty sure the potion wasn’t in anything you ate. Our potions consultant assures us that the Confunding Concoction would make the food that was served that night look inedible.”

“So, he drank it?” Draco asked.

“Most likely. The potion must have been in one of Harry’s drinks. Problem is, those cups get reused. They are charmed to Scourgify themselves when they’re empty,” Weasley said.

“But I thought those waiters were all Squibs?” Draco said curiously.

“They are, but the owner of the company is a witch. Wants to reduce waste, she said. And having the waiters clean those cups by hand obviously wouldn’t work.”

“How very convenient for the poisoner,” Draco commented grimly.

“You can say that again,” Weasley agreed. “All we were able to do is find the cups that bear Harry’s magical signature and map all the other signatures on it.”

“And?” Potter prompted, leaning forward in his chair.

“Well, in order to match a signature to the person, you need to know what their signature looks like.”

“It’s like a finger print for witches and wizards,” Granger elaborated. “Useless without a database to refer to.”

“And I’m guessing the Ministry doesn’t have that?” Potter deflated visibly.

“Only for its employees and criminals. Luckily for us, practically all of our guests were willing to have a sample taken.”

“So, did you get somewhere with that?”

Weasley shook his head dejectedly. “We know who had access to all the cups you drank from, but I really don’t know what to make of it.”

“Can I have a look?” Potter asked. “Maybe something will catch my eye.”

Weasley summoned a thin manila folder and dropped it onto the table. Draco slid his chair closer to Potter so he could look over his shoulder. He expected one of the Golden Trio to object, but none of them did. On the contrary – Potter even angled the folder so he could read it more easily.

The register listed the magical signatures from oldest to most recent.

Mapping of magical signatures:

Exhibit 26: plastic cup, 8 oz, red – Ginevra Weasley, Harry Potter, Ginevra Weasley, Blaise Zabini, Carys Jenkins (Auror)

Exhibit 27: plastic cup, 8 oz, red – Ronald Weasley, Harry Potter, Leona Robinson, person unknown, Easton Haynes, Carys Jenkins (Auror)

Exhibit 28: plastic cup, 8 oz, red – Fleur Weasley, Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Rosalie Burberry, Esther Smith, Carys Jenkins (Auror)

Exhibit 29: plastic cup, 8 oz, red – Luna Lovegood, Dean Thomas, Amanda Fawcett, Harry Potter, Marie-Luise Dupein, Carys Jenkins (Auror)

Exhibit 30: plastic cup, 8 oz, red – Flynn Montgomery, Phaedra Armstrong, person unknown, Leona Robinson, Harry Potter, Carys Jenkins (Auror)

Exhibit 31: plastic cup, 8 oz, red – Angelina Johnson, Harry Potter, Leona Robinson, Katie Bell, Alicia Spinnet, Carys Jenkins (Auror)

Draco registered his own name with a pang of guilt. Nobody had asked him to please supply a sample of his signature. They obviously hadn’t needed to, because Draco fell under the category of ‘criminals’ and the Ministry already had a sample of him from his trial after the war. He wondered if that made him an automatic suspect.

“Alright. So, the potion must have been in the cup before you got it, obviously,” Weasley said. “That means we’re looking at the people who had access to it immediately before you.”

“Ginny, you, Fleur, Amanda Fawcett, Leona and Angelina,” Potter listed. “Well, you, Ginny and Fleur obviously didn’t do it. Angelina is practically family at this point too. And I trust Leona completely.”

“Why?” Draco interrupted.

Potter frowned at him, as if he could not believe that Draco would ask something like that. Like the thought of not trusting Robinson was somehow an insult to him.

“Because she’s my friend and also Team Captain? Plus, she’s not an idiot – Leo would never hurt her own team.”

“Bloody Gryffindors,” Draco groaned. “Wormtail was your parents’ friend, was he not?”

Potter squared his jaw, clenching his fists. “Wormtail was a coward who put his own life before my parents’. You can’t compare Leona to him!”

“Still your parents trusted him with their lives,” Draco pressed on. “You have to consider every possibility.”

“I won’t consider that!” Potter said tensely. “So can go right on and forget about it.”

Draco had no intention to back off. If he was being honest, he thought that Potter was a complete moron if he blindly trusted every single one of his friends. How could he be so leery of strangers and then turn around and refuse to question his friends’ loyalties?

Draco had thought that Vince and Greg had been his friends, once. But then the Malfoys had fallen from grace, Greg had rebelled against him and Vince had nearly killed them all. So much for loyalty.

Granger kicked him under the table and Draco yelped in shock. But when he glowered at her, she returned his look with an eye-roll, jerked her head in Potter’s direction and then shook it slightly. It was then that Draco noticed how static the air had become. Potter certainly was pissed at him. And Draco really didn’t want to risk tipping him over the edge. His chest was still slightly bruised as it was.

“Fine, what about Fawcett? Do you know her?”

“She’s a colleague of mine,” Weasley cut in before Potter could answer.

“And I’m guessing we’re not suspecting Aurors, either?” Draco said.

“No,” Potter ground out. “We’re not, because Ron trusts her.”

“One or more people on this list didn’t give their sample,” Weasley continued before they could get into it again. “But the first one only got the cup after you, Harry. And the second didn’t have it directly before you, either.”

“Do you know who didn’t agree?” Potter asked. Weasley nodded and turned the register over.

Guests who did not provide a sample:

– Clarice Burgoise (Mediwitch at St. Helén’s Hospital / Paris)

– Bartholomew Bradbridge (Boyfriend of Phaedra Armstrong)

– Sabrina Underwood (Saleswitch at Quality Quidditch Supplies)

– Franklin Wright (Curse Breaker at Gringotts)

Squibs with no magical signature:

– Barnaby Fisher

– Caelan Moss

– Mychaell Fitzgeffrey

– Cecily Tilghman

– Humphrie Lyfelde

– Titus Hampden

– Lawrence Norwich

Next to the names were headshots of the listed guests and Squibs. Draco recognised Tilghman as the one he had sent over with Potter’s food (because she was the only woman among them), and Fitzgeffrey as one of the Poly-Party Squibs Blaise had pointed out (because he was the only good-looking one). He couldn’t really remember if it had only been the one. His memory was rather fuzzy and mostly overshadowed with what had happened afterwards.

“Squibs don’t have a signature?” Potter asked confusedly. “So, one of them could have done it and we would never know they even touched the cup?”

“Pretty much,” Weasley confirmed. “We’re interviewing the Squibs next week, but I don’t expect much. It’s not as if any of them will just confess to something we can’t prove.”

“Did you talk to these four guests?” Draco asked, pointing at the top of the page.

“Of course we did. But none of them have a motive and they still wouldn’t have had access to the cup directly before Harry, so we can’t just take their signatures.”

“So, you’re thinking a Squib did it?” Potter sounded rather incredulous. “Why would they do that? I never did them wrong, did I?”

“It’s no use thinking about that,” Granger said. “There could be a million reasons. They could dislike you on a personal basis and it could have nothing to do with them being a Squib. They could be deranged. Or they didn’t do it at all and there is an entirely different explanation. There are just too many unknown variables.”

Potter snapped the folder shut and leaned back in his chair, ruffling his hair thoroughly. “So, basically, you have no hope of catching the bastard.”

“We’re doing what we can, but it doesn’t look too good,” Weasley admitted. “It’s driving Carys mad.”

“Oh right, I saw her name in the file. What’s up with that? I thought she went to America with her fiancé?”

“Turns out the bastard has a side-chick over there. That’s probably why she is so hell-bent on solving this case. She practically lives at the Ministry at the moment.”

“He let her quit her job and leave her home country while he was cheating on her?”

“Yep. Don’t worry, we already offered to hex him. More than once.”

“I hope she did that herself.” Potter scoffed and tipped his head back, looking up at the ceiling. “Man, love really sucks.”

All of them raised their eyebrows. Granger and Weasley exchanged an apprehensive look that rather felt like they were silently battling out who would have to speak to Potter about it.

“Come again?” Draco said, dumbfounded. “Didn’t you use the ‘Power of Love’ to vanquish You-Know-Who?”

Potter shook his head without looking at him. “Nah, not really. That was just to keep him from hurting anyone else. Didn’t kill him, though.”

“Ah well, if that’s all it accomplished!”

“Harry, is this about Grace again?” Granger asked carefully. “We thought you were over that.”

Potter crossed his arms and glared at her without any force behind it. “I’m fine. It’s not like I’m still hung up on her or something. I’m completely fine. It’s just the principle of the thing. Love’s great if you’ve got it. But if you don’t, it’s just plain awful. But I’m fine.”

Well, that were an awful lot of ‘fine’s for Draco’s taste. He was prepared to go out on a limb and argue that Potter was a little less than fine.

“Come on, Harry,” Granger said. “You’ve got a family, a ton of friends – you know we all love you.”

Potter shot Draco a side-glance, as if he really didn’t want to have this conversation in front of an outsider. “Why exactly are we talking about how pathetic my love life is?

Draco snorted involuntarily and three Gryffindors glared at him. Draco grinned back. “Sorry, it’s just kind of ridiculous.”

“Well, nice of you to tell me,” Potter snarled. He stood up abruptly, almost knocking over his chair. “I’m bloody exhausted, I think I’ll go home now. Thanks for the invite.”

And then Draco was left to stare at the door Potter had vanished through, his mind reeling in a desperate attempt at catching up with what had just happened. “What a Drama Queen.”

Weasley groaned. “Whatcha do that for?”

“You’d better go after him,” Granger advised, standing up as well.

Draco crossed his arms. “I’ll not encourage such childish behaviour!” Then he crossed his legs too, demonstrating that he was not going anywhere.

“Rightly so,” Granger agreed to his surprise. And still she gestured for him to stand up. “But how will you get back into the house if Harry’s not with you?”

Draco was still for a second. Then he jumped to his feet, just as the fireplace roared to life in the next room.

“Fuck’s sake, Potter! Don’t you dare leave me here!”

Potter was already dropping the Floo powder into the flames as Draco ran through the door. He made eye contact as Draco made a dash for him and said “Number twenty-two, Grimmauld Place” in a distinctively deliberate tone.

Green flames roared up around them as Draco barged into the stupidly stubborn fool and they rotated together.

Immediately, Draco could tell something was off. They weren’t spinning around their axis but rather twisting all over the place, probably because he had knocked Potter over with the force of his sprint.

It took less than a second and they were thrown out of the fireplace, barrelling across a dusty carpet together. Potter was on top of him when they finally crashed into a wall. Groaning, he braced his arms on either side of Draco’s head and glared down at him.

“What the fuck, Malfoy? You didn’t have to jump me!”

Well, glaring was something Draco could do as well. “Yeah? So, you would have come back to get me, that it? Or were you planning on giving me full access to your Floo?”

Now Potter actually growled. “I was going to let you stew for a few minutes! I wouldn’t have locked you out when all of your stuff is still scattered all over my sitting room.”

“My things are not scattered! They’re neatly positioned at strategic places!”

“Could’ve fooled me!” Potter was breathing very hard and Draco wasn’t sure if their crash or his anger was the reason.

Either way, Draco could feel his warm, frantic breath on his face and smell his minty shampoo. He shook his head slightly to clear it, but it didn’t do much good.

Stupid hormones. Stupid Potter with his stupidly fit body. Being propped up like this really brought out his biceps. Draco hated all of it, but most of all himself and his stupid feelings.

“Why are you so butthurt all of a sudden? The one time I didn’t even insult you!” Draco said, his voice breaking awkwardly.

He wished Potter would at least still wear his glasses. Anything to make him less perfect. Well, he reckoned there still was the scar to disfigure him somewhat. Though now that he really looked at it, it wasn’t all that bad anymore. It actually looked rather nice, contrasting pleasantly with his tan Mediterranean skin and drawing attention to his vibrant green eyes.

Merlin, Draco really was a disaster.

Potter stilled and then furrowed his brow. “You didn’t?”

Right. Back to the topic. Fighting, he knew how that worked.

“No! It was just completely absurd hearing you complain about your love life when I haven’t had a relationship in years. Or anything in that general area. At all.”

“You’re lying,” Potter said, narrowing his eyes. “Stop pulling my leg.”

“I’m not. Why would I ever tell you something like that if it weren’t true? If you’re pathetic, then I don’t know what you’d call me.”

“An old trout?” Potter suggested. “Or maybe a prude.”

Draco tried to push Potter off, but Potter didn’t budge, suddenly grinning down at him instead. “Though it didn’t seem like that down at the shore.”

“That doesn’t count,” Draco protested. “I was severely drunk. Refilling glasses should be banned. They’re a serious safety hazard.”

“But you’re not drunk now.”

Draco raised his eyebrows in confusion. “Obviously? Though I’m starting to wish I were.”

“We could, you know …,” Potter started. He didn’t seem to miss the way Draco raised his eyebrows even higher, because then he leaned back and crossed his arms, looking severely put out. “Oh, come on! Don’t pretend you haven’t thought about it. I’m not blind, you know? I’m just saying, I wouldn’t mind.”

Something inside Draco’s stomach performed several loopings – first, there was shock, which transformed into disbelief, which became excitement for a single second, before it finally settled on annoyance.

“I don’t want your pity snogs,” he snarled, trying again to push Potter off.

Potter prevented this by grabbing both of Draco’s wrists and pinning them on either side of his head. He was smaller and lighter than Draco – he shouldn’t be this strong! Maybe it was time for Draco to exercise regularly, build up some muscle?

“This is not pity, Malfoy!”

If there was something Draco didn’t like, it was being pinned to the ground by one of his patients. Which, at the moment, Potter was. Draco bucked his hips and nearly managed to throw Potter off. He probably could have done it if the person in question hadn’t been someone who had managed to hold on to a broom gone wild when he was only eleven.

As it was, Potter’s weight only shifted from where he was sitting on Draco’s stomach to where he was keeping Draco’s wrists in place – which hurt like his bones were going to snap any moment now. Draco hissed in pain just as something fell out of the front of Potter’s t-shirt and onto Draco’s chest.

Tiny wings on a thread – silver and gold. Draco had seen it before, when he had made Potter strip in his kitchen, and then when Potter had stripped in his bedroom, completely of his own accord. But he suddenly remembered something else – another instance when almost the exact same thing had happened.

“It was you!” Draco yelled, instantly livid.

His whole lower body jerked violently and Potter was thrown off to the side, landing hard on his back next to Draco with a yelp.

“Ouch. Fucking hell, Malfoy. You could’ve just said no. No need to get aggressive.” Potter sat up and massaged his back.

Draco just decided to ignore him. He sat up as well and slapped Potter’s arm repeatedly, all the while practically yelling, “It was you at the shore!”

“Ouch, stop that! You already knew that; I don’t know why you’re losing your plot now!”

Draco refused to stop it. He had a right to slap Potter as much as he liked right now, all poisonings aside. “You were the one who kissed me!”

“Again, you already knew that!”

“I bloody well did not know that!”

Potter managed to grab his left wrist and kept trying to block his right. “You told me, like, the week after it happened. Immediately before informing me you would never do it again and never intended for it to happen in the first place. That still stings, by the way.”

Draco groaned loudly but stopped trying to hit Potter. He felt more like hitting himself right now. Preferably in the face.

“What I told you was that I thought I knew you watched me and your doppelganger make out. Which was a very unpleasant thought for me, naturally. Not helped by the fact that, at the time, I thought you and Blaise were going out.”

Potter stared at him, looking just like Draco felt right now. And then, because Draco was not a complete idiot (or maybe precisely because he was), he grabbed Potter by the shoulder and kissed him. Potter’s lips were hot and desperate against his, and immediately there were hands in Draco’s hair and on his back, drawing him closer still.

Draco followed Potter’s lead willingly and now he was the one on top, pinning Potter down with the weight of his upper body, forearms braced on either side of Potter’s head. There were two cold hands on his back now, gripping his shirt as if to keep him in place, pressing them flush together.

Draco wanted nothing more than to shove his hands under Potter’s t-shirt and touch his stupidly fit body. Sadly, he already needed his arms to prevent Potter from being crushed under the full weight of his body. He settled for fisting his hands in Potter’s soft, curly hair.

As if Potter was sharing his thoughts, his hands went underneath Draco’s shirt, stroking his back. His hands were like ice on Draco’s skin and he inhaled sharply, biting Potter’s lower lip in the process, which made Potter groan and then there was his tongue against Draco’s and –

There was a very loud CRACK and Draco was thrown off Potter, hitting the wall with a BANG! All the air left his body at once and he barely registered Potter yelling in response.

“Kreacher, no!”

“Master is being attacked. Kreacher has to defend his Master!”

“I’m not being attacked!” Potter yelled. “And under no circumstances do I want you to hurt Malfoy, do you understand me?”

The house-elf looked down at Draco with a mortified look on its face. “Master Draco! No! Kreacher harmed the mistress’s great-nephew!”

And then the elf let out a horrible wail and banged his head against the wall. Potter yelled, “Stop it, Kreacher! I forbade you to punish yourself!”

Kreacher wailed even louder but stopped trying to cave his head in, dropping onto his knees instead.

“Kreacher attacked a member of Mistress’s Pure-blood family! Kreacher deserves to have his head chopped off for that! Kreacher is a bad, bad elf! Master Harry must punish Kreacher most severely!”

“I won’t punish you for misreading the situation. And I explicitly forbid you from hurting yourself in any way.” Potter bent down and pulled Draco up by his arms. “Are you alright?”

Draco shook out his arms and legs and then stretched his back carefully. Everything seemed to be working like it should. “Yeah. Seems that, unlike a certain someone, I can take a beating from an elf.”

This earned him a hard jab with Potter’s elbow, but also a relieved laugh. “You only flew a few feet. I was thrown much farther.”

“Only you would make a competition out of this,” Draco said, rolling his eyes dramatically. “And now please tell me your house-elf doesn’t live in this old, rotting house.”

“Now that you say it … Kreacher, what are you doing here? I thought I sent you to work at Hogwarts.”

“Master Harry promised that Kreacher could come back to the house if Master Harry ever did so himself. And Kreacher waited years and years, and Master Harry never returned. But now Master Harry is here, so here Kreacher is too.”

“I haven’t come back, Kreacher,” Potter said bluntly. “I just took a wrong exit. I’m not staying here, so you can go back to the school.”

Draco thought it would have been kinder had Potter just beheaded the elf straightaway. Kreacher was close to tears, his tiny hands fisted into his toga with the Hogwarts crest on it. His mouth was opening and closing but no sound came out and Draco was rather certain that, at some point, Potter had forbidden the elf from arguing about this.

“Just go back, Kreacher. And you don’t need to constantly wait for me to return, just go back to Hogwarts. It’s your home; you’ve been there for the last six years.”

Though Draco was by no means an expert on house-elves, he still knew that Potter was a moron, who had no idea how regular house-elves worked. Next he would offer Kreacher a change of new clothes or something equally barmy. As it was, Kreacher’s lower lip was trembling dangerously.

“Kreacher’s home will always be this house, where he served the most noble House of Black, Master Harry. And Master promised Kreacher that he could come back one day.”

“If I ever decided to come back myself. But you really shouldn’t hold your breath, Kreacher. I’ll call for you if it ever comes to that.”

‘Don’t owl us, we’ll owl you?’ Had Potter really just used that line? That was worse than saying ‘It’s not you, it’s me’. No wonder Kreacher looked to be about five seconds away from a stroke.

“Look,” Potter continued, looking down at the trembling elf. “This is not about something you did. Your work is really great. I just need to be away from the house for some time.”

And there it was. Draco groaned in frustration. Potter really was using every cheap phrase he could think of. He was about as subtle as a Bludger to the face. Kreacher was wringing his hands now, his eyes flitting across the dark, dusty room, probably trying to take in as much as possible in what little time he had.

“Let me,” Draco said resolutely, pushing Potter out of the way.

He drew himself to full height in front of Kreacher. It was important to assert one’s authority. Draco didn’t miss the way Potter’s hand twitched at his sides, as if he didn’t trust Draco to talk to his elf in an acceptable manner. Prick.

“Kreacher, Potter has a task for you.” This got Kreacher’s full attention. “You see, I’m a Healer. Potter has been feeling under the weather for a while now and he needs some time away from this house to get better. Even thinking about it would be a burden. So, the best thing you could do to help him would be to go to Hogwarts and do your job and not harass him about coming back here before he’s ready. Think you can do that?”

Kreacher was not enthusiastic about this, but at least he stopped trembling. Draco glanced at Potter, who was biting his lip and ruffling his hair. He guessed that Potter had never told Kreacher why staying away was important to him. He had probably resorted to stating ‘Because I say so’ and thought that would be enough.

Well, every house-elf needed to feel useful, so you’d better tell them what use there was in their obedience if they didn’t particularly want to do what you asked of them. Provided you were like Potter and cared about their feelings, of course. If you didn’t ... well then you were fine just barking orders.

Kreacher was still trying to take in the room. His eyes came to rest on an impressively large collection of cobwebs, and when he started to shuffle his feet nervously, a cloud of dust rose from the musty carpet. Draco tried not to think too much about how he had just been lying there, only a layer of clothes separating him from that.

To think that this was the home of his Pure-blood ancestors, part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. A disgrace was what it was.

Draco grabbed Potter’s arm and pulled him to the side, out of Kreacher’s earshot. “Why don’t you let him come back here now and then? He could tidy up, make –”

“No.” Potter cut him off rudely, jerking his arm away. “I don’t want anyone in here.”

“Come on, this house is derelict. It won’t improve on its own, it’s only getting worse.”

“I said no.” Potter crossed his arms, glaring at Draco. Draco crossed his arms and glared back. After all, two could play at this game.

“Alright. Why?” Draco demanded to know. He was no house-elf and reasons were not optional with him.

“That’s none of your business,” Potter snarled.

“Maybe not. But if you won’t tell me, I’ll have to assume you’re just a childish, immature prick, who likes to torture his house-elf just because he can.”

“It’s not torture! Are you mental?”

“It is psychological torture,” Draco countered. “You are forbidding him from properly serving his master. You are keeping him from his home, where countless of his ancestors served the Blacks before him, I’d imagine. How would you like it if somebody took over your childhood home and let it go to ruin while you had to stand by and watch?”

“Stand by? I’d happily help wreck it.” Potter laughed humourlessly. “That house was a prison, as was this one. Sirius hated it. He’d have burned it to the ground if he could have.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. This came as a surprise, but still he felt like he could relate, even if he usually tried to avoid thoughts about the Manor. He had loved it, once – before the Dark Lord came and turned the cellar into a dungeon, the dining room into a torture chamber and Draco’s room, which had once been his safe haven, into his own prison. The Manor was not his home anymore and he did not intend to ever go back there.

“Then sell it,” Draco suggested, raising his brow. “You clearly don’t want to keep it, so why hang on to it?”

Potter looked up at the ceiling, a pained expression on his face. “I can’t,” he said shortly.

Draco rolled his eyes so hard he would not have been surprised if they left his head. “Would you please just talk to me like a normal person? Why do I have to worm everything out of you?”

“Because – as I already told you – this is none of your business!”

“Oh please! You just told Samantha that we were friends! Well, I’ve got news for you: Friends help each other! You’ve clearly got a problem and I want to help you work it out. You have so many idiosyncrasies, they’re not even quirky anymore! It’s just bloody annoying!”

And then everything seemed to burst out of Potter at once. “I can’t sell it because the house was compromised! Yaxley got in! They know about it! What if I sell it and somebody moves in and one day they come, looking for me? What if somebody gets killed because a Death Eater wants to finally finish me off, and some poor family is just in the wrong place at the wrong time? It’s not safe for anyone!”

Potter was panting, more out of breath than even after a Quidditch match. His hands were constantly opening and closing and Draco could see where his nails dug into the flesh.

Draco didn’t know what to do. He was sure Potter would deck him if Draco told him to ‘get a grip, the war has been over for six years’. It was clearly not over for him, not really. Six years later and Harry was still running, still hiding, still trying to save all of them.

“That’s why you live right across the street,” Draco suddenly realised. “To keep watch. So you’ll see when somebody goes in. Is that the reason for all those fucking windows too?”

Potter avoided his eyes, staring over Draco’s shoulder and out of the window instead. Draco followed his gaze and there it was – number twenty-two, Grimmauld Place. From the outside, there were no windows. The building seemed to be made from solid stone alone, safe for the front door.

Draco looked back at Harry, who seemed lost in here, like this really was a prison to him. Draco thought this was one of those moments during which normal, functioning people would hug, but there really was no way for him to know. He could just as well run the risk of getting punched for trying.

Harry didn’t answer his question and Draco didn’t press. After a few seconds, Harry at least looked at him. His eyes were pleading and Draco decided that Harry couldn’t possibly hurt him for trying to pat his arms, so that was what he did.

For a moment, Harry just stared at him, and then, through what only could have been divine intervention, he stepped closer and put his arms around Draco, hugging him close. They had hugged before, but this was different, somehow even more intimate than embracing one another in Harry’s bed.

Harry was upset and confused and frightened, and Draco didn’t think this had anything to do with the Confunding Concoction. This had been a long time coming.

Draco began stroking Harry’s back in soothing circles and felt him tremble underneath his hands, taking heaving breaths. He tried to let go to see if Harry was actually crying, but Harry just held him in a vice. Draco patted his back helplessly. Why was he so useless at this?

“What can I do?” he asked because he couldn’t take the silence any longer.

Harry detached one arm from Draco and wiped at his face roughly before letting go of him completely.

“If there was something to be done, I’d have done it already,” he croaked, clearing his throat self-consciously. “I’ve got this god-awful house that just screams death, absolutely no privacy whatsoever and now somebody poisoned me. Honestly, you should probably turn tail and distance yourself from me as much as you can.”

“That’s the opposite of what I want to do,” Draco stated boldly, taking Harry’s left hand in his right. “Let’s start with making this shack look less like death, shall we?”

“I already told you, it’s dangerous!” Harry narrowed his eyes at him but squeezed his hand at the same time. The other hand he used to mess up his hair. Not that it was necessary after tumbling out of the fireplace and all over that nasty carpet.

“I like to live dangerously.” Draco gave him a small smile and then turned to the elf. “Kreacher, you knew when Harry came back here, right?”

Kreacher nodded, straightening his toga nervously. “Yes, Master Draco. Kreacher is bound to this house. Kreacher sensed Master Harry entering.”

“And if somebody else enters, you sense that as well.” It wasn’t a question. The house-elves had always known as soon as somebody had approached the Manor.

Kreacher nodded again. “Kreacher always knows, Master Draco.”

“So, you could come here, let’s say once a week, tidy up, and if you ever sensed somebody come in, you could just vanish and warn Harry?”

Kreacher nodded so fast his ears were slapping against his shoulders repeatedly. He didn’t seem to mind at all, looking up at Harry hopefully.

“I don’t know ...” Harry said hesitantly.

“What is it now?” Draco sighed. “You can’t possibly want this rundown dump to stay like this.”

And there it was again – Harry raked a hand through his hair. His other hand twitched in Draco’s. Draco waited for him to speak. Sometimes silence was a much stronger incentive than words, and Harry definitely could not stand silence. It took only a few seconds for him to break.

“It’s just ... his things are still here. I haven’t gotten around to looking them through.”

“Kreacher, could you just tidy up and clean without throwing anything away?”

Kreacher bowed so deeply that his ears brushed the floor. “Kreacher would never dispose of anything that belonged to my mistress’s family, Master Draco. Kreacher values the possessions of House Black more than his own life.”

“There you go,” Draco said, satisfied.

Harry sighed and let go of his hand, turning to face Kreacher. “Alright. Kreacher, I want you to come here every Sunday to clean. Take a break every three hours at least. Under no circumstances can you throw anything away, understood? And if you sense anyone in here, you come directly to me and tell me.”

“Yes, Master Harry. Kreacher won’t disappoint,” the elf croaked gleefully. Harry waved his hand and with a CRACK Kreacher vanished. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Won’t you give me a tour? I’ve been dying to see this place,” Draco protested.

“Not a chance in the world, Malfoy.” Harry grabbed his wrist and – without even warning him first, which would have been the polite thing to do – twisted.

They reappeared inside Harry’s kitchen, which was, like always, spotless. Harry had made him clean up before they went to visit the Granger-Weasleys.

“Merlin’s beard, Potter. You can’t just grab somebody and Apparate them wherever. Do you want to have your license revoked?”

Harry grinned at him. “That’s cute. You think I have a license.”

Draco wrenched his wrist out of Harry’s grip. “You don’t have a license? You are twenty-four years old! Do you mean to tell me the risk of you Splinching us were not ten but more like thirty percent?”

“Hey!” Harry protested, crossing his arms. “I’ll have you know I’m an excellent Apparater. The odds of getting Splinched were never even ten percent. I never Splinched anyone!” Harry trailed off there, brushing a strand of curly hair out of his face before shaking his head and squaring his shoulders. “And I couldn’t exactly take my test with a ministry official when I turned seventeen, could I now?”

“What was that?” Draco prompted, narrowing his eyes. “You did Splinch someone!”

“No, I did not!” Harry insisted. “Ron got Splinched back then, when we were on the run, after the Ministry ... But Hermione Apparated us, not me. And that was when she already had a license, by the way.”

Draco made a mental note never to Apparate with Granger, not that the occasion was likely to arise. He was quite attached to all his body parts and would like to keep it that way.

“After the Ministry? You don’t mean after what happened at the Department of Mysteries, right?” Draco knew for a fact that Granger had not had a license then. None of them had been seventeen.

Something moved to Draco’s right and they both jumped. Harry shook out his right hand, the side where he usually kept his wand up in his sleeve. It wasn’t there, of course, as Draco still had it.

Harry needn’t have panicked – perched upon the open window sat Odysseus, Coach Greyson’s ruddy owl.

“Jesus Christ,” Harry said, pressing a hand to his heart. Draco’s own heart was hammering as well. “He must have been here since we got in. I didn’t even see him there.”

“Me neither,” Draco grumbled. “Probably did it on purpose.”

“Why would he?” Harry asked, crossing the kitchen to relieve the owl of its letter.

Draco glared at Odysseus while Harry remained completely unbitten. “That creature has it out for me, I’m telling you.”

“You must have offended him,” Harry said, grinning. Draco assumed that he was enjoying this immensely.

Draco thought back to how he had tried to keep Odysseus from entering Harry’s hospital room and failed miserably. But they had already been declared enemies then. “I did no such thing. I even brought owl biscuits just for that bloody thing.”

Harry opened his letter, chuckling. “See, maybe that’s the problem. Odysseus only eats human food. I tried to feed him one of Emerald’s mice once. No dice.”

“Abnormal is what it is,” Draco muttered. “Want me to read that to you?”

But Harry’s eyes were already flying over the paper effortlessly. Now Draco was grinning as well. “Hey, you’re not illiterate anymore! Well, at least no more than usual.”

Harry made a very rude gesture, but he was still grinning. “Does that mean I can play Seeker next week?”

Draco just laughed. “Don’t get your hopes up. Patil said you need another two weeks and I am definitely not clearing you despite that.”

The grin fell from Harry’s face. “Matt won’t be happy. He really, really wants me to play. And I am fine, see?” Harry stretched his arms and raised one leg, balancing on one foot. “Also, I Apparated us here.”

“Illegally,” Draco added, pointing his finger at Harry, who put down his other foot again. “And without a wand, now that I stop to think about it.”

Harry just shrugged, as if he Apparated without a wand all the time. Which, admittedly, he had also done when he had mentally scarred Draco for life by Apparating him to St. Mungo’s a few days ago.

“Now that you mention it, when do you plan on returning that to me?”

Draco sighed to show Harry what a terrible menace he was. “I’ll examine you tomorrow before I leave. If you do alright, you’ll get it back then. But I am not changing my mind about the game. Patil is the expert, not me. Now let’s get back to Weasley getting Splinched after something at the Ministry. What were you doing there?”

“One of the Ministry workers had something we needed to defeat Voldemort,” Harry grumbled, scribbling an answer on the back of his letter. “So we took Polyjuice and infiltrated the Ministry. Caused a lockdown in the end. That was also when Yaxley got into Grimmauld Place. Managed to grab Hermione. She was brilliant, really.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “What is brilliant about getting caught and Splinching a friend?”

Harry glared at him and Draco actually took an involuntary step back. Merlin, that man was so touchy when it came to his friends.

“She managed to throw him off and Apparate us out of there in under a second.”

Draco nodded. Yes, that actually didn’t sound half bad. “How dead would you be if it had not been for Granger?”

“Like, at least three hundred percent. I can’t even remember how many times she saved all our lives.”

“So, what you are saying is ... Granger is the one who should have a national holiday dedicated to her?”

“She definitely deserves it more than me,” Harry grumbled.

“Not a fan of the Chosen Day?”

“They don’t call it that,” Harry protested.

“Some of them do,” Draco replied. “Though I don’t think it was ever confirmed you are the ‘Chosen One’, since you smashed that prophecy.”

“Well, even if I had been, which I’m not saying is true, I would certainly not be that anymore.” Harry busied himself with tying the letter back to Odysseus’ leg. “Voldemort is dead, so there is nothing I could still be chosen for. People should really stop calling me that.”

“What do you want them to call you?”

Harry was finished with the letter, but the owl did not show the slightest inclination to leave, even when Harry gestured to the still-open window. “I don’t want them to call me anything. My name, if they absolutely have to.”

“‘The boy who lived’?” Draco offered, earning himself a glare.

“Do you still think of me as a boy?” Harry asked, but he continued his complaints before Draco could assure him that he most definitely was not a scrawny little boy anymore. He was still shorter than average and a lightweight, but he clearly worked out a lot and it was showing. “Also, what kind of accomplishment is living? All you have to do is not die, every living person could bear that title.”

“Only the male half of them,” Draco countered. “And you know what they mean by that. You didn’t just live, you survived. No one has ever done that before or since.”

“Yeah, well. It’s not that big a deal and I don’t like to be reminded.”

Draco pondered this for a few seconds. “‘The Golden Boy’, maybe?”

Harry gagged and nudged Odysseus with his quill. “Go on, take that letter to Matt.”

Draco took that as a decided ‘No’. “What about ‘the Saviour’, then?”

“Do I look like Jesus Christ?” Harry scoffed, ruffling his hair while the owl kept staring at him.

“I wouldn’t know, I have never seen him,” Draco answered. “Who is he, anyway? People keep saying his name. Muggles too.”

“He’s the son of God, who died for our sins,” Harry explained, still trying to animate Odysseus. “He’s also the reason we have Christmas and Easter.”

“God died for our sins?” Draco asked, confused.

From what he had gathered, God couldn’t die. Also, who would’ve thought that there was a ‘real’ explanation for those holidays? Draco had always thought those two were just as made up as Valentine’s Day or Halloween.

“No, Jesus did. And then he came back from the dead and they started a religion, because that’s what Muggles do.”

“Wow, he really went all in. Guess I can see the parallels, but at least you didn’t have to die for us. Just imagine what a hassle that would’ve been.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, turning his back on him. He waved his hands at the owl, trying to shoo it away. “Get lost, Ody.”

“How did you survive that curse the second time around?” Draco asked eagerly.

He had always wondered, but Harry had forever avoided that question, even during Mother’s trial. All she had told Draco was that Harry had walked into the forest all alone and unarmed, and that the Dark Lord had used Avada Kedavra on him. Harry had dropped to the ground, seemingly dead, but when she went over to feel for his pulse, she had found it.

Had Harry faked it? But how? There was no counter-spell, no way to avoid the curse. And stranger still: The Dark Lord had been thrown to the ground as well. There simply was no explanation and it was driving Draco mad.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Harry snapped, and then he grabbed the owl and threw it out the window, which he closed with a bang.

“Now that thing definitely hates you too,” Draco said drily. He couldn’t with a clear conscience say that he felt sorry for it. “It will probably start calling you ‘Undesirable Number One’.”

“Odysseus won’t call me anything, he’s an owl.”

“Not out loud, maybe. But in his head? Who knows how much these animals understand? Enough to follow instructions, that’s for sure.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think Pig understands much of what I tell him. He delivers, but that’s about it.”

“About that ...” Draco raised an eyebrow. “What’s up with your owl? It’s miniscule. And it does not resemble a pig at all.”

Harry crossed his arms, leaning back against the counter. “His name is Pigwidgeon. Sirius bought him two years before ... well.”

“Pigwidgeon?” Draco raised the remaining eyebrow, trying to steer the conversation away from Harry’s dead godfather. “I really hope you are not planning on having children, because you are the worst at naming animals.”

The corner of Harry’s mouth twitched. “Ginny chose that name. And I’ll have you know that Emerald is a perfectly reasonable name, thank you very much. Aurelius, on the other hand ...”

Draco inhaled in mock-shock. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Absolutely pretentious. Only a posh git like you could ever come up with that.” Harry pushed away from the counter, drawing nearer so he could take one of Draco’s hands. “You’re lucky I like that on you.”

Draco withdrew his hand, feeling queasy. “Don’t. You are still under the influence of that damned potion; it makes me feel like a fucking predator.”

“Managed to Apparate us here, didn’t I?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Don’t remind me.”

“Then don’t do this to me, again. We kiss and then you backtrack. It’s rather cruel, honestly.” Harry looked really hurt, and when he crossed his arms, it looked more like he was hugging himself.

“I’m not backtracking,” Draco protested. “I didn’t even know I was turning you down the first time! You were the one who ran off after jumping me! And I’m assuming you had a reason. One that could also apply in this situation.”

“I did have a reason!” Harry messed up his hair again and, now that Draco was close enough, he could see the dust that swirled up. “I felt guilty because you didn’t know it was me. I thought you probably didn’t like me like that and I didn’t want to trick you into snogging me.”

“And how am I to know that really was the reason? This could just as well be the potion speaking.”

“Well, it’s not! Come on, I’m sick of pining after you. We are not teenagers anymore; this is getting downright ridiculous.”

Draco felt like caving – Harry had really pined? The thought of just throwing caution to the wind was tantalising, especially after what had just happened at the Black house. But Draco was still a Malfoy, and if he could do one thing, it was ignore his emotions in favour of keeping a level head.

“The answer is no. I want to do this right or not at all. We can talk in two weeks if Patil says you are yourself again.”

Draco turned on the spot and went upstairs, deciding to call it a night. Tomorrow he would examine Harry, give back his wand and then avoid him for the next two weeks. He could do this. He had already put his New Year’s resolution on hold for one week – he could manage two more.

Chapter Text

Draco didn’t particularly like children. They were loud and more often than not, they had sticky hands. Also, Draco had no idea how to talk to them. In Pure-blood circles, this was never an issue. Children were taught to be neither seen nor heard, to speak only when spoken to, to be polite and reserved. The children Draco encountered in emergency healing at St. Mungo’s ... not so much. But the worst thing about injured children were their parents. They were hysterical, unreasonable and sometimes downright hostile.

Draco hated parents, and he hated the Swans most of all. Destiny Swan, ten years of age, had hijacked her father’s broom and broken a leg in the process. Draco was of the opinion that behaviour such as that called for punishment. The Swans seemed to think that Destiny’s ‘ordeal’ (Draco had healed her leg in under a minute, but still the Swans refused to leave until more tests were done) entitled her to do whatever she pleased.

So Destiny had brought her entire collection of Quidditch action figures, which were now flying all over the trauma ward. Draco had tried to tell her parents that the Healers needed to concentrate on saving lives, but all he had gotten in return were unimpressed shrugs.

What Destiny had also thought essential to her trip to St. Mungo’s was a wireless, dialled up as far as it would go. Whenever Draco pointed his wand at it to turn it down, the volume seemed to increase even more. Destiny Swan was one bratty child and her magic acted accordingly.

“Mr. and Mrs. Swan!” Draco yelled over the music in yet another attempt at making them see reason. “You have to leave! You are inconveniencing everybody around you! There is literally no reason to stay here, your daughter is fine!”

“Huh?!” Mr. Swan yelled back, putting a hand to his ear.

“We are not leaving!” Mrs. Swan (whose hearing was apparently not yet as damaged as her husband’s) yelled, crossing her arms. “We insist on at least three more tests!”

Draco did not know how Mrs. Swan had arrived at that particular number. He only knew she was a downright bitch and that he hated her and her spawn. The other patients seemed to agree – the ones that were conscious were staring daggers at the family. Draco closed the curtains around Destiny’s bed and charmed them so they would keep the noise in. He pointed at Mr. Swan and then to the curtains, beckoning him to follow.

They stepped outside, where the silence was almost as deafening as the noise had been. Not that it was really silent – Trauma never was. It just felt that way to Draco.

“Mr. Swan, your daughter is in perfect health. I looked her over and there is nothing wrong with her.” Well, at least not physically. Mentally, Draco wasn’t so sure.

“We don’t want to take any chances,” Mr. Swan said stubbornly. “She’s our only child.”

“You don’t say,” Draco said drily. “Well, you are wasting time I could use to help people who really need it. You are being unreasonable and unbelievably selfish. I am not doing one more test.”

“Fine. I want to talk to your supervisor,” Mr. Swan said, crossing his arms in a perfect imitation of his wife.

“Fine,” Draco repeated, completely unimpressed. “But in the meantime, tell your child to turn it off.”

“You don’t want to see her if she misses the broadcast,” Mr. Swan said, throwing open the curtains. The sudden rise in noise felt like a punch to the eardrums.

“This is Joseph Earhart live from the Yorkshire Arena. Puddlemere United is playing the Falmouth Falcons, and both teams have seen better days. Puddlemere’s Andrews is down with a rather nasty fracture of both arms, the Falcons’ Captain, Leona Robinson, sustained a serious concussion just yesterday, and, as you all know, Potter is still out as well! Bookies estimate that Puddlemere has a seventy-two percent chance at winning today. We’ll see how this match plays out. And here they are. Ashdown, Pierpont, Avington, Pearson, Turner, Lockeridge and Grant. That’s Puddlemere United for you. They are circling the pitch now, every single one of them flying a brand-new Firebolt Gold.”

Draco grabbed the curtains, determined to slam them shut if he could manage to pull that off. And then he would take his sweet time searching for Meadows. If the Swans wanted to waste their Sunday morning here, Draco wouldn’t stop them.

“And here come the Falcons! Haynes, Sax, Mason, Armstrong, Montgomery, Mills and – Merlin’s beard!”

Draco froze on the spot, both hands still clutching the curtains while his stomach dropped. This couldn’t possibly be good news.

“It’s Harry Potter, ladies and gentle-wizards! This is completely unexpected; we were told that Potter wouldn’t return for another week at least. Coach Greyson definitely seems happy about this, I would say – unlike McCarthy. Potter’s reserve is definitely disappointed. Oh boy, that is not a good look on her.”

