Chapter Text
“Fuck, I’m so late,” Harry says, adjusting his lime green robes as he catches his reflection in the loo mirror.
“Healer Potter!” John calls from outside, making Harry groan in frustration. His interns are even following him to the bloody toilet nowadays. “Code orange in Emergency Room number five.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Harry mutters darkly, making his way outside and glaring at John as he strides down the corridor. “My shift ended ages ago! Where the hell is Parvati?”
“Her daughter has caught chickenpox, so she’s off today. She left a note for you,” John says, passing Harry some parchment with a few illegible lines written in the usual chicken scratch most of the Healers consider acceptable.
“I can’t read this blasted thing,” Harry grumbles, passing it back to him. “I have to be out of this bloody hospital by 3 o’clock, otherwise Ron is going to skin me alive.”
“We called Healer Taylor in, and she should arrive any minute.”
They reach the door with a big number five written on it, the wood flashing orange as Harry pushes on the door handle and enters, noticing the familiar figure hunched on the bed straight away. Harry stops and raises an eyebrow.
“Why am I not surprised?” he asks, and Malfoy shrugs, then winces as he clutches at his bandaged shoulder with a low whine. “What in Merlin’s name happened to you this time?”
“Got hexed by some smugglers,” Malfoy replies through gritted teeth, and Harry can’t help but notice Malfoy’s crumpled Auror robes, the way his nose is bleeding, the dark shades under his grey eyes looking even starker against his very pale complexion.
“You look an absolute mess,” Harry breathes out, flicking his wand automatically to cast a series of diagnostic spells that reveal a fractured clavicle, two broken ribs, considerable bruising and a few splinters in his arms and hands. Harry takes a deep breath and grabs a chair, sitting down next to the bed where Malfoy is precariously perched. “You need to stop getting hexed so frequently,” he says, motioning for John to leave before he casts a quick spell that rips Malfoy’s robes at the front.
“Oi, those were the only robes that were still in one piece,” Malfoy protests, then hisses under his breath at the pain when Harry tries to pull at the sleeves.
“They were covered in blood anyway,” Harry says, severing the fabric so that it comes undone without hurting his patient. “Here, take some potion for the pain.”
“Can cope,” Malfoy says stoically, lifting his nose in the air as Harry contemplates the bruises on his scarred chest, the fresh cuts zigzagging across his torso.
“Stop being a prat and take it,” Harry says, pulling his own sleeves up before he starts casting a series of spells to mend Malfoy’s broken bones and seal the cuts with expertise, trying not to leave any scars over the ones Harry has already left there in a previous life.
“Thank you,” Malfoy breathes out when Harry’s nearly done, his voice faint. He looks like he’s about to pass out, his white-blond hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, eyes a bit glassy as he stares at Harry with parted lips, trying to catch his breath.
“Lie down,” Harry says, finally softening now that most of Malfoy’s wounds have been treated and he’s no longer in danger. “Come on. I’ll get you a glass of that pineapple juice you seem to like so much.”
Malfoy does as he’s told, and Harry suddenly realises he’s only wearing his black boxers, clinging tightly to his lean body as Malfoy stretches on the bed, rubbing his face with his hands as Harry fumbles for a glass of juice.
The thing is, Malfoy is gorgeous. And Harry’s got eyes. He might need glasses, but he can see perfectly well how attractive Malfoy is, with his graceful yet strong body and porcelain skin. Harry stares at his soft-looking hair, reaching his shoulders now that it’s down. Malfoy usually keeps it tied up in a bun when he’s working, and Harry’s heard the other Aurors teasing him about looking like a girl, with long hair that makes him seem almost ethereal. Harry just wishes he could slide his fingers through it, like he did that time Malfoy was in a coma for two days, scaring the daylights out of Harry until he woke up with an insane appetite and a foul mood.
“You can go now,” Malfoy mumbles, turning his head to stare at him. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week. When did your shift start?”
“About a million hours ago,” Harry replies with a tired sigh. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’d better spend the night here.”
“I’m fine,” Malfoy says, waving a hand in his direction. “I’ll take a quick nap and then go back to the Ministry. I have paperwork to fill in before I head home.”
Harry would like to stay and ask what the hell Draco did this time to end up in St Mungo’s again, but he looks at his watch and swears under his breath. Ron is going to murder him.
“I need to go,” he says, casting one last spell to check Malfoy’s vitals. “I promised Ron I would look after his daughter while he works. Hermione is busy with one of her projects.”
“Let me guess,” Malfoy says with a smirk. “Another one of those top secret Unspeakable experiments that no one can know anything about.”
“Correct,” Harry says, lingering for a moment, fingers itching to touch Malfoy’s smooth skin, to check if he’s fine. “I…”
“Chop, chop, Potter,” Malfoy says, shooing him away with his hand and pulling the blankets over his long body. “Salazar, I feel like I’ve been hit by an Erumpent.”
“There’s some more pain relief potion on the bedside table,” Harry says, getting ready to leave. “Take it, okay?”
“Yes, Mother.”
Harry frowns and then waves as he opens the door, casting one last glance at the bed before he leaves. Malfoy’s grey eyes lock with his, and a small smile flickers on his beautiful face before he closes his eyes and yawns.
Harry catches sight of his replacement appearing at the end of the corridor and quickly Apparates to the changing room to get rid of his awful work clothes. He checks the petition he’s stuck to the wall to ask the St Mungo’s board to reconsider a change of colour for their robes and notices with dismay that not enough people have signed it. Parvati says lime green goes well with his eyes, but Harry suspects she might be colourblind.
He Floos directly to Ron and Hermione’s cottage, bracing himself for the bollocking of the century when he realises he’s over an hour late and Ron will have had no chance to work with Rosie at home and Molly off to Romania to visit Charlie.
“Ron?” Harry calls, stepping inside the living room and nearly tripping on a toy car that could have sent him flying. “Rosie?”
“In the kitchen!” Ron calls, and Harry breathes out in relief, tripping on a teddy bear dressed up as a pirate with a pink tutu. Harry’s expecting to find Rosie sitting at the table, eating biscuits to keep her busy despite Hermione’s strict instruction on the quantity of sugar the little girl’s allowed, but Rosie is nowhere in sight. Ron is staring intently at a tiny striped sweet, tapping it with his wand and making it spark.
Harry looks around, noticing the array of open vials containing colourful potions littering the kitchen table and wondering where on earth Rosie is when he hears a loud crash from upstairs. Ron’s blue eyes open wide as he stares at Harry and stands up.
“Was that-” Harry starts, but Ron quickly Disapparates with a loud crack, and Harry hears him groan.
“Rosie, what have you done? You said you were just going upstairs to get a book,” Ron moans. “I’ve told you a million times not to touch mummy’s things! If she finds out you’ve been in her office, she’s going to get so mad at us.”
“Don’t worry, daddy!” Rosie replies cheerfully, following Ron down the stairs. “I was just playing with the dolls. It will be our little secret.”
Harry sees her blinking three times at Ron, who shakes his head and sighs.
“That’s not how you wink,” he tells his daughter, lifting her up and depositing her on a chair. “Uncle Harry’s come to play with you while daddy tries to finish his new Wheeze for the shop.”
“Yay!” Rosie says, her hazel eyes lighting up when she notices Harry standing in a corner of the kitchen. “We can bake biscuits together, uncle Harry!”
“Er…” Harry starts, checking with Ron, who simply shrugs and dips the striped sweet into a bright pink potion.
“You can make biscuits and then dispose of the evidence before Hermione’s return,” Ron says, groaning when his sweet starts shrinking and then crumbles in his hands. “I can’t get these Blossoming Bonbons right!”
“What are they supposed to do?” Harry asks, reaching for the cupboard containing the scales and the main baking ingredients.
“If I manage to get them to work, they should make flowers appear in your hair when you eat them,” Ron explains, fishing another sweet out of a box and tapping it insistently with his wand. “Trouble is, at the moment all they do is make people vomit daisies.”
“And that’s not cute,” Rosie declares, digging her hand inside the flour and depositing a handful of it onto the scales. “Look, Harry. I’m a crane! Twzzzzz.”
“I don’t think mummy and daddy will be happy if we make a mess,” Harry says cautiously, but after casting a glance at the table, he decides that it’s a good thing he can use magic.
“Can you stay until dinnertime?” Ron asks, dipping the sweet into a cobalt potion and watching it glow with interest. “I have a meeting with McGonagall at Hogwarts in twenty minutes, but ‘Mione should be back in an hour.”
“Okay,” Harry replies with a sigh, feeling exhausted but also guilty for being so late in the first place. He knows Ron and Hermione are struggling with their busy work schedules and raising a five-year-old who seems extremely precocious and filled to the brim with magic. Molly normally looks after her while her parents are at work, but her little trip to Romania has made their lives a little bit more complicated, so Harry volunteered to help. He doesn’t have a family anyway, nor a boyfriend. Maybe he should get a pet, he reasons while he helps Rosie break the eggs.
“Right, I’m off to Hogwarts, then,” Ron declares. “Wish me luck.”
“What’s your meeting about?” Harry asks, noticing Rosie eating some of the chocolate chips from the corner of his eye.
“One of the students gave a Swearing Sweetie to Professor Sprout last week,” Ron replies with a grimace. “She couldn’t stop swearing for two days straight. You can imagine old McG is not exactly ecstatic about our products at the moment.”
“Oh dear,” Harry says, feeling sorry for his friend. “Well, Rosie and I will make some lovely biscuits for when you get back.”
“Be a good girl and please stay away from mummy’s office,” Ron says, kissing Rosie on the head.
“How does she even get in?” Harry asks, remembering the complex series of locking spells he’s seen Hermione perform on her office door.
“Merlin knows,” Ron replies. “Most likely with accidental magic. She’s so powerful that Hermione wants to take her to the Department of Mysteries to study her. Over my dead body.”
Harry looks at the little girl, brown curls covered in flour and freckled face beaming with joy. He remembers what it was like to be a child and to be full of magic, and he’s grateful that Rosie has two parents who love her to bits and look after her.
“She’s going to be fine,” he murmurs, ruffling her curls gently. “Let’s get baking, shall we?”
By the time Hermione comes back, the kitchen is clean and all evidence of the biscuits is safely hidden in Harry’s bag (and Rosie’s stomach). Harry can barely keep his eyes open, but Hermione convinces him to stay for dinner, insisting that he can’t possibly go home and cook in that state, so he ends up staying for longer than intended. Ron comes back with a sour expression on his face, saying that all their products have been banned for a month. Hermione tries to reason that it makes sense from McGonagall's point of view, but Harry just gives Ron a pat on the back and opens up a beer.
When Harry finally gets back to Grimmauld Place, tired and sore from a day spent on his feet, he collapses on the bed without even taking his clothes off and falls asleep.
His alarm interrupts a fitful dream that features McGonagall baking biscuits that turn into snakes and bite Harry’s arse. When Harry opens his eyes, he realises that it’s not his alarm clock that is making the annoying ringing sound, but it’s actually his wand.
“What now?” he asks, flicking it to reveal a puff of red smoke. “Shit, shit, shit!”
He gets up, casting a freshening charm on his breath as he runs down the stairs, looking for his shoes before he remembers he’s a bloody wizard and can actually summon them. He Apparates straight to St Mungo’s and is greeted by a frantic Parvati.
“Code red,” she says, carrying a box full of vials to one of the emergency rooms.
“What happened?” Harry asks, looking at four different doors flashing scarlet, wondering who is on shift.
“Auror raid gone wrong,” Parvati replies, kicking one of the doors open. Harry’s stomach sinks, wondering who is injured and how seriously. “You take room two, then check room three when your patient’s stable.”
Harry nods, opening the door and wincing when he sees a man sprouting tentacles from his abdomen, a loud, animalistic sound escaping his mouth. One of the Medi-witches briefs him, explaining that the Aurors raided a potions smuggling lab, but some of the cauldrons had exploded in the fight, spraying both Aurors and criminals with potentially deadly potions.
Harry focuses on his job, on figuring out what is wrong with his patient, trying to block out the worrying thoughts of which Aurors were involved, of how serious their conditions are. He thinks about Neville and Seamus. About Malfoy.
He casts spell after spell on the wizard he’s trying to help, trying different potions until the man finally stops screaming and falls asleep, the tentacles lying limp on his belly. Harry pokes them with his wand, and they twitch lightly, curling around the wood.
“He’s stable enough,” Harry declares. “Take him upstairs to the third floor. Hopefully they will be able to fix him.”
Harry’s stomach rumbles, and he remembers he hasn’t even had breakfast, but he moves quickly, leaving the room and entering the adjacent one.
His breath hitches in his throat when he sees Malfoy, lying on the bed covered in a thick blanket as he shivers and looks at him with wide, grey eyes.
“You’re not wearing your robes,” Malfoy says, his voice faint and teeth chattering.
“Vitals?” Harry asks one of the Medi-wizards.
“His heartbeat is irregular, temperature of 39.9 degrees, causes unknown,” Harry’s colleague replies. Harry frowns, casting one diagnostic spell after another, then placing his hand on Malfoy’s forehead, feeling his burning skin against his.
“I’ll get you back on your feet in no time,” Harry promises, his fingers sliding through white-blond locks in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture. People have complained about his lack of bedside manners, but Harry doesn’t care as long as he’s good at his job. He watches Malfoy’s eyes flutter shut as Harry keeps on stroking his hair, then he presses his thumb against Malfoy’s temples, making him groan. “Do you have a headache?”
“Yes,” Malfoy murmurs. “Really bad. My neck is stiff, too. I can’t even move it.”
Harry blinks a few times, then he has an idea. He summons a book from his office, then sits next to Draco, one hand still on his head as he flicks through the pages of his book with the other one.
“Got it!” Harry exclaims triumphantly. “Fetch me some primrose oil, dry dragon liver and Pepper Up, quick!”
As soon as Harry’s got the ingredients he needs, he mixes them fast, checking Malfoy’s vitals while he stares at him with half-lidded eyes, clearly looking unwell. Malfoy drinks the potion without complaints, only grimacing at the foul taste, and then he sighs as steam comes out of his ears and his temperature gradually goes down.