Draco turned on the spot and ran. Who in their right mind would clear Harry already? Patil never would have agreed to this.

“I have an emergency!” Draco barked at the Welcome Witch, throwing his chart on her desk. “Get Nash to cover for me!”

~o~

Draco Disapparated as soon as he reached the corner of the street outside Mungo’s, reappearing in front of the arena. He’d been thirteen years old the last time he had been here, but he still remembered where the entrance for important (and in the Malfoys’ case: rich) witches and wizards was. He made a dash for the stairs and was immediately thrown back by an invisible shield.

“You are not authorised to access this area.” An usher in orange robes stepped out from beside the stands, looking him up and down.

“I need to go up there,” Draco urged him. “I’m a friend of Harry Potter’s.”

The usher raised his eyebrows in clear disbelief. “Sure, and I am friends with Celestina Warbeck.”

“My condolences,” Draco said, stuffing a hand inside his pocket to fish for his wand. “Now let me through, this is a matter of life and death.”

“I don’t think so.” The usher scoffed. “And I’d advise you to leave before I call security.”

Draco was shaking from anger. Some idiot had allowed Harry to play. Harry was in danger, even more so because he was stupidly overconfident. And this fucking prick was into power games. Draco drew his wand, pointing it at his opponent’s chest. “I won’t ask a third time.”

There was the crack of an Apparition and before he could even turn around, somebody grabbed his arm. “Draco! What are you doing?”

Draco looked over his shoulder at Samantha Huxley, her bright pink hair dripping wet. He lowered his wand in relief.

“Samantha, thank Merlin! I need to go up there. I think Potter is in danger.”

The grip on his arm intensified and then she was pulling him through the wards and up the stairs, without so much as a look back. “So, you didn’t clear him?”

“Am I mental? The potion could still be lingering. There’s no way in hell I’d let him even near a broom right now.”

They came out at the top of what seemed to be the press stands. Some of the wizards were dictating to their Quick-Quotes-Quills, others were taking pictures. At the end of the bench, Draco spotted Earhart, who was speaking into a mouthpiece. The match was already in full swing and the Falcons were leading 40 – 10. Draco spotted Harry almost instantly, hovering several feet above where the action was taking place.

“He seems fine,” Samantha said, relief clear in her voice.

“He does now, but you can never know for sure. His condition could shift in an instant. Do you think you can get Greyson to pull him from the match?”

Samantha shot him a look that said she thought he was mental. “Never in a million years. Once the game starts, you can’t exchange any of the players. Matt won’t just dismiss their Seeker; they could just as well give up.”

“That man is a selfish idiot,” Draco pressed out. He searched the pitch for an idea, anything that would get Harry out of the air. He found Dayal instead, apparently in a heated discussion with Felicity McCarthy.

Samantha grabbed his arm suddenly and Draco looked up to watch Harry narrowly escaping a Bludger. After that, he vacated his hovering position in favour of circling the pitch. Maybe it really was going to be alright. Draco grabbed the railing and took to watching Harry like a hawk, searching for signs of complications.

Over the next half hour, the Falcons scored three and Puddlemere four more goals, Harry tricked Grant, his opposing Seeker, into barrelling into the stands, and Phaedra Armstrong was heavily favouring her left side after having taken a Bludger to the side and refusing to be healed.

And suddenly, Harry was speeding up, zigzagging through a crowd of Chasers, eyes fixed on the Snitch. He was only a few feet away when a Bludger appeared to his left, shooting right at him. Harry’s head whipped around, but instead of swerving to his right or even up or down, he made a left, barrelling directly into it.

There was a sickening noise as Harry was thrown off his broom. People screamed, cameras flashed, and though Draco’s stomach turned violently, he managed to grip his wand tight and point it right at Harry, not even sure what he was casting, only knowing he had to do something.

Harry was falling, but the nearer the pitch came, the slower he fell, and when he reached the ground, it didn’t even make a sound. Harry landed on his knees, cradling his left arm to his side and looking up at Draco. Dayal was running towards him now, and Samantha crushed Draco to her chest.

“You saved him!” she yelled over the noise of the crowd.

Draco was still looking down at Harry, who had just noticed Dayal approaching. His face contorted, not in pain, but in anger. Draco pushed Samantha away.

“We should get down there, now,” Draco urged, ignoring the press representatives that were now taking his picture and bombarding him with questions.

“Don’t worry, there’s already somebody there to heal him,” Samantha reassured him.

“That’s what’s worrying me!” Draco said.

And that was the moment Harry broke Dayal’s nose. The referee blew his whistle then, the sound of it startling them from their stupor. The players descended, Harry’s team grouping some feet behind him.

“Oh shit,” Samantha said tonelessly. “Oh, this is a PR nightmare!”

Together they squeezed through the crowd of press people that were hounding them, trying to get a statement from Harry’s spokes-witch. Samantha only kept repeating “No comment!” while Draco dragged her towards the exit, glaring at everybody who got in their way. A security wizard spotted them when they came out at the bottom (Samantha with her all-access-badge and Draco in his blue Healer’s scrubs) and let them onto the pitch.

The action was taking place in the middle of the pitch. Easton Haynes (the Falcons’ broad, muscular Beater) was holding Harry back with one enormous hand on his right shoulder. He was taller than Harry by at least a head, and certainly twice as heavy, but Harry was putting up a fight, clenching his teeth whenever he moved his broken left arm too much.

“Let go, Easy!” he growled. “I’m not done with him yet!”

Harry practically ripped off his right glove, then put the hand in the insides of his robes and whipped out his wand. There was a crackle and Haynes snatched his hand away, shaking it out as if he had been shocked. Several people rushed forward, shouting Harry’s name. The referee blew his whistle again, but nobody took notice. Greyson stepped up beside Dayal, raising a hand in Harry’s direction.

“Harry, don’t! Do you want to get suspended?”

“If that’s what it takes, fine by me!”

“Stop it, Harry!” – “Harry, no!” – “Don’t do it, man.” – “Harry!”

Everybody was yelling over each other and Harry was listening to none of them. The grip on his wand tightened, his eyes narrowed, and Draco was sure that he was thinking about which hex to use.

“Potter!” Draco barked, finally reaching the group. Harry’s eyes were on him in an instant and his wand sagged a few inches. “What are you, fourteen? At least try to have some dignity.”

Harry stared at him for a few seconds and then stuffed his wand back into his robes. The whole group seemed to exhale collectively. Dayal felt his face, which was bruising already.

“You are so fired!” Harry growled, clutching his broken arm again.

“You can’t fire me,” Dayal shot back, as pale as his Indian skin could get.

“You really can’t, Harry,” Greyson agreed. “He still works for St. Mungo’s. And I’m the one who’s requesting him for our matches.”

“So, you’ll un-request him, then?” Harry asked grimly.

Greyson shook his head. “Hasan is just doing his job. Try to be reasonable, Harry.”

“He’s doing a piss-poor job!” The knuckles on Harry’s right hand were white from being clenched so much, and bleeding from contact with Dayal’s face. “If Malfoy hadn’t been there that day, I would have died back in August. Did you forget that?”

“There is nothing to forget,” Greyson said, huffing in exasperation. “You had an accident and Hasan did what he could. I’m sure he would have saved you in the end, even if Healer Malfoy had not been there.”

“So, you’ll keep him on as Team Healer?” Harry demanded to know, grinding his teeth.

Greyson nodded, crossing his arms. “I’m Coach, I decide what is best for this team. And that’s keeping him.”

“Fine,” Harry said drily, “I quit.”

There was an immediate uproar. Samantha grabbed Draco’s arm. The Falcons closed ranks, all of them shouting at Greyson at once. Draco wasn’t sure if this had been Harry’s intention, but he was certain how this would play out. Greyson looked like he was the one who had taken that Bludger. He was ghostly pale and sweating, panic written all over his face.

“Shut up!” he bellowed, stomping his foot for good measure. “Harry is definitely not quitting.” He looked at Dayal with something like regret in his eyes. “Hasan, I’m sorry. Meet me after the match, will you?”

Dayal ground his teeth and, with one loathing look at Harry, stomped away. If Harry ever got poisoned again, he would definitely need to add Dayal to his list of enemies.

“You’ve got what you wanted,” Greyson said, fixing Harry with a hard look. “Would you please catch that damn Snitch now?”

It was so absurd; Draco couldn’t help but laugh. “I think not, Greyson. Technically, I was first at the scene, which makes Potter my patient. He’s definitely not going back up there today.”

“Fine,” Greyson ground out, fists clenched at his side. “The rest of you, back in the air. Now.”

“Alright guys, payback time!” Leona Robinson stepped forward. “Flo, I don’t want to see Puddlemere score one more goal. Phae, Lauryn, Flynn … give them hell. We’re seventy points ahead, that means we need another ninety. Easy, we’re going after Grant. Keep her from getting anywhere near the Snitch until we’re at least 160 points ahead. After that, smash their Chasers. They’ll probably be desperate to end the match by then.”

“Told you he wasn’t ready.” McCarthy appeared next to Greyson, grinning at Harry nastily.

Draco wasn’t sure what she was so happy about, as her team couldn’t send in a reserve player after the match had started, which meant that the Falcons were pretty much fucked. But Draco could sense a hex when it was coming. He grabbed Harry’s right wrist before he could draw his wand again.

“Come on, let’s have a look at your arm.”

Harry grumbled, but didn’t resist when Draco began dragging him away. Samantha had a few hushed words with Greyson and then followed after them. Draco ordered Harry to sit on a bench and checked him for damages.

“What were you thinking?!” Samantha placed both hands on her hips. “You can’t just beat up a Healer. In front of the press, no less!”

“He had it coming,” Harry hissed. “I don’t know what his agenda is, but it certainly isn’t my well-being.”

“Your elbow bone and radial bone are both broken in several places.”

“And what did he do to give you that impression?”

“He cleared me for the game. Padma wouldn’t and clearly Malfoy would have laughed in my face, but Dayal agreed. In fact, he told me two weeks ago. That we would somehow manage to get me to play.”

“Three of your ribs are also broken. And I’ll have to reset your shoulder.”

“You didn’t even tell me!” Samantha cried out, brushing away a damp strand of hair that was clinging to her cheek. “There I was, taking a bath, listening to the wireless. Do you have any idea how much bath foam I inhaled?”

“Costas emendo!”

“Ouch, fuck! What the hell, Malfoy?”

“Shut up and take it like a man,” Draco shot back, raising his eyebrows. “That’s what you get for disregarding every single medical advice actually sane people gave you.”

Harry punched his arm without any force behind it. “I felt fine and Matt really wanted me to play. Did you think I would just give this one to McCarthy?”

“I thought you were not quite as reckless anymore. Guess I overestimated you. You are still the same idiot who flew a car to school when you were twelve,” Draco replied, disappointment tangible in his voice. “Ulnam emendo. Radium emendo.”

Harry gritted his teeth and didn’t complain again, probably not keen on another lecture. “I like to tell myself that you just underestimated how much I hate McCarthy.”

Draco frowned down at him. “Will they revoke your membership at the Heroes Club if you don’t have at least one nemesis at all times?”

“You betcha,” Harry agreed, grinning hesitantly. “And what a bummer that would be. Once a year there is a feast where we eat all the dragons and beasts we slew. And then there’s the raffle, of course. Jackpot is the most influential princess that was saved that year.”

“Naturally,” Draco said, unable to stop the grin that was spreading over his face. That bastard. “Integro!”

Harry’s arm snapped back into its socket and the whole stadium got to hear his yell. A few cameras flashed and above them, the Falcons continued to go berserk.

“That’s another three weeks. No flying whatsoever, no heavy lifting, no brawls!”

Harry opened his mouth to protest but stopped when he saw the look on Draco’s face. Draco had enough of Harry’s shtick and he would not put up with it.

“Fine,” Harry mumbled, stretching his healed arm. “Let’s get out of here.”

Draco looked up at the stands. People seemed indeed far more invested in Harry than the match they had actually paid to watch. Seeker Sophia Grant was desperately trying to evade the hailstorm of Bludgers Robinson and Haynes were shooting at her, and still Harry held their attention.

“Get your things, I’ll side-along you.”

Harry nodded and then made a dash for the changing rooms. Samantha sat down on Harry’s vacated seat and gestured to the space beside her. “Thanks for de-escalating back there. That could have been way worse.”

“That’s alright,” Draco said, looking up at the players. “I just couldn’t take another second of Potter completely embarrassing himself.”

“Sure,” Samantha said, grinning up at him. “That, and you like him.”

“He’s alright,” Draco replied, trying for nonchalance. He did alright, if he could say so himself.

“Uh-uh.” Here grin was even broader now. “I guess he thinks you are alright too.”

“Oh, shut up,” Draco grumbled. “Know what your official statement will be?”

Samantha groaned, elbowing him in the ribs. “Thanks for reminding me. You are a horrible person.”

“Yes, that’s what I strive for. Just tell them it was the Confunding Concoction. He was cleared prematurely, which caused the accident. And he didn’t know what he was doing when he hit that wanker.”

“Yeah ... that could actually work. Great angle, Draco.”

“Always happy to help.”

They watched the match in companionable silence until Harry returned a few minutes later, bundled up in a coat, scarf and gloves. He had pulled a wool hat over his now-wet hair.

“Alright, let’s bail. Or is there something we need to discuss, Sam?”

Samantha shook her head, a lopsided grin on her face. “Draco helped me think of something. Just try to lay low for a while, will you?”

Harry put a gloved hand above his heart. “I promise to try.”

They left Samantha and the stadium behind. Draco offered his right arm to Harry. “Where to? Grimmauld Place, the Weasleys’?”

Harry took hold of his arm, a pensieve look on his face. “Do you want to go somewhere? I could buy you lunch. You know, for saving my life. Again.”

“You want to have lunch ... with me?”

“Yeah ... if you want to?” Harry tried to mess up his hair, but only ended up displacing his hat. Why was this so awkward? The two of them had already shared lunch lots of times. Draco had lived at his house, for crying out loud. They had made out just a week ago.

“I could eat,” he said, twisting on the spot.

~o~

They reappeared outside St. Mungo’s.

“You know I didn’t mean the cafeteria when I said I’d buy you lunch?” Harry squeezed his arm for emphasis.

“No,” Draco said, smirking down at him, “It was entirely unclear.”

There was a crack and a wizard appeared a few feet away, holding his left arm (which was not attached to his body) in his right hand. It didn’t seem to be a serious matter, since the wizard was neither bleeding nor in obvious pain as he set off towards the entrance, looking back at them curiously every few steps.

Draco supposed they did make an odd couple, Harry completely bundled up and Draco just in his thin, short-sleeved scrubs (under which he always wore a long-sleeved shirt, for obvious reasons). Harry let go of Draco’s arm almost immediately and threw on his Invisibility Cloak as soon as the wizard was out of sight.

“Afraid to be seen with me?” Draco asked, trying not to sound hurt.

And why should he be? He already knew Harry was completely paranoid. This didn’t necessarily mean that Harry was ashamed of him. He had paraded him around at his New Year’s Party, after all. It was just hard to shake the feeling that people were constantly judging him.

Harry huffed, a mixture between laughter and exasperation. “Afraid to be seen on a date,” he explained. “I don’t exactly have the best track record when it comes to relationships and the general public.”

Draco turned his face in Harry’s direction just slightly. “On a date?” he asked innocently. “Is that what this is supposed to be?”

“Yeah, it is,” Harry said bravely. “So, could we leave for somewhere decent, now?”

Harry grabbed his arm again. Draco set off for St. Mungo’s before he could just whisk him away. Harry was the type of person who would do such a thing even if he was possibly still under the influence of Confunding Concoction.

“We can’t, because I have to check on Nash first. I’m technically still on the clock for another two hours.”

“Don’t tell me you just walked out because of me.” Harry’s voice was almost a growl and he gripped his arm even tighter.

“Well, somebody had to stop you from killing yourself ... again,” Draco answered lightly, swallowing around the lump in his throat. He was not looking forward to facing Meadows. Even if the Head of Trauma was, overall, reasonable.

The Welcome Witch was the first to notice Draco. She scribbled something on her notepad and then looked up at him, arms crossed in front of her chest.

“There you are,” she harrumphed. “Cortez is expecting you in her office.”

Draco froze on the spot.

Valery Cortez was Chief of Healing at St. Mungo’s. She was also a massive bitch. If it had been her call, Draco never would have been allowed to step so much as a toe into the hospital, much less start his training.

Fortunately for him, she had only been made Chief two years ago (and promptly banished the lime green robes in favour of multi-coloured scrubs that indicated your ward – the only thing Draco had to give her credit for).

Cortez had been trying to find a reason to fire him ever since then. Which was why Meadows usually didn’t tell on Draco, as long as he didn’t endanger any patients.

“Did she say what for?” Draco asked, trying for a casual tone. It could be just a coincidence. Could be, right?

“What do you think?” the Welcome Witch drawled. Then she added, without any real compassion, “Good luck.”

Draco grimaced and made his way to the stairs. He could hear Harry’s footsteps beside him.

“I don’t think I will be able to make it to lunch,” Draco said tonelessly, trying to fight the sense of impending doom that was overtaking him. Abandoning his post was a pretty good reason to get fired. “You’d better take the Floo home.”

“What’s going on?” Harry said, “Who is Cortez? Are you in trouble?”

“Cortez is the hag who will kick me out, and I don’t particularly want you there when that happens.”

Losing his job was bad enough as it was.

What would he do without work? Nowadays it was probably his sole purpose in life. Why should he even get up in the morning? How was he supposed to pay off his mortgage?

Well, Draco could always marry Greengrass and reclaim his place as Malfoy heir. There still was enough gold to last another three generations even after the reparations had been paid.

If only that option didn’t sound like prostitution to him.

Harry grabbed his arm, causing Draco to stumble on the stairs. “She can’t fire you! You saved my life! That’s doing your job, right?”

“She doesn’t need a strong reason to fire a Death Eater,” Draco replied sullenly. He pulled away his arm and continued to climb the stairs. “Any reason at all will suffice. Now leave. Please.”

“But she does not have any reason whatsoever!” Harry was still beside him, sounding scandalised. “Just tell her what happened and she’ll have to let you off the hook!”

“That only works if your name is Harry Potter,” Draco objected. “Sure as hell won’t work for me. If you would leave now, so I can pretend to still have some dignity while I am in there.”

They finally came out at the top floor. Chief Cortez stood in her open office door, her eyes narrowed at Draco. She tapped her foot impatiently.

“Inside, Mr. Malfoy,” she ordered.

Draco didn’t miss the omission of his title. Merlin, she’d probably make this her Patronus memory, the stupid bitch. That thought almost felt worse than getting fired would. Almost.

“Certainly, Chief Cortez,” Draco said, mustering every ounce of calmness he still possessed.

She turned around and went back into her office. Draco used the opportunity to ram his elbow into Harry’s side.

“Leave! I mean it,” he hissed, hoping Cortez wouldn’t hear.

Instead, because Potter was a fucking hot-headed moron with a hero complex, he yanked off his Cloak and, before Draco could do more than groan, stomped into Cortez’ office. Draco hurried to follow and just managed to catch the look of complete shock on her face as she turned around.

“Chief Cortez! I am Harry Potter,” he announced quite unnecessarily.

All she could muster was an open-mouthed nod. If Draco’s career hadn’t been on the line, he would have enjoyed her unease immensely.

“How …?” She began, her voice barely a whisper. Potter’s sudden appearance seemed to have shaken her to the core. “Where …?”

Potter grabbed Draco, who was hovering on the threshold, and pulled him inside, closing the door behind him with a snap. Cortez used the moment to clear her throat and smooth down her skirt.

“What can I do for you, Mister Potter?” she asked, more confidently now. Her eyes lingered on Potter’s hand on Draco’s arm.

Potter let go of it then to brush away a lock of hair, almost incidentally exposing his scar in what Draco thought was an exceedingly Slytherin move.

Startling Draco just as much as Cortez, Potter said with total confidence, “I am here to request Healer Malfoy as Team Healer for my Quidditch team, the Falmouth Falcons.”

“It is my impression that the position is already filled, Mr. Potter,” she replied, working very hard to not sound irritated.

“It was,” Potter said heatedly. “Until he almost got me killed today. Healer Malfoy heard that Healer Dayal cleared me prematurely and came to prevent what could have been a lethal accident.”

There was panic in her eyes now, which Potter chose to ignore in favour of finishing his speech. “That’s why I want him for the team. I don’t trust anyone else to have our best interests at heart.”

Cortez didn’t look at all happy and Draco was sure that her mind was working fast, trying to find a way to avoid a possible lawsuit and still be able to fire Draco. Potter seemed to sense her hesitation.

“Unless, of course, you’d rather punish Healer Malfoy for saving my life. That’s up to you, really.” Potter crossed his arms as Draco shot him a confused glance.

Had Potter even thought about what he was going to say on his behalf? Knowing him, he had not.

“Healer Malfoy abandoned his duties at the hospital,” Cortez said finally, looking at him with the usual disdain. “He could have sent someone to come to your aid.”

“Certainly,” Potter agreed. “You should fire him, then.”

Draco nearly pulled a muscle whipping his head around at Potter. What was the idiot playing at? Merlin, was that the potion again? Draco should have petrified him as soon as he took off the Cloak.

“Although,” Potter continued before either of them could reply, “that would make for some very bad press, I’d imagine. You’ve got one infamous Healer on your hands already. He did almost get me killed, after all. Do you really want to punish the incredibly heroic Healer who prevented that? Who saved my life once before?”

Resentment was not a good look on Valery Cortez. She pursed her lips, glaring at Draco loathingly. The room was silent for several seconds while she tried to find a way out of this dilemma.

“Mr. Potter, I apologise on behalf of St. Mungo’s. Please be assured there will be an inquiry regarding Healer Dayal.” She turned to Draco then, bracing herself. “Healer Malfoy, report to Healer Meadows to work out your new schedule. Dismissed.”

“Have a very nice day,” Potter said, turning on the spot and walking out without waiting for a reply.

Draco, not exactly eager to be alone with her, followed suit.

He waited until they were back on the stairs to grab Potter’s arm and swing him around. Potter was grinning at him broadly, but the expression vanished from his face when he caught sight of Draco’s. Draco was fuming.

“I’m guessing you’re not going to snog me senseless as thanks for saving your job?”

“I have half a mind to sock you senseless!” Draco replied through gritted teeth. “Who in Merlin’s name gave you the right to do that?”

“I am Harry Potter,” the bastard dared to say, wrenching his arm out of Draco’s grip so he could cross both of them in front of his chest.

“Tell me you did not just say that,” Draco groaned, massaging his temple.

“No! I meant –”

“Being Harry Potter is not an excuse to just do as you please!”

“But –”

“There are rules, for fuck’s sake!”

“Would you fucking let me –”

“You don’t speak for me; I am a fully-grown wizard!”

Potter shut him up by grabbing him by his scrubs and kissing him eagerly, but Draco was having none of it. He would say his mind if he damn well pleased!

So Draco did the only logical thing – he bit Potter’s lower lip. Potter yelped and pushed Draco away. He touched his lip while glaring at Draco.

“You will listen to what I’ve got to the say, fuck-head. Somebody’s got to take you down a notch.”

“Will you shut up and listen to me for one second?” Potter yelled, throwing his hands up in frustration.

Draco crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow to show that he was listening and couldn’t wait to hear the rubbish Potter was about to spout.

“I didn’t mean it like ‘I’m Harry Potter, I do what I want’. It’s just that you said reasoning with that bitch doesn’t work if your name is not Harry Potter. And well ... that happens to be my name, doesn’t it?”

Draco grumbled unhappily. He should have expected a knee-jerk reaction like that – this was Potter, after all. Worse still, this line of thought almost made sense, in a Gryffindor-kind of way.

“Come on, Draco. I didn’t try to be condescending. I was just trying to pay you back for saving my life again.”

“Did you maybe consider that I don’t even want to be Team Healer?” Draco inquired coldly. If Potter thought using his first name would win him some sympathy, he was dead wrong.

“Don’t you?” Potter asked, furrowing his brows. He looked like the thought had never occurred to him. Like the prospect of one day being Team Healer for the Falmouth Falcons was every child’s dream.

He wasn’t exactly wrong, a small voice in the back of Draco’s head supplied. This was a real opportunity. And also a chance to see less of people like the Swans, who were just horrible excuses for human beings.

Draco groaned in frustration. “I do,” he admitted, disgruntled. A grin spread on Potter’s face and Draco hurried to erase it while he still could. “But that’s beside the point!”

“What is the point, then?” Potter demanded, the corners of his mouth still twitching. “I am alive and you are not fired. In fact, you just got a promotion. One that will work wonders for your image, I might add.”

“The point is: You are neither your team’s coach nor the Captain. You don’t have the authority to request me as replacement for Dayal.”

“Don’t worry,” Potter said lightly. “Matt will play along if he wants to keep me. You’re the only Healer worth anything ‘round here. He doesn’t have a choice.”

“You are awfully confident,” Draco judged. “One of these days, you will find out that not everybody is at your beck and call.”

“Not today, though.” Harry grinned. He threw on his Cloak and vanished from sight. Draco could hear him start down the stairs. “Now can we get lunch?”

“Not yet,” Draco said, following.

“I’m starving!”

“Tough luck. I’ve got to talk to Nash first, see if she is okay with finishing my shift.”

They were silent for a minute, save for the sound of their footsteps on the stairs.

“Can’t believe you just bit me like that,” Harry mumbled. “Prick.”

“Can’t believe you tried to shut me up by assaulting me,” Draco shot back. “Douchebag.”

Harry laughed suddenly, startling Draco considerably. “Douchebag? What kind of insult is that?”

“One you learn working emergency trauma healing,” Draco explained. “It’s a melting pot of insults down there.”

Nash was rather relieved to hear he had not been fired (although Draco chose to omit the reason) and more than willing to work Draco’s shift. She tried to hug him too, but Draco was able to dodge her, all the while eyeing a large spot on her scrubs, which he hoped was blood.

“Thanks a Galleon!” Draco said gratefully, heading for the exit. “I owe you one!”

“A big one!” she corrected him. “The Swans are still here, by the way. Heard about where you went on the wireless. The whole ward heard it, really. You’d better split before they spot you.”

Draco did not need to be told twice.

“Don’t tell me you’ve got friends,” Harry said in mock-awe as they stepped outside. Draco led the way down an empty street.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Draco protested. “You know I’ve got friends!”

“Like who?” Harry demanded to know, sounding way too smug.

“Like Blaise,” Draco answered firmly.

“That’s one friend, not friends, plural.”

“Pansy.”

Harry snorted. “Well, nobody called me that before. Another insult you learned in the ‘melting pot of injuries’?”

“Parkinson,” Draco added, feeling his irritation rise.

“Oh, I know that one. That’s a Muggle illness. Didn’t think Mungo’s would see much of that.”

Draco cast a stinging hex at where he suspected Harry, earning a hissed complaint. “Pansy Parkinson is another friend of mine,” he elaborated, ignoring Harry’s discomfort.

“Tell me again, when did you last see her?”

“She is busy building her fashion empire in France.”

“That’s what, five Apparition points away? She never has any free time at all?”

“We talk on the Floo sometimes,” Draco said. He didn’t add that he could not remember the last time he had spoken to Pansy. Surely it had been sometime last year?

“Would she visit you if you were in the hospital? As a patient, I mean?”

“Merlin, no! Because I wouldn’t tell her. You need to be perfectly alert to handle her.”

Also, Draco didn’t know if they were still close enough. He remembered a time when Pansy had been a constant fixture at his side, back when the Hippogriff had attacked him. But that had been before the war, during which both of them had made mistakes.

Coincidentally, one of her mistakes had been to suggest handing Harry Potter over to the Dark Lord. Maybe that was why Harry was trying to convince Draco that she was not one of his friends.

“Face it, Draco. You’re not exactly rich in friends.”

“I’ve got you, haven’t I?” Draco mused. “You claimed to be my friend.”

“I don’t count.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Draco said in his most condescending voice, “You are worth at least seventy percent of the average friend.”

“Only seventy?”

“Well, you did assault me several times in the last six months alone. Also, you brought a deadly snake into my home. Without a warning, I might add.”

“Bullshit!” Harry interjected. “That was last year. All over and done with.”

“You used me as a punchbag!”

“I pushed you against a punchbag.”

“That wasn’t a push! That was a full-on force-field.”

“Involuntary!”

“It also wasn’t last year. It wasn’t even two weeks ago. Still very much within the statute of limitations.”

“Now you’re splitting hairs!”

“I’m just saying! Seventy percent seems appropriate.”

“Fine, then how about you?”

“What about me?” Draco demanded, stopping where their street intersected with another. He wasn’t even sure where they were headed.

“This one time, you left me lying on the floor for a good three hours.”

“It’s called physical therapy, Potter. And I seem to recall that you were hell-bent on getting up on your own. Also, you suck at estimating time. It was an hour and a half, tops.”

“You bit me!”

“You deserved it!”

“You –!” There was a sudden pause, during which the only sound was Harry’s breathing. “Damn it, I can’t think of anything else. You are the worst.”

“Because I am not that bad?”

“Oh, you are, you’re just hiding it really well. But I am on to you.”

“So, you don’t want to get lunch with me?”

Harry still sounded agitated, even as he said, “On the contrary. Where do you want to go?”

“I know a place,” Draco said, smirking in his direction. “But they don’t serve invisibles.”

“I don’t know if I want to support a bigoted establishment like that,” Harry joked, taking hold of Draco’s arm.

A moment later, they were standing behind the dumpster of Linh’s and Harry took off the Cloak. Wind chimes sounded when they stepped inside and Shen Jian, the middle-aged lady who owned the place, called out to them excitedly.

“Draco! I was starting to worry about you.”

“It’s not been that long,” Draco argued, leading the way to a table at the back.

“Almost a month!” she countered, as if that were a long time not to order anything from one single place.

Harry sat down on the bench opposite Draco, barely supressing his laughter. “A whole month? My, Draco, whatever did you eat?” he exclaimed in mock-shock.

“You know full well what I ate, you made me cook it!” Draco shot back. “I’m still not over the trauma.”

She handed them the menus with a broad smile. “Time you had a proper meal, then.”

“My recipes are proper,” Harry protested. “I didn’t exactly starve him.”

“You are Draco’s boyfriend, yes?” Jian said bluntly. “Enrico?”

“Did Mrs. Capitelli send a newsletter?” Draco groaned before Harry could protest. Best to let her believe that Draco was taken care of. “His name is Harry. Harry, this is Jian. She takes an interest in my life, for some reason.”

“Well, somebody has to!” she stated while Harry waved at her briefly. “Living all alone, always working. That’s no way to live your life.”

“I don’t live all alone,” Draco objected. “I’ve got a dog.”

Harry snorted. “You’re only making it worse, mate. Why don’t you also tell her that you only own one single cooking pot?”

“You live alone too!” Draco argued.

“I have somebody to talk to.”

Draco smirked. “Snakes don’t count.”

“Draco! That’s not a nice thing to say about a person,” Jian chipped in.

“Yeah, Draco,” Harry agreed. “I’ll tell her you called her that.”

“Stop throwing me under the bus, Potter,” Draco said, kicking his shin for emphasis.

“Ouch!” In hindsight, it really shouldn’t have come as a surprise when Harry kicked him back.

“Draco! Are you trying to scare him away? You’re going to end up all alone!” Jian threw her hands up in a truly desperate fashion.

“Oh, I’m not –” Harry tried to clarify.

“– going anywhere,” Draco finished for him. “Don’t worry, Jian. His manners are abysmal. Much worse than mine. People cross the street when they see him.”

“Hey!” Harry protested.

“They do!” Draco insisted. Jian didn’t need to know that people usually crossed the street to get to Harry rather than away from him.

“I’ll take the red curry tofu and a Coke, please,” Harry interrupted. Then he used the menu to clock Draco on the head before handing it back to Jian.

“I think I see it now,” Jian said with a crooked smile.

“The usual,” Draco said, keeping his menu for self-defence reasons.

She rolled her eyes (excessively, Draco thought) and disappeared into the kitchen.

Harry grinned at him. “Feels like meeting the family.”

“Not a date,” Draco clarified. “As I’ve already told you. You just had a Quidditch accident because of that potion.”

“Then why are you introducing me as your boyfriend?” Harry demanded to know, an eyebrow raised so high it almost vanished under his still damp mob, which hid his scar quite effectively.

“You think she would have believed me if I had told her otherwise? Mrs. Capitelli had weeks to tell everyone all about you. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that she painted them a picture. By now, people would probably recognise you even when I’m not with you.”

“So, what you’re trying to say is ... you’re using me so your nosey neighbour will lay off of you?”

“Precisely.”

Harry pondered this for a few seconds and then settled on shrugging. “I’ve had worse dates.”

“Not a date, Potter,” Draco repeated.

“Still had worse,” Harry grinned. “Like that one time when I asked out a girl who I assumed was a Muggle. She brought her whole extended family to the restaurant.”

“Don’t tell me you stayed,” Draco said.

“Are you mental?” Harry huffed out a laugh. “I didn’t even go in. Sent her a message that I was in an accident and wouldn’t be able to make it.”

“If you didn’t even meet them, how did you know they weren’t Muggles?” Draco prompted. “Maybe she was just really socially inept?”

“You’d have known too if you’d have seen them,” Harry said, supressing another laugh. “And then there was that Prophet article, just the day after I stood her up. ‘Harry Potter in mortal peril?!’ With both a question mark and an exclamation mark and all that.”

“A classic,” Draco commented. “So, she immediately went to the Prophet the moment she had something to tell?”

“Oh, not at all,” Harry said. “The informant was a ‘close friend’. Shame none of those knew about my ‘accident’.”

“Very unfortunate. Was there a picture?”

“They re-used one of me in St. Mungo’s. From before they closed down half the hospital whenever I come around.”

“Oh, I always look forward to that,” Draco enthused. “The whole wing is silent; you can actually hear yourself think ... it’s glorious.”

“Nice to know you look forward to me injuring myself,” Harry said jokingly. “Long story short, I keep a journal now.”

“Like a diary?” Draco grinned. “‘Dear Diary, today I had lunch with the Minister. Yawn.’”

“‘January 16^th: Told Draco Malfoy I keep a diary. Remember to send an assassin if the Prophet should write about it. Preferably with machine gun.’”

“I don’t even know what that is,” Draco said flatly. “But it sounds painful.”

Harry grinned. “Perfect, remember that.”

Draco put his elbows on the table to be able to lean forward. “So, what did you tell me?” 

“Who says I did?” Harry replied, leaning forward as well. It felt like a challenge, though Draco couldn’t exactly say why. Maybe because just talking to Harry had always felt like a challenge, ever since that day on the train.

“Why wouldn’t you? Don’t tell me it’s because I have a very trustworthy face or that you are a particularly trusting person.”

“Even I know you’re not that stupid.” Harry scoffed, leaning back into his seat. “I didn’t have to test you, because you already knew far too much about me. Both medical and personal things. If you’d wanted to sell me out, you’d already have done it. Not like anything ever stopped you from feeding all that bullshit to Skeeter.”

“Wow, way to kill the mood, Potter,” Draco joked half-heartedly. He did feel rather bad about that incident now that he knew Harry better.

“Pretty sure you already did that, when you told me that this was not a date,” Harry replied, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t worry, I’d like to think you’re not that person anymore. I wouldn’t have let you into my home if there was any doubt about that.”

To say that Draco felt uncomfortable would have been an understatement. This was verging on a ‘feelings’ talk, and Draco did not know how to do those. Feelings were for ordinary people, not for Malfoys. He was saved from replying by Jian, who brought their drinks.

“So, I treated the most spoilt child in history today,” Draco said when they were alone again.

“Impossible,” Harry said, oblivious to the sudden change in subject. “My cousin holds that title and I doubt he came to Mungo’s.”

And they spent the rest of their lunch not-date talking about the worst children Draco ever met, which was a rather fruitful topic, as a trip to the Emergency Ward seemed to bring out the worst in already unbearable children (and their parents).

When Draco had first accepted his homosexuality, he had felt a kind of sorrow at the thought that he would never have children of his own. Six years at St. Mungo’s had effectively cured him of that notion.

Chapter Text

“Nobody needs five different knives, Potter!”

Harry grabbed Draco’s wrist when he tried to remove the knife set from his shopping trolley. “You asked me for help, so let me help. Merlin knows you are in desperate need of it.”

“I asked for your help buying one pot. Just the one. Pot. Not knives, not a bloody rolling pin and certainly not whatever that is.” Draco gestured at the strange metal thing at the bottom of his trolley.

“It’s a potato masher and you need it.” Now Harry grabbed Draco’s left hand too, which was the only reason the damned masher stayed where it was.

“What for?” Draco cried out. He thoroughly regretted asking Harry for help now. That man was a maniac when it came to cooking utensils. All Draco wanted was a second pot, was that so hard to understand?

“Mashing potatoes?” Harry said, clearly implying Draco was an idiot. His eyes focused on something behind Draco and he let go of him. “Pasta machine! You definitely need that.”

Harry dashed away and Draco seized the moment. The trolley was gone when Harry came back, carrying a box under his arm and looking down at his mobile phone in the other hand.

“Did somebody send you a message?”

“Yeah, Ella wants to know what I’m up to.” Harry put the mobile away and made to put the box into the trolley … which wasn’t there anymore. He held the box in the air for a second, turning around to look for it. “Malfoy!”

“Oh, what, now it’s ‘Malfoy’ again?” Draco observed. “No trolley, no useless stuff. Put that back, I’m not buying a fucking pasta machine.”

“But how else will you make pasta?” Harry made no move to surrender his loot.

“I won’t.” Draco grabbed a pot from the nearest shelf. “I’m buying this and nothing else. Let’s go.”

“You can’t buy that one,” Harry said, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“You’ve had your chance,” Draco said resolutely. “I’m not taking any more of your advice.”

“Well, you should,” Harry replied, setting aside his pasta machine. “Because that’s the display model. You have to take one of the boxes underneath.”

Draco glared at him while switching his pot for one of the boxes. Stupid Muggles. Why would he want to buy something in a box? He wanted to see what he was buying, not trust what the box said.

“Also, that’s a pressure cooker.”

“So?” Draco pressed out, grabbing his box tighter. The sooner they left this place, the better. Half an hour was way too much time spent on buying one single pot.

“Do you know how it works?”

“How it works?” Draco repeated. “Water inside, fire underneath. Done.”

Harry took the box from him and put it back on its shelf. “I don’t think you’re ready for that just yet.”

“Oh, so now you’re lowering your expectations?”

“I just don’t want you to hurt yourself trying to make instant soup.”

“Talk about the pot calling the kettle black!” Somebody in this shop was prone to injury, but it certainly was not Draco.

“Well, you are definitely more Black than me.”

A passing woman shot them a decidedly incredulous look and dragged her son out of their aisle in a hurry. Draco could see where her confusion came from – Blaise had more than once told him that he was the whitest boy alive. And Harry was … well, not. Even if he wasn’t black per se.

“She probably thinks you’ve lost it.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Harry said unconcernedly. “Hey, remember when you told Skeeter I was ‘disturbed and dangerous’?”

Draco groaned. “First of all: I only told her about the Parseltongue, the rest she made up on her own. Secondly: Could you please let that go? How many times do I have to say that I’m sorry?”

“I’d settle for once.”

They looked at each other, both of them standing still. Harry seemed expectant; Draco was perplexed. Surely he must have apologised already? Sometime during the last months in which they had gotten to know each other better? He couldn’t remember, but now that he was really thinking, apologise was not something he usually did.

Best to just get it over it.

Draco took a deep breath and said, maybe a little bit rushed, “I’m sorry for everything I did from age eleven to seventeen. I shouldn’t have done it and I feel awful about most of it.”

“Most of it?” Harry repeated, furrowing his brow.

“Come on, even you must admit that Hagrid was not a good teacher.”

Harry crossed his arm defensively, ready to go on a rampage if need be.

Draco put up a hand to stop him before he could begin. “Yes, he may be very knowledgeable when it comes to his creatures, but he has no idea how to convey any of it. Also, his methods are downright dangerous.”

“I don’t think we’ll ever find common ground when it comes to Hagrid,” Harry grumbled, but then he ruffled his hair absentmindedly and Draco knew that Harry agreed at least partially. He would just never admit it to him.

It suddenly dawned on Draco that Harry could have taken Emerald to Hagrid instead of him. Why hadn’t he?

“This one?” Draco asked, holding up what he hoped was a different box. Anything to change the topic.

“Over my dead body,” Harry replied, and then he wandered off in search of an acceptable pot.

Draco had to endure another fifteen minutes of that before they finally left the shop with his brand-new, Potter-approved pot (and also a very sharp knife that Draco could not talk him out of).

They were searching for a quiet alley they could Disapparate in, when suddenly someone honked directly next to them. Draco stumbled into Harry, which was good, because that way nobody could see Harry’s wand, which had found its way into his hand in the fragment of a second.

“Get in losers, we’re going shopping!”

A very small, very red car stopped next to them and Ella Reyes, one of Harry’s Muggle friends, waved at them through the open window. Olivia Townsend, part of the lesbian couple, was driving.

“As you can see, we’ve already been shopping,” Draco replied, holding up his bag.

“It’s just a figure of speech.” Ella grinned while Olivia ignored the line of cars that was building up behind her.

Draco exchanged a confused look with Harry to see if this was another kind of Muggle idiom, but he just shrugged helplessly.

“God, they haven’t seen it. Liv! They don’t know it. Get in!”

Draco shot Harry a look that clearly conveyed that there simply was no way in hell he would get into that car. Everybody knew those things were unsafe. Draco could tell by the grin that spread on Potter’s face that he could read his expression perfectly.

Cars were beginning to flash their lights now, which seemed to spur Potter into motion. He took Draco’s bag and handed it to Ella, then opened the door and tried to push Draco in.

“Don’t you dare!” Draco yelled, hanging on to the top of the car for dear life while Potter pushed with everything he had. “I’ll curse you; I mean it!”

But then Potter tickled his sides and Draco couldn’t help but let go. They fell into the car in a heap, Potter half on top of him, and he could hear the door snap shut. He only got off of him when the car began to move. Draco definitely couldn’t get out now. He flipped over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling.

“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic,” Potter said, and then Draco was pulled into a sitting position.

Potter leaned over him (Draco could smell his peppermint shampoo and his stomach did a somersault that had nothing to do with the car) and pulled some kind of harness across Draco’s chest, tying him to the seat.

“I hate you so much.”

“No, you don’t,” Potter replied, way too sure of himself.

“I wish I did.”

Draco grabbed the door handle as they flew around a corner, and, to his horror, it yielded. Potter flung himself across the backseat again and grabbed the door, slapping Draco’s hand away in the process.