“How did you do it?” Malfoy asks, his body lying limp on the bed.
“I remembered reading about this potion that is used as a hallucinogenic, but if mixed incorrectly it can cause the same symptoms as meningitis.”
“Mhh,” Draco hums, paler than usual in the hospital bed. “Healer Potter strikes again.”
“You need to rest now,” Harry says, lifting the blanket over Malfoy’s body and patting him gently on the shoulder. He notices there’s a cut on his neck, the hem of his Auror robes stained with dark blood. “I’ll get this wound stitched while you sleep. The potion I gave you should give you some relief from the pain, so hopefully you won’t feel a thing. Let me check on the other Aurors first.”
“Longbottom and Finnigan are fine,” Malfoy says, smiling at him as his eyes drift shut. “It was just me and the smugglers who ended up in St Mungo’s.”
Harry breathes out in relief, then shakes his head as he watches Malfoy fall asleep. His lips tremble, and his eyelids quiver after a while. Harry casts a healing charm, trying to be delicate and precise while he stitches Malfoy’s cut and wonders why it’s always Malfoy he ends up treating.
Is he such a shit Auror?
“Hey,” Parvati interrupts Harry’s thought process with a steaming cup of tea and a paper bag that probably contains Harry’s favourite almond croissant.
“I could kiss you right now,” Harry mutters, grabbing the bag and inhaling the scent of buttery pastry and almonds.
“It’s the least I can do after dragging you out of bed and making you cover for me yesterday,” Parvati says, nudging his shoulder. “Besides, I owe you one for Saturday as well.”
“Saturday?” Harry mumbles through a mouthful of croissant.
“We’re swapping shifts, so that I can go to Prisha’s football game,” Parvati explains. “Did you not get my note?”
“I thought Prisha had chickenpox!” Harry exclaims, his voice so loud that Malfoy whimpers in his sleep, turning around in bed. Parvati raises an eyebrow at him, and Harry hisses, “Your handwriting is bloody illegible!”
“It’s Priya who’s got chickenpox, not Prisha. I owe you one,” Parvati says. “And stop swearing all the time. You know the board is already mad at you for that complaint we got when you swore in front of Mrs Hobbs. You’re not exactly popular, what with you organising that petition against the uniforms and telling the whole board our robes are, and I quote, ‘the worst pile of horseshit under the sun’.”
“First of all,” Harry says with a raised finger, “our robes are absolute crap. And secondly, I did not swear in front of Mrs Hobbs. I just said ‘bloody hell’, which does not count as swearing.”
Parvati raises both eyebrows at him and blinks a few times.
“Fine, I will only say things like ‘fiddlesticks’ and ‘cor, blimey’ in front of the patients from now on.”
“You’re the best,” Parvati says. “Thanks for Saturday,” she adds, blowing Harry a kiss as she leaves the room.
Harry sighs dramatically and grabs a chair to sit next to the bed.
“You’re too nice,” Malfoy mutters, his eyes still closed. “People take advantage of you.”
“I don’t have a family,” Harry mumbles, sipping on his tea while he observes how pale Malfoy’s eyelashes look, almost transparent. “I feel bad if my friends and colleagues miss out on family time when I could be helping them. I’m on my own, anyway.”
“At this rate, you’ll never have the time to find a partner for yourself,” Malfoy comments, opening his eyes and staring at him. Harry notices a faint blue tinge to his skin, wondering if the potion he got splattered with had other side effects that his diagnostic spells didn’t detect.
“Are you feeling okay?” he asks, swishing his wand and casting another inconclusive spell.
“I’m starving,” Malfoy comments. “I was up since 2 am for this bloody raid, and then ended up in St Mungo’s instead of going home for some breakfast.”
“I’ll get the Medi-witch on duty to fetch you some food,” Harry says, standing up. “Let me know if you feel unwell or if you get new symptoms.”
“Will do,” Malfoy says, then softly. “Thank you, Potter.”
“I’m just doing my job,” Harry replies, waving as he leaves the room, a strange feeling in his stomach, like an insistent fluttering that he can’t really put a name to and won’t stop every time he saves Malfoy from a hex or a beating.
Parvati suggests going home for a couple of hours, since Harry’s shift is not technically supposed to start until mid-morning, so he Apparates back to Grimmauld Place and gets some cleaning done because the house looks a complete mess. He never has enough time to do the laundry and mop the floors with his endless shifts at the hospital. There’s a pile of washing up in the sink, and Harry sighs as he flicks his wand and casts one of the charms Molly taught him when he started living on his own, after Hermione and Ron moved to their cottage before they got married.
Harry paces around the house, looking at the closed doors, at the rooms he keeps shut because he never gets to use them, and wonders if maybe the time has come for him to move out and find a smaller flat. He’s always on his own, after his friends left and Kreacher died. But despite being so empty, the house still retains the memories of moments lost to the war. Of Sirius and Remus, chatting with hushed voices at the kitchen table, of Tonks’ rainbow hair and bright smiles, of Dumbledore’s careful words and slow gestures. Of Fred and his mischievous grin as he stomped down the stairs with George. Harry can’t imagine selling the house and giving away those precious memories, the only ones he’s got left of the people he loved and lost.
He runs his hand over the bannister as he goes upstairs to fetch the lime green robes that he detests so much, thinking about Malfoy and wondering where he lives. Harry knows that he left the Manor after the war, selling it to donate the money to the War Fund. It was all over the papers, but Malfoy simply shrugged when Harry asked about it, back at Hogwarts during their eighth year.
“With Father in Azkaban and Mother in the Janus Thickey Ward, what am I going to do on my own in a huge mansion?” Malfoy had simply replied, avoiding Harry’s eyes. “I saved enough Galleons to rent a place somewhere, nothing big.”
Harry had just stared at him, unsure what to say.
Malfoy was still so skittish back then, his body skinny and constantly on the move, bruises sneaking up under the hems of his robes. Harry had felt pity for him, after all the rage was gone, leaving only grief behind. And Malfoy had changed, little by little, all his animosity gone and the first tentative changes blossoming like buds in spring. He took Muggle Studies for his N.E.W.T.s, completed the Death Eater rehabilitation programme with flying colours, then volunteered to rebuild the buildings that got damaged during the war. Harry knew Malfoy started working at the War Orphanage on weekends, after school was over, donating most of the Galleons he earned to charity, even though he never made a show of it. Hermione kept Harry in the loop, always busy with setting up charities and helping out while Harry tried to stay afloat after signing up for Healer school.
Harry barely saw Malfoy in the first couple of years after school. He caught a glimpse of him in Diagon Alley, a cowering figure hiding in a side street when a group of people started screaming at him and throwing hexes in his direction. Harry followed him and treated his wounds without a word, frowning at the old scars he found and wondering if Malfoy was looking after himself properly. Then he met him at Hannah Abbot’s birthday party, and they had a quiet chat while sharing the last bottle of beer, their words hushed as Malfoy apologised for what he had done, his jaw clenched and eyes burning. Harry took his wrist and cast a healing charm on a cut that was still bleeding a bit, saying that he didn’t need any more apologies, that he was tired and hungry, and would Malfoy like to get some food?
Then one morning it was all over the papers.
Ex-Death Eater Joins The Aurors.
Harry stared at Malfoy’s body, clad in a scarlet uniform on the front page of the Prophet, and he couldn’t help but think that the skinny git was no longer so scrawny and scared.
He looked like a man.
A man Harry very much liked and wished he could spend more time getting to know properly. Little did he expect that his wish would come true in the worst possible way, with Malfoy ending up in St Mungo’s on a weekly basis with the worst injuries Harry had ever seen.
“Is he that shit at his job?” Harry asked Neville once, worried by the latest accident that landed Malfoy on a hospital bed with two broken arms and burns on his hands.
“He’s actually one of our best Aurors,” Neville replied with a frown. “He is really fast, has an excellent knowledge of dark spells, and can cast advanced defensive spells with fine precision. Plus, he’s a very good teacher.”
“Then why on earth is he getting hexed day in, day out?” Harry asks, frustratedly pointing at the bed where a pale Malfoy was resting.
“That’s a very good question,” Neville said with a sigh. “One that you should probably ask Head Auror Figgins or Robards.”
Harry sighs as he remembers that conversation with Neville, the sense of unease it left him with, the way Neville changed the topic straight away to then say he needed to go back to the Ministry.
Harry packs his lunch bag, wondering if he should run a series of more thorough check-ups on Malfoy, and then he apparates to St Mungo’s, only to find him gone.
“He said he was feeling fine and that he had work to do,” Parvati says with a smirk when she notices Harry’s disappointed expression. “Maybe you should simply ask him out, you know? That poor lad keeps on ending up here just for a chance to see you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Harry replies in outrage. “Malfoy’s not doing it on purpose, and I’m just worried about his wellbeing. He needed a few days’ rest, but as usual, he left before I could even double-check if he was fine.”
“Maybe you should start doing door to door visits,” Parvati says with a wink, elbowing Harry and making him huff in indignation.
Harry spends the rest of the morning tending to the potions smugglers, trying to get them to recover enough to send them back to the Ministry, so that the Aurors can interrogate them and then send them to one of their cells while they await trials. He has lunch while he fills in paperwork about his patients, accidentally splattering some discharge forms with his chicken pasanda.
He’s absolutely knackered by the time he gets to leave, the sky already dark outside as he takes a walk to get some fresh air while he heads for the little supermarket next to the hospital that is open until late. Harry buys the ingredients to make lasagne, and then Apparates home, starting the tomato sauce while still in his Healer robes. He throws them in the wash with a grunt, wishing the Board would consider his petition to make them a little less awful, and then he sighs in relief as he stands under the hot shower, feeling the tiredness of the day melt away under the stream of water.
He wears a simple orange t-shirt that used to belong to Ron and some shorts that feel comfy and loose. What he hates the most about his hospital robes is not simply the colour, but also that they’re bloody uncomfortable, especially for someone who is on their feet all day, constantly moving around.
He walks down the stairs in mismatched socks, noticing that his sauce is bubbling too much.
“Fuck, please tell me it’s not burnt!” he shouts, and then it happens.
Draco Malfoy appears in the kitchen, standing right in front of Harry with some pot noodles in his hands. He stares at Harry with wide eyes, his hair all mussed and loose, cascading on his lean shoulders. Malfoy’s wearing an old Puddlemere top, a little too big for him as it slides off his shoulder, showing his bony collar bones and a milky-white neck. Harry’s gaze wanders down, his cheeks flushing when he notices that Malfoy is only wearing a pair of black boxer-briefs, making his legs look a million miles long, his feet bare on Harry’s kitchen floor.
“What the actual fuck happened?” Malfoy says, frowning as he looks around.
“How did you know the Apparition coordinates to my house?” Harry asks, dumbfounded. “You shouldn’t even know of its existence! Only Ron and Hermione and the Weasleys know about it.”
“I didn’t Apparate,” Malfoy replies, clutching his pot of noodles and staring back at Harry with wide eyes. “I was in my kitchen about to have dinner, Potter. I don’t even have my wand on me.”
They look at each other for a long moment, and Harry realises that he didn’t hear the familiar crack of an Apparition before Malfoy arrived. He notices the dark circles under his eyes and the vaguely blue tinge of his skin, wondering if this is still a side effect of the potion that hit him in the morning.
“Why don’t you take a seat,” Harry says, trying to stay calm, “and I’ll run a few spells to check if you’re fine.”
Malfoy rolls his eyes but complies, sniffing in Harry’s direction.
“What are you cooking? It smells amazing,” he says, placing his pot noodles on the table and tilting his neck to take a peek at the pot on the stove.
“Shit, I was about to stir it,” Harry says, remembering his sauce. He lifts the lid and sighs in relief as he stirs it with a wooden spoon. “Thank god it’s not burnt. I was going to make lasagne; this is the ragù that will go in it.”
“Blimey, Potter,” Malfoy comments behind him. “I barely know how to make pasta. Wait, were you waiting for a date to show up? Shall I leave?”
“No,” Harry replies quickly, keen for Malfoy to stay. Purely for professional reasons, he tells himself. He definitely needs to check on his vitals after that random Apparition. “I fancied something nice and warm. I normally make a huge batch and then freeze it, so that I have meals for work or for when I’m too tired to cook.”
“Wise move,” Malfoy comments, his stomach rumbling loudly. “I don’t suppose you could pour some hot water into my noodle pot? I was about to have dinner myself.”
Harry eyes the pot with a scrunched up nose and a frown.
“This stuff is bad for you,” he declares disapprovingly. “It’s full of salt and preservatives.”
“Well, we’re not all Michelin Star chefs, Potter,” Malfoy comments, crossing his arms in front of his chest and looking offended. Harry’s eyes wander down again, at his naked legs and creamy thighs. He feels his cheeks flushing, calling himself stupid since he’s seen Malfoy half-naked a million times at the hospital. But this is different because Malfoy is in his bloody kitchen, not on a hospital bed. He’s not Harry’s patient right now, just a normal bloke, showing up in his underwear in Harry’s kitchen on a Tuesday night.
Right.
“Why don’t you stay for dinner?” Harry hears himself blurt out. “You can help me make lasagne. And I can keep an eye on you, just in case you sprout wings or start spitting fire, you never know.”
Malfoy seems to consider Harry’s suggestion for a few seconds, but then his stomach protests loudly, so he nods and stands up.
“I shall warn you that I’m crap at cooking,” he says, grabbing a spoon from the counter and dipping it into the pot. “Merlin’s beard, this tastes amazing. Do you have any bread?”
Harry ends up making the bechamel sauce while Malfoy helps himself to more tomato sauce and some bread, then he helps Harry put the layers together in a big baking tray.
“The secret is putting a decent amount of ragù and bechamel and making at least four layers,” Harry explains, grating some parmesan to put on top.
“Where on earth did you learn how to cook so well?” Malfoy asks, his bare feet resting against Harry’s socked ones, longer than his by at least an inch.
“I dated this bloke for a bit after the war,” Harry explains with a shrug. “He was kind of a dick in the end, but his mum was lovely and taught me how to cook a lot of Italian dishes.”
“Oh,” Malfoy replies with raised eyebrows. “Are you seeing anyone at the moment? Any other Italian stallions?”