“That one opens the door,” he yelled.

“I’ve thought about it, and I definitely do hate you!” Draco yelled back, bracing himself against the roof.

“What’s wrong with him?” asked Ella in a completely reasonable volume as she turned in her seat, grabbing her headrest.

“He’s got a phobia,” Potter said, probably because he couldn’t very well tell them that Draco had never been in a car before.

“It’s not a phobia if it’s a reasonable fear,” Draco pressed out through clenched teeth, because honestly.

And then, thank Merlin, the car stopped. The action was so abrupt that Draco was flung face-first into Olivia’s headrest, but as long as they stood still, he didn’t even care.

“Harry James!” said Olivia in a stern voice that didn’t match her sweet-tempered personality and delicate stature in the slightest. Potter and Ella both flinched as she turned around and glared at him. “Why would you make poor Draco get into the car if you knew he’s afraid?”

Potter pressed his back into the seat, trying to create some distance. “He just needs to face his fear for once, then he’ll see how stupid it really is.”

“Know what’s really stupid? That idea.”

“Nah, I saw it in a movie once,” Ella chimed in. “Exposure therapy works for some things.”

“So, you’re qualified psychotherapists, the two of you?”

They mumbled something unintelligible while Olivia ignored the cars that were honking behind them.

“I like her,” Draco said, fumbling with his harness-thing.

Harry, who deserved to be thought of by his first name again, now that he wasn’t being a wanker anymore, leaned over and unstrapped him, which was a literal weight off Draco’s chest.

“I’ll walk you to Ella’s,” Harry said. Which they probably wouldn’t do, because which wizard in their right mind even walked anymore if they could help it?

“Thank … Jesus Christ,” Draco said, correcting himself at the last moment.

“Almost right,” Harry commented with a grin, removing his harness as well. Then he added casually, “You know, I really thought you could take it. Guess I overestimated you.”

And Draco, always susceptible to Potter’s taunts, rose to the challenge with a sigh and tied himself back to the car. “I hate you so much.”

Potter grinned at him broadly, then joined Ella in a high-five. Olivia turned around and actually banged her head against the steering wheel.

“Boys,” she groaned loudly. “What is the point of them?”

They drove the rest of the way much slower than before. Draco guessed that Olivia usually did not get overtaken that often. He could not remember the last time somebody had been this considerate of his feelings and felt rather grateful to her.

It really was a shame that she fancied women. And that he did not. Though, if his parents were to be believed, that was not really an issue at all. Then again, he would probably go mad if his partner coddled him like that all the time.

~o~

Ella and Callum’s flat was completely plastered with framed movie posters. Some of them showed people Draco had seen on the covers of Muggle magazines, the kind his neighbour Mrs. Maloney liked to read. Every culture needed its icons, Draco thought. Someone everybody could gossip about without facing repercussions.

Harry interrupted his inspection by dragging him over to where the TV stood. They sat down on the middle couch, which – by the look of its worn cushions – seemed to be the best of the three. The girls were busy in the kitchen, so Draco leaned over to him and asked, “So, what are the rules here?”

“Just don’t ask stupid questions while they are there. And Ella will talk a lot and analyse everything, so maybe just try to keep up with the movie. Oh, and you must eat copious amounts of popcorn.”

“Nice try, Harry,” said Ella, and then she and Olivia sat down on his right, squishing Harry against Draco and Draco against the armrest in the process.

“Cuddly,” Olivia commented, draping an arm over the backrest. Probably because there was nowhere else for it to go. She started to rearrange Harry’s hair, which was, of course, a lost cause, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“Restricting,” Draco disagreed, acutely aware of where they were pressed against each other.

“You’re free to switch,” Ella said, indicating the other couches.

Harry grabbed the only thing he could reach, which was Draco’s wrist. “We can definitely outlast them!” he announced fiercely.

Which was why they were still jammed together an hour and a half later. At least Draco didn’t have to worry about being pressed up against Harry anymore – his right arm had gone to sleep over an hour ago.

“So?” Ella asked excitedly. “What do you think, Draco?”

“Er …,” Draco said, looking at Harry for help. What did people usually say after watching a movie? What were the criteria? Harry looked back at him expectantly, being no help at all. “It was titled accurately? Those girls were definitely mean.”

“I know, right? I love it so much, I already watched it like five times.”

“Didn’t you get the DVD for Christmas?” Olivia said in a judgemental tone. And then, thankfully, she stood up to stretch her legs in what was probably a yoga pose.

“It’s gonna be a classic,” Ella stated confidently. “I’m just ahead of my time.”

“Callum’s back,” Harry said suddenly, a second before they heard the keys in the lock and Callum came in.

“Hey girls,” he said, dropping a folder onto the coffee table. He spotted the three of them still huddled together and grinned. “Oh, Harry and Draco are here as well. When did you two get together?”

“Er – I think it was around ten?” Harry guessed. “What time is it now?”

Ella laughed and elbowed him in the ribs. “No, when did you get together?”

“Oh, no,” Draco spluttered, leaping to his feet so fast Harry fell into the empty space Draco had occupied. “That’s not… we’re not. No.”

“Wow. Thanks, Draco,” Harry said drily.

The Muggles were looking at Draco with raised eyebrows. Like they couldn’t comprehend how Draco could even dare reject their precious friend.

Harry regained their attention by getting up as well. “It’s complicated.”

“It’s stupid,” Ella said bluntly. “He’s clearly into you and we all know you’ve had a crush on him since –”

“Wow, would you look at the time!” Harry grabbed their jackets from one of the empty sofas. “See you next year, maybe.”

“I think I’ll stay,” Draco said with a grin. “I’m very interested in hearing the rest of that sentence.”

“Are you also interested in being thoroughly interrogated by these lunatics? Previous relationships, childhood stories –”

Draco snatched his jacket from Harry. He was definitely not ready to fabricate a completely Muggle-worthy childhood without supervision. Also, his love life was way too pathetic to tell anyone about. People usually thought that something was wrong with you if you told them that you only had one relationship in the last five years, which hadn’t even lasted a full two months. Or that your last casual hook-up had practically begged you to never contact them again when they finally recognised you in the morning. He hadn’t even told Blaise about that one.

“Thank you for inviting us; the popcorn was excellent.” Draco inclined his head towards Olivia. “Tell Lauren I said hello.”

Harry just yelled “Bye!” and then they were out of the door before anyone could stop them. In silence they walked down the busy street until they finally found a deserted side alley.

“Want to come back to mine for some tea?”

“This is not a date, Potter. How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Yes, yes, I know. I’ll behave, I promise.”

“Fine,” Draco said, because he didn’t have anything better to do.

He took hold of Harry’s arm, which was a very big mistake. They turned and reappeared somewhere outside. Draco only got a fleeting look at some trees and then Harry grabbed Draco’s arm, preventing him from letting go. They turned again (Draco’s stomach right along) and ended up in another dark alley. But Harry was not done yet. The third jump was even more brutal than the last and Draco fell against Harry’s hallway wall, trying to keep the popcorn where it was.

“What the fuck was that?” he groaned, taking shallow breaths. “You don’t live overseas, Potter. One jump is definitely enough.”

“Sorry,” Harry mumbled, ruffling his hair. He didn’t seem worn out in the slightest, but at least he looked somewhat rueful. “Should’ve warned you.”

But he didn’t explain what all those detours were about, deciding to escape into the kitchen instead. Draco took another minute to compose himself before following him. He definitely needed a cup of tea now. His stomach was in a considerable uproar.

“Spoons are in the leftmost drawer,” Harry told him, looking up from the tea-kettle.

Draco stumbled towards the drawer that was closest to him and yanked it open. Was this what being under the influence of Confunding Concoction felt like?

“Left! Draco, that’s not left!”  

“Hey, that’s my wand!” Draco yelled, looking down at his very first wand (ten inches, hawthorn and unicorn hair, reasonably springy). Harry closed the drawer forcefully, nearly jamming Draco’s fingers. 

“No, it’s not,” he corrected. 

“Yes, it is!” Draco argued, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “I bought it at Ollivanders, fourteen years ago!” 

“Yes, well, and I took it from you seven years ago,” Harry shot back. 

“Fine, then I’m taking it back now,” Draco said and before Harry could react, he had opened the drawer again and taken the wand out. “How do you like that, hm?” 

“It doesn’t work like that!” Harry yelled exasperatedly.

Suddenly, a comfortable warmth was spreading up Draco’s wand arm, and the lamps along the wall were growing steadily brighter. The gas stove-top lit up behind Harry and he jumped, grabbing Draco’s arm reflexively. Whether this was for support or to restrain him, Draco didn’t know. 

“Well, apparently it does,” Draco said, grinning. Harry looked extremely puzzled.

“But you didn’t defeat me.” 

“There, see for yourself.” Draco offered him the wand. “Do something.” 

Harry took it and turned it over in his hands thoughtfully. 

“Nox.” The lights went out at once and Harry cast him a triumphant look. 

“Come on, that doesn’t prove anything,” Draco rolled his eyes. “You could probably cast Nox even without a wand. Try something challenging.” 

For a moment, Harry did nothing. Then he closed his eyes, a small smile on his lips. He raised the hawthorn wand wordlessly and a bright, silver stag broke from it. It pranced around the two of them once, orbiting them like their own personal moon, and then turned to mist. 

“Show-off,” Draco muttered and Harry laughed and put the wand back in the drawer. 

“Not my fault you chose to light a campfire for your performance,” Harry teased him. 

“I didn’t choose anything, it just happened,” Draco answered. “And I couldn’t have conjured a Patronus even if I wanted.” 

“You can’t –?” Harry started and Draco shot him a warning glance. 

“Let’s not go there,” he interrupted and then quickly changed the topic. “A wand can’t serve two wizards at once, can it?” 

Harry just shrugged and handed him his tea. “Let’s definitely not go there.” 

And they left it at that. 

Chapter Text

Draco chucked his sterile healing scrubs into the rubbish bin enthusiastically. Reassembling that girl’s splintered ribcage had been his last case for the day and he was looking forward to a very hot bath and some Chinese food. Now all that was left was checking his chart to verify that his patients were indeed all transferred to the Healer on duty.

Bright red ink caught his eyes, forming the words ‘Priority patient – H. J. Potter’ and his stomach dropped. Detailed underneath were his whereabouts and nothing else, which meant that the Welcome Witch hadn’t gotten anything out of him.

Draco practically ran down three flights of stairs and yanked open the door of examination room number three, which startled Harry so much he dropped the anatomical model of a heart that he was holding. Since this happened quite often, maintenance had charmed the model to be unbreakable. It bounced and Harry caught it hastily, putting it back on the counter with a guilty look on his face.

“Surprise,” he said weakly, a crooked grin on his face.

“What’s wrong?” Draco said, drawing his wand. “What did you do this time?”

“Nothing!” Harry waved his hand and the door closed behind Draco. “I just came to see you. And to ask if you’d want to watch a movie?”

Draco stopped scanning Harry’s body for injuries, eyes snapping back to his face. He was speechless for a few seconds, heart still racing. “That’s the whole reason you’re here? To ask me on a date?”

“Well … yeah. It’s the seventh. My three weeks ended yesterday. I’m officially recovered, you can ask Padma.”

Draco leaned back against the wall and worked on catching his breath. He really needed to do more exercise. And maybe find a man who wasn’t in constant peril of getting injured.

What had he done to deserve this? Alright, there was no need to answer that question. Draco was just retroactively thankful that he hadn’t cared this much about Harry when there had been a madman actively trying to kill him.

“I don’t think I can take another evening with your Muggle friends so soon. Holding all those questions in was exhausting. Do all girls go to school dressed like streetwalkers? How did they not get detention? Do Muggle schools even have detention? Why would they crown someone at a ball? Why would they choose who to crown? That’s not how a monarchy works, even I know that.”

“Wow, you had a minute or two to think about that, huh?” Harry grinned at him fondly. “The election is just a tradition; it doesn’t mean anything. And most girls wear perfectly normal clothes. Movies tend to exaggerate quite a bit.”

“Then how am I supposed to know what’s accurate?” Draco cried out in frustration, which seemed to amuse Harry immensely.

“Just stick to me.” Harry grinned. “And I wasn’t asking you to movie night with the others. I’m talking about the real deal – cinema. Just the two of us. I’ll even let you choose the movie.”

“There’s more than one?”

Harry hid his grin behind his Cloak and grabbed his arm. “You’re almost as clueless as Arthur. It’s adorable. This is going to be so much fun.”

~o~

They didn’t go to the cinema straight away. Draco was able to persuade Harry to swing by his house so he could shower and get changed. When he came back down, Harry sat on his sofa, Aurelius draped over his lap.

“I ordered Chinese, hope that’s okay with you?” Harry asked as soon as he stepped into the kitchen, without even looking up. That man had superhuman hearing.

“Fine by me,” Draco said, stifling a yawn. He sank into the armchair opposite Harry, fully intending never to get up again.

“How do you usually order?” Harry asked curiously. “You don’t have a telephone.”

“I fire-call Muggle Liaisons. They connect me.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully and continued tickling Aurelius’ favourite spot between the ears. When the bell rang, Draco only sank further into his chair, shooting Harry a pointed look.

“It’s your house!” Harry protested, ruffling Aurelius’ fur thoroughly, as if to show that he couldn’t possibly get up.

Well, neither would Draco. “It’s your order,” he said coolly.

“Exactly. I took care of that, now it’s your turn.”

“I’m sorry, Potter. I thought this was supposed to be a date.”

Harry grumbled and made a lengthy show of getting up, only getting a move on when the bell rang a second time.

“Coming!” he shouted. Draco could only just see him covering his scar with hair before he vanished into the hallway. At least he was trying.

Aurelius didn’t waste any time to join Draco in his armchair, effectively burying him. Draco didn’t mind. It felt like being covered with a heavy blanket, warm and comfortable. He closed his eyes and listened to the crackling of the fire Harry had lit.

“Don’t fool yourself, we’re still going out later,” Harry said suddenly, startling him.

Aurelius leapt down to sniff the bag Harry had put on the coffee table.

“I can’t move a muscle,” Draco lamented. “Today was torture.”

“Even more reason to do something fun!” Harry said energetically. Draco just grumbled. “Well,” Harry continued. “I guess if you can’t move at all, I’ll have to eat your food.”

“Don’t you dare,” Draco hissed, flicking his wand in his general direction.

His hand closed around two fortune cookies that came flying, missing a third one he had not anticipated. Harry caught it before it could hit the ground and sat back on his sofa.

“I asked for one extra, to make up for last time,” he said incidentally.

Draco looked up at him and said generously, “In that case … I guess you can keep that one.”

Harry grinned at him and handed him a magazine with two immensely attractive Muggles on the cover. “Here, this has some shots and information on the movies they are showing. Just pick one.”

It was not as easy as ‘just picking one’. They spent the entire meal discussing different movies, which meant that Harry was mostly explaining words and phrases that meant nothing to Draco. In the end he just picked the most colourful one, guessing that it would be cheerful and (hopefully) not too complicated.

~o~

Well, Draco had been wrong before. The movie was loud and flashy and also highly confusing. At least the ending was happy, though (according to Harry) that was a given with children’s movies. Which this one apparently was. Draco argued that there were hardly any children present at the showing, but Harry blamed that on the time of day. It was almost midnight when the movie ended.

They Apparated to a street a few minutes away from Draco’s house, because Harry simply insisted on walking him home. Draco just wished they could have forgone two of the three jumps that Harry deemed necessary for some arbitrary reason. As if his brain hadn’t already been in a knot before that.

There had been so much to take in, and separating the real elements from the fictional ones seemed practically impossible. Muggles obviously had those airplane things, but building a robot that big was apparently unrealistic?

Also, contrary to what Harry had told him, the robot did not look like an Imperiused suit of armour, which had Draco pondering what other misinformation Harry might have spread. Maybe he would have to read up on some things. Not that he knew where to look for that kind of information.

Harry had told him that computers could tell you practically everything, but what if that had been a lie too? Also, he would have to read up on how to operate a computer first. And then he would have to find one. Maybe he could ask Granger instead. She certainly wouldn’t answer a question incorrectly if she could help it.

“What are you thinking about?” Harry interrupted his thoughts by nudging Draco’s shoulder with his own.

“Violet,” was the first thing that came to mind. Violet? Where was he supposed to go with that? Good thinking, Draco!

“What about her?”

Time to improvise. “Well, you realise she’s practically you?”

Harry missed a beat and then caught up with him again. “I’m afraid I don’t see the resemblance,” he said with a grin.

“She turns invisible, like, constantly. Also: shield charm.”

“She – I’m not – Shut up!” Harry spluttered.

“She has black hair too. Which is always in her face, by the way. Need I go on?”

“An animated teenage girl is not an accurate representation of me!” Harry exclaimed indignantly.

“She wears red, like, most of the time,” Draco said incidentally. Which wasn’t that hard, because he had only just thought of the comparison.

Harry grabbed him by both arms and spun him around so that Draco’s back was touching Mrs. Capitelli’s hedge. “If you ever call me Violet, I’ll tell everybody to call you Ferret Face again.”

“And boy, does she have a temper,” Draco said with a smirk, looking pointedly at where Harry’s hands were digging into his arms.

“I don’t – argh!”

Harry made a frustrated noise and let go of him with a slight shove. Draco, who thought he could be a little dramatic about it, leaned into it. Problem was: Mrs. Capitelli’s hedge wasn’t as sturdy as he had thought.

Harry seemed to realise what was about to happen and grabbed his arms again, but the damage was done – they tumbled into the shrubs together, and not too quietly.

The lights in several houses had gone on by the time they were able to extract themselves from the hedge and there were voices coming from Mrs Capitelli’s.

Draco grabbed Harry’s hand and pulled him with him across the street. They almost fell through the front door, which unlocked itself when they drew near. Draco pressed Harry against the wall inside so he could slam the door shut behind them. They looked at each other in the dark, both of them panting (Harry slightly and Draco embarrassingly much).

“There’s a twig in your hair,” Draco muttered finally, pulling it out. “Really completes the look. You were going for ‘bird’s nest’, right?”

Harry took the twig and just let it fall to the floor, his eyes never leaving Draco’s. He took a sudden step forward and Draco backed up against the door automatically. Harry put one hand on Draco’s shoulder and the other on his hip and pressed him against the door with his own body. But when they kissed, it was soft and slow and not at all what Draco expected.

Draco’s stomach was in an uproar, like a million butterflies had been released all at once. That was probably the reason why he felt light-headed, felt like his feet were just about to leave the ground.

This was the exact opposite of a dementor’s kiss. Draco felt like he actually gained a little more soul the longer Harry’s lips were on his. He plunged one hand into Harry’s hair and placed the other on his back, drawing him closer.

Harry did the one thing Draco didn’t want him to do – he withdrew, eyes half-closed, and then leaned his forehead against Draco’s. He sounded breathless as he asked, “So, how would you feel about dinner tomorrow?”

Draco just nodded dumbly, not sure if his voice would even work right now. Harry kissed him again for a moment that wasn’t nearly long enough and then took a step back. Draco let him go reluctantly. He was all for more contact, not less. Less was a stupid idea.

“Do you want to …” Draco started, but he trailed off when Harry smiled softly and took another step back.

“I’ll keep my Floo open for you tomorrow. Come by around six?”

Draco nodded, not really sure what had just happened. He was no expert on dating, but he had a feeling that there was supposed to be a certain amount of sex at the end of it. And it didn’t really look like that was where they were headed right now.  

Harry smiled again and pulled his Cloak out of an inside pocket. “Good night, Draco.”

Then he vanished. An invisible hand took hold of Draco’s and then there were soft lips on Draco’s for the fraction of a second. The door opened and then he was gone.

But when Draco was lying in bed later, it wasn’t sex he was thinking about. He couldn’t help but think how nice it had been of Harry not to compare him to the movie’s villain in retaliation. The resemblance was certainly there – rejected by the hero and subsequently acting against him because of it. Had Harry really not seen it?

Maybe, just maybe, he could see something else in him? It was rather pretentious to assume Draco had ever been the main antagonist of Harry’s life. Maybe Draco really was more like the villain’s platinum blonde assistant who changed sides in the end? He liked to think that Harry saw that in him.

Chapter Text

Harry was the last to get examined by Draco, sitting on a bench in his formfitting black sportswear and looking up at him like this was totally normal.

“Nervous?” Draco asked him for something to say.

It was awkward pretending not to know Harry as well as he did. They couldn’t exactly talk about their plans for the evening. Not that Draco was dumb enough to make plans on a match day – who knew if Harry would even be conscious at the end of it? But the potential was there.

“Nah,” Harry said lightly.

His heartbeat was slightly elevated but steady. He was exactly the right kind of excited and Draco knew that he wasn’t on this team because of his name – Harry simply loved flying, in a way Draco never had. He had liked it of course, not least of all because of the prestige that came with being on the house team. But he had never needed it to feel whole.

“What about you?” Harry asked cheekily while Draco shone a Lumos first at his left and then his right pupil. Who would have thought that he ever would get paid to stare at Harry Potter’s eyes?

“You’re good to go.” Draco raised an eyebrow. “Why would I be nervous?”

Harry got up and put on his Quidditch robes, all the while not breaking eye contact. “First day at your new job?”

“It’s my old job, only now you lot can’t lie to me about what happened.” Draco scoffed, covering his anxiety.

Harry mimed whacking him across the head with his five hundred galleon broom. Draco ducked away and turned to face the rest of them.

“All right, good luck. I would say to break a leg, but don’t, please.”

He could hear Harry snort behind him. “You’re not the boss of me!”

“Yeah, we can break all our bones if we want to,” said Captain Leona Robinson.

“I already regret taking this job,” Draco declared, and with one last look at Harry he turned around and left the changing rooms, stepping onto the pitch.

It was like getting hit with a Bludger to the eardrums. The noise doubled suddenly and Draco turned around to check if any of the players had followed him out onto the pitch to warrant that kind of racket, but the door was still closed. He walked alongside the pitch to the two benches that stood parallel to its middle line and sat down next to Tabitha Woods, who was there on behalf of the Appleby Arrows.

“What are they cheering for already?” Draco asked her with a shake of his head. “They’ll be hoarse before the game even starts.”

“I believe that’s your fan club,” Tabitha said with a laugh. And if that wasn’t just hilarious.

“Good one,” Draco snorted. He indicated his light grey scrubs with the falcon on the front. “Is it because of my incredible fashion sense?”

“I assume it’s about you saving Harry Potter’s life twice and getting him back on the pitch. My sister actually begged me to ask you for your autograph. Though I think that has more to do with you telling Potter off after he punched Dayal. She said if she ever bought a Pensieve, it would be for that memory.”

“You’re kidding.” Draco looked up at the nearest stands. The occupants were indeed looking right back at him, waving madly. Some took pictures. “You’re not kidding?”

“They started shouting as soon as you came out,” Tabitha assured him. She elbowed him lightly, smiling at him. “Don’t act so surprised, you earned it. About time one of us got some recognition!”

Draco was saved from replying by Bagman, who announced the teams and then officially started Draco’s very first Quidditch game without further ado.

He didn’t get another opportunity to really speak to her for most of the game, because they were both preoccupied with watching their teams for injuries that would warrant immediate treatment. Draco certainly couldn’t count on the players calling it themselves, which was confirmed when Phaedra Armstrong tried to play on after being wacked in the head by her opponent’s broom. When Draco finally managed to lure her down, the collar of her robe was drenched in blood.

Healing her only took half a minute, but when he looked up, the whole stadium seemed to be watching him intently. The Arrows’ Seeker seemed to be the only person who was not looking down at him, slowly scanning the pitch instead.

No, that wasn’t quite right. Coach Greyson wasn’t watching Draco, either, but – “Potter!” Greyson’s magnified voice carried through the whole stadium. “Would you do your damn job?!”

“What the fuck is he doing?” Armstrong mumbled as Harry grimaced and turned his back on them hastily. “I thought he trusts you to do your job?”

“Please don’t ask me to explain that moron’s behaviour,” Draco said. “I don’t think I ever understood a single thing he did. You’re good to go.”

Harry was lucky – when the referee blew his whistle to resume the game, the opposing Seeker didn’t make a dash for a Snitch only he had seen. Maybe he wouldn’t have to explain why he had been watching Draco instead of keeping an eye on the pitch.

“Complicated relationship?” Tabitha asked.

“That’s an understatement.”

“Is it true you got assigned to home care at his house?”

Draco did his best not to show his surprise and kept his eyes on Chaser Lauryn Mason, who had just narrowly avoided two Bludgers at the same time. “Who told you that?”

“Dayal,” she said matter-of-factly. “It really bugged him. Seemed to think they should’ve chosen him.”

Draco couldn’t help but scoff. As if Harry ever would have let a stranger into his home. Less alone Dayal. “Fat chance.”

“Rumour has it their Coach went to Chief Cortez about it,” she continued, clearly watching for a reaction. “Because Dayal was allegedly better acquainted with Potter’s medical history.”

Draco just shrugged. It was no surprise that Greyson didn’t like him. Draco was still impressed that Harry had managed to get him on the team in the first place. That man had some serious pull.

“Are you sure you should be telling me this?” he said thoughtfully, eyes fixed on Harry, who was suddenly nosediving at break-neck speed.

“I never liked Dayal anyway,” she said coincidentally. “He always acted like he was better than us. Only started talking to me when I got chosen for the Arrows.”

“Well, I don’t exactly remember you talking to me before today.”

“No hard feelings, Draco, but I didn’t know if you could be trusted.”

“And now you do?”

“Harry Potter seems to trust you. I guess that means you’re trustworthy,” she simply said. “Unlike Dayal.”

Draco just nodded absentmindedly. Harry and the Arrows’ Seeker were shoulder to shoulder now, both trying to pull ahead. They were also speeding straight towards the stands.

“Well, he got suspended anyway, so look who’s laughing now,” Tabitha said smugly. “A whole month. Also, the Prophet really tore him to pieces.”

Draco turned to look at her. “Cortez suspended him? Isn’t Dayal related to her somehow?”

“Their mothers are cousins,” Tabitha said with a sly grin. “Guess you really shouldn’t cross Harry Potter.”

And that was when Harry turned his broom sideways very suddenly, making a grab for the Snitch while simultaneously blocking his opponent with his body, who collided with him at full speed. They crashed into the stands with a deafening bang that left the whole structure shaking.

“Oh shit,” they whispered in unison. And then they were running.

It took three minutes until they had finally stabilised the structure enough to be able to go inside. The Seekers were buried under a heap of wooden planks. Harry had apparently taken the brunt of it, because he was on the bottom of it all, unresponsive. The other Seeker was on top of him, seemingly only a little bit bruised but unable to get up because of the debris.

“I can feel him breathing,” he said, a little short of breath. “I think he’s alright.”

Draco cast a diagnostic spell on Harry while Tabitha crouched down next to her own patient. “Comfortable, Jackson?” she said with what sounded like a big, dirty grin on her face.

“Very funny,” Jackson replied. “Would you please get me out of here? Now?”

Tabitha was seconds away from laughing now. “You sure? I always thought this would be a dream come true for you.”

“Are you a masochist or something?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow.

Harry was indeed ‘fine’. His clavicle was just slightly cracked and his concussion only minor.

“No. Just ignore her,” Jackson said, his nonchalant tone betrayed by the warning glance he gave Tabitha.

“He’s got a man-crush on Potter,” Tabitha said regardless.

“Tabitha!” Jackson sounded scandalised. “I don’t have a ‘man-crush’.”

“Fine, a regular crush then.”

“Have you thought that through?” Draco asked while moving planks out of the way with his wand. Waking Harry up could wait until there wasn’t some random admirer plastered to his chest. “Aren’t you a little too young to have your life ruined by Potter’s crazy fans?”

“I’m eighteen!” Jackson protested, apparently forgetting that he allegedly wasn’t even interested in Harry.

“That’s what too young means,” Draco said. “You should start with something easy instead. Maybe don’t choose a rivalling player, that could get complicated. Also, I would advise you to go for someone who is at least somewhat interested in men.”

It really was no wonder that Jackson fled as soon as they had dug him up, Tabitha trailing after him. Draco took pity on Harry and healed him while he was still unconscious. The bruises he left as a memento. Harry wouldn’t learn from this if he didn’t feel at least some of it.

They stepped outside together, Harry’s left arm draped around Draco’s shoulders, leaning on him heavily. His right hand, the one that was holding the Snitch, was raised into the air. The rise in noise was enormous and when Harry grinned at him lopsidedly while the team touched down around them, Draco felt like he had won the game himself.

“Brilliant, Harry! That didn’t even count as a foul!” Leona Robinson yelled, slapping Harry on the back so hard she almost pushed him to the ground.

Draco tightened his grip around Harry’s waist. “I’m afraid you’ll have to celebrate without him,” he said with as much authority as he could muster. After watching Robinson practically slaughter most of the Arrows with her bat, Draco had a new-found (and probably healthy) respect for her. She was scary. “He’s definitely got a concussion.”

Beater Easton Haynes laughed. “Again? Just two more and you’ll break the record.”

“Can’t let Flynn hog all the glory,” Harry said with a tired grin, giving Flynn Montgomery, one of the Chasers, a wink (if you could even call it that, as he closed both eyes doing it). “See you on Monday.”

“Thursday,” Draco corrected him.

“Tuesday?”

“Definitely not before Thursday, Potter.”

“So … Wednesday.”

“Want me to bench you for a whole week?” Draco said threateningly, poking Harry’s bruised rib, which caused a sharp inhale.

“See you on Thursday, Harry,” said Robinson decisively.

“Have fun signing your names a thousand times,” Harry said with another botched wink, barely covering his excitement to have an excuse not to take part in that.

The rest of the team went to meet their fans at the designated spot while the two of them set off towards the changing rooms. They were almost there when Tabitha caught up with them.

“Draco!”

Draco and Harry turned around, which seemed to be the moment Tabitha really realised whom Draco was supporting. Her mouth snapped shut and she turned an unsightly shade of red.

“Erm … so …,” she said, glancing at Harry only briefly and then avoiding to look at him again. “How did you like your first match?”

“Well, nobody died – and not for a lack of trying,” Draco said casually, shifting slightly to redistribute some of Harry’s weight, “So I seem to have done alright.”

“Debatable,” Harry said, stretching his free, Snitch-holding arm, which was heavily scratched and slightly bloody. “Do I look well cared for?”

“You deserve that,” Draco said unperturbedly. “How else will a Gryffindor ever learn?”  

A nervous giggle burst out of Tabitha’s mouth and she turned even redder. “So … I was thinking, that maybe you’d perhaps want to … erm … you know, go for a drink or something?”

“Now?” Draco asked in confusion, tightening his grip around Harry’s waist to keep him from shifting so much. Wasn’t the prat aware that Draco was practically bearing half of his body weight? “On a Sunday? In the middle of the day?”

“Oh, right …,” she stammered. “We could eat something instead?”

“Would you stop fidgeting for one second?” Draco shot Harry an irritated look.

“I would love to if I could find a position that didn’t hurt,” Harry shot back, giving him a look that probably meant he wanted to leave.

“I am sorry, Tabitha,” Draco sighed. “I seem to have some more work to do today. Maybe another time?”

She just nodded and turned on her heels, walking away at considerable speed.

“Look at that, you intimidated her,” Draco said with a grin, and they entered the changing room. Harry plonked himself on the nearest bench in an instant.

“Me?” Harry snorted absentmindedly, busy with stashing the Snitch inside his bag. “She didn’t ask me on a date.”

Draco punched his arm, which maybe wasn’t the best idea on this specific occasion. “She did not,” he spluttered while Harry said “Ouch!” and glared at him.

“Then what did she do?”

Harry took off his robes and threw them into the laundry basket. He didn’t take off the sports gear underneath, which was a relief to Draco, who at least wanted to pretend to separate his work from his private life.

“Ask to go for a drink with a colleague?” Draco said. Obviously. “People usually don’t ask me on dates, you know.”

“I did,” Harry said, shrinking his bag to put it into his pocket. “Repeatedly.”

“You’re a nutter, you don’t count.”

“That’s not what you said yesterday.” Harry wagged his eyebrows.

Draco didn’t think that making out in Harry’s kitchen (fully clothed, mark you!) warranted a wagging of eyebrows. That required at least some nakedness, at least in his eyes. But maybe he was just old-fashioned. It was, of course, possible that Harry was referring to the shepherd’s pie he had made for them. That had indeed been eyebrow-worthy.

“I –” Draco said, but Harry held up a hand.

“Someone’s coming.”

It was Harry’s reserve Felicity McCarthy, who (despite belonging to the winning team) didn’t look all that happy. Her mood soured further when she spotted Harry.

“Draco,” she said, nodding in his direction. She didn’t acknowledge Harry and started to change into her street clothes.

“Felicity.” Draco returned the nod and then cast another (quite unnecessary) diagnostic spell at Harry to appear busy.

It was weird. He never knew where he stood with fellow Slytherins. They usually could be divided into two camps: The first tried to distance themselves from former Death Eaters as much as possible, for fear of being associated with them. The second group seemed to think he hadn’t changed at all and admired him for all the wrong reasons. At least she had greeted him – Draco seemed to rank above Harry, if nothing else.

“McCarthy,” Harry said regardless, earning himself an annoyed frown. He indicated her Quidditch robes. “You really didn’t have to get all dressed up on my behalf.”

She just rolled her eyes at him and folded her robes neatly, seemingly completely unperturbed. “Well, you never know. Wouldn’t be the first time I had to pick up your slack. You’re not exactly the most reliable player. Matt certainly likes me to stand by.”

“There’s no denying you have a lot of experience standing by,” Harry pressed out.

McCarthy had definitely struck a nerve. Perhaps Harry should have thought of that before he decided to goad her. Maybe it was the concussion. Maybe it was just Harry’s Gryffindor nature. One thing was certain: Draco wasn’t exactly keen on watching this play out, so he ended his spell with much more wand waving than was strictly necessary.

“No need to take you to St. Mungo’s,” he cut in before McCarthy could shoot back. “I’ll side-along you home so you can rest, and by Thursday you’ll be as good as new.”

“Take your time, Potter. We’ll manage without you.”

“Don’t bother making yourself comfortable.” The Seekers were glaring at each other now.

“Alright,” Draco interjected, pulling Harry up by his upper arm maybe a little too roughly. “We’re off. Goodbye, Felicity.”

“See you, Draco.”

Harry waited until they were out of earshot before he hissed, “Are you friends with her or something?”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because you were friendly, for starters?”

A short laugh escaped Draco. “That wasn’t friendly, that was reserved.”

“You talk to Blaise exactly the same way,” Harry objected.

Draco raised his eyebrows. “I really hope you still have your glasses somewhere, Potter, because you must be going blind if you think those two scenarios are even slightly similar. Subtlety really is lost on Gryffindors, it would seem.”

Chapter Text

“Malfoy! A word?”

Draco, whose arms were laden with self-pressuring bandages, looked over his shoulder to see who was idiotic enough to come to St. Mungo’s for a talk on Valentine’s Day. It was Coach Greyson.

“Which one of your idiots is injured now?” Draco asked, walking on so that Greyson was forced to follow him.

“Nobody, that’s my point,” said Greyson brusquely, falling into step.

“Perfect. Come back tomorrow. Or send an owl.” Draco unloaded the bandages on his supply cart and then added, “But not yours!” He really didn’t need that wretched beast in his house.

“Tomorrow is too late.”

“Tough luck,” Draco said shortly. “But if you keep me any longer, it will be too late for my patient.” He wheeled the cart into the treatment room and closed the door in Greyson’s face.

Greyson was still there when a mediwitch pushed Draco’s patient to her room half an hour later.

“Coach Greyson,” Draco said, looking at his chart instead of him. “Didn’t I tell you to go away?”

“I need to talk to you.” Greyson sounded pretty agitated by now. Draco guessed that he didn’t like to be kept waiting.

“Come back when your wife has bashed your head in with a cauldron because you forgot to give her chocolates. Maybe then I’ll have time for you.”

Draco touched his wand to the name and then scanned the trauma ward for the unlucky bastard who had made that mistake. He was pretty hard to miss with the cauldron still sticking out of his head.

Draco flagged down a mediwitch and pointed at his patient. “Get me someone from Potions for bed seven. I need a consult on the contents of that cauldron.”

“It’s about Potter.”

What Draco wanted to say: ‘Alright. Come back tomorrow. Or send an owl. But definitely not yours.’

What he actually said: “What about him?” He tried to tell himself that he at least sounded indifferent.

“He missed practice today.” Greyson stared at him as if that was his fault.

“Obviously,” Draco said coldly. “He’s concussed. As I informed you yesterday via owl.”

“You have to talk to me first before signing a sick note for one of my players.”

Draco crossed his arms in front of his chest and asked sceptically, “What for?”

“So we can talk about upcoming matches and my training schedule,” Greyson said resolutely, crossing his arms as well.

“And how exactly will me knowing about your schedule change anything about your players’ health?”

“That’s how it’s done, Malfoy,” Greyson pressed out. “That’s how Dayal did it and that’s how we will keep doing it.”

“That’s how Dayal almost killed Potter,” Draco said coolly. “I don’t take orders from you. You are neither my boss nor a Healer. Take it to Chief Cortez if you must. But don’t expect her to agree with you on this, because that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Greyson tried to stare him into submission. Draco stared back. He had learned to endure under his crazy Aunt Bella, after all. This was a walk in the park.

“Potter will be back on Thursday,” Draco said resolutely. “Don’t you have something better to do on Valentine’s Day?”

There was an angry vein popping up on Greyson’s neck and his eyes narrowed dangerously. Draco got a sudden image – Greyson embracing a woman, who was clutching a letter in her hands and appeared to be crying.

Draco broke the eye contact instantly. He wanted nothing to do with Greyson’s private life, however bleak it might be. If he was lucky, Greyson hadn’t noticed the connection – Draco wasn’t willing to tell people he was a Legilimens. That wouldn’t exactly make patients trust him. His left forearm was itching, but Draco kept himself from rubbing it.

Greyson gestured at him with a closed fist. “This isn’t over!”

“I can hardly wait.” Draco left him standing there and went over to his patient and his cauldron.

~o~

Draco was dead on his feet, and it was only half past eight. He felt so drained that he couldn’t even muster the energy to Apparate. He took the Floo home, which really was saying a lot about his condition.

Harry was asleep on his sofa, Aurelius half on top of him. When Draco stepped out of his fireplace, he slowly began to stir and his eyes fluttered open.

“Hey,” he said, smiling softly.

Draco lay down next to Harry on the sofa and pulled him into his arms. It was a little crowded, but Draco was too tired to care. Harry didn’t protest either, maybe because he still was half asleep. Aurelius acted like this didn’t concern him.

“I hate Quidditch,” Draco mumbled, burying his face in Harry’s minty-fresh hair.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed drowsily.

“Greyson ambushed me at Mungo’s.”

“He sent me four owls,” Harry muttered.

“I think he threatened me a little.”

“Fourth one was a Howler.”

“He’ll probably be back at Mungo’s tomorrow.”

“Came here to escape Odysseus.”

“Did it work?”

“Yeah,” Harry said with a sigh of relief.

“Hey, do you maybe hate Valentine’s Day, too?” Draco asked hopefully.

Harry started stroking his hair slowly. “You have no idea.”

“Did somebody try to slip you love potion?” Draco suggested. That certainly was popular on Valentine’s Day.

“Not recently,” Harry said, yawning at the same time. “You?”

Draco snorted. “Nobody in their right mind would ever try to make me love them. Let’s see … Did you ever get attacked with a copy of ‘Bewitch that Witch – How to charm your valentine’?”

“That’s oddly specific,” Harry said, sounding a little more awake.

He turned onto his side so they were lying face to face. Aurelius just let it happen, slipping into the free space at Harry’s back. Draco was verging on the edge now, but as long as he held on to Harry, he was confident that they could make it work.

“And also a very heavy book. Enough to break your jaw. I’ll take that as a ‘No’.”

Harry nodded and draped one arm around him, stroking his back. Draco rummaged through his memory of the day, but it was hard to pick favourites.

“I’m guessing nobody shrunk your prick either, because they found out you had three other girlfriends, all of whom you had lined up consecutive dates with?

“Not that I remember,” Harry said with a grin. “But I am concussed, so what do I know?”

“Then what’s your reason for hating Valentine’s Day?”

Harry grimaced. “If I ever dated Cho Chang – and that’s a very big ‘if’, I’m entirely unsure about that – she broke up with me on Valentine’s Day. I’m definitely not unsure about the break-up-part. It was very clear.”

Draco laughed quite involuntarily. “Right, I forgot about that! You made her cry and then she left you at that horrible tea shop.”

“Great. You’ve heard,” Harry said tonelessly, but he kept stroking his back.

“The whole school heard about that.”

“Brilliant.”

“Almost made them forget about that poem Ginny sent you in second year.” Draco was chuckling so hard that he could barely speak. “‘His eyes are as green as –’”

Harry pushed him off the sofa, which Draco commented with a startled yelp that Aurelius ignored. The most useless service dog in history.

“Thanks for reminding me.”

Harry leaned over the edge to look down on him, so (naturally) Draco grabbed him by the collar and pulled. He probably should have anticipated that Harry would land on top of him. Nobody could have expected him to anticipate that Harry would stay there and make himself extra heavy.

“You’re crushing me,” Draco wheezed, trying to get his arms under Harry’s body so he could push him off.

“Please. It’s the least I can do,” Harry said like he was doing him a favour.

Draco tickled his sides, which made Harry squeak and grab both his hands to pin them above his head. Draco kissed him. Who knew how long they had until everything went to hell? He’d better take every chance he got.

Some of Harry’s weight was lifted, though he didn’t get off of him. Maybe Harry had realised that kissing was easier when they both were able to breathe properly.

Things got very hot very fast, which maybe had something to do with the fact that they had officially (well, as official as a secret relationship got, which was not at all) been dating for a week now, during which they had stayed fully clothed the entire time. Not necessarily Draco’s decision. He got the feeling that maybe Harry was trying to take it slow.

He himself thought that pining for Harry for months had already been taking it slow.

That was how Draco found himself pulling Harry’s t-shirt over his head in a hurry while Harry tried to keep kissing his neck (which was exactly as impossible as it sounded). Maybe Draco shouldn’t have pulled the guy with the concussion from his sofa. In hindsight, that had been a pretty dismal medical decision.

He finally managed to free Harry’s mob of hair from his t-shirt and was promptly smacked in the face by Harry’s necklace.

“Oh, that reminds me!” Harry got up and pulled something out of his pocket, still breathing heavily. Draco was not a fan.

He sat up with his back against the sofa as Harry knelt down beside him and then leaned over and put something around Draco’s neck.

It was a tiny golden orb on a thread of silver. Draco grabbed Harry’s own pendant – silver wings on a golden thread – and held them next to each other.

“Is that –”

“Yep.”

Harry was wearing the wings that had killed him, shrunken down considerably. And instead of repairing the Snitch, he was giving the other half to Draco.

“You found the wings and gave them to me,” Harry tried to explain. He seemed to be kind of embarrassed – one hand was glued to his hair. “It seems only fair that you get something in exchange.”

“I thought you hate Valentine’s Day!” Draco complained. This was way too thoughtful! How was he supposed to compete with something like that?

“Well, I was told I was going to be bludgeoned with a copy of ‘Bewitch that Witch’ if I forgot to bring a present,” Harry said matter-of-factly. “And my favourite Healer already clocked out, so …”

“That’s really cheesy,” Draco commented, punching Harry’s shoulder with one hand and fondling the tiny Snitch with the other. It was hardly bigger than a pea.

“I know, right?” Harry laughed and ruffled his hair. “Want me to take it back?” He held out a hand that Draco slapped away.

“Don’t you dare touch my kitsch!”

Harry laughed and kissed him again. Then he put his t-shirt back on, which seemed counter-intuitive to Draco. He was all for some more snogging and groping.

“I’ve made dinner. You hungry?”

“Nope,” Draco said as his stomach rumbled right on cue. Traitor.

Harry laughed yet again and then pulled him to his feet. “Just to be clear, I didn’t cook this because it’s Valentine’s Day. I just got bored waiting for you, is all. So, don’t get any ideas for future holidays!”

“Cross my heart.” Draco put his wand over his heart for emphasis and sat down at the table, where Harry had placed a warming charm over steak with mashed potatoes and vegetables.

“Oh, so when I do it, warming charms ‘screw up the texture’, but when you do it, it’s all peachy?”

“Shut up and eat,” Harry said, ending his charm. “So, what did Matt want from you?”

“I thought you want me to shut up?” Draco said, getting started on his plate.

“I liked you better with my tongue down your throat,” Harry complained with a full mouth.

Draco didn’t know why a tongue should shut him up while Harry himself couldn’t be silenced by a tongue-sized piece of steak. He was kind of glad that he never would have to officially introduce Harry to his parents.

“Me too.”

Draco took pity and told him about his encounter with the Coach. Harry didn’t seem all that happy to hear that Greyson had apparently meddled with their medical business in the past. Draco noticed because he took an unnaturally long time to chew his steak. Then he seemed to come to a decision.

“Well, Oliver Wood was just the same. Quidditch always came first; that’s how it is. And Matt played professionally himself. He was a really good Chaser before the war. So it’s no wonder he’s a little intense. He just cares about the team. Dayal should have stood up for us and put Matt in his place. That’s his job as Healer, right?”

“Well, it certainly was wrong to give in to Greyson’s demands,” Draco said slowly.

“Exactly.” Harry gave him a relieved smile and then frowned down at Draco’s plate. “Is something wrong with the steak?”

“No?” Draco looked down at the half of his steak that was still there. “Why would it be?”

“Don’t you like steak?”

“Don’t be stupid, who doesn’t like steak?”

“But you still haven’t eaten it. You’re just eating the potatoes ... and brussels sprouts.”

“You leave the best for last, you idiot.”

“What?” Harry looked confused. “Why would you do that?”

Draco shook his head in the face of such ignorance. “So you can finish your meal on a high note, of course.”

“What if it’s gone later?”

“Why would it be gone?” Draco said, now confused as well.

“I don’t know,” Harry said distractedly, “Magpies?”

“Magpies?”

“Yeah, they’re a thing.”

“Where?”

Harry shrugged helplessly, apparently rather unhappy about where the conversation was going. “Australia, I guess.”

Meaning his Australian ex-girlfriend must have told him that. No, Draco wasn’t jealous, thanks. He knew perfectly well that Harry was allowed to talk about things like that.

“You know this is not Australia, right?”

Harry laughed, but his heart didn’t seem to be in it this time. “Forget I said anything. Must be the concussion talking.”

Draco still guarded his steak like a hawk until it was gone completely, and then helped clean the table.

Afterwards, Harry took something from his pocket and unshrunk it to reveal a small bag. Draco shot him a questioning look, to which he replied, “Oh yeah, FYI: I’m staying over tonight.”

Draco had no illusions that this had sexy reasons – Harry was probably expecting another Howler or two at home. Not that Draco would have tried to start something while Harry still had his concussion. After all, he himself had forbidden him from exercising.

When Draco joined him in the bedroom after brushing his teeth, Harry had already claimed the side of Draco’s bed that was closer to the door, which left him with the window side. Draco didn’t care one way or the other – he usually lay smack in the middle. Not like anybody ever slept beside him.

Harry had already placed his wand on the bedside table. Draco cast a Protego on himself and then put his own wand aside as well.

“Ha ha,” said Harry drily. His arms went right through the shield as he pulled Draco into his arm, so they both were lying in the middle. “You may have noticed that I didn’t blast you when you came home.”

“Must have been the concussion. Or Lee,” Draco said, pressing a kiss to his forehead, right next to the scar. “I’m not taking any chances. I really don’t want you to Apparate me to Mungo’s while you’re concussed.”

Harry squeezed him, as if that were a punishment. It definitely wasn’t.

Chapter Text

If anybody could celebrate his birthday on a Thursday night, it was Blaise Zabini. What was more – people would actually attend. Rich, influential, beautiful people. Oh, and Draco was there too, which was probably Blaise’s greatest feat. But even Blaise’s power of persuasion seemed to have its limits. No matter what he’d offered, Harry had flat out refused to come as himself.

Which was why Draco was leaning against a wall next to a thirty-something blond guy wearing Harry’s emerald silk dress shirt, which didn’t bring out his eyes at all, because they were now a boring grey. Draco couldn’t even complain about it, because Ginny was standing on Harry’s other side, and they hadn’t exactly told anybody yet. Draco got the feeling that Harry hated being the centre of attention, even if it was his family.

“Don’t know why he has to invite all these people,” Ginny said under her breath while she took three Chocolate Snitches from a plate that floated by and handed one to each of them. “He doesn’t even like half of them.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” said Draco, unwrapping his Snitch and finding Sophia Grant, Seeker for Puddlemere, staring up at him. “They’re influential people, you’re not supposed to like them. You’re supposed to stroke their ego so they’ll do you favours later.”

“Disgusting,” said Harry, making no effort at all to keep his voice down. It was hard to tell if this was directed at Timothy McCarthy’s card in his hand or what Draco had said. “Oh no.”

And that was all the warning they got before Slughorn descended upon them not a second later.

“Miss Weasley!” Her hand was in his before either of them could do so much as blink, and then he was already performing an elaborate bow in front of her. “What a very nice surprise to see you here. But then again, I heard your liaised with dear Blaise, of course? A very good match, indeed. Though I must admit I was most saddened to hear that you and Harry separated.”

“Yeah, well,” said Ginny casually, gesturing with the card picturing herself. “Wasn’t meant to be. It was a long time ago and we’ve moved on, so no harm done, really.”

Slughorn laughed deeply. Several people turned around to look for the source, which was probably the effect Slughorn had wanted to achieve. Certainly couldn’t hurt to be seen laughing with Ginny Weasley, even if all she could muster was a half-hearted grin.

“Always telling it like it is,” Slughorn said with a chuckle. “Just the other day I told one of my students, Gwendolyn Worthington, how refreshing it is to talk to you. You might know her mother, Glenda Worthington? She’s lead-designer at Spudmore Brooms. Practically developed the Firebolt Gold single-handedly, you know.”

Draco exchanged a look with Harry, who also seemed to suspect where this was going.

“I didn’t know you were still teaching,” Ginny said, maybe to distract him from what he was preparing to ask.

Slughorn gave another booming laugh that turned heads. “Oh no, my dear girl. I really should stop calling them my students. I’m keeping a small club, you see? Just a small get-together once a month, an occasion for former and current students from various schools to socialise.”

Ginny nodded and emptied her drink, probably so she wouldn’t be forced to come up with a reaction.

“Sounds like a great opportunity for your students,” said Draco, because honestly, it was getting awkward just standing there and listening to their conversation.

Slughorn chuckled in his direction and then did a double take, like he only just recognised him. “Draco Malfoy, my dear boy! I’ve been meaning to write to you, you know? My congratulations on your recent appointment!”  

Draco knew that his surprise was written all over his face, not least of all because Harry was smirking at him like the bastard he was.

“Thank you,” he said, faking confidence as he took Slughorn’s offered hand and shook it.

“Oh, I’ve just had the most marvellous idea,” said Slughorn, boding ill. “You should both come to my next function. It will be ever so delightful. You simply must meet Amara Giordano. Her mother is Eloise Giordano –”

“– the inventor of the dragon pox vaccine?”

“The very one,” said Slughorn, apparently satisfied with Draco’s enthusiasm. “Amara is determined to follow in your footsteps, so to speak. She wants to become a Healer for the Italian National Team. I’m sure she would love a chance to talk to you.”

“I’ll be there,” Draco said eagerly.

Slughorn beamed at him. Harry and Ginny both looked at him in disbelief and (in Harry’s case) very thinly veiled disgust. They smoothed their expressions when Slughorn turned his attention to Ginny again.

“How about you, Miss Weasley? Miss Worthington would surely be delighted to meet you. She’s aspiring to play for England, you know? And she knows an awful lot about brooms, that’s for sure.”

“I’m really busy right now,” said Ginny vaguely, stepping on Draco’s foot as if by accident (which was a real feat, because Harry was still standing between them). “But I’ll see if I can make time. Just owl me the date.”

“Splendid!” Slughorn actually clapped his hands in delight. “Now all we’re missing is Harry! It’s just too bad he isn’t here. From what I’ve heard I was sure he would be!”

Draco glanced over at Harry, who had actually taken a casual step back when Slughorn had mentioned his name. He was glaring at Draco again, and Draco looked away quickly.

“What did you hear, Sir?”

“Oh ho ho,” chuckled Slughorn. “Of course this won’t be news to you, Draco. You see, I have heard that our dear Blaise has enlisted two star players to help with the development of his newest model.” Slughorn actually winked at Ginny at the last part.

“Well,” said Ginny non-committally, “Harry had plans already.”

“You don’t say,” said Slughorn, clearly interested. “You wouldn’t happen to know what kind of plans that are? A new girlfriend perhaps?”

If Slughorn heard Harry’s annoyed groan, he chose to ignore it. More likely was that he was simply ignoring Harry’s uninteresting person entirely.

Ginny shook her head instantly, probably used to this kind of questions by now. “He’s watching his godson, that’s all.”

“Ah well,” said Slughorn. “I wouldn’t tell anyone, of course. I only ask because I have the loveliest lady in mind, and I would be delighted if I could introduce them. But maybe one of you could extent my invitation to Harry? It’s strange, you know? Whenever I send an owl it seems to get lost.”

Both Ginny and Draco glanced at Harry, who simply shrugged as if to say ‘You do what you can’. Slughorn noticed none of this, focusing his attention on Ginny instead.

“Oh, well …” she said slowly, clearly in need of a good excuse and coming away empty-handed.

“I don’t know if that’s the most sensible idea,” Draco said. “What with Giordano there and all. His grandparents died of dragon pox, you see? It wouldn’t be very nice to remind him.” There, Harry could thank him later.

“Of course!” Slughorn seemed rather taken aback. “However could I forget? I knew Fleamont and Euphemia quite well, you know? We were at Hogwarts together. That was before Fleamont invented Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion, of course. We corresponded a great deal during the development stage, that much I can tell you. Fleamont was a gifted Potioneer, of course, but still always appreciative of my professional opinion. I was most saddened when I heard about their deaths. And within days of each other too.”

Draco turned to Harry to give him a winning grin, since it didn’t seem that Harry would have to turn up at Slughorn’s soiree.

Harry was gone.

Slughorn didn’t even seem to have noticed, but Ginny kept glancing to the left, eyebrows drawn together. Draco nearly went after him and only just caught himself at the last second. That would simply be way too suspicious.

“Excuse me,” said Ginny, and then she followed after Harry.

Slughorn seemed disappointed. “A friend of yours?”

Draco merely shrugged, preoccupied with figuring out what had gone wrong just now.

“Not very talkative, is he?” As if Slughorn had even tried talking to him. “Lacks some manners, too.”

“Don’t we all?” said Draco absentmindedly, eyes following Harry and Ginny until they disappeared into the hallway.

Slughorn laughed way too loudly. “My dear boy, I’m sure your manners are much better than most people’s. Although I do seem to recall an instance quite a few years back, when you tried to sneak into one of my Christmas parties.”

Draco refrained from telling him that he had actually been trying to sneak into the Room of Requirement to work on his murder plot. These kinds of revelations usually dampened the mood. “Please, Sir, don’t remind me.”

“No need to be embarrassed, Draco. It’s always nice to know that people enjoy my parties. And you’re quite welcome to attend as many of my parties as you’d like.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

And then Ginny was back, shoulders set tightly and the Harpies’ Seeker in tow. “Sorry, Professor, I’ve got to borrow Draco for a bit. But I’ve been told you haven’t met Georgina Thompson yet?”

She grabbed Draco’s arm before Slughorn even finished saying, “I haven’t had the pleasure yet,” and dragged him towards the door.

“I don’t appreciate being hauled away like this,” Draco said cooly.

Her grip on his upper arm tightened. “Well, then maybe try not to upset Harry next time!”

“Me? What did I do?”

“He didn’t tell me. He never tells anybody; he likes sulking way too much.”

“So how do you know it’s my fault?”

“I asked him if it was something Slughorn said and he said no; so that only leaves you, because I didn’t say anything.”

They were nearly at the door now. “And now you want me to do what?”

Ginny breathed out heavily. “Fix it, I don’t know.”

“How do you expect me to fix it if he won’t say what’s gotten his knickers in a twist?”

“He responds to being insulted, so you shouldn’t have any difficulties.”

And then she pushed him through the door and shut it behind him. Harry was leaning against a wall, arms crossed tightly. He only raised his eyebrows at Draco, but didn’t say anything.

“So, Ginny said you were sulking. Want to tell me what that’s about?”

Harry opened his mouth in outrage. It somehow looked less impressive with the glamour. “I’m not sulking!”

“Right,” said Draco, pointing at him, “because that’s your party face.”

“Fuck you, Malfoy.”

“Original. So what, did you want to go to Slughorn’s stupid party?”

“You think that’s what this is about?”

“Well, quite frankly, I wouldn’t know, because you keep bitching at me instead of talking about it like the fucking adult you’re supposed to be.”

“Just fuck off.” Harry kicked off the wall and made for the door, but Draco stepped into his way before he could reach it. Harry’s wand slipped into his hand instantly. “Let me go.”

“Then what? Two weeks? That’s gonna be it?”

Harry gritted his teeth. “I’m not going to talk about that here.”

“No, you’d rather run away and sulk some more.”

For a moment Draco thought Harry was going to hex him, but then his hand was around his arm instead and they Apparated with a massive CRACK that must’ve been audible throughout the whole house.

~o~

Harry took off his glamour as soon as they arrived at his house. Draco threw his cloak at the wardrobe, not caring if it stayed there. Those three fucking jumps hadn’t brightened his mood and he was also more interested in finding out if he still had a relationship. Seventeen days – that had to be a new record.

“Hey!” Potter exclaimed angrily. He snatched Draco’s cloak from the leftmost hook and threw it at his head forcefully. He was definitely still in a bad mood.

“What’s your fucking problem, Malfoy?!”

“My problem? You’re one to talk, Potter! Stop throwing stuff at me!” Draco yelled back. “Maybe we should finally talk about your problems! You seem to have a lot of them!”

“You’re my problem!” Potter yelled even louder. “You’re a fucking slob!”

“I’m just not as obsessed as you! What difference does it make whether my cloak is on the left, right or middle hook?!”

Draco motioned to hang his cloak back on the left hook – the one closest to the door and therefore reserved for Harry’s Invisibility Cloak – out of spite.

He was vaguely aware that they were leaving the original argument behind completely, but he didn’t care as long as they were screaming at each other. Better this than that passive-aggressive bullshit.

“A huge one!” Potter snarled, seizing his wrist before he could reach the wardrobe.

“That so?!” Draco said angrily, pushing Potter away with his free hand, hard. “Please, enlighten me! Will the wardrobe collapse? Will the house burn down? Will someone die because of my cloak?”

“They might!” Harry exploded, grabbing him by the shoulders and slamming his back against the door so hard it rattled in its frame.

They were both panting, staring at each other. Harry looked as if he would give anything to be able to take it back. Draco felt like he’d just got slapped in the face. Draco’s cloak was now on the floor, which meant he must have let go of it at some point.

“What do you mean?” he asked as softly as somebody who had just been bodyslammed by their maybe-still-boyfriend could muster (not very).

“Never mind,” Harry said brusquely, letting go of him immediately. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No, I didn’t. Why would I? That’s absurd!”

“Because you’ve been at war for so long, you don’t even know how to be at peace anymore,” Draco said harshly. “You’re still waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Harry looked at him, crestfallen. Then he turned around abruptly, storming up the stairs two steps at a time. Draco followed after him immediately and grabbed his hand as soon as he caught up to him in front of the bedroom.

“Listen.”

Harry regarded him with a hard look. “What do you know about me?”

Draco took a deep breath. Here they went.

“You hold on to a house you hate. You can hardly sleep without knocking yourself out first. But you can’t really do that either, because then you’d be easy prey. You’re paranoid as fuck. Nobody’s after you anymore, but you’re still on the run.”

Harry’s voice was trembling with rage. “You don’t know who’s out there!”

“You’re right, I don’t! Because it’s not You-Know-Who. Nobody is out to get you, Harry. Not anymore.”

“So what, did I imagine getting fucking poisoned?”

Shit. So maybe Draco had forgotten all about that. Not that it hadn’t been horrible, but Harry was acting so insane sometimes that it was rather hard to see that maybe a small fraction of it was actually justified.

Draco shook his head to try and clear his thoughts. His free hand was clenched into a fist, and he forced himself to release it. The scar left by the Dark Mark itched horribly and Draco was glad that his other hand was occupied and he couldn’t just rub it automatically. If he couldn’t stay calm, how could he expect Harry to do it?

Merlin, Draco didn’t know what to say. He was afraid that anything he said would just make it worse, but the longer he hesitated, the less believable his words would become.

“There’s a line. Yes, you should be mindful out there, when there are people you don’t know or trust. Do your three jumps, if you must. But in here? You don’t need a designated spot for everything. What do you think could happen? Nobody’s going to get in and go through your stuff.”

Draco briefly debated telling him that hypothetical intruders would actually have an easier time covering up their tracks when everything was neat and tidy, because every little alteration would be obvious. But he doubted that it would help. It wasn’t like Draco actually expected people to get in, so there was no need for even more defence.

And who knew what else Harry would come up with if he realised his method had flaws? Maybe he’d go over to purposeful messiness and start photographing everything before he left the house. And comparing those with the state of the house when he came back would literally take hours.

“What’s so bad about being cautious?” Harry asked defiantly. “I’m not hurting anyone.”

“Yes, you are! You can’t keep going like this. You’re not cautious, you’re completely obsessed! You’re safe here.”

Draco was overstepping; he knew. They weren’t even together for three whole weeks – it wasn’t Draco’s place to put him on the spot like that. When had he started to act before he thought?

“I don’t know … they got in before.” Harry shot a look at number twelve across the street.

Well, it was too late to change course now. Malfoys didn’t do things by halves. If he started doing that, he had already lost.

“I promise you they won’t,” Draco said, pulling Harry closer by the hand he was still holding. “Just try not to worry too much. You survived.”

There was no humour in Harry’s burst of laughter. “Sure, I’ll just ‘not worry’, then. No big,” he said harshly. “This is all obviously just one very big mistake waiting to be corrected, but I’ll just not worry about it. I shouldn’t be here. I should be dead ten times over. But I won’t worry.”

“Fuck that!” Draco grabbed both his shoulders and slammed him against the bedroom door, just like Harry had done to him downstairs; he just couldn’t help it. Soft words obviously would do nothing here. Fuck staying calm.

The words had barely left his mouth when Harry brought up both arms in between Draco’s, slammed his elbows back down into the crook of Draco’s arms, breaking Draco’s grip on him, and then grabbed one of his arms, twisted it onto his back and pressed him against the door face first – all in under three seconds.

Harry’s voice was just a low growl against Draco’s shoulder. “Don’t ever do that again!”

Draco struggled some, but all it did was twist his arm even further, and he stopped after just a few seconds, deciding to growl back instead, even if his face was squashed against the door. “You’re not going to fucking die!”

“You keep saying that like that makes it true!”

Now Draco was yelling, and that definitely wasn’t helping either. “It’s been six years! You fucking killed him! You-Know-Who’s dead!”

And Harry yelled back, completely in a rage now, the rigid line of his body pressed against Draco’s, “You want me to stop worrying when you can’t even say his fucking name?!”

Draco opened his mouth, fully prepared to just say it, scream it back into Harry’s metaphorical face – and nothing happened. The words never even made it across his tongue, dying somewhere in his throat and producing just a low whine.

“Just fucking say it!” Harry yelled desperately, and his voice broke too. “VOLDEMORT!”

Draco took a heaving breath, and his chest felt too tight, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think. All he could do was whisper, “I can’t.” His eyes were burning and he fought desperately to keep it together.

But then Harry let go of his arm, slung his arms underneath Draco’s and across his chest, buried his face between his shoulder blades. He was shaking and something hot and wet blossomed at Draco’s back. And then Draco couldn’t hold back his own tears either.

Merlin, why did they have to be so fucked up?

It took several minutes until Harry stopped shaking, until Draco felt like he could breathe again. Harry released him hesitantly, stepping away to give him space to turn around and look at him. He looked just as pathetic as Draco felt.

“We won’t stay this messed up forever. We can do it. I know we can.” Draco said quietly. “Just at least try to relax a little. Maybe let your friends help from time to time. You don’t have to pretend to be strong all the time. Nobody expects that from you.”

Harry just growled silently, breathing unsteadily. At least he did not argue anymore or deny there was something that needed working on.

“You should, however, keep on Samantha. Your fans are barmy,” Draco muttered and Harry laughed shakily.

“This is really embarrassing,” Harry said, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his dress shirt before Draco could stop him.

“Don’t!” Draco groaned. “That’s Hawtrey and Humphreys.”

That certainly seemed to take Harry’s mind off things. He gave him a look that Draco couldn’t read and then started to unbutton it. “So … you want me to take it off?”

Well, if that wasn’t a rather unexpected turn of events. But Draco would take it. Anything to move forward from this absolute disaster.

Draco scoffed. “Nice try, Potter. You still haven’t told me what pissed you off so much in the first place.”

“Are you sure you want to talk about that right now?”

Harry stretched out a hand, but instead of touching Draco, he pushed open the door behind him. He opened another button with the other hand at the same time. Draco forgot all about whatever they had just been talking about. And then Harry grinned at him, eyes still a little red but also the most beautiful thing Draco had ever seen, and Draco couldn’t help but close the gap and kiss him, helping him take off that stupid shirt at the same time.

And then Harry’s hands were on his chest and he was being pushed backwards into the room until his legs hit the bed, and then Harry grinned into the kiss and pushed.

Draco only protested a little bit when Harry threw the shirt in a laundry bin – didn’t he know that designer shirts couldn’t just be washed? He didn’t protest at all when Harry placed a knee on either side of Draco and started to undo his shirt. He didn’t get a chance to take it off, because then Draco pulled him as close as possible and kissed him again, maybe a little bit too roughly.

“Am I fucking it up right now?” Harry whispered in between kissing and taking hasty breaths.

“Are you … what the fuck, Potter?” Draco pushed him away just an inch so he could look into his eyes. “This the opposite of fucking it up.”

“Okay, good,” mumbled Harry, and then they were kissing again. “I honestly have no idea what I’m doing. I’ve never been serious with a guy before.”

“Less talking,” whispered Draco, hands spreading all over his chest. Merlin, this was almost too much. He felt like his heart could give out any moment now and it wouldn’t even come as a surprise.

“I just don’t want to rush it,” Harry muttered regardless, struggling with one of Draco’s shirt buttons. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

“Yes, Merlin,” Draco whispered. “Now shut up.”

And then he made him by pushing him onto his back and kissing his neck and collarbone, which seemed to render Harry utterly speechless.

They kept clinging to each other tightly, so much so that Draco was amazed that they managed to take off their trousers at all. He didn’t even get the chance to take off his shirt (not that it mattered, since it wasn’t Hawtrey and Humphreys) before they were really going at it, and then he instantly forgot about it.

Harry stayed on top of him afterwards, stroking his sides lazily. Draco was sure that he would doze off any moment now, when his hand trailed off underneath Draco’s open shirt and brushed over one of his scars. They were barely noticeable, but still there.

It was a disaster. Of course it was, because what else could have happened on a fucking wreck of a day like this?

Harry went completely still above him, his hand pressed to Draco’s chest.

“Don’t,” Draco muttered desperately, just so damn tired of the constant flow of drama. Just when things were starting to go right again.

Harry looked up at him, mouth open in shock and green eyes wide. And – without meaning to – Draco fell in. Maybe it was because they had just been together, because the lines were still blurred. In this moment, Draco couldn’t quite tell where he ended and Harry began and he saw … everything.

There they were, standing beside one another inside Madam Malkin’s and Draco was mocking Hagrid. This couldn’t be his own memory, because Draco hadn’t even realised until now that this – and not their meeting on the Hogwarts Express – had been their first encounter.

And suddenly he saw himself, sitting in the common room and telling Crabbe and Goyle that he was hoping Granger would be the one to die by Slytherin’s monster. But where had Potter (he hadn’t been ‘Harry’ back then) been at that time? He wasn’t there with them, so where did this memory come from?

His arm was bandaged and he was making Potter and Weasley do his preparations in Potions.

He was laughing about that Hippogriff’s impending death and Granger was punching him in the face.

He was lying in a heap on the edge of the Quidditch pitch, tangled with Crabbe, Goyle and Flint while McGonagall was yelling at them furiously.

He was attacking Potter, who had turned his back on him, and suddenly there was Moody, turning him into a ferret, bashing him against the floor and ceiling over and over again.

He was in the dungeons, wearing a glowing, bright green badge, and Granger was hit by his spell, causing her teeth to grow rapidly.

He was tripping Potter, who was leaving the Room of Requirement at a sprint.

He was in Umbridge’s office, watching her threaten Potter with a fucking Unforgiveable Curse while he held on to Potter’s wand, a hungry look in his eyes.

He was talking to Borgin about the Vanishing Cabinet, threatening him with the Mark and Greyback. But again, Potter was nowhere to be seen. And why did it seem that he was looking at himself through a silvery veil?

He was in their compartment on the way to school, boasting about the job He had given him. How naive he had been back then, how stupid, thinking himself important, honoured to have been given such an important task by the Dark Lord himself. He noticed the silvery tint again and it dawned on him that Potter had been invisible then. The Cloak must have been shrouding his view.

He was petrifying Potter and breaking his nose, then covering him with the Invisibility Cloak again.

Potter was lying on his bed in Gryffindor Tower, staring at a parchment obsessively while Weasley was shooting him worried glances. How much time had he spent in front of that map?

Katie Bell was suspended in air, screaming like somebody was using the Cruciatus on her, and Draco’s stomach turned violently.

Weasley was twitching on the floor, foaming at the mouth, while Slughorn stood by uselessly and Potter ravaged his potions kit.

The sixth-floor corridor, over and over and over again, shrouded in silver. The only ones there were Crabbe and Goyle, polyjuiced, and the occasional passer-by.

And then there it was, at last. Potter was entering the sixth-floor boys’ bathroom, where Draco stood at the sink, a nervous wreck. Was it shock that showed on Potter’s face when he saw him there? They were looking at each other in the mirror, his own face contorting furiously. Draco was attacking, Potter defending himself.

“Crucio!” Draco was yelling and Potter was dodging and yelling, “Sectumsempra!”

And it was hitting him square in the chest, slicing him open. And his blood was mingling with the water from a smashed sink, painting the floor red where he was lying, while Potter was dropping to the ground beside him, horror in his eyes.

And Draco believed he hadn’t known what the curse would do. He looked at himself impassively. Potter hadn’t known, but Draco had. He had tried to use an Unforgiveable Curse on him, for what? Seeing him in a weak moment? Spying on him?

He squeezed his eyes shut and the connection was broken. He could feel Harry collapse onto the bed next to him.

Draco’s heart was racing and his mind was spinning fast. What had they been thinking? That they could forget everything that had happened between them? That their past didn’t matter because they weren’t trying to kill each other any longer?

They had managed to deceive themselves for a while but here they were. Harry had remembered why he hated him and Draco couldn’t blame him.

He got up slowly and put on his pants and trousers. When he turned to face the bed, Harry was looking at him.

“Did you see –?”

“Yes. I didn’t mean to ... Don’t worry, I won’t come back,” Draco said, taking his wand and leaving the bedroom.

He was already at the stairs when he heard Harry yelling “Draco!” and scampering after him.

He kept going, but then Harry said, “Malfoy,” and he stopped dead in his tracks.

They stood in the hallway, looking at each other, not saying anything. Harry was wearing his pants and nothing else and he looked small and unsteady. Finally, Harry crossed the space between them and took his wrist.

“Come on, I’ll show you the rest.”

“The rest? I don’t think I need to see any more of my greatest hits,” Draco said sombrely, but he stayed nonetheless. They were standing underneath the massive snake sigil in the ceiling, just in front of the sitting room.

Somewhere, a clock struck midnight and Harry looked up at the two entwined serpents.

And then he hissed at them and they opened their eyes simultaneously, uncoiling and slithering down to the floor, one of them twisting to form a staircase and the other a railing, finally going still again.

Chapter Text

The attic was dimly lit by a silver light that Draco mistook for moonshine at first. Then he realised that there weren’t any windows and the light was coming from a stone basin that was placed on a small pillar in the middle of the room.

He went over there slowly, closely followed by Harry, who may have been expecting him to turn tail and make a run for it.

“A Pensieve.” Draco’s voice sounded hollow even to him. “I don’t think I want to see.”

Harry’s eyes were gluing him to the spot. “Come on. You only saw half of it. The part where I try to justify what I did.”

“I tried to Crucio you.” Draco couldn’t meet his eyes any longer, so he studied the runes around the Pensieve instead. He’d taken Ancient Runes at Hogwarts, but Draco had a hard time concentration on them now.

“I know. Believe me, I’ve thought about it a lot over the years.”

Before Draco could protest again, Harry placed his hands at opposite sides of the Pensieve. The surface swirled and then cleared to reveal a memory.

Slughorn’s Christmas party, and Draco had just been caught by Filch on his way to the Room of Requirement. Harry was watching the action unfold, eyes trained on Draco. His eyebrows were knit together, like he was trying to figure Draco out. Merlin, had he really looked that sickly? He didn’t have time to think about it, because then Pensieve-Harry followed them – him and Snape – to eavesdrop.

Draco turned to face Harry, raising an eyebrow. Harry just shrugged unapologetically and looked back into the Pensieve, which was currently changing memories.

Pensieve-Harry was watching him – in class (eyeing him from head to toe over the top of his book), in the corridors (barely listening to Granger and Weasley, who were practically dragging him along), in the Great Hall (picking at his food without once looking down at his plate). What was more – he seemed to have been stalking him. Pensieve-Harry checked his Map and then went running.

“Oh, yeah, no,” the real Harry muttered, waving at the Pensieve to change the memory again. “That wasn’t important, just forget that part.”

Pensieve-Harry reappeared in a bathroom. It wasn’t that memory yet – he was in the company of Weasley and Moaning Myrtle, who told them about a boy who came there to cry his eyes out because he felt lonely and forsaken.

Draco closed his eyes in shame, and when he opened them again, it was time – Draco stood at the sink, crying in despair, telling Myrtle about how he would be killed if his plan failed. Draco’s heart clenched painfully at the memory. Pensieve-Harry seemed to have similar feelings. He certainly wasn’t basking in Draco’s misery.

Draco was afraid he’d have to watch himself attack Harry again, but the Pensieve skipped right over it.

The tower. Draco recognised the silvery veil of Harry’s Invisibility Cloak and closed his eyes again. He didn’t want to watch it again, the culmination of his shame. He didn’t want to know that Harry had witnessed it.

Harry bumped his shoulder lightly. His voice was very gentle. “You didn’t do it. You never could’ve done it.”

Draco just shook his head. He felt Harry wave his hand at the Pensieve before it could get to the really miserable part.

There was a heavy thud, and Draco’s eyes flew open. Pensieve-Harry had fallen to his knees in a bathroom, clutching his head in apparent agony. The Pensieve swirled violently, flickered and then showed a terrified Draco standing over Rowle with his wand pointed down at him, the Dark Lord right beside him. Draco recognised that one in an instant because he still dreamt about it regularly.

“How?” he breathed.

Merlin, no. Draco wanted to forget that had ever happened. He didn’t want Harry to know. The scar on his arm itched horribly, and Draco rubbed at it with the knuckles of his right hand.

“Doesn’t matter.”

Draco thought Harry was going to ruffle his hair, but then he touched his scar instead. He didn’t seem to want to explain.

The next memory was definitely one Harry had been there for, even if he hadn’t looked like himself at the time. He had been overgrown and underfed, his clothes tattered and dirty, face completely swollen.

Draco had recognised him in an instant. And still he watched himself beat around the bush as if he hadn’t, not even fully acknowledging Granger and Weasley, even though their faces weren’t disfigured at all.

Harry skipped over the next part, lips tightly pressed together, and only watched briefly as his past self snatched the wands from Pensieve-Draco’s grip. “Too easy,” he muttered.

Draco wasn’t sure if this was still about showing Draco or about convincing himself.

The next memory came as a total surprise, as neither Harry nor Draco were in it. It showed Snape and Dumbledore in the Headmaster’s office instead.

“The Dark Lord does not expect Draco to succeed,” Snape said morosely. “This is merely punishment for Lucius’s recent failures. Slow torture for Draco’s parents, while they watch him fail and pay the price.”

“In short, the boy has had a death sentence pronounced upon him as surely as I have,” said Dumbledore.

The contents of the Pensieve swirled once and then settled on Snape and Dumbledore in his office again, though it seemed to be another night.

“I thought … all these years … that we were protecting him for her.” Snape paused to gather himself. “For Lily.”

So, this wasn’t about Draco anymore, but Harry. Draco wondered why Harry was showing him this.

Dumbledore’s eyes were closed, as if to shut himself away from the accusation in Snape’s voice. It seemed that he himself didn’t like what he was going to say.

“We have protected him because it has been essential to teach him, to raise him, to let him try his strength. Meanwhile, the connection between them grows ever stronger, a parasitic growth: Sometimes I have thought he suspects it himself. If I know him, he will have arranged matters so that when he does set out to meet his death, it will truly mean the end of Voldemort.”

Draco and Harry looked at each other, a kind of understanding passing between them.

They were two sides of the same coin – on opposite sides of the war, but both used by men who were more powerful, more calculating than them. Both of them had been set on a path to die on, and somehow still managed to live.

“This is the last one,” Harry said tonelessly as the scene vanished.

The surface of the Pensieve neither reformed nor turned into its misty form, but went black instead.

“The boy … Is he dead?”

A cold shiver ran down Draco’s back, and he grabbed Harry’s wrist without thinking about it. It was icy, almost deadly cold, but Draco held onto it where it was resting against the Pensieve.

“You.” There was a bang and Draco heard the unmistakeable sound of his mother shrieking in pain. He certainly knew what that sounded like. “Examine him. Tell me whether he is dead.”

There was silence for a few seconds, then: “Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?” It was barely a whisper.

“Yes.” Harry’s voice.

“He is dead!”

Harry let go of the Pensieve as the cheers started, and the surface turned silver and smooth again. Draco didn’t let go of his hand.

“Figures that you would have a Pensieve,” Draco muttered, unable to voice the million other thoughts that were racing through his head.

“It was Dumbledore’s,” Harry said thoughtfully, tracing one of the runes.

“Dumbledore left you his Pensieve?”

“Not exactly …” Harry was biting his lip and avoiding his eyes.

“You stole it?” Draco was aware that he sounded way too excited and definitely not appalled enough. Merlin, anything to keep from thinking about the things he had seen in the last ten minutes.

“There are some pretty dangerous memories in there! I couldn’t just leave them.”

Draco’s eyes flitted over to the Pensieve automatically.

“I showed you parts of them,” Harry said with a warning undertone. “I’m not going to show you any more. Knowing too much about this stuff is usually a sure-fire way to get yourself killed. I don’t especially want you to get murdered.”

Now Draco did let go of him and took a step back. “Why not? I did horrible things.” There wasn’t much emotion in his voice, or else he wouldn’t have been able to talk at all.

“Draco …” Harry said his name softly, but then he took a deep breath and continued in much more tense voice. “I made them keep Snape’s portrait at Hogwarts, and he was at least partially responsible for my parents’ death. He took out his bitterness on literal children. He outed Remus purely out of spite. He wouldn’t have cared if the dementors had gotten Sirius even if he was innocent. If I can find it in me to do that for him, I sure as hell can for you. I’m not saying that all of what you did was justified, but I know not all of it was done of your free will. And you’ve done so many good things since the war.”

Draco didn’t know where to look, what to say. He wanted to be forgiven so badly, to be told that there was hope for him, but he didn’t know if it was possible. But then Harry took his hand and Draco looked into his eyes after all, and found nothing but sincerity there. He felt some of the tension leave his body and gave Harry a very weak smile.

“Let’s get some sleep. I don’t want to see you at Mungo’s tomorrow because you dozed off on your broom.”

He climbed down the stairs without looking back at the Pensieve. Harry was right behind him and closed the trapdoor with a hissed command. It was a relief to be away from that place, and even more so knowing that there was an unbreakable barrier between himself and the memories.

Draco had no desire to discuss what they had seen. That look had been enough for him.

Harry seemed to think so too, because he didn’t address what had happened but grabbed Draco around the middle instead. Then he carried him into the bedroom, practically throwing him onto the bed.

“Just in case you’re still planning to bail on me,” he said with a grin.

Draco kicked off his trousers and opened his arms. Harry snuggled up to him and then killed all the lights with a wave of his hand, safe for the golden orb on his bedside table.

If he thought he would get out of it that easily, Harry was sorely mistaken.

“So what, are you gonna tell me now? What I said at the party that ticked you off.”

Harry groaned and tightened his arms around Draco. “It’s really stupid.”

“Yes, I’m aware.”

Harry pinched his side. Then he angled his head downwards, so Draco couldn’t see his face anymore. “Alright ... God, it’s really stupid. Fuck. Okay ... So …” A deep breath. “I was annoyed about the thing with my grandparents.”

Well, this certainly wasn’t what Draco had expected. He chose his next words carefully. “So … you were afraid people would know we’re seeing each other because I know about your family? Don’t worry; everybody knows what happened to them. They were very well known.”

Harry breathed out heavily and looked up at him after all. There was defiance in his eyes. “I didn’t. Nobody ever told me how they died. There are all these people who know all about my family and they just – they just always assume I know too. And I just don’t! I don’t know shit. Slughorn never even told me that he knew my grandparents. And then he turns around and uses them to impress random people.”

Now it was Draco’s turn to pinch Harry. “Did you just call me random?”

“I’m calling myself random, you bloody moron! He didn’t know it was me he was telling all that stuff. I could be working for Witch Weekly for all he knows.”

“That’s fair. So why did you tell Ginny that you weren’t upset because of Slughorn?”

Harry sighed. “I don’t know. I was just angry. Guess I did expect something like that from him. Didn’t expect you to bring them up.”

Draco mulled it over for a few seconds. Then he said, carefully, “Would you like me to tell you about them? I know about all the ancient families, not just the Sacred Twenty-Eight.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just call them that. ‘Sacred’, my arse.” Harry rearranged his head upon Draco’s chest before he continued, “What I want is for you to pretend the party never happened.”

“Fine,” Draco said, pressing a kiss to Harry’s forehead.

Draco had almost drifted off to sleep when he had a sudden epiphany. He poked Harry’s shoulders urgently.

“I told you I saw the snakes move.”

Harry growled sleepily. “Yeah, I know. Shut up.”

“You’re so extra, with your secret lair and all.” Draco kissed the top of his head, even if it undermined his own point. “So, what else was I secretly right about?”

Harry shut him up with a kiss, and that was almost as nice as being right.

Chapter Text

It was Father’s fifty-first birthday and Draco was sitting on the floor.

These two things had nothing to do with each other, of course – that would have been absurd. Nobody had ever sat on the floor of Malfoy Manor in its nine hundred years of existence – except for the dungeons maybe (but Draco was trying very hard to forget about those). Besides, he hadn’t talked to or heard from his parents in the past four years. He certainly wasn’t welcome to just stop by.

He was sitting on the floor because Ella and Callum’s flat was chock-full of people and he had run late at the hospital. Harry had already been there – sandwiched between Ella and Olivia on The Best Couch – and just thrown a cushion at him when he came in. Draco had taken the last free spot, the one at Olivia’s feet and next to Hermione, who was sitting in front of Harry. Still better than enduring The Couch.

Hermione smiled as she handed him some popcorn in a paper bag. Two hands landed on his shoulder, and when Draco put his head back, he saw Olivia frowning down at him.

“Wow, you’re tense.” She started kneading his shoulders as Callum inserted the disc in his movie machine. “Have you thought about picking up yoga?”

“Kickboxing is also a great way to de-stress.” Lauren, who was sitting next to Olivia, punched his shoulder in emphasis.

“Forget it!” Oliva leaned forward and slung her arms around Draco’s neck, as if to claim him. “You’ve got Harry already, so I get Draco.”

“Silence!” Ella ordered. “It’s time to educate our clueless friends by showing them another classic – The Matrix.”

“When have you ever shut up during a movie?” Lauren tossed some popcorn at her, which got intercepted by Harry’s mouth.

“Yeah, look who’s talking!” he said while chewing. “Literally.”

“I’m an expert, which makes my commentary additional information.” Ella pressed a button and the movie started. “You’re welcome.”

The Matrix was wildly different from Mean Girls and Draco understood it even less than The Incredibles. He looked over at the other Pure-bloods from time to time, to see how they were holding up. It seemed that they had received some crucial information in the years before he had joined their group, because they seemed to be following the overall narrative. Only Ron seemed just as clueless as he was. His mouth stood open in confusion and his eyes glazed over a good fifteen minutes in.

“Well?” asked Ella as the screen turned black. “Wasn’t it great?”