“Nope,” Harry replies, levitating the tray with his wand and depositing it in the oven. “I haven’t dated in a good while. Too busy with work.”
“Hmm,” Malfoy hums, and Harry is dying to ask him if he is dating anyone, wondering if Malfoy is queer or straight. There are no rumours on the matter, even though Harry has subtly tried to ask Neville and Seamus only to find out that Malfoy doesn’t talk about his personal life at work.
“D-Do you…” Harry asks, swallowing loudly as he finds something to do now that dinner is in the oven and all they have to do is wait. “I-I mean…do…you…”
“Do I?” Malfoy asks, arching a blond eyebrow with a shit-eating grin on his face.
Harry huffs and turns towards the pile of dishes in the sink.
“Never mind,” he mutters, feeling like a complete idiot.
“I’m not dating anyone at the moment, if that’s what you were trying to ask,” Malfoy says, stepping behind him and startling Harry with how close and warm he is, standing taller than him. “I’ve only ever dated one person in my life.”
“Oh,” Harry says, tilting his head up to look at Malfoy’s grey eyes. Harry spots some flecks of blue in them, thinking that they’re not as cold as he always assumed they were in all the years they were fighting on different sides of the same awful war.
“A Muggle bloke,” Malfoy says, his voice soft. “He was really lovely, probably too much for the likes of me. He used to work at the Muggle supermarket where I did my shopping after the war. He took a liking to the tattoo on my arm and asked me out on a date, just like that. My tattoo, what a joke…”
Harry observes the wrinkles on Malfoy’s forehead as he frowns at the sink, the way his pale eyebrows crease as he bites on his pink bottom lip.
“Why did it end?” Harry asks softly, trying to be kind, kinder than he usually is with most people.
“He was a Muggle, and it was too hard to keep everything hidden, you know?” Malfoy says with a tense smile that looks more like a grimace. “He was such a nice man, but it felt like I was lying to him all the time, coming up with convoluted ways to explain what I was doing for a job, why I knew so little about Muggle life. He thought I was hiding something from him, that I was cheating on him. He couldn’t trust me in the end, and how could I blame him?”
Harry looks down, at the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, knowing full well what it feels like to lead a secret life, to hide from everyone, trying to look normal. Trying not to be the freak that your family accuses you to be. He lets his hand rest over Malfoy’s, gently, and he squeezes his fingers, trying to convey what he can’t with his awkward words.
“There hasn’t been anyone else since him?” he asks when Malfoy turns his hand and squeezes his back.
“Who would date a Death Eater, Potter?” Malfoy says with a bitter laugh, letting go of his hand and pulling up his sleeves to get the washing up started. “Only a Muggle would, and I fucked that up royally.”
“I’m sorry,” Harry says, but Malfoy shakes his head as he pours washing up liquid on a sponge and gets started.
“It is what it is,” he replies. “And I don’t want your pity. I fucked up a lot of things in my life, but I am trying to make amends. Now move over and let me do the washing up, will you?”
Harry just stares at him, meticulously washing his pots and pans, and he wonders what kind of parallel universe he landed in. Draco Malfoy is doing his washing up wearing a top and black underwear. Harry realises he should probably offer Malfoy a pair of his joggers, but then the oven beeps and Harry checks that everything is fine.
“It’s an old oven,” he explains, “so it’s a bit temperamental. But I haven’t found the time to replace it.”
“Your kitchen looks a bit…” Malfoy starts, clearly looking for the right word to complete the sentence.
“Shit?” Harry provides, making Malfoy snort.
“I was going to be polite and say ‘old’, but yeah…it’s not in a great state.”
“Would you like to see the rest of the house?” Harry asks, scratching the back of his head as Malfoy’s eyes lock with his.
“Okay,” Malfoy replies. “Just let me finish washing these.”
“You don’t have to,” Harry says, feeling a bit guilty that he’s making his guest do the bloody washing up (assuming that Malfoy is his guest).
“It’s the least I can do,” Malfoy interrupts him. “You’re making me dinner.”
When everything is clean and carefully placed on the drying rack, Harry takes Malfoy for a tour of the house – his first-ever tour since he moved into Grimmauld Place. The only people who have set foot in his house are the Weasleys to help him move and then his best friends, who used to live with him for a couple of years after the war before they got married. Harry never invites anyone, careful about his privacy after his old boyfriend decided to sell information about him to the Prophet. He doesn’t have time to meet up with friends anyway, let alone to date.
“And this is my bedroom,” he says when they reach the third floor.
“What’s with the rabbits and the guinea pigs?” Malfoy asks, blinking a few times as he looks at the photo frames and pictures on the walls, then noticing the stuffed toy on Harry’s bed. Harry blushes hard and scratches the back of his neck.
“It was Luna’s idea,” he explains. “She said small pets can reduce people’s anxiety and make them feel more at peace with the world. And I really struggled after the war, so she started giving me photos of rabbits. The guinea pig toy was supposed to be a joke from Ginny, but I…I’ve never had a teddy before, not…not even when I was little, and I liked it, so Luna kept on adding to my collection of guinea pigs stuff.”
“Mhhh,” Malfoy hums, looking around the room and taking it all in. “I like the photos. The whole room is…” Malfoy says, his lips opening and closing a few times.
“A mess,” Harry finishes his sentence. “I know, I…”
“Don’t have time to clean,” Malfoy says with a smile. “Don’t have time to date, either.”
“Nope,” Harry admits. “Nor to sleep around. Not after the Prophet outed me and had a big photo of my arse on the front cover.”
“It was a good picture, at least,” Malfoy comments with an amused expression on his face. “Not at all blurry like their usual ones. You could even see a few freckles.” Harry groans loudly, and Malfoy laughs, the sound so pure and sincere that Harry’s heart skips a beat, realising this is the first time he’s heard Malfoy laugh. “It was a very nice arse, Potter. You should be proud.”
“Thanks,” Harry says, his voice a little faint. “Speaking of arse, would you like me to lend you a pair of trousers?”
“I thought you would never ask,” Malfoy replies with a grin.
Harry’s tracksuit bottoms are a bit short for him, but Harry lends him a pair of long stripey socks that cover Malfoy’s legs, even if he looks a bit ridiculous in them.
“Thanks, Potter,” Malfoy says, staring at his ankles and looking amused.
“Call me Harry,” he says, blushing when their eyes meet. “I’m not…we’re not in the hospital, and I’m not your Healer. I’m just Harry.”
“Draco, then,” he replies, his voice low and soft, a little hesitant as Malfoy – no, Draco – takes a step towards Harry and smiles at him again. And Harry thinks he would love to break the distance between them to tuck that loose strand of silky blond hair behind Draco’s ear, to better see his face. He is gorgeous, wearing Harry’s clothes, standing in Harry’s bedroom on a Tuesday night as if he were here for something else. Harry hasn’t had sex in so long that he feels the tension in his body, the desire like fire in his veins. Now that he knows Draco is gay, his mind can’t stop providing indecent scenarios of them lying on the bed, kissing each other breathless, ripping each other’s clothes off until they’re both moaning with need.
The oven beeps, making them both jump.
“The l-lasagne must be ready,” Harry mumbles, feeling his cheeks on fire. “I need to go and check.”
“I’ll come with you,” Draco says, following him downstairs.
It turns out dinner is not ready yet, but the oven looks about to fall apart, so Harry sighs and stares at it and hopes for the best. Luckily it only takes fifteen more minutes, and then they can finally tuck in, even though it’s ridiculously late and Draco is starving by the time he helps himself to a plateful of lasagne.
“Fuck me, this is delicious, Potter,” Draco moans obscenely around his fork, eyes closed with a blissful expression that makes Harry’s stomach do a little somersault.
“Harry,” he corrects him as he swallows and wonders what kind of expression Draco would make if Harry were to make him feel good with his hands and his lips, and Merlin, Harry needs to get a grip because he’s too horny for a casual dinner with a friend (is Draco a friend?).
“You’ve gone all red,” Draco says, pointing at Harry’s cheeks with his fork. “Harry.”
“Mhh,” Harry hums, pretending to be busy with dinner.
They talk a bit more, then Draco helps him wash the dishes and divide the rest of the lasagne into smaller portions to freeze. Harry puts some into a container and hands it to him before he heads back home.
“For me?” Draco asks, looking surprised.
“I always bring my own lunch to work,” Harry replies with a shrug. “The canteen at work is awful, and I’m worried someone might try to poison me because I have crazy fans who like to spike my drinks with love potions. Besides, I heard the Ministry cafeteria sucks, so…”
“Thank you,” Draco says softly. “For everything.”
“Even for being a terrible host with a terrible house?” Harry jokes with a grin.
“You weren’t so bad,” Malfoy replies with a wink that has the same effect of a Jelly-Legs curse on Harry. “And I quite liked your guinea pig collection.”
Harry takes him to the parlour so that he can use the Floo, and only realises that Draco is still wearing his trousers when he watches his glorious arse disappear through the flames.
He can barely sleep that night, ending up sliding a hand under the elastic band of his underwear to wrap it around his hard cock with a low moan. Harry’s eyes flutter shut as he remembers the indecent noises Draco made at the dinner table, imagining to be between his legs, his lips wrapped around Draco’s cock to make him moan again like that or even louder, to make him lose control and tug at his curls while he spills his come inside Harry’s eager mouth. Harry bites his bottom lip and arches his back as he tips over the edge, Draco’s flushed cheeks and puffy lips still on his mind as he shudders through his orgasm.
Wednesday morning starts with another emergency call, but this time it’s a group of Hogwarts students with a bad case of giggling fit that doesn’t seem to stop.
“Madam Pomfrey said she tried everything,” Parvati says, flicking through a thick diagnostic manual. “The problem is that they’re laughing so much that they can’t speak properly, so we have no idea what they were doing when the giggling fit started.”
“Where were they found?” Harry asks, summoning some potions from the cupboard as one of the girls doubles over with tears in her eyes.
“At the edge of the Forbidden Forest,” Parvati says with a knowing glance.
“So we’re looking at some potentially poisonous plant or animal,” Harry concludes with a grimace. “Let me go and speak to Hagrid. He retired last year to work at the Giants Sanctuary, but he’s still the person with the best knowledge of what’s hidden in there.”
Harry Floos to the Sanctuary’s headquarters in Scotland and finds Hagrid having tea with Luna.
“Harry, what a lovely surprise!” Luna says, beaming at him. “I’ve been visiting Hagrid to help him treat their Jellyflops infestation. Would you like a cup of tea and some rosemary shortbread? It’s really good.”
Hagrid blinks a few times and looks at Harry with a helpless expression that makes him snort.
“It’s lovely to see you both,” he says, “but I’m actually here to ask for Hagrid’s help with a diagnosis.”
Harry explains the problem, ending up with a steaming cup of tea in front of him and a couple of rosemary biscuits in his hands before he leaves with a possible solution to the students’ mysterious giggling.
Luna frowns at him as he puts his coat back on and heads for the Floo. She casts a spell at Harry that makes him glow bright pink, and then she huffs.
“As I thought, someone hexed you,” Luna mumbles. “You need to cleanse your magical core, otherwise strange things will continue happening to you. I recommend avoiding red meat and drinking chicory tea every morning.”
“Thanks, Luna,” Harry says, waving at her as he steps back into St Mungo’s.
Hagrid’s suggestions turn out to be extremely useful, and Parvati brews a potion to treat the effects of a plant called Hilarious Hawthorn that makes the students stop giggling so that they can safely return to Hogwarts.
“Could you please cast all the diagnostic spells you know on me?” Harry asks Parvati as they’re filling out paperwork at the end of their shifts.
“Why, are you about to have a giggling fit, too? Because this is so fucking boring that I’m considering changing jobs.”
“No, Luna said I’ve been hexed,” Harry explains. Parvati rolls her eyes, but she still complies. None of her spells find anything wrong with Harry, so he breathes out in relief and heads home with a folder full of medical charts that he needs to study. He’s halfway through the pile while dinner cooks, when he looks around the kitchen and remembers the previous evening, how nice it was to have company. To have Draco here.
Harry’s used to being alone by now. Hermione and Ron moved out years ago, and he knows he could just Apparate to their cottage if he wanted to, but they have a small child, and Harry feels like the third (fourth?) wheel since they had Rosie. He even misses Kreacher tonight.
Harry loves his job, feels useful and good because of it, but sometimes he hates the fact that he’s always so busy. That he has no time to meet up with his friends or to date. He feels so lonely…
“What the fuck is wrong with me?” he wonders out loud, wiping his face with his hand as he groans loudly. One evening in Draco Malfoy’s company and he's suddenly a bloody sap.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” a voice says in front of him. Harry uncovers his eyes and finds a familiar blond Auror staring back at him with raised eyebrows. “Again?”
Draco is wearing a pair of grey tracksuit bottoms and a soft looking jumper in a lovely shade of blue that brings out his eyes. He’s barefoot again, his hair down, making him look soft and unguarded.
“Well, I didn’t summon you,” Harry says defensively. “I got Parvati to check, and there’s nothing wrong with me. Maybe you should come to St Mungo’s for a check-up. Something must be off with your magical core if you keep on involuntarily Apparating. How many times has it happened?”
“This is the second time,” Draco says, moving towards the stove and opening the lid of the pot to check its contents. “Mhhh. This soup smells divine.”
“It’s roasted vegetable soup,” Harry explains. “I got some sourdough bread from the new bakery in town, and it was begging to be dipped into a hot bowl of soup.”
“You’re going to make someone extremely happy one day with your culinary skills, Harry.”
His cheeks flush as he looks at Draco close his eyes and sniff the soup again.
“Why don’t you stay for dinner?” Harry asks, relishing the way Malfoy’s lips curl into a smile. Harry’s eyes can’t help but wander down, staring at Draco’s long legs and bony feet. “Wait, are those my trousers?”
It’s Draco’s turn to blush as he starts washing the dishes the Muggle way like the previous evening.
“I’ll have you know they are extremely comfortable trousers, Potter,” he announces. “And I thought I should wear them one more time before returning them.”
Harry snorts out a laugh and watches as Draco’s ears turn red, a little outraged huff escaping his lips.