“That was the loudest movie I’ve ever watched,” Draco said to get his involvement in the conversation out of the way. Harry snorted, for which Hermione put her hand on his foot discreetly and pressed down. Harry pulled his foot away and shut his mouth.

“I liked The Terminator better,” Dean Thomas said, munching on some popcorn.

“Well, then you’re an idiot,” Ella commented drily. “Luna tell your boyfriend that he’s nuts.”

“Oh, Dean and I broke up,” Luna said lightly, smiling at Dean, who was sitting right beside her. Several people made noises of protest and disbelief.

“It’s alright.” Dean sounded sincere. “We’ve been talking about it for a while. We want different things in life – that’s just the way it is.”

“But somebody here has good news.” Luna looked surprised, like she only came to know it as she said it.

She looked around, her eyes as big as two silvery moons. They caught on Draco for a second and then came to rest somewhere next to him. He could feel his stomach drop. Hermione shifted at his side and Draco just knew that Luna was staring at Harry behind her. So much for waiting to see if they worked out before telling people.

He turned his head to look at Harry, who seemed to be petrified. Olivia squeezed Draco’s shoulder lightly, maybe because she’d felt him tense up.

“Er … well …” said Harry.

“We’re having a baby!” Hermione burst out.

There was a second of silence during which Draco tried to understand how Harry and Hermione could possibly be having a baby. Then she took Ron’s hand, who beamed at her and kissed the top of her head, and Draco was glad he’d held his tongue.

Then everybody was talking at once and getting to their feet. They were shouting congratulations, hugging Hermione, Ron and each other as well. Harry had managed to get a hold of both Hermione and Ron at once, and crushed them in his arms simultaneously. Then he let go and turned around to hug the person closest to him, which happened to be Draco.

Their eyes met and then, before Draco could protest – people were right there! – Harry’s hand was on his neck and his lips on Draco’s. He tasted like popcorn and lemonade and happiness. Draco buried his fingers in Harry’s curls, not yet sure if he wanted to pull him closer or pull his hair for making such a scene in front of practically everybody they knew.

People seemed to have noticed, because the noise picked up a notch, though Draco wouldn’t have thought it possible. Somebody downstairs pounded against the ceiling – Draco could feel it in his feet.

Now Draco really did push Harry away, but then Olivia threw her arms around them and squished them back together. Harry protested feebly, even though he had just subjected his best friends to the same treatment and Draco to far worse.

“I think I just had a déjà vu,” Ginny commented, looking over at Dean, who laughed.

“When did that happen?!” Olivia half-screamed, grabbing Lauren’s arm and shaking her in excitement. Lauren just looked at her fondly.

Harry squeezed Draco’s hand, a guilty expression on his face. His own hand was almost warm, which was a clear sign that he too was probably a little embarrassed to be the centre of attention. Well, that definitely was on him.

“A good month and a half ago? But enough about that!” Harry freed himself and turned to look at Hermione, who was beaming at him. “Hermione, when did that happen?”

“About four weeks ago,” Ron said proudly.

“Alright, order!” Lauren called above the noise. The neighbour pounded the ceiling again, but to no avail. She pulled a tiny phone out of her pocket and checked something.

Olivia looked over her shoulder and grinned. “Oooh, I almost feel bad for you all,” she giggled.

“Let’s see. The child will most likely be there in November. That’s fifteen pounds from Ginny, Harry, Neville and Callum. Dean, Luna and Ella: five pounds each. Pay up!”

Olivia and Lauren exchanged triumphant looks as the others scoured their pockets for some money. Hermione looked at Harry, both eyebrows raised expertly.

“You placed bets on our child?”

“That was ages ago!” Harry tried to justify his involvement.

Hermione seemed unimpressed. “You mean back when we were much younger and probably not ready for a baby?”

“Er –” Harry said, ruffling his hair. “Peer pressure?”

Hermione exchanged a look with Draco (who was apparently the only one who’d been as clueless as the happy couple) that clearly said ‘Can you believe him?’ Right now, Draco could not.

Lauren collected the money and then split it between Hannah, Olivia and herself. Then she took out her phone again.

“Alright, moving on to the next item on our agenda.”

Harry paused his attempt at squeezing his wallet back into his jeans pocket. His eyes darted around in a very confused manner. “There aren’t any more active bets.”

Lauren ignored him. “Blaise, looks like you robbed us blind. That’s ten pounds each. Except for you, Ginny – October 2007, really? Blaise gets fifty pounds from you. Everybody, pay the man.”

Ginny just shrugged and tossed Blaise her wallet. “It did seem pretty hopeless for some time there.”

“Hey!” Harry protested. Then he turned suddenly, fixing Hermione (who had tried to slip Blaise her wager unnoticed) with an imitation of the look she had given him. “Hypocrite.”

“Oh Harry, I don’t see any harm in betting on something that makes you happy.”

Harry huffed in frustration. “Fine. I want to change my earlier answer to this as well.”

Hermione patted his arm and said “Sure. So, what was your bet?”

“What was your bet?” Harry was trying to see how much deviance was acceptable, which was probably smart, but not what Draco was interested in.

“When did you bet on this?”

“December 25^th, around five in the morning.” Lauren winked at him. “Right before we hauled your cute butts all the way to our place.”

Draco refrained from checking out his butt and focused on the important things instead. Like how they’d apparently been waiting to sell Harry off to the next best candidate. “You’d only just met me then!”

“Yeah, but we wanted to keep you!” Olivia said like the sweetheart she was.

“Also, you were both really drunk,” Callum added. “And it was kind of obvious.”

Blaise was stuffing a wad of cash into his wallet and managed to look at them reproachfully at the same time. “I can’t believe you kept it secret for a whole month. Well, not you, Draco, you’re a Slytherin, but Harry is usually really easy to read.”

“Slithering?”

“Inside joke from boarding school. Means that Draco’s a reserved, calculating bastard,” Harry explained with a sly grin in his direction. Then he added, “I’m not ‘easy to read’!”

Absolutely everybody laughed at that, so Harry crossed his arms in front of his chest and huffed.

~o~

“Shorry.”

Draco raised his eyebrows at Harry’s reflection in the bathroom mirror and spat out his mouth full of toothpaste before answering (because he had manners and didn’t subject others to his foamy face while talking to them).

“Well, I honestly don’t know what I expected of you.”

Harry sighed and spat out too. He did absolutely nothing about the toothpaste running down his forearm. “I’m sorry. We should’ve talked about it before I told people.”

“Told?” Draco’s laughter sounded just a bit hysterical. “If only you had used your words.”

Now Harry was frowning too. He broke eye contact in the mirror and turned to face him for real. “Wait, so you’re not mad because they know?”

“You’re dripping on my floor,” said Draco calmly. Then, when Harry looked down to watch the dripple of toothpaste, he added, “I am displeased because you made a scene. That was highly inappropriate.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Harry crossed his arms, smearing toothpaste all across his stomach. “I can’t kiss you in front of our friends?”

Draco shook his head, even though his mind was drifting already. The streak of toothpaste was now underlining one of Harry’s delicately toned abs, the white line in glowing contrast with his warm skin, and Draco had serious trouble looking away.

“My eyes are up here, you know.”

Draco looked up at once. Harry was grinning at him, so Draco rolled his eyes and turned back around to rinse his mouth. “No kissing in public,” he said resolutely. “It’s simply not proper.”

“Proper?” The corners of Harry’s mouth were twitching. Draco could see it in the mirror. “What are you, a relic from Victorian times?”

To Draco’s disappointment, Harry didn’t even flinch when Draco flung some water at him. “I was raised with manners. Unlike others in this room.”

Harry looked at Aurelius, who was busy arranging his fourth towel along the rim of the empty bathtub, and said, “Don’t listen to him, Lee. I think you’re doing brilliantly.”

“Don’t encourage him!”

Harry bumped his shoulder and finally washed the toothpaste off his forearm. “What about hugging?”

“Only if it doesn’t last longer than two seconds.” That was proper etiquette, if one really did need to hug at all.

Harry snorted. “Two seconds? Why even bother?”

“Also, hands above waist level.”

“You’re having me on, right?”

Draco turned back to face him, face completely serious. Too late did he notice that the toothpaste on Harry’s stomach was still very much there. Well, at least now Draco knew why he always brushed his teeth shirtless. He had wondered about that, because it wasn’t like Harry was too hot – he always cast a warming charm beforehand.

“Eyes, Draco.”

Right. Draco’s eyes flicked back up to Harry’s face. The bastard was grinning even more now. Draco cleared his throat and said. “I’m completely serious.”

“Fine, what about holding hands?” Harry didn’t even wait for Draco to open his mouth, cutting him short immediately. “You know what, I don’t want to know. I don’t care about Pure-blood etiquette. I’m already holding back in our world. I’m not going to do it in the Muggle world too. I’m not bloody compromising on holding hands. It’s none-negotiable.”

Sighing, Draco rolled his eyes and then dropped his shoulders in defeat. Small victories, right? “Fine. As long as we are clear on the hugging and kissing.”

“I’m gonna hold your hand so hard,” Harry said fiercely, grabbing both of them like he was trying to prove a point. Then he nodded down at his toothpaste streaked torso. “So, are you gonna help me with that? You do like mint, right?”

Draco glanced over his shoulder and said, in his most outraged voice, “Not in front of Aurelius!”

Green eyes narrowed dangerously. “You can’t be serious.”

Draco’s laughter was cut short when Harry growled, grabbed him around the waist and dragged him across the hall and into the bedroom.

And who could complain about that?

Chapter Text

You’d think that finding out someone trusted you enough to key you into their wards would be a good thing.

On March 29^th, it wasn’t.

It went like this: Draco was done with his last patient around half past seven in the morning. He took a quick shower, dried his hair off with his wand and then immediately got it all wet again when he stepped outside and into the pouring rain.

Great. Now he’d have to dry it again before going to bed, or it would be all over the place. Maybe not as bad as Harry’s, but he doubted that anyone could archive that degree of messiness. It really was no wonder that Harry’s grandfather had invented that hair potion. The real question was: why didn’t Harry use it? (Not that Draco really wanted him to.)

Yawning deeply, Draco pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and went down the street until he finally reached the spot from where he could Apparate home. For a second, he felt way too tired to do it, but then a few drops of rain dripped from his hair and down his back, and Draco shivered violently. He pulled his hood down low over his face, took a deep breath to gather his strength and twisted.

It took Draco a second to orient himself.

He had expected to appear in his hallway, facing his flower wallpaper. He had not been expecting to look at Harry’s front door and drip water onto his marble floor.

Well, fuck. Draco’s first thought was that he could count himself lucky he hadn’t Splinched himself if he had really been that distracted. His second thought was just pure confusion. When exactly had Harry decided that Draco could just pop in whenever? He definitely hadn’t told him.

Also: what was he supposed to do now? There was no telling how Harry would react if Draco just called for him. He didn’t really want to startle him. It felt kind of intrusive, just coming in unannounced. Even if Harry had done the same on Christmas and Valentine’s. Draco briefly debated just Disapparating, but he had a feeling that would just make it worse if Harry had already heard him.

It happened without a warning. A strong, invisible arm was slung around his neck from behind, strangling him. But before Draco could do anything more than flinch and make a noise that could have developed into a scream, he was thrown around roughly, face connecting painfully with the wall. A second later, the tip of a wand was pressed against his hooded head.

And then Harry growled into his ear, “How did you get in?”  

Draco made a noise – something between a wheeze and a groan – and Harry’s arm around his throat flexed nervously. Merlin, Draco couldn’t breathe! He tried to grab a hold of the arm around his throat, but it was no use. He was pressed against the wall so hard that there was no room for his arm to squeeze into, and all he could ho was try to ram his elbows into Harry’s sides. If Harry wanted answers, he was going about this all wrong.

“Harry,” Draco whispered, barely audible.

It did no good. The wand was pressed against his temple even harder. The arm around Draco’s throat was so tight that it felt like his windpipe was about to get crushed.

Harry’s voice was shaking with rage. “What do you want?”

In a desperate effort, Draco braced both hands against the wall and pushed. Harry stumbled behind him, and then, from one second to the next, he was falling, dragging Draco down with him.

With a grunt, Harry landed flat on his back with Draco right on top him. Gasping for air, Draco grabbed his arm with both hands, pried it loose and rolled off him, landing on his hands and knees.

Draco’s voice sounded strange and broken as he yelled, “Harry, stop!” and then staggered to his feet, both hands flying up to massage his sore throat. Fuck, he was dizzy and completely disoriented. He had to face Harry, but Merlin, he couldn’t even remember to which side he’d been. Fucking Invisibility Cloak.

A rope whipped past Draco’s head and struck the wall next to the staircase. There was a sudden flurry of movement as the Snitches glued to the wall got loose at once, taking off into every direction. Some of them fluttered so close by him that Draco could feel their wings on his face.

And then something grabbed his leg from behind, yanking him back to the ground in one brutal stroke, and ropes wound all around him, tying him up tightly, locking his legs together and squeezing his arms against his chest. It felt like there was no air left in his lungs.

Draco couldn’t see anything but the marble floor. The hood, which had slid off when they’d gone down, had fallen over his head again and Draco could hear the blood rushing ins his ears, his own wheezing breath, the almost silent sound of Harry coming closer.

Something at Draco’s chest pressed into his wrist painfully, but Draco could bare move to change anything about it. Harry grabbed his arm roughly and flipped him around at once, and then Draco’s hand found the thing, closing around it as the ceiling came into view. The thing in Draco’s hand grew hot at once, and there was a startled gasp above him.

The ropes fell away at once and then Draco heard Harry drop down beside him. His horror-struck face appeared above him a second later, and then there were his hands, hovering over Draco’s face and his arms, apparently afraid to touch.

“Oh God. Oh fuck, shit.”

“Language, Potter,” croaked Draco, massaging his wrists. He stayed on his back, forcing himself to take slow, deep breaths. The Snitches were everywhere now, and it certainly wasn’t doing anything to help with his light-headedness.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry.” Harry finally brought himself to place a hand in Draco’s hair and stroke it soothingly. “Are you alright? Do you need to go to Mungo’s?”

Draco shook his head, leaning into the touch (even if Harry didn’t really deserve it right now). “Gonna be fine. Sorry for dropping in unexpectedly. It was kind of an accident.”

“You Apparated in accidentally?”

“I was kind of thinking about you when I left work. It just happened,” said Draco with a sigh. Harry was grinning now, so Draco slapped his hand away and pushed himself into a sitting position. “Oh, shut up. I am really tired.”

Harry got to his feet and then offered him a hand, grinning even more than before. “You like me.”

“You will never hear me admit to that.” Draco let himself be pulled up and then pulled the necklace out of his scrubs. It was still warmer than usual, though it looked the same. “So, when did you plan on telling me you placed a Protean on the necklace?”

Guilt was still written all over Harry’s face. “It was just supposed to be a precaution. In case I have to reach you, you know? Fast and discreet.”

“And if I wanted to contact you?” Draco leaned against the wall for support. His legs had already been shaky before coming here and nearly getting strangled certainly hadn’t been an improvement.

Harry plucked the necklace out of Draco’s hands, caressed it once and then put it back underneath Draco’s scrubs very carefully. “I was going to tell you,” he muttered. “Maybe later, when it would have looked a little less crazy.”

Though Draco had a few choice words to say about crazy, he kept all of them to himself. They had already talked about that stuff after Blaise’s party, so there was no need to rehash it now. Especially not when Draco was almost too tired to function. Besides, he didn’t want Harry to decide being with Draco was too dangerous after all. So Draco just nodded and straightened his still very wet cloak.

Harry nodded too, giving him a look that told Draco he knew exactly what they weren’t talking about and was thankful for it. He placed both hands on Draco’s shoulders and took off his cloak, careful not to touch him too roughly. “I have practice now, but you can sleep here if you want ...”

Draco nodded gratefully for a second, which transformed into a head shake when he realised he wasn’t done for the day. He sighed and leaned his head back against the wall. “I’ve got to go home to Aurelius.”

Harry smoothed Draco’s hair back with both hands, eyes focused on his intently, which felt a little bit like hypnosis with how green they were. “Go to bed. You’ve just been assaulted.” And yes, there was the bitterness Draco had been waiting for, but then Harry gave him a half-hearted smile and continued. “He can go into the garden if he has to and I’ll pick him up after practice.”

“I don’t know,” muttered Draco.

“Please,” Harry muttered back, stroking his throbbing cheek with one soft, tentative finger. “I feel awful. Just let me do that for you.”

“Fine.”

Something was fluttering at the edge of his vision and Draco swatted at it half-heartedly. Harry’s hand shot out and pressed the Snitch into Draco’s palm a second later. He leaned in and then hesitated at the last second, lips just inches away from Draco’s.

Perfect, now the idiot was starting to develop doubts. Merlin, why couldn’t Draco have been a little bit more attentive when he’d Apparated? He wouldn’t put it past Harry to break up with him just to keep him safe.

Draco grabbed his neck and pulled him in for the most convincing kiss he had, ignoring the way his lower lip throbbed painfully. The discomfort was definitely worth it when Harry returned the kiss a second later, and then Draco slid his tongue into Harry’s mouth, and Harry made a little noise that sounded suspiciously like a moan, and Draco had seldom felt so relieved.

It didn’t even matter when Harry pulled away a second later, taking several steps back, because he was actually panting as he did it, and his eyes were roaming Draco’s body, and fuck, now Draco could remember (without fear of dying) the way it had felt when they’d fallen to the floor, Draco on top with Harry’s arm around his neck, and that was definitely something Draco would like to repeat some time very soon (though not all of it).

Harry cleared his throat and then placed the cloak on Draco’s hook, breaking eye contact. “Practice.”

Draco nodded. “I’ll be waiting.”

And well, that didn’t seem to make it any easier for Harry to leave, if the way his lips parted were any indication, so Draco looked down at the Snitch in his hand (the inscription read ‘February 8^th 2004. Falmouth Falcons vs. Ballycastle Bats. 370 – 210’) and added, “How many more are there?”

Harry’s voice sounded husky as he said, “Fifty-six.”

Draco groaned. “Is it bad that I kind of wish you had lost against the Arrows now?”

“I’m afraid that makes you officially the worst,” said Harry with a soft smile, but then he kissed him anyway, if only for a second.

Then there was a pop, and Draco was alone with this absolutely obscene number of Snitches.

Chapter Text

It started innocently enough – at the end of his nightshift, around quarter past seven, Draco ran into Tabitha Woods, Healer for the Appleby Arrows, in the changing rooms.

They made small talk while getting changed, which was nice. And then: this.

She said, “Hey, some of the Quidditch guys are getting coffee around the corner.”

And he replied (while trying to tie his shoelaces and failing miserably – Merlin, he was tired!), “That sounds nice. Have fun!”

“You’re a Quidditch guy too, you know?” she stammered.

Draco looked at her blankly – her face was beet red. Maybe she’d just stared at her feet for two minutes as well.

She got redder as he continued to stare at her – the first three seconds because he had trouble confirming or denying the statement, the next two because he couldn’t believe he was being invited somewhere, and the last five to decide whether to go or not.

Con: It was George’s birthday, which meant he’d have to be at the Burrow at three.

Pro: Blaise was right – the Malfoy name was worthless and he was on his own. If he wanted to climb the social ladder, he’d have to network.

On the other hand: He’d only been to the Burrow once since announcing their relationship to Harry’s family (a Sunday lunch during which Mrs. Weasley had hugged Draco a total of six times, fed him three slices of cake, and almost broken into tears). If he wanted to keep up the good impression the Weasleys had of him, some sleep would be wise. Especially because it was the twins’ birthday and only one of them was still there to see it. He didn’t know what kind of atmosphere to expect.

Then again: People often didn’t ask again if you declined their first invite. It was just coffee – how long could it take? He’d drink a cup, exchange pleasantries and still get a solid six hours of sleep.

~o~

Draco didn’t know how it had happened. One moment it was seven in the morning and he was dead on his feet, and the next it was half past eleven and he was on his sixth espresso shot.

The ‘Quidditch Guys’ weren’t ‘getting coffee’ – they were substituting it for alcohol. Flavio Valdez, Healer for the Wimbourne Wasps, had bought the first round, which apparently required every single Quidditch Guy to return the favour.

As every avid Quidditch fan knew, there were thirteen Quidditch teams competing in the British-Irish League. This meant that there were thirteen Healers, seven of which were present, as not all of them were on the same shift. Draco’s seventh espresso shot was already in front of him. He wasn’t sure if he would be able to drink it without spilling all of it.

“So, Draco, how’s Potter doing?”

Draco spilt all of it.

“What?” he squealed. His heart was hammering madly, which was probably fifty percent coffee and fifty percent sheer panic. “Why do you ask?!”

The Quidditch Guys laughed. Tabitha vanished the mess he had made and then turned his bar stool around so he was facing her.

“Wow, your pupils are huge!”

Draco had trouble concentrating on her eyes. His own were darting this way and that, and it felt like they were everywhere at once. His whole body seemed to be trembling.

Tabitha placed a hand on his bouncing leg and Draco froze.

“I think you found his off switch,” Valdez joked.

Draco didn’t ask what that was – he’d visited the Muggles often enough by now. Why was Tabitha’s hand still on his leg? Draco turned to the bar again and her hand fell away.

There was a glass of water in front of him that hadn’t been there when Tabitha had turned him around. The bartender gave him a sympathetic look and Draco drank it completely.

“What about Potter?” he asked, trying for a more casual tone. His hands were shaking so much they were rattling the empty glass, so he let go of it.

“You’re directly at the source! We’re just curious.”

Draco raised his eyebrows at her. They felt as if they would never come down again. “You know I can’t tell you.”

Valdez clasped his shoulder like they were mates. “We don’t want to hear the medical stuff. Nothing important. Just the small things.”

Tabitha nodded eagerly. “Example: Jackson Jones heard from a reliable source that Potter only wears red pants, so that’s the only colour he wears as well. Either Jack thinks it’ll make him a better Seeker or he is counting on impressing Potter if they ever happen to meet each other in just their underpants.”

“That’s absurd.” Draco remembered Jackson Jones from the first match Draco had attended as a Healer. He was the Seeker who had crashed into the stands together with Harry and spent several minutes pinned to his chest.

“So … he doesn’t wear red pants?” Tabitha asked with a grin.

She was leaning in, as if she was trying to read the answer from his eyes. Tabitha wasn’t a Legilimens, right? Draco turned away, just in case.

“I can’t say that I paid special attention to that detail.”

Because he was usually focusing on more important things when Harry took off his clothes. Like what was underneath the pants.

“Well, Amelia Kimbrough always wears the same knickers on match days. Black with golden Snitches.”

“I heard she’s dating Ethan Sherwood?” Cassiopeia Frey (Puddlemere United) leaned in from Valdez’ other side.

“Yeah. It’s going to be a train wreck!” Valdez said gleefully.

“Why?” Draco asked. He knew that Kimbrough was the Wasps’ Seeker, but he’d never heard of Sherwood.

“He’s her reserve, so they’re each other’s competition, right?” Tabitha explained. “Imagine if Potter dated Felicity McCarthy.”

Draco laughed out loud. He didn’t mean to, but it was hard to control. Several people stared at him over their Morning Prophet. “They loathe each other!”

Tabitha shrugged. “Doesn’t mean anything. Didn’t he hate you too at one point?” Draco rolled his eyes, but Tabitha cut in before he could reply. “And now he’s appointed you the Falcons’ Healer practically single-handedly.”

“Like he fired Dayal.” Frey giggled and then stared at the ceiling dreamily. “Merlin, that was so hot. I framed the photograph.”

“We get along,” Draco allowed. “Doesn’t mean he’d date me. Absurd. Not that I would be interested, either. Absolutely absurd.” Draco scoffed and tried to empty his glass in one gulp. It was already empty.

Now Tabitha was the one giggling. “Your girlfriend probably wouldn’t like that either.”

“Who?” Draco asked without thinking. Then he mentally kicked himself in the head. If he wanted to convince them he wasn’t dating Potter (or gay at all), a fake girlfriend would have been a good way to go. Too late now. Should’ve thought of that in advance.

Tabitha turned away to take another espresso shot, but Draco thought he could see her grinning. She couldn’t be pleased, right? Harry thought she’d been flirting with him two months ago, but that was even more absurd than him liking Draco. After all, this gathering was proof that she really had just wanted to get together as colleagues.

“Wait, so you don’t have a girlfriend?” Valdez was frowning. Draco shook his head. “Then who has been making your lunch? You stopped bringing leftover Chinese food.”

“It’s not like that’s the only thing I’ve been eating!” Draco protested.

His mind was running very fast, but also very ineffectively. All he kept thinking was ‘Merlin, fuck, think of something, anything, fuck!’, which wasn’t very helpful. “I took up cooking.”

That wasn’t really a lie. Harry usually gave him small jobs, like cutting the tomatoes. That counted.

“Oooh,” said Tabitha excitedly, turning to face him again. She was practically beaming. “I love cooking. But it’s much more fun if you don’t have to do it alone, isn’t it?”

“Er,” said Draco, not exactly eager to tell her that he wasn’t. “Guess so?” Tabitha looked like she had follow-up questions, so Draco changed the topic hastily. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you guys something. Do you get along with the Coaches? Greyson’s delusional. He wants me to ask for permission before I sign a sick note.”

The others laughed. Nobody looked the least bit surprised, which rather worried Draco.

“It’s Quidditch,” Tabitha said, like that explained anything. “They’re all insane. You wouldn’t believe how much gold is involved. Some of the Coaches risk losing their position if their team doesn’t do well. Others are shareholders of their team, which means they lose their own gold. And I’m not just talking about the prize gold. There’s ticket sales, merchandise, sponsors.”

“All of them try to meddle in our business,” Valdez added. “You just have to find some kind of middle ground. Keep the players safe and the Coaches happy.”

“Great,” Draco mumbled. “I don’t think Greyson will settle for middle ground. He seems more like the upper hand kind of guy.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Tabitha said confidently.

There was a sudden flare of heat at his chest, and Draco yelped and slapped his hand against his sternum, nearly falling off his bar stool. Both Valdez and Tabitha grabbed one of his arms.

“What is it?” Tabitha’s voice was more high-pitched than usual.

“Heartburn?” Valdez asked. “Panic attack?”

“Is it a jinx? Did someone curse you recently?” Frey chimed in. Draco thought she looked a little too excited.

Draco shook his arms free from his colleagues, and also his head. “Hanging out with Healers really is the worst. I just remembered I have somewhere to be.”

“Already?” Tabitha seemed disappointed.

“We’ve been here almost five hours,” Draco pointed out, slipping from his bar stool. “I’ve got a … family thing, I guess.”

“Oh … okay. See you, Draco.”

Draco waved and speed-walked outside. He spun as soon as he was out of the door.

Too much caffeine really wasn’t good for him. Draco had Apparated with way too much force and was still spinning as he materialised inside his hallway. He would have spun straight into a wall if Harry hadn’t intercepted him.

Draco didn’t even have time to spot him leaning against the banister before Harry grabbed his upper arms. He even managed to pull him against his chest before Draco fell flat on his face from motion sickness.

Draco dropped his chin onto Harry’s shoulder and closed his eyes to calm his racing heart. Harry’s hair was damp and peppermint-y. He had probably just come from practice.

There was definitely an accusatory tone in Harry’s voice as he asked, “Did you just leave work?”

Draco ignored the question in favour of pulling the Snitch out of his shirt. Inscribed on the surface were the words ‘Where are you’. Despite the small scale of the Snitch, Draco found that he could read the words perfectly.

“So? Did you sleep at all?”

“I drank some coffee.”

Harry pushed him away to have a look at his face. This time, Draco didn’t have that much trouble focusing on the eyes. The problem was to stop staring. His eyes were getting dry and he found that he had to blink manually, as his eyes didn’t do it on their own anymore. Harry frowned and pressed a hand against Draco’s chest, just left of the tiny golden pendant.

“Feels like you swallowed a Snitch.”

“Well, it’s not getting any slower with your hand there.”

Harry was trying very hard not to grin. He didn’t withdraw his hand, wrapping his free arm around Draco’s waist.

“I won’t collapse, you know?” Not that he was really complaining.

Harry laughed slightly. “I don’t really trust your judgement.”

“Fine, maybe I had one too many espresso shots.”

“Espresso –”

“Shots, yes. But Tabitha had at least two more than me.”

The arm around his waist tightened. The hand on his chest twitched. Draco could feel every little movement. Maybe he should drink coffee more often.

“Woods, you mean? You had coffee with her?” Harry’s voice sounded a little too casual and Draco rolled his eyes.

“She didn’t ask me out. There were five other Healers there with us.”

“Oh, that’s smart. That’s exactly how I got you.”

“Excuse me? Why did you get me? Maybe I got you?”

That was definitely the more likely scenario. Draco was sure that people would agree that getting Harry bloody Potter was more of an accomplishment than getting him.

Harry had the audacity to laugh in his face. “Please. You didn’t do shit.”

Draco huffed because, technically, Harry was right. Draco had put a lot of energy into keeping his distance. To be fair: the sheer idea that Harry could be into him had been pretty absurd.

“Be that as it may, Tabitha isn’t interested in me.”

“Wanna bet?”

Draco hesitated. Tabitha wasn’t interested, right? Harry narrowed his eyes and Draco backed away to take his hand. “How much?”

“Not gold. If I’m right, you have to go flying with me.”

Draco grinned. “Pretty low stakes you got there.”

“We’ll see. What if I’m wrong? Not that I will be.”

“I want a wild card. You have to stay at Mungo’s if I tell you it’s absolutely necessary.”

“That’s completely out of proportion compared to my demand.”

Draco’s grin widened. “Doesn’t matter if you’re right, does it?”

Harry grabbed his hand even tighter. “Deal.”

~o~

Draco didn’t get any sleep. He tried to shut his eyes, but that really didn’t work. Harry was fine. He’d fallen asleep as soon as his head had hit the pillow, though he had gotten a full night’s sleep as well.

So Draco spent two hours stroking his back and staring at him. He had him completely memorised by now – the exact shade of his skin, the curve of his lips, the slope of his nose, the way his scar branched, even that one lock of hair that kept brushing it but never stayed to cover it up with the rest of them.

~o~

Now they were at the party. It was impossibly loud, like always. Draco’s head felt like it might explode, which really didn’t help dodging various joke shop articles in disguise. Neville had already turned into a canary twice.

Draco could count himself lucky – his tongue had only been glued to a dessert fork once. The strangest thing about that was that it had been Mr. Weasley who had handed him that fork. Draco knew, because he had shouted “For Fred!” as soon as Draco had noticed what had happened.

That seemed to be the way the Weasley’s coped – today, it wasn’t just George pranking them. All of them pranked each other mercilessly and then claimed responsibility by shouting those two words.

It was insane. It was the best thing Draco had ever witnessed, even if his headache was killing him and he was completely relying on Harry to shield him from the worst pranks.

“Blibbering Humdingers!” Ginny shouted as soon as the table had cleared itself.

“Yes!” Draco shot to his feet.

Anything to get him away from that ruckus. Some fresh air would certainly do him some good. Maybe he could work off some of the caffeine.

“You can’t seriously be thinking about flying like this!” Harry grabbed his arm and tried to pull him back down, but Draco brushed him off.

“I’m good,” Draco said. “If you can fly while under the influence of Confunding Concoction, I can fly after six espresso shots.”

“Six?” Harry jumped to his feet as well and followed him towards the broom shed. “You said you had one too many.”

“I feel fine. It’s just a friendly, right?” Draco slipped into the grey and white robes Ginny had given him.

Harry made a grab at his own chest, where the wings were outlined against his t-shirt. “Plenty can happen!”

Draco grabbed one of the dark green robes and held it out to him. “Scared, Potter?”

Harry looked like there was a bad taste in his mouth. He gave him a scathing look and snatched the robes out of his hand. “I hate you.”

Draco summoned a Firebolt from the shed and turned it over to check that it was okay. “No, you don’t.”

Harry growled, summoned a Keeper’s helmet and thrust it into Draco’s arms. Then he stomped away to rally some more people for the Crumple-Horned Snorkacks. Draco hadn’t really been planning on playing Keeper (which was obviously the most boring position as he had to stay close to his hoops at all times), but he expected Harry to cast a Full Body-Bind at him if he dared to object. At least that was what Draco felt like doing to him sometimes.

Draco’s team consisted of Ginny as Beater, Hannah and Charlie as Chasers, himself as Keeper and George as Seeker. The Snorkacks had Dean, Harry and Ron, Bill and Angelina.

He felt better as soon as he kicked off. The air was cool and refreshing and the noise wasn’t as bad up there. Down on the field, Hermione released the balls. The Snitch circled one of Draco’s hoops and then disappeared. The sole Bludger made a dash for Ron.

Harry snatched the Quaffle out of the air and narrowly prevented a crash with Charlie. He dodged the opposing players expertly, and then completely botched his throw. Draco was pretty sure that Harry was aiming at the middle hoop – at last that was where he was looking. The Quaffle veered completely off course and hit the outer rim of the right hoop with a resounding bang that left it shaking.

“Pathetic!” shouted Draco.

Harry showed him one of his fingers and then turned his broom around to chase after Charlie, who had caught the Quaffle and ultimately scored despite Dean’s best efforts (which weren’t that good).

The Quaffle was now back in the Snorkacks’ possession. Ron seemed to have better aim than Harry, but he was a weak thrower. Draco had no problem at all catching it. He passed it on to Hannah, who promptly dropped it. Harry was already there to catch it.

The Snitch decided to make an early appearance at that moment – it circled Harry’s head once, who hesitated. Draco could practically feel the restraint it took him not to make a grab for it. Charlie used the distraction to snatch the Quaffle out of his hands and take off.

Draco laughed. It was nice seeing Harry not completely in control while on the pitch. He was still an excellent flier and managed to catch the Quaffle just fine, but the rest wasn’t as polished. He had serious trouble communicating a strategy with Ron, who had to lunge after the Quaffle, as it drifted off to the right whenever Harry passed it to him.

Draco changed his mind a good fifteen minutes later. The score was sixty to forty and Ron had just passed the Quaffle to Harry, who was heading straight towards him.

His eyes were flickering towards the left hoop, so Draco made a dash for the middle one, where the Quaffle would most likely end up. Harry hurled the Quaffle, which went flying right at Draco. Too late, Draco raised his arms to catch it. It went right through them and nailed him in the head.

The force of it nearly threw him off his broom – he just managed to grab it again. Then the back of his head connected with the hoop and Draco let go.

~o~

When he opened his eyes again, the sky was gone. He was looking up at the living room ceiling instead – not that he could see much of it, as a fuck-ton of people were crowded around his sofa and staring down at him. His head was throbbing, but at least the caffeine buzz was gone.

“Fucking Potter,” he groaned, propping himself up.

“I told you not to play!” Harry protested. He was sitting on the arm rest at Draco’s feet, glaring down at him. He’d probably chosen that place just for this specific purpose.

Draco glared back. “I was fine until you decided to wreck me.”

“What? Just because you were too slow –”

“Your aim is abysmal!”

The others seemed to decide that Draco was fine, because they all branched off.

Hermione lingered for a second, fixing Harry with a stern look. “Guess now you know what Draco feels like whenever you brush him off.”

Harry crossed his arms in front of his chest and rolled his eyes. Draco grinned at him and sat up completely. He pulled Harry from his armrest until they were sitting side by side and then laced their fingers together. There, he had initiated hand-holding. That had to appease Harry, right?

Harry smiled at him then, and Draco used his free hand to sort out Harry’s hair. It was a lost cause – the curls were wind-swept and completely tangled.

“Your aim really is abysmal.”

“I was right about not wanting to let you fly.”

Draco bumped his shoulder and then squeezed his hand. Harry smiled at him some more.

People returned when they noticed they weren’t arguing anymore. The rest of the evening was spent in the living room, talking and playing Exploding Snap.

Only once did what he thought was his wand turn into a jelly snake. He didn’t take it personally. He gave half of it to Neville and then (when nothing happened to him) ate the rest.

Chapter Text

Being with Harry meant that Draco used up his stock of essence of arnica way faster than usual, even though Harry only let him treat the really nasty bruises, usually claiming that the smaller ones didn’t need attention. Draco guessed that Harry didn’t want to overly burden him. He still wasn’t great at accepting help, though Draco suspected that it was a little easier with him than with his friends, because helping him was literally his job.

Even so, Draco was running low again, so he got right to that when he had picked up Aurelius after his morning shift and got to Grimmauld Place. He didn’t exactly know when they had started sleeping at each other’s place every single night or waiting there for each other, but Draco already felt out of place when he didn’t do it. He just needed to remember to touch his necklace when he came in, so Harry would know it was him and not some home invader.

Under Aurelius’ watchful eyes, Draco chopped and measured the ingredients, mixed them together, stirred and then put a spell on the cauldron that would gradually heat it up to 180 degrees Fahrenheit.

The essence had to be vaporised very slowly until only a few crystals would remain, which he would then crush and mix with aloe vera juice. Draco had at least an hour to kill until that point would be reached, so he followed Aurelius upstairs into the sitting room.

He wished there was a way to speed up the process, but messing about with potions was something only an idiot would do. He wouldn’t put it past Harry, either. The git was definitely impatient and reckless enough. And no matter what Slughorn thought, Draco didn’t believe for one second that Harry really was a potions genius. He must have cheated somehow.

Harry returned sometime later – Draco heard him Apparate into the hallway. Draco stayed on his back on the sofa, his book charmed to float above him so he had both hands free for Aurelius, who was spread out on top of him. They weren’t one of those couples, Draco decided. Those that almost devoured each other when they saw each other again, even if they had only been apart for a few hours. Draco still had some dignity.

“How many times, Draco?!” Harry yelled from downstairs, clearly pissed off. “Put away your stuff when you’re done using it!”

“And what ‘stuff’ would that be?” Draco asked innocently, making his book turn a page.

“Your enormous fucking cauldron for starters! I’ll start throwing out your stuff right now, you have been warned!”

“Wait!” Draco yelled, upsetting Aurelius and jumping to his feet. “I’m not done with that. It’s still in the prepping stages. I didn’t break any rules!”

There was a clattering noise as Draco ran down the stairs. In the hallway he almost collided with Harry, who was carrying Draco’s cauldron in both hands. Draco stopped, dumbfounded. Had his heating charm failed? That had never happened before.

“My kitchen is not a potions lab, you know?” Harry growled, thrusting the cauldron into Draco’s arms. “Get that out of my sight, before I vanish it.”

Draco dropped the cauldron with a yelp, taking a hasty step back. The noise was deafening in the vast, empty hallway and Harry collided with the wall in an attempt to get out of the way. They stared at each other while the cauldron clattered across the floor.

“What the hell, Malfoy?”

Harry threw his hands up in anger and Draco grabbed both of them, turning them palms-up. They were red and already blistering, and an aborted noise escaped Harry’s mouth.

“Did you not notice that?” Draco whispered, looking up into Harry’s face.

He had immediately felt the shock, that second during which you couldn’t tell if something was either very hot or very cold.

Harry swallowed and shook his head just the tiniest bit. “It thought it felt warm, but that’s it.”

Draco used a nonverbal healing spell. When he put away his wand, he held onto Harry’s right hand with his left, to keep him from fleeing the scene. Already Draco could feel the muscles in his arm twitching.

“You do know, of course, that that is definitely not normal? There is something seriously wrong with you.”

Harry immediately tried to play it down. “Gee, thanks Draco. You really have a way with words.”

“Why did you never consult a Healer?” Draco demanded. “You are practically a regular at Mungo’s, so don’t tell me the opportunity never presented itself.”

“Who says I didn’t?” Harry pulled his hand away and crossed his arms, hands held a few inches away from his sleeves. “Maybe I did and they didn’t find anything?”

“Maybe. But you didn’t.”

There was nothing about this in Harry’s charts, only a note about how his body temperature had allegedly always been low. Draco didn’t believe it, especially after that day when Harry had thought he was sixteen again. He had been cold when Draco had hugged him, but Harry himself hadn’t seemed to feel it.

Harry opened his mouth, but didn’t seem to have a strong enough argument. So instead, and despite his still sensitive hands, he grabbed Draco by the neck and kissed him urgently.

“Are you trying to distract me?” Draco asked, pushing Harry away just enough to be able to talk.

“Is it working?” Harry asked, pulling him closer again, kissing his neck.

Draco scoffed. “If you have to ask, it is obviously not working.”

“What about now?” Harry said, pushing Draco up against the wall, one of his legs sliding in between Draco’s. His tongue was tickling a spot below Draco’s ear.

“Still a ‘No’, I’m afraid,” Draco said, his voice strangely hoarse.

Stupid hormones. Draco could feel Harry grinning against his throat. And then the bastard bit him softly and a moan escaped Draco’s mouth before he could repress it.

Draco pushed him away by both shoulders, but Harry grabbed his wrists and pinned them against the wall on either side of Draco’s head. He bucked his hips in an attempt at throwing Harry off, but of course that made the situation only worse. Much worse.

Draco took a shaky breath as Harry produced something between a low moan and an animalistic growl. Admitting to himself that yes, maybe this was working on him, Draco kissed Harry greedily.

~o~

Draco rolled onto Harry and their heated bodies seemed to melt back into each other. He took Harry’s face into both hands and kissed him lazily, indefinitely more softly than before. Harry’s hands stroked his sides, caressed his back, touched his hair.

Draco never wanted to leave this room. He wondered if their magic could enable them to spend the rest of their lives in this bed. Probably.

Draco slid to the side, so that only half his body was lying on top of Harry. He propped his head up with a pillow, so he could look him in the eyes properly. His left hand found its way into Harry’s soft (albeit catastrophic) hair.

“Why won’t you get it diagnosed?” he asked quietly, and Harry groaned in frustration, closing his eyes briefly. “Are you afraid of what they might find?”

Harry rolled his eyes and then locked them on Draco’s, daring him to disagree. “No, I am not afraid.”

“Quit playing the hero. It’s getting old.”

Green eyes narrowed dangerously, and Draco recognised it for what it was – anger stemming from being accused of lying when one was actually telling the truth. How could Harry not be worried about this?

“You already know what it is,” Draco realised and Harry’s eyes widened. One of his eyebrows twitched nervously.

“Stop using Legilimency on me!”

The hand on Draco’s back stilled. It had been almost warm a few minutes ago, heated by Draco’s body, but now it felt like a cold shiver on his skin.

“I didn’t! You are not that mysterious a person, you know?”

But now that Harry had said it, it was almost impossible not to search his eyes for a clue – especially while being this close. There was a flicker of an image – Harry face-down in the grass, somebody kneeling down beside him – and Harry turned his head, facing the wall instead of Draco.

“Stop it, for fuck’s sake.”

The hand on Draco’s back, now icy again, grabbed Draco’s waist, and for a second Draco expected Harry to throw him off forcefully – punishment for invading his thoughts. But then Harry took a breath and his grip loosened.

It took a few seconds before he spoke again, this time in a strange voice, way too calm. “It’s because I died. Ever since then, I’m always cold. I don’t think there is anything you could do about that. You can’t exactly unkill me.”

“That can’t be it,” Draco replied pensively. “I’ve treated you for years now. You already had this problem when you crashed last year.”

Harry looked back at him. A light reflected in his eyes, turning them an almost unnatural colour of the most vivid green, which made Draco’s hair stand on end.

“Yeah, well. Probably because the first time I died was seven years ago. But what do I know? I’m not a Healer.”

“You ... in the war?” Draco stammered, completely blindsided. “How?”

“You know how. Your mother told everyone at her trial.” Harry stroked his back absentmindedly, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “A few months ago, you asked me how I survived the curse a second time. Long story short, I didn’t.”

“I am clearly in need of the long story,” Draco protested, wrapping a strand of messy hair around his index finger. “What brought you back?”

Harry shrugged, as if his resurrection was not of particular interest to him. “I did, I guess.”

“You ‘guess’? If you don’t know what brought you back, how do you know you were even dead to begin with?” Draco knew he sounded a little upset. “Maybe you just hit your head. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Are you calling me a liar?” Harry did his best to sound offended, but a grin was tugging at his face. Draco guessed that talking about serious stuff was more bearable if he could exchange some insults in the process.

“I’m calling you an unreliable witness. You got hit by the Killing Curse; I’m not bound to believe anything you tell me about the effects. Especially if you follow it up with ‘I guess’.”

“Fine, what do you want to know?”

“What happened after you got hit with the curse?” Draco asked eagerly.

He didn’t even know what he wanted to hear. That Harry had felt nothing at all, had simply stopped existing for the time being? That he had gone to some kind of afterlife, where his parents had already been waiting for him?

“I had a chat with an old friend,” Harry joked instead.

“Old friend? What, like in ‘The Three Brothers’?” Draco asked.

He had never really liked the Brothers as a child. He had dreamed of owning the Elder Wand, of course, like every wizard his age. But he had never seen the appeal of the Cloak. Hiding until it was time to go? That simply wasn’t the Malfoys’ style and he didn’t see how it made anyone Death’s equal. To hide was to admit defeat.

“I suppose so,” Harry said. “He holds his meetings at King’s Cross.”

“Sure, that’s as good a place as any, I assume. Was your friend carrying a scythe, by chance?”

Harry laughed and shook his head, dragging his messy hair through Draco’s face in the process. Draco took his face in both hands, keeping him in place.

“Stop that,” Draco said, but then Harry was kissing him softly and the irritation left his body.

Harry broke the kiss a few seconds later, smirking at him and then flicking Draco’s necklace teasingly. Smug bastard.

“So, who was your mysterious friend?” Draco prompted.

His money was on Fred Weasley. Harry’s father or godfather would have been more comprehensible, but he wouldn’t have called them a ‘friend’. Or maybe the person didn’t have to be dead? There was no telling if they had been real or just a figment of his imagination.

“Doesn’t matter,” Harry said, looking at the ceiling again. Trying to avoid Draco’s Legilimency. “He told me to choose. Go on or go back.”

“Didn’t you think about just leaving? Weren’t you tired of all that crap? I know I was.”

“Think about it? Yeah, I did. Really consider it? No. I still had unfinished business.”

“But did it have to be you? Couldn’t somebody else finish it?”

Harry raised his eyebrows, resolving to look at him after all. “I’m starting to think you’d rather I hadn’t come back.”

“Well, it would be nice to not have my things thrown at me all the time,” Draco mused, staring into the distance dreamily. “But also, I’ve gotten used to eating warm meals twice a day. If I went back now, I would probably starve.”

Harry grinned and ran a hand through Draco’s hair. “You fucking sap.”

“So, you snuffed it, and ever since then, you’re an icicle?”

“Guess you can’t just die and expect to be fine,” Harry said wistfully. “The fucker killed me and now I’m broken.”

Harry paused for a few seconds, staring at his glowing golden night light.

“Sometimes I feel kind of transparent, I guess. I can’t hold onto my body-heat and my magic just bursts out the second I loosen my grip on it.”

“How does that work during Quidditch?” Draco asked thoughtfully. “I’ve never seen you pulverise a Bludger.”

Harry leaned over and took something out of his night stand. He held a simple silver ring up above their faces.

“I always wear this for Quidditch. It suppresses my magic. As long as I’m wearing this, I couldn’t cast a Lumos.”

“Voluntarily?” Draco took the ring and turned it over. There was a tiny Snitch engraved on the inside.

“Well, getting banned for cheating isn’t really an alternative.”

Draco put it on, expecting to feel some kind of effect and experiencing absolutely nothing. “Mhhm … any side effects?”

“You could say that,” Harry scoffed. “The magic gets bottled up. The longer I wear that thing, the worse it gets. Like pressure rising inside of you.”

Draco put the ring on the night stand and then rolled back on top of Harry. He felt like they had been serious for long enough. Time to lighten the mood.

“I know a thing or two about rising pressure,” he said with a wicked grin, grabbing both of Harry’s hands and pinning them above his head.

Harry didn’t object to finding out about it.

~o~

Draco awoke in the middle of the night.

The first thing he noticed was that the bed was damp. The second thing was that he seemed to be lying next to a furnace. Even without touching him, Draco could feel the heat rolling off Harry. He looked feverish and tense.

Then he said something in Parsel, sounding nothing like himself, and Draco knew what had woken him up. He would cast a calming charm, and then wake Harry gently.

But when he turned around to grab his wand, he startled Harry, who gasped for air and grabbed Draco’s shoulders like a drowning person. Then a sudden pressure wave whipped everything off their night stands.

The Snitch that hung at the thread around Draco’s neck pulsated violently and, to his huge surprise and relief, seemed to cancel out Harry’s magic so that it only felt like a slight breeze on his bare skin. Trying to calm Harry down, Draco pressed a hand against Harry’s chest, and then snatched it away instantly. The oval scar was burning hot.

“What the hell?”

Harry let go of him to press both hands against the scar, like it was causing him enormous pain. Draco scrambled to get his wand and then knelt down next to Harry.

A wave of his wand created a glowing field around Harry’s body. Golden threads indicated the flow of his magic, most potent in the centre of his body. Though Draco had never seen a magic field glowing so brightly, his attention was focused on something else – there was a patch of darkness around the scar, of which the golden threads steered clear.

That was definitely not normal.

“Merlin …,” Draco whispered. “It’s not burned, it’s cursed!”

Harry only groaned and then turned onto his side to curl into a ball.

Draco placed a shaking hand on Harry’s shoulder, but he didn’t even seem to notice it. “I’ll take you to St. Mungo’s.”

Harry just groaned again, this time in protest. Then he whispered, “Give it a minute.”

One hand was still clutching his chest. The other was pressing down on medium sized bruise at his side.

Draco certainly wasn’t on board with waiting, but he also didn’t want to risk giving the Prophet another story to run. An emergency in the middle of the night was breaking news. Also, how would he explain why he had been there to take Harry to Mungo’s?

Harry interrupted his internal debate by rolling onto his back again. He draped one arm over his face, as if trying to shield his eyes from the faint moon light. He seemed much calmer, if pretty exhausted. Draco ran his spell again, but the dark patch was gone. If you knew where to look, you could only just see a small divergence in the flow of his magic around the scar.

“How did you get that scar?”

Harry’s voice sounded thin and broken. “You don’t want to know.”

“I do, that’s why I asked.”

Draco almost didn’t notice him shaking his head. “It’s better if you don’t know.”

“Is that where ...” Draco was searching for a way to put it lightly. How did you address a person’s own murder in a casual manner?

“No. The second time didn’t leave a scar.”

“How am I supposed to help if you won’t tell me what it is?”

Draco knew that he sounded irritated, but he couldn’t help it. He was supposed to do something, to heal him. He wasn’t used to just watching him suffer.

Harry draped the second arm over his face as well. Idiot. As if that would put some distance between him and the conversation. Well, it did shield him from Draco’s Legilimency rather effectively.

Draco sighed and stroked the bit of Harry’s hair that he could reach. It was completely wet, but Draco didn’t even care. He was used to much worse.

“How often does that happen?”

Harry’s voice came muffled from underneath his arm. “Not that often. Every other month, and only for a few minutes.”

“Nightmares?”

“Yeah, well ...”

Draco realised that had been a dumb question. Harry had nightmares all the time, they weren’t really a symptom in this specific case. Draco stretched out beside Harry and then pulled him closer, so that Draco’s stomach was pressed against Harry’s back.

Draco put one hand on his chest, but the scar wasn’t burning anymore. He let his hand drift down and over the side, towards what Draco called his ‘Blaise scar’ and the row of bruises Harry had been pressing down on earlier.

“Why didn’t you tell me that it hurts? We can put some more arnica on these bruises.”

Harry just drew a deep breath and shook his head. “I want it to hurt.”

“You want –“

“I need it to hurt. Reminds me I’m awake. Alive. There’s no pain when you’re dead.”

Harry lowered his arms and started stroking Draco’s hand. Draco didn’t say anything else. He was lost in deep thoughts, staring at the wall without really seeing it. That scar was definitely affecting Harry’s life – Draco wouldn’t even be surprised if it was causing at least some of his paranoia.

If only Draco had made any progress with his scar research. He had yet to find a suitable subject to experiment on. Not that he was going around and asking people. Somehow it felt like he was waiting for a sign, for the perfect patient to present themselves. Truth be told, he had reached an impasse. Every bit of research he did now was so highly theoretical that it was barely of any use at all.

But even if his methods were successful, testing it on that scar would be way too dangerous. He didn’t even know what kind of curse had caused it. Knowing what Harry had been up against, it could’ve been all kinds of sinister things. He couldn’t risk making it worse.

A few minutes later, Harry’s breathing evened out and Draco pulled up the blanket to cover them both.

He stayed awake for another thirty minutes, anxious to go back to sleep – even if it seemed like Draco himself wasn’t in any immediate danger. He turned the necklace over and over, studying it in the faint night light.

Seemed like Harry hadn’t just put a Protean on it, then. Thank Merlin, or Draco would probably already be at Mungo’s by now. If only that didn’t mean that Harry was so used to his nightmares that he had anticipated this.

Still, he couldn’t experiment on Harry. There just wasn’t a guarantee that he wouldn’t make it worse.  

Chapter Text

“You know Wood, right?” Captain Leona Robinson fixed Draco with a very serious look as he was checking her vitals one last time before the match against the Caerphilly Catapults.

Draco’s eyes stayed on her aura as he answered, quite indifferently. “I know who he is, if that’s what you mean.”

She huffed in irritation. “That’s bloody well not all I mean. Do try to follow, Malfoy. This is serious. You played against his team at Hogwarts. Harry told us. We need to know everything.”

Draco rolled his eyes and ended the spell. He would’ve liked to move on to the next player, but he’d already checked all of them. And they still had a good five minutes until the start of the match. He didn’t like going out to his bench that early – people kept staring down at him if he did, for a lack of anything more interesting.

He imitated her irritated huff and finally looked at her properly. She seemed quite jittery, which was unusual for her.

“Shouldn’t you ask Potter about him, then? He was on his team, after all.”

“I –” Harry began in clear defence as Draco shot him a sidelong glance, but Robinson cut right across him.

“He’s useless. Apparently Harry never really watched him play.”

“I told you, Wood’s completely mad!” Harry said vehemently, coming over so she could see properly how he crossed his arms in front of his chest. “He doesn’t care who gets hurt as long as his team wins.”

“Maybe you should’ve napped him from Puddlemere before the Catapults had a chance,” Draco said, because that description sounded like every single one of the Falcons.

Robinson pretended like Draco hadn’t said anything and instead waved her hand at Harry in clear dismissal. “That’s not information, Harry. That’s trivia about his style of captainship. Which he doesn’t have. He’s not even on the first team; he won’t get to decide anything. I need to know what he’s like as a Keeper. Focus!”

“Relax, Leo,” said Keeper Florence Mills. “They’d never let him play already if Stavros hadn’t cracked his skull on Friday.”

“I know, I know,” said Robinson, though it didn’t sound as if she did. “He’s only trained with them for a few months. And they were definitely counting on Stavros for this match. They really can’t afford to fall too far behind. Still!” She shouted the last part, pointing at Draco quite forcefully. “Think! Come on, anything at all will do. Does he have a weak side? Any notable injuries?”

Draco groaned demonstratively. He had nothing, really. But he wasn’t going to tell her that whenever Gryffindor had played, his focus had mostly been trained on one particular player, hoping with all his might that he would just get hit by a Bludger or fall from his broom again or maybe, just maybe, be upstaged by another Seeker. It certainly hadn’t been a secret that Draco had been a rather enthusiastic supporter of Diggory after that one memorable match in third year.

“You do know I played Seeker, right?” Draco said to buy some time. “I wasn’t exactly focused on finding weak spots in Wood’s defences.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Robinson, waving her hand again, this time even faster. “But aren’t Slytherins always searching for weaknesses in the defences of whoever they meet?”

“That’s such a prejudice!” shouted her fellow Beater Easton Haynes from the other end of the room.

“That’s literally your job, Easy!” Robinson shouted back, rolling her eyes. Think, Malfoy!”

Draco sighed and tried to think of anything at all. He told her the first thing that came to mind and made a mental note to keep away from her from now on if he could help it. “Fine. I think he was about two percent less focused on his left hoop. But that was over a decade ago, I really hope he worked on that in the meantime.”

Robinson made a face that told him that she had been hoping for more. Draco shrugged. “No point looking at me like that. I’m just the Healer, not your strategist.”

“Obviously,” she said. Then she sighed deeply and got up, clapping her hands to get the others’ attention. “Alright, team. Let’s smash them!”

There was a great deal of shouted agreement and then the Falcons grabbed their brooms and marched out of the changing room. The last one to leave was Harry, and he turned back just as he reached the door to wink a Draco.

Draco fought back a smile and tried to sound stern as he said, “Don’t get smashed!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Harry, and then he was gone too. By the time Draco reached the hallway, they were already mounting their brooms.

The doors opened of their own accord as Bagman’s voice boomed through the stadium – “Haynes! Robinson! Mason! Armstrong! Montgomery! Mills! Potter!” – and the Falcons flew in as their names were announced.

Draco followed at a distance, making his way over to his bench at the side of the pitch. The Catapults had already completed their lap of the stadium and were hovering in the air in starting position.

Draco had a silent moment to thank Merlin that Harry wasn’t playing for them. Their robes were absolutely hideous – a striped mess of green and scarlet. Not even Harry fucking Potter would be able to pull them off. Though Draco wouldn’t mind doing that for him (or whatever he was wearing, really).

Draco searched the Catapults for Oliver Wood and found him easily. Not because he recognised him (if he was being quite honest, Draco couldn’t even have said what Wood looked like – which was apparently quite good), but because he was hovering in the Keeper’s position.

Draco couldn’t even see his face, because Wood was also looking up. Draco followed his line of sight to see what he was looking at. He didn’t know why he even bothered – of course Wood was watching Harry. Draco supposed that he had to, as his former Captain.

Well, who knew? Maybe they got lucky and Wood would be too distracted by his former protégé to concentrate on his job. Though it didn’t seem likely from what Harry had just told them about him.

Now the Falcons were in position too and the referee entered the field with her broom in hand and two broom-boys trailing behind her, carrying the crate. She kicked it open and released the Snitch first. It shot straight up and was gone in an instant. She pointed her wand at the remaining balls and blew her whistle as they flew upwards.

Lauryn Mason snatched the Quaffle out of the air, shot past the opposing Captain and passed the ball to Flynn Montgomery, who was flying a few feet above her. He was just taking aim at Wood’s left hoop when another blow of the whistle interrupted his flow.

None of the players seemed to understand what it meant. Nobody had ever called for a timeout during the very first minute of a game. Nobody had been hurt yet. The referee hadn’t even kicked off. There simply was no reason for the interruption.

None if you didn’t count the Catapults’ Seeker.

“Merlin’s beard, I’ll be damned!” Bagman’s amplified voice rang through the stadium. “He’s got the Snitch, ladies and gentlemen! Taylor Lawrence catches the Snitch in under a minute. That must be a new record. The Caerphilly Catapults win 150 – 0.”

Draco didn’t have to search long to find Lawrence. He was hovering a mere five feet from his starting position, waving the Snitch around like a madman.

The crowd seemed to be divided over how to feel about this development. Some of them were cheering like there was no tomorrow. Others were barracking like they wished that Lawrence wouldn’t live to see tomorrow. Some seemed to have no use for their merchandise anymore and began throwing it at the Seeker.

Even Bagman, who Draco was sure got paid a flat rate for every match commentated, no matter its length, sounded decidedly dissatisfied, though he clearly tried to hide it.

The big screens switched from Lawrence to showing Harry instead, who sat frozen on his broom in apparent shock. Draco thought it was pretty rude to display his discomfort so blatantly, though he didn’t know why he had expected any better of them.

Draco looked up at the real Harry and found him looking right back, a helpless expression on his face. Draco shook his head, meaning to say that it wasn’t that bad. Only that it was.

In the end, Wood didn’t save a single goal and neither did Mills. Draco also didn’t have to heal a single player, which was definitely a first. None of the Beaters even came anywhere near a Bludger. And just like that, the Falcons dropped from second to fifth place in the standings.

The Falcons had barely touched the ground when Greyson was already down on the pitch, rounding them up. They were standing in a circle so none of their faces were visible, but Greyson was obviously furious. He was flailing his arms around wildly, gesturing into the air repeatedly.

“Who knows,” said the Catapults’ Healer, whose name escaped Draco’s mind, “Maybe you’ll get to heal somebody after all. Potter looks like he might try to drown himself in the showers later.”

“Who knows,” replied Draco coldly, “Maybe you’ll be the one in need of healing.”

He had half a mind to walk the talk – a pitch side brawl would certainly distract at least a little bit from the Falcons’ disastrous defeat – but he did know better than to act like a hot-headed Gryffindor. He decided to keep his job and walk away instead, before he was forced to find out if the Catapults’ Healer had just as much restraint as he did.

Draco didn’t exactly know where to go – obviously nobody was in need of healing – so he just headed for the changing rooms. He hadn’t seen Harry at all before coming to the stadium, so there was no plan for after the match. They usually decided what to do afterwards, depending on how late it was and how severe Harry’s injuries were.

Seeing as it was Draco’s birthday, he had hoped that he could guilt Harry into cooking something for him (not that it was very hard) and then taking him to see a movie. But now it was only just ten in the morning, which was far too early to even think about dinner. Besides, Harry mainly cooked when he was happy or angry. Draco didn’t know what a broody Harry did to cheer up.

Draco leaned against the door leading to the changing rooms and watched as the team went over to where a whole throng of reporters had gathered. Greyson nudged Harry with his elbow several times, which probably meant that he wasn’t very forthcoming with his answers. Draco could only imagine the kind of injuries Harry would probably rather endure than that interview.

Draco could relate. He knew from experience that a dozen camera flashes going off in your face were more than disagreeable. Especially when the people taking your picture were going to pair it with headlines such as ‘St. Mungo’s infiltrated by Death Eater’ or ‘Potter ruins Falcons’ chances at winning the League’.

It took nearly twenty minutes until Harry was finally allowed to leave the scene. He looked even more exhausted than after a six-hour match. He was dragging his broom over the grass and looking all around pathetic.

Harry had almost reached the changing rooms when something green and red came barrelling towards him from behind. For one horrible second Draco thought he was going to attack Harry, but then the bloke jumped from his broom and landed neatly beside Harry, who grabbed him by the collar in one fluid motion.

“Whoa, easy, Potter,” said Wood, holding up both hands to show that he was unarmed and dropping his broom in the process. “Merlin, not your day either, is it?”

Harry let go immediately, a sheepish look on his face. “That’s an understatement. Sorry about the grabbing.”

Wood waved it away with a hand. “At least you’ll get to play again next month,” he said gloomily.

“Sorry about that too,” said Harry, glancing at Draco. It was clear that he just wanted to leave the pitch.

This seemed to alert Wood to Draco’s presence. He squinted at Draco like he was expecting to get hexed by him. Admittedly, Draco had drawn his wand, and yes, he had done it to maybe stun him, but that had been when he’d still thought that Wood was a rival player planning to attack Harry.

Draco put his wand away incidentally and gave a curt nod. “Wood.”

“Malfoy.” Wood was still squinting. Not a nice look on him.

“Pity about your Seeker.”

“Yes.” Wood turned back to Harry with a look that spoke volumes. Volume one said ‘Why did you let him in on the team?’. Volume two was called ‘You don’t really trust that bastard, right?’.

Draco leaned back against his wall, crossed his arms and settled on watching the rest of the teams. Some of the Falcons were still giving interviews. Most of the Catapults were giving autographs (even though they hadn’t even done anything at all except for getting exceptionally lucky).

“Want to grab a butterbeer for old times’ sake? You look like you could use a distraction too.”

“Sorry, Oliver,” said Harry absentmindedly. “I’ve already got plans. Another time?”

“Sure. I’ll pin you down to that.” And then he was finally gone.

Harry entered the changing rooms and Draco followed a few steps behind.

Harry waited until the door had fallen shut before he said, “Always fun to explain to some idiot reporter why I bloody well couldn’t catch a Snitch that practically flew up Lawrence’s sleeve ten seconds after the match started.”

“Certainly looked uncomfortable,” Draco said casually. “Not in the mood to let Wood ‘distract’ you?”

Harry rolled his eyes at him, Draco just knew. “For someone so confident, you’re pretty insecure. Why do you always assume that everybody’s throwing themselves at me? You certainly never realise when people are doing it with you.”

“Well, with you they usually are. Wood said that he’s going to ‘pin you down’.”

“That’s a figure of speech. Also, Oliver is not gay,” Harry said. Draco could tell that it was meant to be a statement, but it definitely lost some of its certainty before the whole sentence was out. To try and salvage it, Harry added, “Surely not. I would’ve known.”

Draco’s scepticism must’ve been obvious, because Harry continued. “I mean, I’ve never really thought about it. I don’t think he ever even dated at Hogwarts. At all. He was definitely married to Quidditch. Obsessive, I tell you.”

“Well,” said Draco with half a grin. “I’d say you are also bloody attracted to Quidditch, not going to lie.”

“I’m not –” Harry began, but the rest of the sentence was left unspoken as one hand went into his hair quite of its own accord. He dropped down on a bench and took off his robes.

Draco leaned against a wall opposite him. “Chang? Ginny? Me?”

“No …” Harry shook his head half-heartedly. “That’s just circumstance, right? I spent a lot of time on the pitch, so the probability that I’d get to know somebody there was higher.”

“Sure,” Draco said sarcastically. “Everybody knows how much time there is to talk about interests and such during a Quidditch game.”   

“Anyway!” Harry interrupted quite rudely. “Oliver wouldn’t ‘fraternize with the enemy’.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t Keepers and Seekers usually have very little contact during a match?”

“Do you want me to get involved with Wood?”

There was the sound of opening doors and then voices coming towards them. Harry focused his attention on undoing his shoelaces.

Draco shrugged and kept his voice neutral. “Not my business, is it? Although, speaking as a Healer, I would advise against it. Just imagine the hassle of being involved with an idiot who constantly gets himself beat up at his job.”

“I don’t know,” said Leona Robinson as she threw her robes at the laundry basket the second she came in. “Imagine dating one of those Gringotts’ zombies.”

Harry’s grin seemed a little strained, but then again, none of them were particularly cheerful. “Don’t be so narrow-minded. That zombie could be your soulmate!”

The next article of clothing, which was a glove, she threw at Harry instead of the basket. He caught it easily and threw it back at her in one swift motion. It missed her head entirely and hit her fellow Beater Easton Haynes in the chest. He merely glanced in Harry’s direction, who instantly tried for an innocent expression.

“Pathetic,” said Haynes earnestly.

Robinson used the distraction to throw the second glove at Harry’s head. He caught that one too, without even looking, and then simply kept it so that she would have to come over to retrieve it, which was definitely more of a power move than chucking it at completely uninvolved bystanders.

Harry looked a whole lot less impressive when Robinson stomped over to him, all muscle and determination. He jumped to his feet and held his free hand up to keep her at a distance, but she simply grabbed his wrist, twisted his arm onto his back and caught him with both arms around his, so they were pressed against his sides.

“No, wait!” Harry shouted. “You can have it back, you win!”

But Robinson just scoffed and lifted him off his feet, completely unimpressed with his struggling.

Harry seemed to realise that he would not get out of it on his own, so he went in search of allies instead. “Easy! A little help, please?”

“Sure,” said Haynes casually. He came over to grab Harry’s legs. “Where do you want him, Leo?”

Draco’s laughter got a little lost in all the others’, but Harry glared at him all the same, if only for a second.

Then Robinson grinned wickedly, tightened her grip around him and said, “Showers.”

“Hey!” Harry said in protest, struggling to get free.

Draco thought that he had made a pretty big mistake in asking Haynes for help. Sure, he’d have been a good ally, but now that he was on Robinson’s side, there really wasn’t any chance of Harry getting out of it.

“Lauryn!”

Mason just laughed louder and shook her head. “I’m definitely not getting wet!”

“Damn you! Phae? Please, I’ll introduce you to Gwenog!”

“You’re about a year too late,” Armstrong said cockily. “That reminds me, she said to give you her best.”

They had reached the shower room now. Robinson was trying to open the door with her elbow. Harry was starting to sound desperate. “Guys, come on! I’ll let you try the Lightning Blast.”

They all just laughed some more. Robinson finally managed to open the door and then they were gone from sight.

Harry started a last-ditch effort and yelled, “Draco?”

Draco remained seated and called back, “Do I look suicidal?”

Haynes laughed and said, “Don’t try to make a Slytherin join the losing side. We know better. Hey –!”

And then there was the sound of running water, struggling and several voices yelling all at once.  

Draco sighed and said, “I really hope they haven’t dropped him on his head. I’d like to get home sooner rather than later.”

“Uh,” said Keeper Florence Mills, looking up from her bag. “Got someone waiting for you?”

Phaedra Armstrong rolled her eyes, but the rest of the team looked at him expectantly – even Flynn Montgomery, who was the only male player remaining in the locker room.

Draco hesitated, completely caught off-guard. He shot a look over at the shower room, but it didn’t seem like they’d be done in the next second or two. So he tried to look confident and said, “It’s my birthday.”

“And?” prompted Lauryn Mason, twisting a strand of her long, silvery grey hair around one finger.

“And what?”

Montgomery grinned. “You didn’t answer the question.”

“Because it was irrelevant to what we were talking about!”

“Alright, then let’s change the topic,” said Mills. She pointed at him with one of her Keeper’s gloves. “So, who are you celebrating with?”

“Friends,” said Draco, who’d had time to think it over.

There was a squeaking noise, like rubber soles on wet floor, and then there was Harry, sopping wet and glaring. “Traitors,” he muttered, loud enough so they could hear. “All of you.”

He took off his gloves first and stuffed them into his bag. He was already struggling to take off his tight long-sleeved shirt, which was sticking to his body, when Robinson and Haynes re-emerged, soaking wet as well.

Armstrong grinned. “What happened to you two? Did he drown you?”

“Might as well have,” said Robinson, who was trying to tame her frizzy hair.

Haynes pulled his shirt away from his chest with a squelch and said, “Don’t ask.”

“So,” said Montgomery. “Malfoy was just going to tell us about his better half.”

There was a loud BANG as Harry finally managed to yank his shirt over his head quite suddenly and hit the wall with both fists. He cradled them to his naked chest and glanced at Draco, one eyebrow twitching nervously.

“How did you still manage to injure yourself after all?” Draco said in disbelief, drawing his wand.

Harry held out both hands in front of him so Draco could heal his bloody knuckles, and whispered, “What the hell?”

And the next second Mills sat down next to them, giving Draco a very pointed look. “So? Tell us everything. Name, age, occupation?”

“Don’t let them extort you,” said Harry with a scowl at his team mates. “They’re way too nosey.”

“Oh, so there is something to tell?”

“That’s not what I said!”

Draco could feel Harry’s hand twitch in his and held it tighter to keep him from plunging it into his hair. He turned it over and inspected the palm too, to allay suspicions.

“Uuuuh,” said Mason, grinning at Mills happily. “Harry knows about Malfoy’s special someone.” She turned to Harry and wagged her eyebrows, which, honestly, nobody should ever be caught doing. “Do you tell Malfoy about your girlfriend too?”

“Why would I want to hear about that?” Draco rolled his eyes and let go of Harry’s hands. “Well, if nobody’s planning on bashing their head in while taking off their shoes, I’ll be going now.”

“Gotta be honest,” said Harry gravely, “I’m thinking about it right now. Won’t necessarily be my head, though.”

“Fine with me. Just do it after I’ve gone, will you?” Draco waited to see that Harry was nodding and then got the hell out of there before they could launch any further questions about his private life. It wasn’t called that for nothing, Merlin’s sake!

~o~

First thing Draco did when he came home was take Aurelius for a walk, even though they’d literally just been outside less than two hours ago. It was always like this – Draco tended to overcompensate for the long stretches of time when he was at the hospital. Besides, it didn’t matter if he was gone ten hours or ten minutes – Aurelius always acted like he’d been gone for an eternity.

When he came back to the house half an hour later, Harry’s shoes stood in the hallway, arranged as neatly as always. The shower was running, so Draco unleashed Aurelius, took off his own shoes and went upstairs while touching his necklace as a warning. Harry never took it off.

A great wall of steam rolled over Draco as he opened the door. He left it open and tried to fan some of the steam out of the room as he went over to the shower.

“What in Merlin’s name are you doing? It’s like a sauna in here!”

“I was cold,” Harry called over to him, pulling back the shower curtain.

“And you’ll be well done in about five minutes,” said Draco. He was fairly certain that Harry’s skin would be red right now if it were naturally paler.

“Guess you should join me before that happens, then.”

Harry grinned at him like he hadn’t just lost a match in such spectacular fashion that it was sure to go down in Quidditch history. Well, maybe it was easier to handle because there was nothing at all that he could have done differently. He grabbed Draco’s wrist, pulling him closer. His hand felt unbelievably hot on Draco’s bare skin, like he’d absorbed all the heat he could get.

“You must be mad if you think I’m going to get in there with you. I’ll boil to death in under a minute.”

“Don’t be dramatic –”

“I’ve still got blisters from that one time you forgot to turn the heat down after taking a shower!”

“It didn’t blister.” Harry rolled his eyes and let the curtain fall closed.

“That so? Enlighten me, Harry, when did you take your Healer’s exams?”

Harry laughed. “I don’t need a license to tell you that. I’ve got eyes. You’re just exaggerating. As usual. Now come in before your birthday present expires.”

“Fine,” Draco said and pointed his wand at the shower head, which was only just visible above the curtain.

There was shriek and sudden thump, which could only mean that Harry had jumped away from the stream and into the wall. Draco didn’t have time to enjoy it though, because almost at the same moment there was a whoosh and the shower curtain smacked him full in the face, followed closely by a rather large spray of ice-cold water.

He only got a short glimpse at Harry, who stood pressed against the wall, shield shimmering around his body and one hand outstretched in Draco’s direction, as if to push the water as far away as possible. Which he had apparently just done. Then the shower curtain, still attached to the rod, came back down from behind Draco, enveloping him in a very wet embrace.

“Ugh,” Draco whinged, trying to disentangle himself.

Harry doubled over with laughter. “That’s what you get for trying to freeze me to death.” He turned the heat up again and dropped his shield.

“No need to go all Violet on me for that,” Draco mumbled, pushing the curtain aside as soon as he was free of it.

This time Harry used his hand to splash some more water at him, which really was a little less awful now that it wasn’t as cold. Draco still jumped out of the way, nearly slipping on the wet floor.

Harry was still laughing when Draco turned off the water, dried the floor with a quick charm and then seized him around the waist without a warning. He half pulled and half carried him out of the bathroom and into the bed room, finally throwing him onto the bed in a one-eighty.

He only just caught sight of the bed before Harry landed in the midst of what was apparently his entire wardrobe.

Harry put his arms out to both sides and buried himself beneath a heap of hoodies. “Couldn’t decide what to wear to the game?”

Draco groaned and pushed some of the clothes off the bed so he could lie down beside Harry. “It’s Aurelius. He knows I usually shower after I get back from work, so he lays out something for me to wear.”

“Is that the jumper I lent you last Christmas?” Harry was holding it above his head, so Draco plucked it from his hands and then leaned over to kiss him instead.

“I thought this was about sex, not my wardrobe.”

“Seems like it’s going to be both.” Harry laughed and then pulled the soggy top of Draco’s scrubs over his head.

~o~

“Just tell me!” Draco rolled onto his side to watch as Harry put on Draco’s favourite blue jumper and then rolled the sleeves up a bit.

“You don’t need to know where we’re going. Just wear this and quit whinging.”

Harry pulled some clothes out of the pile on the floor, clearly at random, and threw them at Draco’s naked chest. The jumper actually hit him, but the jeans flew right over him and landed on the other side of the bed.

Draco inspected the jumper critically. It was a washed out blue, quite loose, and Draco hadn’t worn it in years. He’d certainly never wear it when going out.

“There’d better be food where you’re taking me!”

Harry laughed like that was the funniest thing Draco had ever said. “Don’t worry. Come on, I don’t wanna be late.”

“Late? It’s barely noon.”

“Exactly. Get dressed and then meet me downstairs.”

When Draco came downstairs a few minutes later, dressed in his second-best jumper, Harry was already waiting for him in the hallway, holding Aurelius in his arms. They raised their eyebrows at each other.

“What was wrong with the one I picked out for you?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “It’s old.”

“It looked comfy.”

“No wonder Samantha tells you what to wear,” said Draco pointedly. “You do realise that Lee is not a lapdog?”

Holding eye contact, Harry placed a kiss on top of Aurelius’ furry head. “Yep. But we’re taking him with us, so you get to carry him.”

And before Draco could so much as protest, Harry handed the dog over to him and Draco was left with the choice to either take him or drop him on the floor, which was, of course, no choice at all.

“Great!” said Harry enthusiastically, and he grabbed Draco’s arm and twisted.

~o~

“I’m just saying –”

“Yeah, I know.”

“– nobody should eat that much at once.”

“I know.”

“Is it lunch? Is it tea? You have got to decide!”

“Well, we were early. I think Molly just panicked when I owled her that we’d be there three hours sooner than agreed. Hand me that one up there, will you? With the guys who look like Gryffindor and Dumbledore.”

Draco reached over Harry’s head and handed him the movie he was pointing at. “I’m just saying.”

“Yeah. I know. Oh, that’s no good, no way I’m sitting through three hours of unwashed men wandering around aimlessly.” Harry handed the movie back to him and Draco put it back on the highest shelf.

“I don’t know how you managed the soup and the main course and two slices of cake.”

“Years of training.”

Harry picked up another box, this one on a considerably lower shelf and with an orange fish on the cover. Draco suspected that meant it was for children.

“Where do you put it all?”

“I told you to wear that jumper I picked out for you. You’d have had plenty of room in there for both lunch and cake.”

“That’s not what I meant,” said Draco, patting Harry’s stomach. It didn’t even jiggle a little bit, which frustrated him more than he was willing to admit. It certainly wasn’t fair.

Harry didn’t react. He was glaring at a woman who stood in front of the shelf next to theirs, shielding her child’s eyes with both hands and giving them a scandalised look.

Draco leaned over to Harry so he could whisper, “What’s happening?”

Harry wasn’t trying to keep his voice down. “I think this lady has something to say.”

“Is it the jumper?” Draco lowered his voice even further.

He was wearing his newest Weasley jumper (green again, but with a silver dragon stitched to the front). He hadn’t wanted to keep it on for their trip to the video store, but Harry had assured him that the Muggles knew about the concept of dragons.

“No,” Harry took his hand and squeezed. “Don’t worry.”

It seemed like the woman didn’t have anything to say after all. She just sneered at them and then turned on the spot and all but dragged her child out of the video store.

“What in Merlin’s name was that? She wasn’t one of us, right?”

Draco was used to this behaviour on those occasions when patients made it crystal clear that they didn’t want to be treated by a Death Eater. He’d never seen people react to Harry that way, though. Although he wouldn’t be surprised if people reacted in a similar fashion if they ever found out about the two of them.

“I’ll explain outside. Come on.”

Harry glanced at all the shelves they hadn’t checked out yet, and then sighed. It was apparent that his enthusiasm had vanished completely. Draco followed him to the counter and watched as he handed the clerk some money for the stack of movies he was holding. They’d been planning to shortlist them, but that had apparently just been cancelled.

“Is it because adults aren’t supposed to watch children’s movies?” Draco asked as soon as the door closed behind them.

“No.” Harry didn’t elaborate at once, busying himself with untying Aurelius from the lamppost instead. He led the way around a corner and onto the high street. “It was because you touched me inappropriately. In public.”

Draco stopped in his tracks. A man ran into him from behind, excused himself quite inexplicably and went around him. Harry grabbed his hand and pulled him along before there could be any more collisions.

“What did I do?”

Draco couldn’t believe it. He was one of the biggest opponents of PDA there was. He still blushed when he thought about the way Harry had just kissed him in front of all his friends. He would never even consider hugging Harry in public. It had taken him several weeks to get used to holding hands. There must have been some Muggle taboo Harry hadn’t told him about.

Harry sighed. “It’s alright; you did nothing wrong. It was just the combination of you touching me at all and her being a homophobe.”

“Muggles have those?” Draco’s voice was several shades too loud to count as a whisper.

“Oh boy,” said Harry. “Have I got news for you.”

“But why? I thought that was a … you know …” Now Draco really did whisper, “… a Pure-blood thing. Securing the bloodline.”

“Mostly religion, I think. My aunt and uncle had pretty … firm views on that kind of thing. Adam and Eve being the very first dream couple and everything. And everybody knows that what comes first is always best and nothing ever gets improved over time. Not that perfect, were they? Got kicked out by the big guy himself. Doesn’t sound to me like he was their biggest fan after all. But sure, let’s strive to be just like them.”

Yeah, Harry was salty.

“So maybe we shouldn’t …?” Draco said slowly, releasing Harry’s hand.

Harry growled and slung his arm around Draco’s shoulders, pulling him closer to his side. Then he pressed a kiss to his cheek, stumbling a little into Draco, probably because he had to get on his tiptoes and they were still very much caught in the surge of people.

“It’s not all of them, just the backwards ones. And we don’t ever bow down to them.”

And then Harry pulled him to the side and into a small supermarket, saying in his most determined voice, “I don’t wanna talk about it anymore. Let’s just celebrate your birthday. Snacks!”

~o~

Draco realised something was wrong roughly three minutes into the movie. It had been fine at first, a safe choice after the tumultuous day they’d had. How could you go wrong with a children’s movie?

But then the cheerful, vibrant scene had changed abruptly and suddenly they had a self-sacrificing mother-fish at their hands, and Aurelius was whining and putting his head in Harry’s lap, who lunged at the chance to direct all his attention at the dog instead.

He wasn’t sure who acted first, but it sure was chaotic.

“I’m not feeling it,” said Ron at the same time as Draco exclaimed “I don’t think I want to watch a children’s movie after all.”

The screen went black, and Hermione, remote control in hand, said, “You know, ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’ is supposed to be really good.”

“Heathens! All of you!” Ella was pointing her finger at each of them in turn. “Nemo is a classic. Everyone will still be talking about it in twenty years and then you’ll look a proper charlie.”

“You’ve seen it five times already,” said Olivia in her sweetest voice, glancing at Harry repeatedly.

Draco didn’t know how much she knew, but she had obviously picked up on something. Every time Draco saw her, he felt more and more that he didn’t deserve to even breathe the same air as her, much less be her friend. She was just too pure to exist in the same universe as somebody like him.

And that was how they ended up watching a pirate movie, which really was alright with Draco, because there wasn’t any weird technology or obscure references the others understood and he didn’t. Plus, there was even a blood curse. Draco had been obsessed with those at age six or seven.

In the end, they even took the underground back to Draco’s, because it wasn’t that far and Draco wasn’t sure if they really should Apparate Aurelius thrice in one day. He didn’t seem to like it that much.

Nobody looked at them funny on the bus, the night air was mild, and when they walked the last ten minutes to Draco’s house, Harry took his hand again. And Draco felt all warm and tingly and content.

Chapter Text

There was a very faint whooshing sound around three in the afternoon. Draco, who was trained in picking up these subtle noises by now, finished his notes and then put the papers back into his research folder. There, neat and tidy.

Draco’s necklace grew hot against his skin (he didn’t really know why Harry thought he had to announce his presence at his own house – Draco had never once attacked him). He heard someone come up the stairs and turned to watch the door, but instead of Harry, a medium-sized chest came floating through.

“I’ve brought you something!” Harry announced, and the chest landed next to the fireplace, perfectly aligned.

“A late birthday present? Is it more clothes?” Draco asked hopefully, approaching the chest.

Harry stepped in front of it, blocking his path. “Better.”

“Better than clothes?” He kissed Harry, draping his arms around him. Then he lifted him up a few inches and turned, so that he wasn’t standing in the way anymore. Draco loved surprises!

“It’s a boggart.”

Draco dropped him back onto his feet.

Usually, Draco loved surprises. He refrained from opening the chest and took a few steps back. Why did Harry sound so excited about a fucking boggart?

“And why did you think I wanted a boggart? Was it something I said? If so, you clearly misunderstood me.”

“You will learn to produce a Patronus.” Harry said it as if that was the most logical thing in the world. He looked mighty pleased with himself.

“With a boggart?”

“It’s a stand-in. Crazy as that sounds, I couldn’t get a dementor.”

Merlin, why did Draco have to go for somebody that was so impulsive? His life had been a lot less crazy before Harry had decided to squeeze his way into it.

“It won’t turn into a dementor if I open that chest.”

“It will for me. I’ll just stand in front of you the whole time. Here, I’ll show you.”

Draco grabbed his arm before he could take so much as a step forward. “I don’t give a fuck about the Patronus! Get rid of it!”

Harry put his hands up in surrender. “Fine. Didn’t know you were such a wimp.”

He was clearly trying to rile him up, but Draco wasn’t biting this time. He really didn’t want him to open that chest. Even if the boggart didn’t focus on Draco, facing a dementor wasn’t exactly an upgrade. He knew for a fact that there were some very disturbing memories buried somewhere deep inside his subconscious. He didn’t need them dug up.