“You can keep them,” he says, closing his folder and sending all the paperwork to his room with a flick of his wand. “Why don’t you leave the washing up and play something with me instead?”
“It won’t take me long,” Draco says, quickly washing the few plates and mugs in the sink. “You look exhausted. I don’t want you to end up doing the washing up before going to bed.”
Harry stares at him, at his straight back and lean body, feeling his heart beating madly in his chest as Draco’s words sink in.
He doesn’t want Harry to do the washing up.
Harry swallows the lump in his throat, thinking of all the times he’s had to do house chores when he was little, of insisting on cleaning so that Ron and Hermione could spend some quality time together after work, of being on his own with no one else to take care of everything.
He wonders if this is what it feels like to be in a good relationship, to have someone who cares for you.
He wants to do something for Draco, too. He wants to make sure he’s fine, that he heals quickly when he gets hexed and that he isn’t in pain. That he doesn’t get cursed.
“Were you doing something in particular yesterday and today when you Apparated here without meaning to?” he asks, grabbing a notepad from the other end of the kitchen table to take notes as he checks Draco’s vitals and writes them down.
“No,” Draco replies, carefully placing the dishes on the drying rack. “Yesterday I was about to make myself some dinner. No, don’t make that face – pot noodles count as dinner, you wanker. Today I was about to take a shower.”
Harry wonders what would have happened if Draco had appeared a few minutes later. Would he have been completely naked in Harry’s kitchen?
“Hmmm.”
“Potter, you’ve gone all red.”
“’M fine,” Harry mumbles, scribbling a few lines on the paper. “Did you cast any specific spells or take any potions apart from the ones I gave you in St Mungo’s?”
“Nope.”
“Did you eat any new food or were you in contact with magical plants or animals?”
“Harry, the most unusual thing that happened to me today was Figgins giving me a five minute break after I taught his combat class and was punched in the stomach by a recruit who is as big as a bloody wardrobe.”
“Let me see,” Harry says, going into Healer mode and standing up to place his fingers on Draco’s waist. Draco groans and begrudgingly lifts his top to reveal a series of dark bruises on his belly that make Harry gasp in shock.
“Fucking outrageous,” he mutters darkly as he heals Draco’s skin with his hands, running his fingers over the expanse of his stomach with featherlight touches that make goosebumps appear on Draco’s porcelain skin. “That Figgins is an animal. Who’s the bloody idiot that made him Head Auror?”
“Robards,” Draco replies, his eyes glued to Harry’s hands, still stroking him lightly, just for the sake of feeling Draco’s warm and smooth skin under him, so real. “He appointed Figgins when he became Head of Magical Law Enforcement. They’re friends.”
“Well, Figgins sounds like an incompetent bastard who puts his Aurors’ lives in danger and doesn’t care about their wellbeing,” Harry says heatedly, placing his hands on Draco’s waist as he looks up into his stormy grey eyes.
“Things are more complicated than they seem,” Draco mutters, his voice low and tentative, lips so soft-looking that Harry wants to stand on tiptoes to press his mouth against them, to run his tongue along the seam of Draco’s pink lips and wait until Draco lets him slide it inside.
The cooker beeps, making Harry jump.
“The soup!” he shouts, then rushes to check that it’s not burnt, sighing in relief when he realises it’s ready. “Well, shall we eat?”
“I’m starving!” Draco says, sorting out his top before he sits down in front of Harry.
Like the previous evening, Draco makes a series of complimentary remarks on Harry’s cooking that make him blush in embarrassment. They chat about work and about their lack of free time, and Harry wishes the evening would never end, realising how much he’s craved some company. Draco’s company in particular.
“Thanks for dinner,” Draco says, a pot of soup in his hand as he prepares to leave. “And for tomorrow’s lunch.”
“I’m sorry we ran out of bread,” Harry replies, tapping on his thigh as he nervously thinks of a reason to ask Draco to stay for a little longer.
“Well, if you fancy summoning me tomorrow evening again,” Draco says with a smirk, “I really fancy eating some fish.”
“Piss off,” Harry says, pushing him towards the Floo.
He still goes to the supermarket after work and buys the ingredients to make a fish pie, feeling like an idiot when he puts on some decent jeans and a new t-shirt while he chops the potatoes and prepares the mash while the fish is cooking. He calls himself a loser as he puts the pie in the oven and there’s no sign of Draco. He’s so distracted that he grabs the pie dish with a kitchen towel and ends up burning his thumb, screaming in agony and nearly dropping the whole dinner.
He’s halfway through a heated rant on how stupid and hopeless he is when Draco appears in front of him in just a towel and with dripping hair.
“Bloody hell,” Harry breathes out, feeling his cock show his appreciation by throwing a very ill-timed tantrum in his pants as he stares at Draco’s nearly naked body.
“Perfect timing,” Draco says, eying the oven and sniffing the kitchen. “Circe’s tits, Harry. If you ever consider opening a restaurant, I will be your most assiduous client.”
“Maybe I should get you some clothes,” Harry mumbles, thinking that he needs to run to his bedroom and spend a few minutes alone, trying to will down the erection that is tenting the front of his jeans.
Draco looks so lovely and soft in Harry’s oversized Quidditch top and pyjama bottoms, as if he belonged in Harry’s house. In his life.
“Maybe the house is summoning me,” Draco says after dinner while he helps Harry tidy up and put the food away.
“What do you mean?” Harry asks, tilting his head in confusion.
“Magical houses are sentient beings,” Draco explains, “and it’s not unheard of for them to do unusual things, especially if they feel their master needs help. The question is, what kind of help do you need from me, Harry?”
Harry blinks at him, his lips parting as he realises that the answer to the question is too embarrassing to be uttered.
Harry needs company.
He needs Draco to be there for him, to talk to him and make him laugh with his dry humour. He craves his presence in the house, to make Harry feel like he matters; like he hasn’t been forgotten.
He needs Draco to make his heart beat a little faster.
To make him feel alive with how much he wants and needs and desires.
He needs Draco because he has feelings for him, and he wants to make him happy, and make sure that he eats and he's safe.
“I can’t think of anything,” he blurts out instead, fiddling with the lid of a plastic container. “But I shall hire a specialist to check the house.”
“Mhh,” Draco hums, his fingers brushing against Harry’s and making him shudder in the best possible way. “Let me know if you find anything. Please don’t mention my name. Figgins is already on the warpath, and the last thing I need is for him to suspect I’ve been stalking the Saviour.”
Harry does actually owl Bill Weasley, hoping that he knows how to check if his house has suddenly gone mental, but Bill can’t find anything wrong with it. He scribbles down a few names of experts on sentient houses that he tells Harry to contact, but he doesn’t want to share his address with some random people, even if they’re professional, so he simply goes home in the evening and hopes Draco will turn up.
He doesn’t, and Harry feels upset and disappointed beyond words.
He turns around in bed that evening, wondering if he’s done something to wrong the house. He even shouts at it to bring Malfoy back but to no avail.
It’s Saturday morning, when Harry wears his despised lime green robes and trips on his way out of the changing rooms at St Mungo’s, swearing like a sailor since there’s no one around, that Draco appears again.