Draco grabbed his folder and fled into the kitchen. He heard Harry say something in Parsel and then there was the sound of his attic opening up. Fine with Draco – it wasn’t like he was planning on ever going up there again. That room didn’t really hold any pleasant memories either.

Harry joined him in the kitchen a few minutes later and started on their late lunch. They were silent for a few minutes, Harry concentrating on his cooking spells and Draco pretending to be able to read his notes.

“I just thought …,” Harry said suddenly, his back still turned. “We could help each other out. You’ll try to get rid of some of those damned scars for me and I’ll help with your Patronus. Win-win.”

Draco shuffled some of his papers noisily, so Harry wouldn’t get any funny ideas. Like that he was taking this conversation seriously.

“The way I see it, we’d both get to suffer. Isn’t that what normal people call lose-lose?”

“I’m talking long-term.”

“Do you expect me to come into contact with dementors in the future?” Draco asked pointedly. It was a little mean, but he really wanted this discussion to come to an end. Permanently.

“You know I don’t think that!” Harry turned around now. “Patronuses are good for a lot of things! Let’s say there’s an emergency. You can’t send an owl, that would take ages.”

Draco took out his St. Mungo’s badge and slapped it onto the kitchen island. “Protean Charm. I’m sure you are familiar as you already enchanted the Snitch.”

“That only works if you set it up beforehand. And even then, you need to have it on you to notice. What if we’re both in trouble and need to contact somebody else besides each other?”

“There won’t be an emergency. Let it go, Potter.”

“Face it, Malfoy. You don’t want me to teach you because you’re scared you won’t get the hang of it.”

Draco raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms. “You’re one to talk, Potter.”

“Me?” Harry crossed his arms too, like that was the most absurd thing he had ever heard.

Draco laughed. “Where do I even begin? How about all the glamours and the Polyjuice and the Cloak? Ready to quit them?”

Harry threw his hands up in frustration. “That’s not because I’m afraid. I don’t have all day for a trip to Diagon or Mungo’s. I’d like to be left alone when I go out, that’s all.”

“Three jumps, no matter where you go?”

“That’s not true,” said Harry at once. “I only do three when I Apparate from an unsafe location. And that’s completely reasonable given past experiences.”

“Then what about this?” Draco dropped to his feet and opened the rightmost kitchen drawer, which contained a few dish-cloths and the hawthorn wand.

Harry’s mouth was pressed into a very thin line. “What about it?”

“Why do you keep it here? You have a wand. You don’t need this one.”

“It’s for emergencies. I like to know there is a backup if someone gets in and disarms me.”

Draco fixed Harry with a stern look. “Get in how?”

“By breaking in?”

Draco shook his head. “Your wards are insane. Nobody gets in here.”

“They could, if they grab me while I Apparate.”

“Then you’ll shake them off at one of your intermediate stops. That’s what they’re for, right?”

“You never know, alright? You can’t be too prepared.”

“You can be paranoid,” objected Draco. “Nobody gets in here but you, me, occasionally Samantha and a handful owls. And I really hope you don’t expect me to attack you one day.” Draco rubbed his lower arm absentmindedly. “But if you do, you certainly shouldn’t keep that wand where I can get to it too.”

Harry slammed the drawer shut and got started on the pasta dough without another word. Fine – if that was how he wanted to play this, then Draco would play. He grabbed his notes and stomped back into the sitting room. He could hear Harry’s frustrated groan all the way upstairs.

Harry seemed to have decided to let it go for the time being. He didn’t address the chest again during lunch and left Draco to his research afterwards. Draco suspected that he felt a tiny bit guilty about springing the boggart on him like that, because when the time came to get ready for the evening, he let Draco pick out his clothes – as if he didn’t know that Draco would choose the emerald shirt. There was no such thing as being overdressed.

~o~

“Don’t you fucking dare, Olli!”

Draco seized Harry’s wrist to keep him from knocking on Lauren and Olivia’s door.

“Hey, no name calling!”

“I’ll call you whatever I want! You’re disgusting!”

“What is it?” Harry asked, as if he hadn’t just heard his friends yell at each other, even though it had been him who had wanted to go back when they had unwillingly Floo-ed in while Ron and Hermione had been having an argument about dinner.

“They’re fighting,” Draco said pointedly. “Maybe we should wait until it winds down?”

They couldn’t hear what Olivia said but Lauren’s, “I’m getting a divorce, I swear!” could probably be heard throughout the whole block.

“That’s not a fight,” Harry said with a wave of his free hand, which he then used to knock.

“Not it!” Olivia said loudly, but Lauren wasn’t having it.

“I’m not letting you out of my sight so you can do that! Get up!”

There were a few seconds during which – by the sound of it – they seemed to wrestle (Draco certainly would place no bets on Olivia) and then the door finally opened. Lauren’s ponytail was in disarray. They couldn’t see much of Olivia (expect for her butt), because Lauren had thrown her over her shoulder.

“Hey,” Harry said, hugging the side of her that wasn’t busy holding on to her girlfriend. Then he gave Olivia a pat on the head and went inside.

Draco lingered for a second, unsure how to handle the scene, and then inclined his head slightly and followed Harry hurriedly.

“What the hell?” Harry stood in front of their tiny, round kitchen table, one hand buried in his hair in a rather confused gesture. He turned to Lauren for an explanation.

She dropped Olivia onto the couch and then immediately put both hands on her hips. “Exactly! Who does that? Thank goodness I came home in time.”

Olivia propped herself up on her lower arms, completely unimpressed by Lauren and Harry’s criticism. “Well, Luna told me –”

Both Lauren and Harry groaned. Harry sat down on one of the chairs. Lauren said, “Well, that fucking explains it.”

Draco went over to the table to see what the fuss was. There was a cutting board on the table, on which Olivia had placed, rather neatly, five strings of spaghetti, which she had plaited for about half their length. There was about half a pot of spaghetti still standing next to it.

“What’s that supposed to be?” Draco asked, turning his head from side to side, searching for the meaning behind it.

Olivia sat up on the couch and tugged at her crumbled clothes. “It’s going to be a snack. You cook spaghetti, plait them and then brush some spicy paste on them for flavour –”

“That sounds ridiculous,” Lauren snorted. “Why do you need to plait them?”

“– and then you freeze them –”

“Over my dead body!”

“– so you can snack on them later.”

“So, why do you have to plait them?” Harry asked.

“They’re kind of like a granola bar that way.”

Lauren threw her hands up in frustration. “Don’t you bloody tell me you actually eat them frozen!”

Olivia rolled her eyes at her. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

“That’s an atrocity! You’d better pray that I don’t tell my nonna about this.”

“Your nonna loves me,” Olivia said, unimpressed.

“Yeah well, because she hasn’t heard about this yet. You just can’t do this to spaghetti! That’s a federal crime in Italy.”

“Is it, though?” asked Draco, now eyeing a small bowl of paste with a pastry brush sticking out of it.

“Harry!” Lauren said accusingly, pointing at Draco as if she were telling him to call back a misbehaving pet.

“You know I’m not actually –”

“You’ll never convince me – You’re Italian looking!” Lauren said with conviction. “And you know how to cook. Tell those two that you can’t abuse spaghetti like that.”

Harry used the fork from the pot to prod the spaghetti plait. Then he swirled it around the fork, apparently satisfied with his inspection. “I told you my grandmother was from Greece and – FUCK ME, that’s hot.”

“I couldn’t find all of the spices Luna told me to get,” Olivia said casually. “I’m not even sure all of them exist. Anyway, I had to improvise.”

“No kidding,” Harry breathed, fanning his face. “What did you substitute with the chilli?”

“Dragon grass?” Olivia said, and it came out like a question. “Is that a thing? Well, it sounded spicy, so I decided on chilli.”

Draco sent a pointed look in Harry’s direction, who was too busy fanning his face (with both hands now) to notice. Anybody who had ever paid attention in Potions knew that Dragon grass was a mild, rather minty leaf which could be used to temporarily disable a Dragon’s fire breath ... and also to cure acid reflux (which didn’t sound nearly as impressive).

“Let’s go,” Harry said, voice breaking slightly, “I need some fresh air.”

They took a bus to the cinema, which was almost as bad as taking the underground on Christmas. Harry was pressed tightly against Draco’s chest, which he didn’t mind, but there was also some strange girl pressed against his back, and that he minded very much. He vowed not to let himself be talked into taking the bus ever again. He would rather walk back, if he absolutely had to.

The girls had picked the movie, which had a totally nondescript title, but was apparently about a hot, rich, married couple living in the suburbs. Oh and also, they were secretly assassins. Draco was relieved to see that the line of waiting movie-goers consisted in equal parts of men and women, which was probably a good sign. Draco also recognised the actors from the covers of some magazines that were always displayed in his Muggle supermarket, so he figured they were probably successful.

“Double date?” the lady at the box office asked, smiling sweetly.

“Yep,” Lauren said, sliding some money over the counter just as Harry did the same.

This seemed to confuse the lady for a moment, because she hesitated before handing both of them a pair of tickets. “Oh, I thought you two were a couple.” She laughed, her eyes flicking between Lauren and Harry.

Draco guessed that she had paired them by colour. Lauren and Harry were very similar in complexion, while both Olivia and Draco were almost translucent. He wasn’t quite sure if he was supposed to find that racist or homophobic, so he decided to go with racist and homophobic.

“Those are the perils of hanging out with the guys,” Lauren sighed, slinging an arm around Olivia’s waist and kissing her temple softly while maintaining eye contact the whole time.

The lady turned bright red and handed out their change without another word.

~o~

Draco felt exhausted after the movie. He was used to sitting still for hours on end from the hospital, but he definitely needed some time to adjust to watching rapidly moving pictures for two hours straight.

And then there was the noise. He was surprised Harry could stand all those explosions and death. Draco’s hand felt cramped from clinging to Harry’s the entire time. Maybe he was used to those things by now. Most movies seemed to be somewhat explosion-heavy. Besides, Harry could handle himself in direct attacks. What he really seemed to be afraid of were ambushes, people breaking into his house in the dead of night.

“So,” said Draco casually as they were walking Lauren and Olivia home afterwards, trailing some ways behind the girls, who had run ahead to look at something in a shop window. “When were you going to tell me that my house is going to blow up?”

Harry snorted, obviously caught off guard. Draco didn’t turn his head, but he could feel the side-eye on him. Harry sounded severe when he said, “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

Draco jabbed an elbow into his side and Harry laughed, pushing him away and then reeling him back in by his hand. “Kidding! Why would your house blow up? Are there people out to get you? If so, now would be a great time to mention it.”

“This is serious, Potter! Is my kitchen going to blow up? I knew I shouldn’t have left that Muggle stove in!”

“I have one too, you know?”

Draco groaned. “So, your house is going to blow up too. Great.”

Harry laughed again and squeezed his hand. “It won’t blow up. That almost never happens. Except in the movies, of course.”

“Almost never? Really, Potter? That’s the best you can do?”

“Don’t worry. I promise it won’t blow up.”

Really reassuring.

They kept walking in silence for a few minutes, still holding hands, which made Draco’s heart beat faster in excitement. He kept looking over his shoulder nervously, ready to let go at a moment’s notice.

“Stop it,” Harry mumbled, squeezing his hand. “Nobody will recognise us.”

Then he pulled him in by the hand and slung his arm around Draco’s waist, squeezing him tightly against his body.

“Potter,” Draco muttered pointedly.

But Harry just grinned up at him. “It’s not a hug,” he said smugly. Then he stood up on tiptoes and pressed his lips against Draco’s cheek. “And technically, that wasn’t a kiss.”

“Gay!” Lauren yelled from somewhere up ahead. Then, before Draco could give Harry a very pointed look, she added, “Come on, we want pizza.”

Draco pushed Harry away. His cheeks were getting awfully hot as he dragged Harry along to catch up with the girls.

Harry laughed at him and then squeezed his hand again. “You’re so cute when you act all proper, you posh git.”

Lauren and Olivia were kissing some way ahead, leaning against a wall, completely unimpressed by all the potential onlookers.

“Gay!” Harry repeated. Lauren just gave him the finger, but Olivia giggled.

When they finally reached the pizza place, it was stuffed to bursting and there was a huge line outside.

“Welp, guess you’re out of luck, Lor,” Harry said. “We could try that Thai place down at Trafalgar Square instead?”

“I got it,” Lauren said. She glanced at the door and then pulled out her mobile phone, punched in some numbers and held it to her face. “Buonasera!”

She said something else in Italian and then looked at them and whispered, “What do you want?” She relayed their order and then put away her phone. “Ten minutes.”

“You’re allowed to do that?” Harry looked like a whole new world of possibilities had opened up to him.

“I’m not waiting half an hour for a pizza,” Lauren said with a grin. “I’m hungry now.”

The girls went inside to pick up their pizzas ten minutes later. Lauren was pushing her way through the crowd resolutely, pulling Olivia with her, who kept apologising to every single person they passed. Either Olivia’s innocent face or Lauren’s muscular physique were working – nobody protested, though several people looked displeased to say the least.

They went down to Trafalgar Square with their pizzas and sat down on the steps to eat. The night was clear and warm and there was a pleasant breeze going. Draco watched Harry stuff his face with four cheese pizza and tried to think of a time when things had ever been as easy as this. Then Harry looked at him and smiled happily, and a warm feeling spread out from Draco’s stomach. He doubted it had anything to do with the pizza.

“So,” Lauren said in between bites. “You would tell us if you were secretly assassins, right?”

“Lauren!” Olivia said in a scandalised voice. “It’s always better not to know these things! You get killed if you know too much.”

“Us?” Harry laughed, which must have been a challenge with a mouth as full as his. “What about you two? Lauren, you know about a billion martial arts.”

“Four,” Lauren corrected, tossing back her long hair and looking very pleased.

“And I’m not entirely sure the whole yoga thing isn’t just a cover for Liv’s real talents. I’m one hundred percent certain she knows how to manoeuvre a car chase.”

Draco thought back to his first (and hopefully last) car ride, which had been the stuff nightmares were made of. Since his mouth was still full, he had to settle for a nod.

“Oh please,” Lauren said. “You’re the mysterious ones, Harry. We know practically nothing about your past, except that you’ve got a tragic backstory and went to some elite boarding school – which is probably a spy academy, now that I really think about it. Also, you’ve got crazy reflexes, that can’t be normal. And you’re always cold, which is probably because of some kind of nerve damage you suffered during a botched assignment.”

Draco swallowed and said “That’s not how nerve damage works.”

“And you,” Lauren said, moving on to Draco, who managed not to flinch at the sudden motion. “Same school, so that’s a given, and also a very mysterious past. I’m thinking some kind of Russian spy. That’s the reason you don’t know anything that’s got to do with pop culture or technology. Or even regular slang.”

“Russian?” Draco asked, looking down at his pale hands. They were slightly greasy, so he wiped them on a napkin.

“Yeah, I could see it,” Lauren said, squinting her eyes at him. “And I think Drago is a Russian name.”

“My name’s not Drago,” Draco protested, sliding his almost empty pizza box over to Harry.

“That’s what a spy would say,” Olivia quipped, accepting a bite of Lauren’s pizza.

“I’m pretty sure they’ve got television in Russia,” Harry said. “And music.”

Draco tried to grab Harry’s hands, but he couldn’t stop him from wiping them on the designer jeans Draco had picked out for him. Draco made an aborted noise that Harry commented with the raise of an eyebrow.

Draco felt the urge to whip out his wand and spell them clean right away, but he couldn’t do that, of course. Harry grinned wickedly – because he knew exactly what Draco was thinking right then – and took the last slice of Draco’s pizza.

“Spies are probably not allowed to watch TV,” Lauren said. “They’re too busy training. Also, they’re supposed to be detached.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about the Russian spy system,” Draco said pointedly, raising an eyebrow at her. “Suspicious. And you used your secret bilingualism to get us these pizzas.”

“Are you thinking Mafia?” Harry asked, clicking his fingers at him. Draco’s pizza was already gone.

Draco, who had no idea what that was, nodded.

“Hey,” Lauren said, pointing at Draco with a slice of pizza. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. You’re trying to distract us.”

“From ...?” Draco prompted, trying to sound confident.

He straightened his shirt sleeves and then chanced a glance at Harry, keeping his face as calm as possible. If he fucked up, they could always Obliviate the girls, even if Harry wouldn’t like it.

“Your weird childhood.”

“My childhood wasn’t weird,” Draco protested. His voice sounded cold, but there was nothing he could do about that if Lauren insisted on being rude.

“He grew up in a Manor,” Harry said while wiping his hands on his jeans again.

Draco sent him a stern look, both for the statement and his complete disregard for quality clothing. Well, at least he was steering clear of his shirt.

“What?” Harry said defiantly, “It’s true. You had servants and everything. Very formal.”

“It wasn’t that bad!”

“You call your parents ‘Father’ and ‘Mother’.”

Olivia and Lauren had stopped chewing and were both watching Draco with wide eyes, like he had become a whole other person.

“I don’t call them anything anymore seeing as they disowned me.”

Draco got up from the steps and dragged his sleeves all the way down over his palms, even though he wasn’t cold. His hands were shaking slightly, so he turned his back on the others and went down the stairs at a dignified pace. So much for things being easy.

There were a few hushed sentences being spoken behind him and then he heard them gather up their things and follow after him. Harry hooked his arm through Draco’s and pulled him closer.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make fun of you. I was just trying to explain.”

“That I grew up under a rock?”

“That it’s not your fault you don’t know about all the things that are obvious to them.”

“I don’t go around telling people about your childhood,” Draco said coldly. Not that he knew all that much about it, apart from that Harry had grown up with his aunt, uncle and dim-witted cousin, and that he had hated it.

“You’re right,” Harry said earnestly. “I didn’t realise it was a touchy subject. Forgive me?”

“I’ll think about it,” Draco said slowly, which practically meant he had already forgiven him but wasn’t ready to tell him yet. Harry could squirm for a while.

The girls caught up with them. They were shooting careful glances his way, but didn’t say anything. Harry squeezed his arm from time to time, as if to apologise for making things awkward.

“I slept in a cupboard under the stairs until I turned eleven,” Harry announced suddenly. His voice was casual, but he was staring straight ahead so he wouldn’t have to look at any of them.

“Why ...?” Olivia said slowly.

“That’s weird.” Lauren commented, apparently eager to steer the conversation away from Draco. “Did you like that cupboard so much you refused to leave it?”

Harry’s arm tensed against Draco’s. He was silent for a few paces, clearly regretting having said anything. Draco nudged him with his elbow and Harry glanced at him for a split second.

“My aunt and uncle didn’t want to waste a room on me. They only gave me one when our school’s headmaster found out about it.”

Draco stared at Harry’s profile. He had lived in a literal cupboard for over a decade? No wonder he was so small. Draco thought about his own room at the Manor, which had been as big as the whole ground floor of the house he was now living in.

“Did he send child protective services?” Olivia breathed out.

She had turned very pale and her eyes were glued to Harry’s hand, where the words ‘I must not tell lies’ were permanently visible. Draco had always assumed they weren’t able to see the scar, because nobody ever mentioned it. It seemed that the Muggles were just too tactful to broach such a delicate topic.

“It wasn’t as easy as that,” Harry said vaguely. “Let’s talk about something else. Lauren, Liv, your turn.”

Lauren was working her jaw, like she wanted nothing more than to punch Harry’s relatives in the face. Draco shared the feeling, though he had a few choice hexes he would like to try, Azkaban or not.

“Umm ...” Liv said, thinking hard. “I only learned how to swim when I met Lauren. A twenty-year-old girl taking beginners’ lessons. It was embarrassing.”

“Tiny children kept overtaking her,” Lauren chimed in, trying to lighten the mood. She slung an arm around Olivia’s shoulder and smiled at her fondly. “It was hilarious. I took a video; I can show you sometime.”

“Well, at least you learned,” Draco said encouragingly. “You wouldn’t believe how many people drown every year. It’s not a pretty death.”

Harry was silent. Draco exchanged worried glances with the girls.

“Guess that just leaves me,” Lauren said, taking a deep breath. “Here goes nothing ... I love penny dreadfuls.”

Harry snorted very loudly and probably involuntarily. He finally turned to look at her, which meant Draco could only see the back of his head.

“You don’t.”

“Yeah, she does.”

Olivia was giggling and Harry laughed full out while Lauren acted as if she was fine with all of it. Draco had no idea what was so funny about that. He knew about pennies from the Muggle supermarket, but he didn’t know what could make them dreadful. The words sounded vaguely like something to eat.

“Are there even lesbian ones?” Harry said in between laughing and breathing. So probably nothing edible?

Lauren shrugged and said with a straight face, “I like the straight ones.”

Harry turned to have another laugh with Draco, who gave him a very confused look. Harry grinned and leaned in to whisper into his ear.

“Think those really cheap, really kitsch Veela romance novels.”

Draco grimaced and laughed at the same time. “No way!”

“I find them relaxing!” Lauren cracked her knuckles. “Also, I’m gonna have to kill all of you now.”

Harry scoffed. “I’d like to see you try.”

“Harry, I’ve kicked you arse so many times, you better believe I could end you.”

Draco couldn’t help but giggle, though he managed to rein it in after a second. He hoped nobody had heard that. It was just absurd to think that Lauren would be able to kill The Saviour.

“That was kickboxing!” Harry argued. “We’re talking about a fight to the death. There are no rules during those. Maybe you’d be able to off Draco.”

“Probably,” Draco agreed.

“He got bitchslapped before,” Harry elaborated.

“Hey, I already agreed!”

Harry only grinned. “It was a double bitchslap, considering he was slapped because he was being a bitch.”

Draco elbowed him in the ribs hard and Harry let go of his arm. “I thought you wanted me to forgive you? You’re doing a piss-poor job.”

“Are you denying you were being a bitch?”

“I’d prefer not to think back to that moment.”

Lauren grinned at them broadly, pulling Olivia closer at the same time. “If that isn’t an admission of guilt, I don’t know what is.”

“Hermione didn’t have to slap me,” Draco mumbled.

“You got off easy!” Harry laughed.

“Hermione?” Olivia sounded incredulous. “She doesn’t look like the violent type!”

“Hermione is ruthless!” Draco disagreed vehemently, thinking back to Rita Skeeter, whom she blackmailed, and that Edgecombe girl, who still made regular trips to St. Mungo’s to get those scars treated that Hermione’s jinx had caused in fifth year.

“Hermione gets shit done,” Harry agreed.

“Don’t cross Hermione,” Lauren said, sounding impressed. “Got it. On a completely unrelated note, do you wanna see the gym? It’s not far.”

“Won’t it be closed?”

“Yeah, but we’ve got the keys.” Lauren patted her miniature backpack.

~o~

“Maybe I should take up yoga,” said Draco contently, staring up at the ceiling.

Lauren poked his arm from the yoga mat to his left. “Hate to break it to you, but you’re not doing yoga right now. You’re just lying on the floor.”

“Don’t discourage him, Lor!” Olivia was sitting cross-legged on her instructor’s mat at the front of the room, directly in front of the mirrored wall.

“Well, the mats are comfortable.”

Lauren sat upright and grinned down at him. “Please, if you like these puny mats, wait ‘til you’ve seen mine.” She jumped to her feet, grabbed Draco’s arms and pulled him up so forcefully that he stumbled into her.

“Lauren, stop enticing my customers!”

But Lauren ignored her and put a hand around his upper arm, leading him out of the room, up two stairs and down a hall, with Harry and Olivia following after them.

Lauren’s room was a little less calming than Olivia’s. There were no plants, for one. The colour scheme was a whole lot different, for another. Where Olivia’s gym was painted in a soothing mint green, Lauren’s was mostly dark red and black, which created a decidedly aggressive atmosphere. Then there were the banners – the black silhouette of a wolf against a red background.

Draco glanced from the banners to Harry and back again, the message clear. Harry just shrugged and grinned crookedly. No wonder he’d ended up here – a plethora of red, a predatory animal for a mascot – he must’ve felt right at home. There was also some kind of cage at the far end of the gym. Also, the floor felt oddly spongy.

Lauren picked up some kind of miniature mat, which was certainly thicker than the ones Olivia had.

“Why is it so small?” Draco asked. He would never be able to fit his whole body onto that. “That’s your impressive mat?”

“No, it’s not.” She grinned. “The whole floor is my mat. This is a kicking shield. Here, hold it.” She handed the shield to him and then showed him where to place his hands. “Alright, now Harry’s going to kick it.”

Harry groaned. “Do you have any idea how much pizza I had?”

Draco wasn’t really on board either. “Are you crazy? His aim is terrible! He’s going to kick my head off if he aims for that thing!”

“Hey!” Harry protested, shaking his fist at him in exaggeration. “My feet work just fine!”

Lauren snorted loudly. “He does have a point! You can’t throw for your life. Thank God you work with your legs.”

“Yeah, Draco,” said Harry pointedly, like he was daring him to disagree. “If I can hit a moving football, I can hit that thing while you’re holding it still, right?”

Like Draco could argue with that without telling them that Harry had probably never played football in his life. Or maybe he had; Draco didn’t know just how popular the sport was. Either way, Draco didn’t really have much confidence in Harry’s aim.

Harry bounced on the spot, presumably to loosen up.

Draco threw the shield at him, exclaiming, “Try kicking me now!” but Harry snatched it out of the air and threw it back at him in one swift move.

It nailed Draco in the head and he landed flat on his arse. Well, that certainly explained why they had a mat for a floor. They should really get those for Quidditch. Or better yet, just allow cushioning charms on the ground.

“Oh fuck!” Harry leaned down to offer him a hand while the girls laughed. Draco really hoped it wasn’t at him.

“Aiming at my legs, were you?”

He took Harry’s hand and yanked. Harry landed on his hands and knees and Draco used the moment of surprise to push him over, mostly to save face in front of the girls. Just in case they had been laughing at him. Well, they laughed even more now, which was probably why Harry glared at him.

“You don’t want to start this, Malfoy.”

“You’re not scared, are you Potter?”

It wasn’t that Draco particularly wanted to do this here or in front of the girls at all. It was just that he couldn’t back down now. The challenge was issued. Whoever backed out lost. Harry’s eyes narrowed.

They lunged at each other at the same time. For a split second, Draco had the upper hand, managing to come out on top and grab both of Harry’s upper arms. And suddenly it was gone. Harry used his own momentum to turn them around, but then Draco did the same and they took another turn and then another, until Draco’s head was spinning dangerously.

Harry was on top and there was no momentum left. He had both of Draco’s wrists pinned to the ground, one knee pressed against his chest and a victorious grin on his face. Draco struggled for a second or two and then gave up. There simply was no way he could muster enough strength to overthrow Harry, who was all muscle and determination.

He looked strong and attractive and brilliant and Draco’s heart felt full to bursting even as his lungs struggled to function under the pressure. Getting his arse kicked had never felt so good.

“Love you.”

The words were barely a whisper and out before Draco could take full control of his traitorous mouth. Harry’s eyes widened in surprise and his lips parted slightly, as if he knew that he was supposed to reply but couldn’t figure out which words to use. The grip on Draco’s wrists slackened.

“I –”

It took less than a second to flip them around and then Draco’s forearm was at Harry’s throat, stifling his startled yelp. Draco had one glorious moment of triumph before Harry’s eyes narrowed dangerously and then Draco was definitely not on top anymore. He couldn’t even say how it had happened – one second, he had the upper hand and the next Harry pushed him onto his back with massive strength. He didn’t even wait for Draco to surrender and got to his feet at once, glaring at him murderously.

“Yikes.” Olivia was looking down at him with a frown and Draco really would’ve liked to know why. He could’ve done worse, right? Only her look didn’t really seem like pity but criticism.

“Low blow,” Lauren agreed, because of fucking course she would take Harry’s side.

Whatever his side was at the moment, because Draco certainly didn’t know. Was this another Muggle thing he didn’t understand? Was there some rule against talking about love in front of other people? But the girls never tried to hide theirs. Was he supposed to let Harry win because of fuck-if-he-knew-what? Well, four could play at this game. Draco glared at Harry in return and got up with as much dignity as he could muster.

“Well, we don’t want to keep you,” Olivia said quickly.

“I’ll walk you home,” said Harry, sparing Draco not a single glance, who took that to mean that they would go home separately.

“No need, we can manage.” Olivia gave Harry a very pointed look.

“It’s the middle of the night,” Harry’s hero complex protested. “It’s over a mile to your flat.”

Lauren crossed both arms in front of her chest. “Harry, I’ve been practicing kickboxing for over ten years. And no offense, but weren’t even in the top twenty of my best students.”

“Besides, we’ll take the bus.”

“Go home. We’ll just kill the lights and put away Olivia’s yoga mats and whatnot.”

Meaning they didn’t fancy being in their company any longer. Well, the feeling was mutual. If they really wanted to be offended by whatever it was Draco had done – fine by him.

“I’ll be off then.” Draco didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t smile at any of them. He just turned around and went with his head held high.

There was some furious whispering the second he crossed the threshold. He really wished he could hex somebody right now. Stupid Statute of Secrecy.

When Draco finally stepped out onto the street, the night didn’t seem as mild anymore. He wasn’t really sure which way they had come from, but of course that didn’t really matter. He just needed to find a dark alley. Now he wondered why he hadn’t just Apparated from inside the building. He doubted that the Muggles could watch him from the gym. Besides, they’d seemed quite busy when he’d left.

Draco just picked a direction and walked. Why did he think he wanted a relationship? This one was just a series of problems and miscommunication. Every time Draco thought he was doing alright, another obstacle appeared. And he never seemed to take them in stride. He tripped up every single time.

That was what he got for falling in love with Harry fucking Potter. And for fucking telling him. His parents had been right, at least this once. You should never talk about your feelings. Nothing good came from it.

He realised he’d been walking past alley after alley, all of them suited for his needs, without even registering it. He didn’t feel like Apparating, but it wasn’t like he had much choice. There was no Floo, it was too far to walk, he’d sooner die than navigate the tube on his own, and he certainly wasn’t going to test the Knight Bus and let everybody on it know where he lived.

Well, it looked like Harry’s paranoia had rubbed off on him after all. He’d just have to choose an alley and get it over with. But under no circumstances would he do three jumps! Draco slipped into a side alley.

“Malfoy!”

He peeked back around the corner. Harry was running at him, looking like he’d like nothing more than to strangle him with his bare hands. Draco slipped back into his alley, crossed his arms and waited.

“What the fuck was that about?” Harry yelled angrily before Draco even had the chance to quip, ‘Done bitching about me?’.

And really, if Muggles thought it bad form to confess love in public, what would they say about screaming at each other in the middle of the night?

“Really? You want to discuss that here?”

Harry glared at him some more. His jaw was working angrily. Draco guessed that he did want to have it out in private, but didn’t want to go anywhere with Draco. In the end Harry shook his wand out of his sleeve and cast a Muffliato. Wow, he really didn’t want to go home with Draco.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Fine, enlighten me. What did I do wrong this time?”

“What did you ...” Harry breathed out heavily. His wand was still in his hand, which was quite unsettling. “I can’t believe you just asked that.”

“Just tell me. Did I embarrass you in front of your friends?”

“You’re damn right you did!” Harry was yelling again. “I know that Slytherins like to win, but I didn’t expect you to stoop so low.”

Draco felt his face slip. “What in the world did I win? I didn’t expect you to say it too, you know? But you didn’t have to smack me around like that and then send me home alone.”

“Say it too?” Harry seemed to have trouble un-gritting his teeth. “Yeah, right. I don’t say something like that for fun. Or to win a fight, or whatever. That’s just unfair.”

Oh. Okay.

“I said it because I felt it, you fucking idiot!” Draco shouted. “But I’ll gladly take it back now, if you insist.”

“You – what?” Harry’s eyes narrowed for a second and then widened considerable. Then he groaned, taking a deep, frustrated breath. His hand was in his hair immediately. “Fucking hell, this is a train wreck.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary then,” Draco said drily.

“Sometimes I really think we’d work better if we just didn’t talk,” Harry said, and then he was there, pushing him against the wall with his whole body.

“Are you mad? That’s most of the fun!”

Harry didn’t reply.

They spent a few moments fighting over who got to press whom against the wall, spinning each other around a good five times until finally Harry stopped trying to take control and kissed him instead, and thus ensued another battle, this time over who got to dominate the kiss (which involved a lot more biting than was strictly necessary).

In the end, Harry let him have the win. And Draco knew the answer to the question that still hung between them unspoken.

Chapter Text

Draco was back on top of the tower again, pointing his wand at the man kneeling in front of him.

“You can do it, Draco,” he said reassuringly, looking up at him with a mild smile. “You do have it in you, don’t you think?”

It felt like the floor was opening up underneath him, but Draco nodded and some invisible force raised his wand for him. And he searched inside himself for his most desperate memory, the worst of them all, and rubbed at his chest with his free hand as he found it.

“Expecto Patronum!” he shouted, and immediately something dark and mishappen burst forth, landing on its legs – though Draco couldn’t say how many it had, because it kept shifting and twisting, and looking at it felt like using Legilimency on a dementor.

“Most peculiar,” said Dumbledore in a cheerful voice. “I think that means we need a little change of decoration.”

Dumbledore took off his cheap round glasses, broken as they were, and threw them off the tower without hesitation. Something moved behind Draco and he turned around to see the Slytherin banners framing the door turn colour suddenly. The green changed to crimson, but still the snake stayed silver.

He turned back around, but Dumbledore was gone. It was Harry who was kneeling at his feet, and he was wearing the emerald shirt, which was slashed to ribbons and stained with his own blood. And all around him the blood seeped into the joints between the stones, snaking its way outwards.

“Why did you do that?” Harry asked desperately, painting his own lips with blood as he spoke. His eyes were losing their vibrance, turning muddy and dull. “I thought …”

“I ...” Draco was petrified, his wand still pointed at Harry. The creature was gone, but the damage was done. “I didn’t know.”

And Harry closed his eyes and fell forward onto his hands, blood dripping to the floor in a steady, terrifying rhythm.

Draco dropped his wand and finally found he wasn’t rooted to the spot anymore. He threw himself to the ground beside Harry and dragged him into his arms. And Harry turned his head to face him, and opened his eyes, which were red.

“Well done, Draco,” The Thing hissed, cradling Draco’s face in a blood-slick hand. “You’ve proven your loyalty.”

The snakes behind him hissed. And Draco screamed.

“Draco!”

Draco shot upwards, smashed his head against something solid and fell back into bed. Somebody dropped onto the bed beside him and Harry groaned.

Harry’s bedroom was sun-drenched and warm, which meant that Draco must’ve forgotten to close the blinds when he’d come home from work at seven in the morning. If Harry was back from practice, it must’ve been after three already.

He pressed a hand against his own forehead and turned to face Harry, who was doing the same.

“Sorry,” muttered Draco. He stretched out a hand to brush Harry’s hair away so he could have a proper look. “Bad dream.”

“No kidding,” Harry said. He placed his free, cold hand on Draco’s forehead carefully, which might have been the best thing Draco had ever felt. “Want to talk about it?”

Casually, Draco pulled the left sleeve of his pyjama top down to make sure his scar was covered properly. “Definitely not.”

“Want me to distract you?”

“Please.” Draco sat up and pushed away the blanket. He felt incredibly hot and definitely needed a shower.

Harry, who was still wearing his Quidditch clothes, leaned over the edge of the bed and fished for something on the floor. Then he slapped a copy of Witch Weekly against his chest, crossed his arms and watched Draco.

“Why do I feel like this won’t cheer me up?” Draco asked, expecting nothing good.

“I said ‘distract’, not ‘cheer you up’.”

As usual, Harry had made the cover. There was a picture of Harry, smiling his fake smile and then rapidly dropping it as he turned away from the camera, a second too early to go unnoticed. They had titled it ‘The heart-breaking truth about Harry Potter’s birthday’.

Draco sighed and opened it reluctantly. Splashed across four whole pages were photographs of Harry, all of them making him look sad or lonely (or, most likely, pissed off, but people were bad at recognising that).

No matter your faith, there’s one holiday every witch or wizard all across the British Isles celebrates. And that is July 31^st, birthday of Harry Potter (24), a day universally known as ‘Saviour’s Day’.

Or so we thought. It now seems that there is one exception to the rule, and that is the Saviour himself! An anonymous source recently revealed that Harry Potter does not celebrate his own birthday, isolating himself from any and all social contacts instead.

We asked Hannibal Hershey, Mind Healer and author of bestseller ‘Important Witches And Wizards Throughout History And What Was Wrong With Them’ about his professional opinion on the matter and received shocking insight into Harry Potter’s psyche.

‘Most likely,’ says Hershey, ‘is the possibility that Potter does not think he is deserving of the attention and therefore tries to avoid it. Further proof of this is the fact that Potter rarely attends social functions like the annual Ministry gala and never takes photographs with fans.’

This, of course, comes as a shock to all of Harry’s devoted admirers. It seems that there’s dire need of action, and that is to show Harry Potter what he means to the Wizarding world and convince him of his worth.

We at Witch Weekly are convinced that this is an occasion our readers will rise to. In light of this finding, we will make the start next week by launching the first part of our special thirty-issue series ‘The extraordinary life of Harry Potter’. Readers who want to support The Boy Who Lived now have the chance to write a short statement for our new column ‘Why We Love Harry’, which will be a permanent feature from now on.

By Cordelia Elphaba

Well, at least nobody knew what Harry had done on his last birthday. Or who he had done it with.

Draco closed the magazine and looked over at Harry, who seemed to be reaching his boiling point, where Draco guessed he’d already been before Draco’s nightmare had interrupted him.

“So,” said Draco, thinking about the editor in chief whose head Harry had shrunk after he had revealed his then-girlfriend. “Will Elphaba’s family be able to hold an open casket funeral?”

But Harry just sighed and lay back down beside him. “How did they find out? I don’t just tell people that. They must’ve gotten it from one of my friends …”

The thought was eating him up inside. Draco could tell. He reached over and brushed some of his hair over the scar, the way Harry usually did it.

“Maybe some of them were talking about it and this ‘anonymous source’ simply overheard. These things happen.”

Harry nodded slowly, but his brows were furrowed as he turned onto his back and stared at the ceiling. Draco suddenly wondered if Harry could be doubting him. Was that why he was avoiding his eyes? Draco didn’t dare to ask. He didn’t know what he’d do if the answer was ‘yes’.

He chose to ask the safer question instead: “So, does that mean you’re not going to hex Elphaba?”

Harry shook his head. “Sam said she’d drop me like a hot potato if I ever did that again.”

“Don’t tell me you actually listen to her. She’s even smaller than you, and that’s saying something.”

Harry cracked a small smile and Draco’s heart felt several pounds lighter at once.

“I don’t want her to drop me. I don’t know if I could function without her. You know she has to sort through all my post, right? I’d rather die than deal with that.”

“I’m sure you’d find others who would be willing to do that,” said Draco jokingly. “Insight into Harry Potter’s private life? I’d actually bet my house that there are people who would pay you to get that job.”

Their eyes met suddenly. There was a moment of silence and then Harry shook his head vehemently.

“She wouldn’t. That’s just … no. She’d be making her own job much harder than it has to be.”

“I imagine the Prophet and all those magazines would pay a nice sum for a scoop on you …”

“No,” said Harry firmly. “No, she didn’t even know about Grace.”

“Why not? If you really trust her, why didn’t you tell her about your girlfriend? Why don’t you tell her about us? Isn’t it kind of her job to keep your secrets?”

“I …”

Harry dragged a hand through his hair and grimaced when he accidently brushed the red swelling at his forehead where they had knocked heads. He looked like he wanted to turn away but knew that it would rouse suspicion.

Draco never got his answer. They both jumped as somebody called Harry’s name from downstairs, and he got up as quickly as he could.

“That’s Sam,” he muttered. “Probably going to lecture me about acquiring what she calls ‘normal people behaviour’.”

He went downstairs to take his Floo call and left Draco to his doubts.

Draco took his time showering, but it didn’t help him sorting through his head, and he was still thinking about it when he went back into the bedroom to raid Harry’s wardrobe. He was almost glad when a tap against the window pulled him out of his thoughts.

It was Greyson’s owl – not Odysseus but the one he usually sent Draco, a small pygmy that blended in quite well in Draco’s Muggle neighbourhood.

Draco opened the window and the owl landed on his arm. It didn’t object to being petted by him while he read the letter, and closed its eyes in contentment. Why couldn’t Greyson employ more of this kind of owl? Did he think he had to impress Harry with that big-arse monster he usually sent him?

Harry’s was slashing his wand at the pan when Draco entered the kitchen, and there was a massive stack of omelettes sitting on the kitchen counter. As Draco sat down, another one landed on top of them with a splash, and then Harry made the utensils scrub themselves before turning to face him.

“Guess Samantha didn’t cheer you up?”

Harry just grumbled, but then he seemed to notice the owl now perched on Draco’s shoulder and the unhappy look on his face turned into confusion.

“Hey, Kassandra,” he said softly, leaning over to stroke the owl’s head before turning his attention back onto Draco. “What does Matt want from you?”

“McCarthy had a little accident after practice. Seems she crashed her broom on her way home. Mungo’s signed her off for the rest of the month.”

He helped himself to an omelette and then offered a small piece of it to the owl, who took if from his fork very gently. Draco liked her. She had manners, at least.

Harry did little to hide the expression of glee over this news. “So what? Does he want you to overturn it?”

Frowning, Draco shook his head. He Scourgified his fork and then took a bite of his anger omelette. To his (admittedly minor) surprise, Harry’s state of mind didn’t seem diminish the quality of his food in the slightest.

“He wants to hear my opinion on the matter, actually. To make sure she doesn’t get back into the game too early.”

Draco really didn’t know what to make of that. This wasn’t how Greyson had previously reacted when his players got injured. On the other hand, maybe Greyson was finally coming to his senses? After five months, he could be starting to trust Draco’s expertise, right?

“Maybe what she really needs would be two months off?” Harry suggested with a grin, luring Kassandra onto his own arm so he could pet her more easily.

Draco scoffed. “I have a feeling that even Greyson’s new-found regard for his team’s health has its limits. Besides, what do you think he’d do if you got injured during your next match and none of his Seeker were available? If he’s finally trusting my judgement, I certainly don’t want to take advantage of it so soon.”

“You’re no fun,” grumbled Harry, feeding Kassandra more omelette from his bare hand. “Also, how come you get her and I mostly get Odysseus? He sends me some of the other team owls from time to time, but Kassy is my favourite!”

Draco gave him a cocky grin that made Harry glare at him. “Maybe Greyson likes me better than you?”

Harry actually had the audacity to laugh. “Yeah, right. Or maybe he knows you wouldn’t be able to handle Odysseus.”

“Maybe you’re right,” said Draco with a shrug. “That beast is incredibly rude. Probably why he thinks you’d get along.”

Harry didn’t fling his omelette at him, but it looked like it took some restraint. Considering how weak his come-back was, Draco could see why Harry would’ve preferred action over words. “Given how spoilt he is, I’m surprised you don’t get along.”

“Really witty, Potter.” Draco ate the rest of his omelette while scribbling an answer onto the back of Greyson’s letter and then slid off his bar stool. “Alright, I’m off to check out McCarthy. Shouldn’t take longer than half an hour.”

“Feel free to take your time, do some tests.” Harry held out his owl arm so Draco could tie his reply to Kassandra’s leg, grinning at him. “Hey, you know that one spell that makes your spine itch horribly? Maybe you should do that one. To make sure she didn’t break anything. Would be a shame.”

“Sure, I’ll just perform a bunch of unnecessary spells on your new arch-nemesis, just for fun,” said Draco sarcastically while he opened the window for Kassandra. “And you’ll make sure to warn me if you decide to hex Elphaba after all. I’d like to be prepared so I can be at Mungo’s when she comes in.”

“Deal,” said Harry, still grinning. “Any suggestions?”

Draco looked over his shoulder as he left the kitchen. “I’m not on rotation anymore, so something trauma-related would be nice.”

“You got it.” Harry blew him a kiss and then added, “Be sure to give McCarthy my regards!”

Draco was almost gone when Harry shouted after him, “Take pictures!”

~o~

To Draco’s surprise, Felicity lived just two blocks from Harry, and he decided immediately not to mention that to him. Somehow, Draco doubted that he would find it funny.

A very old, very slow house elf let Draco in and showed him the way to her bedroom, giving him plenty of time to have a good look at everything. Felicity’s home was decidedly modern, with a whole lot of glass and a very light colour palette, which reminded him acutely of Harry’s house. Draco wasn’t going to tell him that either.

Felicity was pretty banged up and didn’t even sit up in bed when Draco came in. The whole left half of her face was black and blue and her upper body was wrapped in cooling bandages.

“Hello, Draco.” She gave him a look that hovered somewhere between a smile and a grimace. “So, how do I look?”

She nodded at the house elf, who handed Draco her patient chart and then bowed out of the room, closing the door on her way out.

“Well, I’ve got to say, you have seen better days,” said Draco, leafing through the topmost stack of papers while he came over and sat down on the chair next to her bed. “So, what the hell happened? Don’t tell me you just fell off your broom.”

Felicity managed to nod at the chart with just her eyes. “Incident report’s in there, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Draco, snapping it shut demonstratively and placing an empty parchment on top of it. “But I’d like to hear it from you. Let’s just pretend I’m the first one to examine you.”

“Fine,” said Felicity with a heavy sigh. “I was flying home after practice. Something heavy hit me from behind and I crashed into some bloody tree. Next thing I know, I’m at St. Mungo’s. The end.”

Draco scribbled a note and then asked, “How high up were you?”

Felicity shrugged minimally. “Not very. I was flying through a forest just out of Falmouth, no higher than the treetops.”

Well, that sounded impractical. “Is that your usual route?”

“No,” said Felicity with another sigh. “I usually Apparate home after practice. I only fly when I need time to think. Forests are really great for thinking, you know?”

“I’ll have to take your word for it. So, you might have been a little distracted while you were flying home?”

Felicity scoffed at that and rolled her eyes. “A little? That’s an understatement.”

“Did something happen at practice? Did you get hit by a Bludger beforehand or something of the sort?”

There was disbelief in her voice as she said, “Don’t tell me you haven’t seen the Prophet, Draco.”

“We don’t read that rubbish as a matter of principle,” said Draco incidentally, though he had to say that he was interested now.

Felicity’s voice was harsh and bitter. “Well, somehow the Prophet got wind of this guy I’ve been seeing. They published some pictures this morning.”

Now it was Draco’s time to grimace. Seemed that not just Harry liked to keep his relationships private. Draco definitely wasn’t going to tell him that he had that in common with Felicity as well.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

She seemed a little taken aback, blinking up at him two times before finally saying, “Thanks.”

Draco placed her chart and his report on the bedside table and took out his wand. “I’m going to examine you now, alright?”

She nodded and watched as he stood up and cast the first spell. They were silent for a while, until Felicity said, “So?”

Draco raised an eyebrow without looking away from her aura readings. “So, what?”

“Don’t you want to know what happened?”

“Honestly, Felicity? I’m always glad when patients don’t tell me all about their personal business. I’m really only interested in it if it played a part in the injury.”

“Might have,” mumbled Felicity. “Wouldn’t surprise me if that bitch found out about me and her husband and hit me with something on my way home.”

Oh boy. Maybe she didn’t have that much in common with Harry after all.

Draco sighed. “Have you talked to an Auror about this?”

Felicity laughed and then grimaced again. “Certainly not. Do you think I want to get caught up in all that? Believe me, it would get ugly. All the Prophet has right now are some blurry pictures of him, no name or anything. I’m just lucky if his wife doesn’t go to the Prophet about this. End of my career, that’s for sure.”  

Draco finished his spell and took a few steps back to restore her personal space. “Felicity, I have to report it if I suspect that a crime took place.”

Felicity waved him off immediately. “Forget it, Draco. I’m just babbling because I’m salty that he ditched me for her this morning. Might have been drinking a bit too, so that’s probably why I slipped up. Guess I hit a bird or something. Honestly, I’ll just take the month off and hope that nobody finds out about that. Lay low for a bit.”

Draco scrutinised her for a few seconds, but she held eye contact without even blinking. Draco sighed. “If you are sure about that.”

She sounded pretty certain when she said, “One hundred percent. Though I’d appreciate it if you didn’t include the drinking part in your report.”

Draco nodded and took up his parchment again to add some more notes. “Alright. The rest of the month should be enough for you to recover, but let’s schedule an examination for the twentieth, shall we?”

“Thanks, Draco.” Now Felicity was grinning. “So, who is ‘we’?”

“Excuse me?” said Draco, mostly concentrating on finishing his report.

“You said ‘We don’t read the Prophet’. So, who is she?”

His quill made a horrible scratching noise on the parchment, but at least Draco managed not to look up.

“That bad, is it?” She sounded awfully excited about this. “Don’t tell me it’s a secret.”

“Nothing to tell,” said Draco lightly, signing his name under her sick note and then snapping her chart shut again. “I’ll leave some arnica and show your elf how to apply those bandages. Owl me if you feel worse.”

“Sure,” she said in response to the first part of his sentence, which she obviously did not believe one bit. “Let’s just hope yours doesn’t end like mine.”

Well, considering neither Harry nor Draco were adulterers, he didn’t see how it could.

Chapter Text

“How do you feel?”

Harry looked up from the piece of toast he’d been staring at for two solid minutes. “They’re doing it on purpose.”

Draco nodded, eyes back on the frozen mouse he was thawing with his wand. He had a feeling he should find it disgusting, but in the end, this was just another cadaver.

“Everything points to that, yes.”

“Why do they do that to me?”

“Not to burst your bubble of self-pity, but I’m pretty sure they think they’re doing it for you.”

Harry sighed deeply, which marked the thirty-first time that morning. “I hate them so much.”

“I know, darling.” Draco smiled at him sweetly. “Unfortunately, they don’t hate you.”

“Don’t you ‘darling’ me.” Harry finally picked up his toast and used it to point at Draco. He then proceeded to rip it into tiny pieces unenthusiastically. “Somebody should tell them what a pain I am to be around … Hey, that could be your present to me.”

“I tried to tell people for six years, remember? Didn’t work.”

“No no, don’t sell yourself short.” Harry dropped the last piece of toast back onto his plate, having eaten none of them. “You were pretty successful at times.”

“But it didn’t stick! And remember how much more they loved you afterwards?” Draco floated the warmed mouse over to the counter top where Emerald lounged.

Harry grimaced and pushed his plate away. “Alright, new idea: You could write me a sick note, right?”

“You might remember that your reserve is out of it for another week at least?” Draco gave him a pitiful smile. “Also, I do want to keep my job. Besides, you already made me promise not to get you a present.”

“But you refused to make the Unbreakable Vow! And who knows, maybe they’ll just reschedule if we don’t have a Seeker.”

They both watched as Emerald eyed her hovering breakfast for a few seconds and then struck suddenly and with lightning speed.

“Or the Falcons will have to forfeit,” said Draco casually. “Either way, if you want me to write you a note, you’ll have to fling yourself down the stairs first.”

Sigh number thirty-two. “I hate you.”

“You do that. Tell you what, just catch the Snitch as soon as possible and we can do what you want with the rest of the day. Movies? Food? Lie in bed and sulk all day?”

Harry threw a piece of toast. Presumably at Draco, but it never reached him. Then he sighed and got up. “Fine. But if they start singing, I’m going to kill someone.”

~o~

Draco could tell it was going to be bad as soon as he stepped out onto the pitch. There were banners. There were balloons. People were chanting for Harry to come out. Most of them were dressed in Falcons merch. Some were wearing wigs. They probably also had lightning bolt scars painted on their foreheads, but it was too far to see.

Then there was Bagman, laying it on even thicker than usual. “Welcome everybody, on this beautiful Saviour’s Day! As you know there typically are no matches on a holiday, but the Ministry has agreed to make an exception in honour of Britain’s greatest hero. Here today are the Chudley Cannons, playing the Falmouth Falcons!”

There were cheers. There were fanfares. Some idiots set off fireworks, even though none of the players were even out yet.

“Ladies and gentlewizards, give it up for the Falmouth Falcons! Here are Haynes, Robinson, Mason, Armstrong, Montgomery, Mills and the man of the hour, Haaaaarry Pooootter!”

For a moment, Draco thought a sudden thunderstorm had hit them. Then he realised that what he thought were flashes of lightning and booms of thunder were really Saviour’s Day fireworks. He knew for a fact that they were called that, because he had written more than one note reading ‘patient blasted off insert-body-part-here by coming in contact with Saviour’s Day firework’ over the years.

Draco couldn’t even see Harry’s reaction through all the flashes and smoke, but he could very well imagine what it looked like. Then they started singing and Draco really hoped that nobody else could see Harry either.

The banners appeared at the same time. Apparently, every single person in the audience had one, and they formed a bigger picture when held up next to each other. One stand formed a gigantic lightning bolt that flashed every now and then. Another was a tiny Harry on his broom, chasing after the Golden Snitch. A third one was just his face, but enormous. Gigantic. Obscenely huge.

There were many more, but Draco didn’t have time to check them out, because then the noise stopped suddenly and he caught the tail end of Bagman’s announcement of the Cannons.

“ – aaaand Harrington!”

Draco couldn’t tell if people even cheered for the Cannons, because right then there was a massive crack and the sky broke open. Literally. People shrieked and shielded themselves with their banners. It was like someone was pouring out a bathtub right over the stadium. Immediately Draco was soaked to the bone.

“Aah,” said Bagman in a voice that suggested this was only a slight nuisance. “Yeah well, that can happen when you set off too many of these fireworks at the same time. Well, it certainly helps with visibility.”

That really was the only upside to it all – the downpour had dispersed all the smoke that had gathered and Draco could finally see Harry again. He was hovering in starting position, a strained smile plastered to his face and his expression made of stone. If Draco knew anything about Harry, the real storm was raging inside him.

The other players didn’t seem happy either. The Falcons kept glancing up at Harry in concern. The Cannons were obviously trying very hard not to glare at him.

Draco didn’t hear the whistle, but he did see the Quaffle being thrown up and then the match was on. Harry ascended so fast that the cameras had trouble keeping up with him. Draco didn’t see why the screens had to show Harry in the first place. It was very unlikely that the Snitch would be seen this early into the game – again.

It was incredibly loud. People were singing and screaming and using their stupid fanfares. They weren’t setting off fireworks anymore, but the damage was already done. The storm obviously wasn’t about to die down anytime soon.

Draco didn’t really understand why nobody thought to cast a repelling charm over the Quidditch arena before a match. Granted, there wasn’t a limit to how high the players could fly, but given that the goal hoops were fixed at a reasonable height, it would be entirely possible to keep most of the players dry. The Seekers would have to manage, but it would still be far more comfortable. Draco was all in favour of repelling charms. Fuck those bloody fanatics who thought it would dampen the mood if the players were a little safer.

Seeker Desmond Harrington was the first casualty of the Saviour’s Day match when his soaked gloves slipped on his broomstick. His face smashed against his broom, which resulted in a broken nose and a five-minute break to get him back into flying shape.

The remaining players used the opportunity to cast repelling charms at themselves to keep away the worst of the rain. Harry, who was wearing his Quidditch ring, couldn’t do that, of course. Draco thought he should ask one of his teammates to help him out, but Harry had a very strong opinion on the matter. He didn’t want to have to tell them why he had to wear the ring and Draco couldn’t make him.

Draco thought about casting a mild repelling charm around himself, but ultimately decided against it. Those only really held when it wasn’t raining too much and the wind stayed reasonable, which it was and didn’t. Draco couldn’t cast a stronger charm, either. He needed to reserve enough of his magic for emergencies.

The break would have been the perfect opportunity for Harry to look for the Snitch in peace, but that idea was squashed almost immediately.

Bagman said, “Oh my, it seems that we are in for a treat now! Ladies and gentleman, may I present to you the cheerleaders of Britain’s biggest Harry Potter fan club!”

“You have got to be kidding me,” said Harrington, who was lying on the Cannons’ Healer’s bench. “How the hell is that fair?”

A group of around twenty scantily dressed women ran onto the field, each of them surrounded by a water-repelling bubble. They were jumping up and down and yelling something Draco couldn’t understand. Then music picked up, though Draco couldn’t recognise the song through all the noise either. The women started some kind of dance routine that involved a lot of pompon-waving.

The cameras were on Harry again, who obviously didn’t have the slightest idea how to react to that. He did his best to keep a friendly face, but it looked so tense that Draco wouldn’t be surprised to see it actually crack any second now. Harry’s eyes also kept slipping away to scan the sky instead, like he was afraid to miss the Snitch. He must’ve been desperate to end the game at that point.

It was a scrap of comfort that the performance only lasted about two painful minutes. “Give it up for these incredible witches!” said Bagman. “What an impressive performance. Especially if you consider that they only had three weeks to rehearse. That’s what I call dedication, right, Harry?”

Harry actually flinched at being addressed directly. He grimaced briefly and then managed to rein his face in again. He waved down at the witches and then quickly turned around towards the other end of the pitch. He didn’t react when Bagman added, “All these ladies are single, by the way.”

“Alright,” groaned Harrington. “Let me get back up there before they announce Potter’s strippers.”

And then, thank Merlin, the match resumed, though it didn’t get any better. The storm picked up even more. The spectators kept up their incredible noise level. Phaedra Armstrong collided with a rival Chaser when a witch in the stands lifted up her shirt and flashed them both. A Bludger hit Harry in the shoulder from behind, nearly throwing him off. For a moment it seemed like Harry would just grit his teeth and ignore the injury, but then his hand slipped on his broom at the next turn and he closed his eyes for a good two seconds before coming down after all.

He stumbled from his broom and Draco caught him with an arm around his waist, careful to avoid the injured shoulder. He propped him up and was just leading him over to the bench when a plush falcon fell from the sky and landed right next to them, its wings fluttering feebly.

“What the hell was that?” asked Harry, eyes closed again. He was shivering violently, though Draco couldn’t tell whether it was because of the injury or the cold.

“They’re throwing their merch at one of the Cannons’ Beaters.”

Draco made him sit on the bench and cast a repelling charm as well as a warming charm before doing anything else. Harry slumped forward and his frown eased a little.

“‘Course they are,” said Harry bitterly. “Aren’t you going to tell me it’s not as bad as I expected it to be?”

Draco huffed and pointed his wand at Harry’s shoulder to reset it. “Even I could not make that sound believable. This is pure torture.”

“Right? Those stupid fireworks, fucking hell. And now I’ve got to spend my birthday cold and wet and miserable. And it’s so bloody loud up there like you wouldn’t believe. I couldn’t even hear that fucking Bludger until it hit me.”

“No sign of the Snitch yet?”

Harry laughed, sounding actually a little insane. “None. But you know what I do keep spotting? Their stupid banners with the Snitch on it. That’s a real help. You know, in case I forget what it looks like.”

Thunder boomed and Harry jumped to his feet. He mounted his broom and Draco only just heard him say, “If they make me sign autographs, I’ll honest to God kill someone!” before he kicked off.

~o~

The match lasted over five hours and ended on a score of 530 – 450 with the Falcons in the lead. Draco was wet and cold and miserable, and that was with the luxury of being on the ground. When Harry finally touched down, his legs wouldn’t even carry him anymore and he landed with both knees in the mud.

Draco went over there as fast as he could, his own legs stiff and numb. He conjured a thick blanket, wrapped it around Harry’s shoulders and then hoisted him up with both hands under his arms. The ground clung to Harry’s legs and Draco needed three attempts before he finally managed to pull him out of the mud.

Harry seemed empty, like all fight had left his body. He just accepted Draco’s arm around his waist and followed him blindly to the changing rooms. Draco did his best to check out the other players as they landed, but they seemed to be mostly alright. They were all tired-looking and shivering as well, but at least they could still find their own way into the warmth.

Harry dropped down on the nearest bench and pulled his legs up so he could hug them to his chest. Then he placed his head on top and closed his eyes again. Draco started with blow-drying his drenched clothes with his wand, which didn’t elicit any response except that the shivering subsided somewhat.

He was just rummaging through the tiny bag that was his portable apothecary when the door opened again and Greyson came in with his daughter following close behind.

“Well done, everyone!” he said enthusiastically, clapping Harry (who was nearest to the door) on the back.

Draco held Harry in place with a hand on his shoulder before he could fall flat on his face from the impact. He gave Greyson a very pointed look. “I just reset that shoulder, so if you wouldn’t mind staying away from it, that would be much appreciated.”

Greyson gave him a look that told him just how much he would like to be rid of him, while Harry barely reacted and began pulling off his gloves, which was a real feat, because his fingers were trembling so much. Draco took pity and helped him out, taking care to slide off his ring at the same time, so Harry’s magic could finally start to combat all the harmful outside influences. Harry leaned back against the wall and took the vial of Pepper-Up Draco was offering.

“All right,” said Greyson, clapping his hands while his daughter’s eyes kept going back and forth between her father and Harry. “Hit the showers and then I want to see you all outside for press and fans.”

Harry pressed the empty vial back into Draco’s hand and lightly banged his head against the wall. “What for? That was abysmal.”

Greyson crossed his arms and frowned at him. “You do realise we won?”

“Undeservedly.”

The other players didn’t seem to share that opinion. Robinson crossed her arms, a sour look on her face. “Well, I don’t know about the rest, but I definitely gave everything I had, so maybe talk for yourself?”

“Yeah well, you couldn’t really see what was happening on my end, could you?” The Pepper-Up was now making Harry steam from his ears, which definitely enhanced the angry look on his face. “They weren’t giving everything. Not a single Bludger was aimed at me after they almost lynched Davies for hitting me that one time. They just pretended they couldn’t see me!”

Montgomery laughed shortly. “So what, your complaint is that nobody tried to knock you off your broom?”

“Don’t tell me you had fun out there!”

“Well, no, it was fucking awful, obviously. But that doesn’t mean we didn’t deserve to win!”

“Then let me tell you about that moment two fucking hours ago when the Snitch was right in front of Harrington’s bloody face and he just let it go. Didn’t want to get hit in the face with one of those stupid wigs, I bet. So we got to freeze to death for two more hours!”

Nobody had a reply to that. Greyson actually sighed heavily and shook his head like a teacher correcting a student. “Harry, come on. You probably didn’t see it right. Harrington wouldn’t just let the Snitch go. Just go out there and you’ll see absolutely nobody believes that you didn’t win fair and square.”

“I know what I saw,” said Harry hotly. His ears weren’t steaming anymore, but his eyes looked like they might shoot lightning at anyone who came into his way. “And you’re mad if you think –”

“Actually, I’ll have to take Potter to St. Mungo’s,” said Draco casually before Harry could work himself into a rage.

“He looks fine to me, Malfoy!” Greyson was glaring at him. What else was new? “It will only take half an hour – maybe an hour, tops.”

“Absolutely not. You don’t want to risk him being sidelined, do you? I need to set his shoulder properly, or else there could be lasting damage. Besides, he’ll definitely catch a cold if he goes out there again.”

“I’ll –!”

Draco didn’t even wait for Greyson to pick up speed, but cut right across him. “I’m sure you have very reasonable arguments, but unfortunately I don’t have time to listen to them all. We’ll be off then. Oh, before I forget – the rest of you should take some Pepper-Up too and then stay warm for the rest of the day. Healer’s orders.”

Draco summoned six more vials from his bag, handed them to Robinson to distribute and then grabbed Harry’s bag. Harry wrapped his blanket tighter around his body and stood up. His legs were still shaking slightly.

“See you at practice,” said Harry, leaving immediately.

Some of the team wished him a nice birthday, but nobody seemed really sad to see him go, if you didn’t count Greyson’s daughter. She stared after him in disbelief, looking on the verge of running after him. She probably wasn’t used to seeing people defy her father that openly.

Draco just gave Greyson a short nod and followed. Harry was waiting for him at the end of the hall where the back entrance was. He didn’t exactly look strong enough to hold on to Draco for a three-jump Apparition, so Draco took hold of his upper arm and twisted.

~o~

“That was the worst birthday ever. And I’m counting the one where the fucking Minister of Magic burned a hole into my t-shirt.” Harry was lying on his bed, naked from the waist up, and watched as Draco checked his shoulder.

“Consider me intrigued,” said Draco, rummaging through his bag until he found the roll of Magi-Tape. “Alright, let me try something new.”

Harry eyed it suspiciously. “What the hell is that?”

“This is all the rage in the U.S. right now. I imported it.”

“And you’re using it to tape me to the bed so I can’t leave?”

Draco grinned. He ripped a piece of tape off the roll and tugged on both ends to see how much it would yield. “Tempting. But sadly, no. The tape redirects the flow of your magic to where I want it to go. I’ll use it to stabilise your shoulder and speed up the healing process.”

Harry dropped his head back into his pillow. “Perfect, let’s do it!”

Unfortunately, applying the tape wasn’t all that easy. Draco had to re-assess the injury very precisely and then pinpoint the usual flow of magic through Harry’s body to see where he could divert it safely. It took nearly thirty minutes until Harry’s chest and back were taped to Draco’s satisfaction.

“Done,” he said silently, putting away the tape. Harry was breathing evenly and didn’t reply. He was lying on his stomach, facing away from Draco, and when Draco leaned over him to check, he saw that his eyes were closed.

Draco didn’t see any reason not to get some rest, so he took off his still damp scrubs and lay down beside Harry. Then he wrapped the blanket around themselves as neatly as he could while lying on it, which really only worked because it was so enormous. As soon as he was warm and comfortable, the fatigue got to him, and Draco fell asleep almost at once.

~o~

It was dark when Draco woke up almost five hours later. He felt even more tired than before, and also very hot. He turned over to Harry’s side and found it empty. The only reward was the blinding headache that picked up at once. Draco groaned and closed his eyes again. They were burning as well.

“Are you up?” Harry’s voice came from downstairs.

Draco tried to answer and found that his voice was gone, but the effort of it made his throat itch horribly and when he coughed, it sounded quite chesty. Just great.

“Stay in bed!” Harry demanded. “I’ll be back up in a minute. Just need to get rid of Odysseus first.”

Draco groaned some more and buried his head underneath the pillow. He only came out again when he felt the bed dip. Harry looked down at him in concern and placed a cold hand on Draco’s forehead. It was such a bliss that Draco forgot to chastise him for running around without a shirt. Not that he thought he could have voiced it.

“You look like shit,” said Harry tactfully. “Guess you should’ve tasted some of your own medicine.”

Draco swatted at him and then let his hand fall back against the pillow. Harry switched out the hand on Draco’s forehead and Draco closed his eyes again.

“Do you have some here?” Draco nodded. “In your bag?” Draco nodded again and Harry leaned away to fetch it while his hand stayed on Draco’s forehead.

“Accio Pepper-Up.”

There was a clink, then a plop, and then Harry pressed something against his lips. Draco opened his mouth and swallowed the potion. It felt like burning through three days of fever in under a minute. The temperature inside Draco rose suddenly and then surged out through his ears. Draco waited another minute and then accepted Harry’s help sitting up. The headache was gone, but he still felt light-headed and weak, which would take another day at the very least to fully subside.

Draco cleared his throat, which definitely felt better, and then jabbed Harry in the chest (lightly). “You should really put some clothes on.”

“Don’t you like what you see?” Harry grinned and turned this way and that so that Draco got a full view from all sides.

“Not particularly,” said Draco, who wasn’t that into Healing Tape and bruises that spanned half the torso. “What did Greyson want now?”

Harry shrugged. “Probably checking on me to see if I’m being a good boy and staying home, not going to any parties.” He nudged Draco and then proceeded to drag the blanket out from under him with his good side. Then he plopped down beside him and covered both of them with it. “Kidding. He just wrote to see what they said at Mungo’s and to tell me we’re taking two days off to recharge.”

“Finally, some sense.”

Draco turned onto his side so they were face to face. Harry brushed some hair out of Draco’s face and leaned over to kiss him softly, cold fingers dancing along his shoulder and down his bare left arm.

Draco didn’t know how he could do it – Harry always pretended like it was completely normal – but Draco had long since stopped trying to keep him from touching his arm like there wasn’t that fucking horrible scar branded into his skin. Harry only got angry at him if he did it, and Draco wanted to believe too much. Believe that Draco had worth despite that. Believe that Harry really had forgiven him. Believe that he could love him after all that had happened.

Draco kissed back with all he had, with all the want inside him, and only pushed him back when Harry started to grin against his lips.

“What?”

“Aren’t you going to tell me to stop before I catch your cold?”

Draco rolled his eyes and pulled him in again. “Why would I? I’m not contagious.”

They stayed in bed for another twenty minutes before Draco suddenly realised, “It’s your birthday!”

Sigh number one-million-and-something (Draco was sure that Harry had added to it during the match and when Draco had been asleep). “Don’t remind me.”

“I feel bad. You didn’t get to do anything fun.”

“I didn’t want to do anything fun, remember? I just wanted to ignore it. Besides, it was pretty funny watching you blow off Matt. Not having to go out there again was definitely the best present you could’ve given me.”

“Still. It’s only nine. What do you want to do?”

Harry sighed and turned to face the ceiling. “I could eat, I guess.”

Draco shoved his shoulder (not the injured one – he was no monster!). “Always takes me back to our old St. Mungo’s days when you get so unenthused about food.”

“Sorry. Just a shitty day, is all. Fucking Witch Weekly.” Harry sighed again and then seemed to gather his strength to get up. “Okay, let’s get something to eat. What do you want?”

“It’s your birthday!”

Harry crossed his arms. “But you are sick.”

“And you are injured and probably also sick by tomorrow, if you don’t put on some clothes soon.”

Harry ignored what Draco had just said. “Just choose. I feel bad because you had to sit in the rain for five hours because of me.”

“That wasn’t because of you but your fan club. Besides, at least I could sit. You had to be inside the storm for five hours. Without magic.”

“You ... are insufferable.”

Draco smiled sweetly and said, “Does that mean you’ll pick?”

He didn’t wait to hear the reply and went into the walk-in wardrobe, making a beeline for the designer clothes. Draco suspected that there was a dusting charm at work, because the clothes must’ve been gathering dust steadily with how seldom Harry wore them.

“Fine, let’s just get something from Linh’s.” Harry leaned against the doorframe and watched Draco browse through his stuff. “You are aware that those are mine, right?”

“Painfully,” said Draco, not even looking up from the dark pair of jeans he’d picked out. He held them up for Harry to see while going over to the shirts. “Also, don’t tell me you would ever wear these.”

“Why would I wear them? They are shredded! I like my knees covered, thank you very much.”

“They are not shredded, they are ripped. Purposefully. It’s fashion.”

“I hate fashion. Fashion can bite me. Especially the Witch Weekly Wardrobe Check. Hate that one. Samantha keeps sending me the cut-outs. They keep making ‘suggestions’ for me. That’s polite for ‘dragging my outfit choices through the mud’.”

Draco grinned. He certainly couldn’t blame them. “Well, you still need to get dressed. Maybe put on real trousers, too. Your Quidditch trackies will probably start to smell soon. Come to think of it, you should just take a shower. Your hair looks like several birds nested there for three consecutive summers.”

“Look who’s talking.” Harry came over and dragged both hands through Draco’s hair. He grinned. “I didn’t know your hair gets wavy.”

Draco scowled, threw the jeans over his arm and then tried to smooth his hair. He hated when his hair did that. That was why he always dried it off with his wand. “I’m sick, which means you have to be nice to me.”

“Fine.” Harry grinned even more. “You can take a shower too.”

Draco shrugged. He felt pretty chilly after burning through his fever, so why shouldn’t he let himself be boiled for a few minutes?

~o~

“Boys!” Jian actually threw her hands up in agitation. “Where have you been?”

“It’s Harry’s fault!”

“Hey!” Harry gave him a scandalised look and actually stepped away from him.

“It is! You cook too much.”

Harry lifted his chin several inches. “Fine, I won’t anymore.”

Jian didn’t even ask if they were going to stay or take their food home. She just grabbed a couple of menus and led them over to a vacant table while chatting with Harry. “Are you a good cook?”

“Alright, I guess.”

Draco rolled his eyes and gave Harry a shove from behind (on his good side, of course – still not a monster!). “He’s really good.”

“Great!” Jian sounded way too excited. “We actually need another cook. How about it?”

“Er,” said Harry, laughing nervously. “I’ve actually never done Chinese. I also already have a job.”

“Ah, yes, yes!” said Jian, still very cheerful. “The football, right? I’m afraid I don’t really know much about it. What’s it like being a footballer?”

“Er –” Harry gave him a panicked look.

“He’s not allowed to talk about work today,” said Draco. He plucked the menus from her hand and added on a whim, “It’s actually my birthday.”

Confusion was written all over Harry’s face, but he wasn’t stupid enough to object. Jian actually clapped her hands. “How wonderful! Congratulations! What can I get you?”

They ordered their usual and then watched her out of sight. Harry turned to face Draco as soon as she vanished into the kitchen.

“Another birthday?” he asked, trying for casual. “Isn’t one enough for you?”

Draco shrugged. “Feels wrong to just ignore this day. And if you don’t want it, someone should claim it, right?”

Harry snorted and shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder what it’d be like to be with someone who’s normal.”

“Share your wisdom with me if you ever find out,” said Draco.

Harry tried to kick him under the table, but Draco caught his foot between his own legs. He grabbed it with both hands and pulled, making Harry slide down the bench under much protest.

He let go when Jian reappeared suddenly, but it was too late. She was laughing silently as she unloaded two colourful cocktails in front of them, one of which had a sparkler in it.

“On the house!” said Jian cheerfully, looking from Draco (who tried to look dignified) to Harry (who was just resurfacing and straightening his clothes). “How old are you now?”

“Thank you! I’m twenty-five,” said Draco, ignoring the accusing look Harry gave him.

“Could’ve fooled me,” muttered Harry under his breath. “Behaving like a bloody eight-year-old.”

“That was all in defence!” said Draco.

Jian laughed and smiled at them fondly. “To be young again. And when’s your birthday, Harry?”

Harry grimaced and glared at Draco in not so silent accusation for bringing the topic up. “I don’t really celebrate my birthday …”

Draco plucked the sparkler out of his drink and used it to point at Harry. “Doesn’t stop you from ageing, though. He’s also twenty-five.”

“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you’re certainly not seventeen anymore,” said Draco bluntly while Jian giggled and then left them to their squabble. He leaned over to tug at the one curl that was always on scar duty. “Is that a grey hair?”

Harry swatted his hand away, trying intently not to grin. “Never have I ever been insulted like that. And today of all days!” There was a pause as Harry leaned back slowly, folding his arms and stretching his legs so they were getting tangled with Draco’s. “What else?”

Draco grinned and launched into his list (which he was making up as he went along, but Harry didn’t need to know that) while Harry sipped his cocktail and grinned way too much as he talked back.

Chapter Text

It was already half past eleven when Draco could finally end his shift on Ella’s birthday. He stopped by his house to change (desperately wishing he could just wear something short-sleeved for once – it was just so hot) and then Apparated as close to Ella and Callum’s flat as he could.

Lauren opened the door and promptly dragged him in by the arm.

“Draco! Finally! You’re very much needed. Harry found himself a groupie and she really can’t take a hint. And he’s way too polite to just tell her he’s not interested. Don’t know why he doesn’t tell her he’s got a boyfriend. Maybe he just doesn’t realise she wants to get into his pants – he’s just so ridiculously clueless. Come on.”

She led him through the flat. Harry stood next to the window, his back to the wall. Next to him stood a very pretty girl with flaming red hair. Draco found himself wondering if that was Harry’s type or if it had been Ginny’s personality that had won him over.

One thing was crystal-clear, at least: Harry was definitely her type. She stood way too close to him, seriously invading his personal space. Harry looked miserable and Draco suspected that he was just barely keeping it together because this was a Muggle party and he had no rational reason to be that defensive. These people had no idea what Harry had to endure every day.

“I just really love football! Most girls don’t even know what offside is!” She giggled obnoxiously and put a hand on Harry’s naked arm, making him flinch. “Want me to explain it?”

“No,” said Harry listlessly, trying to lean away from her without being too obvious. Did Harry even know what ‘offside’ was? “I believe you.”

Harry caught sight of Draco and perked up. Seldom had Draco seen him that relieved. Ginger noticed the change as well. She turned around to see what Harry had spotted. That was when Draco recognised her.

“Harry! Look who I found!” Lauren practically shouted. “It’s your –”

“Chaperone,” Draco cut in, making no move to touch Harry, whose confusion was clear on his face. “Hello, Potter. Mathews.”

She clearly recognised him too. Her eyebrows shot up and she wrung her hands nervously. Lauren seemed confused. Harry looked crestfallen as the realisation sunk in.

“You two know each other?” he asked, clearing his throat at the end of it.

“From the hospital,” Draco said pointedly.

“What a coincidence.” Harry’s voice sounded rather numb. He turned his face in the witch’s direction without really looking at her. “Nice talking to you. There’s something I need to discuss with Malfoy. If you’d excuse me.”

And then he grabbed Draco by the arm with way too much force and hauled him out of the flat and into the hallway. Draco didn’t take this personally. He knew that Harry was boiling inside.

“She’s a witch!” Harry yelled as the door closed behind them. “She pretended to be a Muggle for two whole hours! What the hell? I was seriously thinking about kissing you just to finally get rid of her! We’re so lucky you recognised her!”

Draco put a hand on his shoulder in support. “Why did you put up with her for two hours? You could’ve told her you’re not interested.”

“And how was I to know she was coming on to me? I thought she didn’t know who I was. I don’t just assume everybody’s into me, you know?”

“Are you blind? What more would she have to do to get through to you? Take off all her clothes?”

“Ha ha,” Harry said tonelessly.

The door burst open suddenly and Draco let go of Harry, taking a hasty step back. They both turned to look at Lauren, who stood there with her arms crossed.

“Thank God.” She sighed with relief. “I thought you broke up and didn’t tell us. Why did you act so weird in there?”

“Er –” Harry said, looking at Draco helplessly and then back at Lauren. “You didn’t tell her, right?”

“Don’t worry,” Lauren reassured him. “I can take a hint. I just told her you’re sadly not interested. Now, why did I have to tell her that?”

“You see … the thing is …” Harry shot Draco another pleading look, but he just shrugged. He didn’t know Muggle dating mentality. “I only dated women until now. And with my career …”

“He isn’t exactly out yet,” Draco cut in, realising where Harry was going with it. The heat and stress were starting to get to his head, and he pushed up his right sleeve in an attempt at getting some air. Lauren’s features softened considerably.

“Oh wow, that’s awful.” She patted Harry’s arm lightly, because that was how she showed affection. She definitely wasn’t as touchy-feely as Olivia – at least not with people other than her girlfriend. “I know professional sports are not exactly tolerant. I’m so sorry … I’ll tell the others to hush it up.”

Harry gave her a relieved smile and a spontaneous hug, which she returned fiercely. “Thanks! You’re the best.” Then he kissed her cheek and went back inside.

Lauren shut the door behind him and turned back to Draco, who suddenly felt slightly trapped. She gave him a smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. What he saw there looked more like uncertainty, or maybe concern.

“Liv and I will keep you company for the rest of the evening.”

“Thank you,” said Draco gratefully.

Everything was better than ending up in another movie debate with Ella. He wasn’t keen on watching her become exasperated with his lack of common knowledge again.

“Anytime,” she said, smiling way too nicely for her standards. It was unsettling. “You know we love you, right?”

“Um,” said Draco, caught completely off guard. Other than his mother, nobody had ever told him that before, especially not this casually.

“We really do, and not just because you’re with Harry. Though that’s also a pretty big part of it, of course. You go well together. It’s a relief to see him happy again, opening up a bit. We never knew, you know? About his childhood. He never talked about it before. Hermione mentioned something about his parents once, and of course we know he has nightmares, even though he tries to hide them; but that was about it.”

Draco frowned. He wasn’t really surprised that she knew about the nightmares. Harry had them frequently – they both did – and Draco didn’t know how Harry could hope to control them when he was spending the night. He was just confused why Lauren was telling him all of this.

“Is this the part where you threaten me? Isn’t it a little late for that, six months in?”

Lauren punched his arm affectionally. “That’s not where I was going. I’m just saying … sometimes it’s good to open up, right? So your friends can understand you better and be there for you.”

Draco searched her face for a clue, some hint of where this was going. “I’m not sure he’ll do that again anytime soon. I think he regretted saying anything as soon as he opened his mouth. He doesn’t really want to talk about his childhood.”

Lauren sighed deeply and shot a wistful look at the door. She muttered, “Should’ve gotten Liv to do it,” and then turned back to him. She took his left hand and squeezed it. “I’m not talking about Harry. You can talk to us too, you know? About anything.”

Something ice-cold slid down his back as she turned his hand over carefully, making the inside of his left arm face up. Her eyes were much softer than Draco would ever have thought possible, and she knew. His sleeve was still covering that damned scar, but somehow, she knew.

Draco pulled away and gripped his lower arm with his right hand, facing it away from her. And her eyebrows drew together in sorrowful confirmation.

“You don’t have to hide it, Draco. We won’t judge you. There are plenty of people who self-harmed before coming to the gym. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Draco shook his head. Thoughts were racing through his head, but very few of them made any sense. This was all kinds of fucked up. Here she was, worried about his well-being, while Draco was hiding the mark that proclaimed his superiority over her – over all of them. His willingness to watch them be enslaved or killed. He felt dizzy and sick.

“I’m not,” he whispered. He didn’t know why he was whispering, Malfoy’s never whispered, but he couldn’t do anything to change it. “I think I …”

Draco gestured vaguely towards the stairs, but she grabbed his shoulder – the right one – immediately. She looked angry.

“I’m sorry! Don’t go. I completely fucked this up, I know I’m no good at it.” Her brown eyes were narrowed in urgency. “Don’t go. I won’t mention it again, I promise. Just – I promise that’s the last I will say about it – if you ever do want to talk – no matter what it’s about - we’ll listen.” She smiled at him fiercely and opened the door for him.

Draco stood frozen to the spot. Everything inside him wanted to flee, turn his back on the horribleness of it all. But he also knew that it was his own fault, and that leaving now would only add to that. He owed it to them to stay and be better than he had been.

He took a deep, shaky breath and went back inside.

Chapter Text

Draco was exhausted. His shift had been supposed to end at eleven. He’d been planning to go to Grimmauld Place and have a midnight snack with Harry. He had been promised waffles, for Merlin’s sake!

A nine-year-old Muggle-born had lost control of his magic and blown up his flat instead. The whole family – father, step-mother and two half-sisters – had been blasted with magic, which was why they’d been sent to spell-damages. But the boy had been buried beneath the rubble when the ceiling had caved in, so they’d given him to Draco. He guessed they’d been lucky the flat was on the top floor. Draco doubted any of them would still be alive if the building’s ground floor had collapsed.

Grimmauld Place was silent when Draco finally made it there. Harry was probably asleep already, but Draco still touched his necklace to let him know he was there. Better to wake him than face the alternative. The necklace could protect Draco against Harry’s magic, but it evidently wouldn’t protect him from getting strangled by accident.

He debated going directly to bed but ultimately decided against it. Harry hated when he came to bed reeking of cleaning spells. Draco didn’t like it either, but he wouldn’t have dragged himself to the shower if he’d been sleeping alone without the risk of getting pushed out of bed. Which really wasn’t all that unlikely.

Being the considerate partner he was, Draco cast a double silencing spell at the door and also the wall that separated the bath from the bedroom. It was a good thing too, because Draco cursed more than just a little bit when the water hit him, steaming hot from the start.

Harry was blinking up at him when he finally stumbled into the bedroom, already half-asleep.

“Time is it?”

Harry held the blanket open for him and Draco fell into bed face first. The blanket was draped around him and then he was dragged into blissfully warm arms.

“Quarter to four. Did you get my message?”  

Draco had used the Protean on his necklace to tell Harry he would be late. He’d barely had a minute to himself before the healing had started.

“Do you think I would’ve gone to sleep if I hadn’t?”

Draco sighed contently. “See? I get along just fine even without a Patronus. Also, it’s hot. How many did you cast?”

Harry shrugged behind him and buried his face between Draco’s shoulder blades. “Didn’t count.”

Draco closed his eyes and drifted off.

...

“You reek.”

Draco sighed drowsily. “Your shower burned me. Again.”

“Why don’t you turn the temperature down if you know it’s gonna happen?”

Draco grumbled, but didn’t reply. Sleep.

…

He jumped when Harry suddenly whispered, “What happened?” what felt like an hour later. It probably wasn’t, because it was still dark outside.

“Abusive step-mother,” Draco muttered with only half his brain still working. “Muggle-born lost control. Or maybe he’s half. Don’t know about the real mother.”

Harry tensed up. Draco knew he wanted to ask something else but didn’t dare.

“They’ll live,” Draco added.

“And they’re gonna give him back to them.”

Draco flopped around and flung his arms around Harry, squeezing him as hard as his weak, aching arms would allow in the hopes it would shut him up.

“No. Let me sleep. Please.”

“No? What do you mean, no?”

Draco groaned. “I filed a motion with the Ministry. They’re going to see if they can find his mother’s family or place him with S.U.M.O. if they can’t. Sleep.”

“Sorry,” said Harry, suddenly in a much softer voice. He pressed a kiss to Draco’s forehead and was finally silent.

~o~