He’s wearing his Auror robes this time and stares at Harry with wide, grey eyes and an open mouth.
“Merlin, fuck!” Draco shouts, making someone shout ‘language!’ at him down the corridor, then in a whisper, “Harry, what the actual fuck!”
“What?” Harry asks, moving closer and running a hand down Draco’s arm in a way he hopes is reassuring. “Are you hurt?”
“I was at the Ministry!” Draco replies, still looking like he’s in shock. “I was at work, Harry! And then I was suddenly here.”
“Well, it’s not the first time it’s happened,” Harry whispers, checking that no one is eavesdropping.
“Harry, no one can Apparate outside of the Ministry!” Draco hisses, his eyes locked with Harry’s. “There are wards that prevent everyone from doing that. How the fuck did I manage to do it?”
“Oh,” Harry says, staring back at him. “I forgot.”
Draco looks like he’s about to have a panic attack, so Harry takes his elbow and gently guides him to an empty examination room when he makes him sit on a bed and offers a glass of water. He fishes a photo of a baby rabbit out of his pocket and offers it to Draco, who stares at him like he’s grown a second (fluffy) head.
“What am I supposed to do with the photo of a cute bunny?” Draco asks, absent-mindedly scratching his left arm. Harry’s noticed that it’s a gesture Draco does every time he’s nervous about something, when he’s stressing to receive a diagnosis every time he ends up in St Mungo’s or when he decides to go and visit his mother in the Janus Thickey Ward after he’s been dismissed.
“Luna gave it to me,” Harry explains, summoning a medical chart and filling it in as he checks Draco’s vitals. “It sort of helps when I’m feeling anxious. It’s a cute little thing. I also have one of a guinea pig wearing a funny hat that she found in Chile.”
“Let’s see it,” Draco says, reaching for it with trembling fingers. “Oh. This one is actually rather cute.”
Harry’s tests are inconclusive, and as always Draco seems absolutely fine.
“Maybe you should ask the Unspeakables to have a look at you,” Harry suggests, but Draco grimaces.
“They’re a bunch of wankers,” he says, then notices Harry’s scowl. “Except for Granger. She’s mad, but she’s actually alright. Mind you, she keeps on trying to have lunch with me to ask me about my life, which is a bit suspicious. I think Figgins asked the Unspeakables to investigate and see if they can find something juicy about me so that he has a good reason to fire me.”
“This Figgins sounds like a right arse,” Harry says, getting angry when he hears the umpteenth story about the Head Auror. “What the fuck is his problem with you?”
“Well,” Draco says, looking at the picture of the guinea pig in his lap. “I can’t really blame him.”
“What do you mean?” Harry asks, closing the medical chart and casting a shrinking charm on it to hide it in the extremely tight and tiny pockets of his robes. Merlin, he hates his uniform with a passion.
“My father killed Figgins’ brother during the War,” Draco confesses, his eyes downcast and face paler than usual. “So, you see, he has his good reasons for hating me.”
“What?!” Harry asks, unsure what to say and with a storm in his stomach. God, he hates Lucius Malfoy so much. It’s a good job the annoying bastard is in Azkaban, otherwise Harry would have to go and hex him right away. “Draco…”
“It’s alright,” Draco says, his back stiffening as he gives Harry the photo and makes his wand slide down the sleeve of his robes. Harry wonders if he’s wearing a wand-holster on his arm and how hot that would be. He files the indecent thought for later use and gives the picture back to Draco.
“You keep it,” he says. “I have hundreds of them at home.”
“A whole collection,” Draco says with a smirk. “Maybe you can show me the next time I visit.”
“Maybe,” Harry replies, feeling his face flush. He would rather show Draco his collection of adult toys instead…
“I’d better be off before they realise I was gone and get mad. I was meant to fill in some paperwork this morning since Neville is busy with a case.”
Harry takes him to the nearest Floo, and Draco waves at him with a small smile. Harry wonders when he’s going to see him again, wondering what is triggering this weird phenomenon, but then his wand starts vibrating because there’s an emergency, and he ends up spending the whole morning with a patient who is spitting fire through most of his orifices.
It’s already mid-afternoon by the time Harry manages to take a break and heat up his lunch while he makes himself a cup of tea. He unshrinks Draco’s chart and studies it as he blows on his pasta. Nothing seems amiss, and Harry wonders what on earth is going on with the blond, when he suddenly remembers their conversation from the night before.
If Draco Apparated to St Mungo’s, then it means that it’s not Harry’s house causing this magical anomaly.
Then what the hell is wrong with Draco Malfoy, Harry wonders.
He considers asking Hermione for help, but Draco doesn’t seem too keen on the Unspeakables finding out. Maybe Bill might know, but Harry doesn’t think this type of curse is his area of expertise.
A couple of days go by, and Draco appears once more when Harry gets home from work and finds a Howler from a mad fan that managed to get past his wards. He also appears again at St Mungo’s on a day Harry is hiding in a closet to escape a patient who has accidentally taken a lust potion and has decided she’s going to die unless she shags Harry.
“Is it prudent to leave your patient wandering the corridors while shouting that she needs Harry Potter’s cocks really badly?” Draco asks with his signature raised eyebrow.
“I’m sure Parvati will find her and give her a cooling draught in no time,” Harry whispers, checking the door when he hears a loud wail from the corridor. “Shit, I need a holiday.”
“When was the last time you took one?” Draco asks, fishing a small piece of paper out one of the innumerable spacious-looking pockets of his robes and handing it to Harry.
“Aww,” Harry says, staring at the photo of a guinea pig wearing a pair of black rimmed glasses that look suspiciously like Harry’s. “Did Luna send it to you?”
“No, I found it,” Draco says, casually flicking his hair and looking slightly embarrassed. “I need to go back to work.”
“Give me two more minutes,” Harry whispers, pressing his ear against the door. “I can’t hear any loud moaning anymore. I think Parvati got her.”
“What are you making for dinner?” Draco asks while staring at his nails.
“I was thinking of making salmon with a pistachio crust and a side of roast potatoes and broccoli. You seem to like the way I cook fish.”
Draco’s face lights up, and their eyes meet. Merlin, the cupboard is rather small, Harry realises all of a sudden when he notices how amazing Draco smells and how beautiful his eyes are. And those lips…it would be so easy to just lean forward and grab the front of Draco’s Auror robes to pull him closer and press their lips together. Harry bets he tastes amazing and that he’s a good kisser.
“Harry, are you hiding in there?” Parvati shouts, making them both jump.
“Nope,” Harry replies, making her huff in consternation. “Give me a minute and I’ll be with you. I just need to find a potion for a patient.”
“Potion my arse…” Parvati mutters, and Harry calls back to remind her that she’s not supposed to use inappropriate language either. If he can’t swear at work, neither can the rest of the staff.
“The coast is clear,” Harry says after a moment, then he notices the way Draco is still staring at him. “Listen, why don’t you…we could have dinner together. I mean, I know we do most evenings, but it’s always a bit of a mystery whether you’re going to come or not, so…”
“You could come to mine for a change,” Draco says, a bit too fast and with a shocked look on his face, as if he surprised himself with his own boldness. “I live in a small flat in Maidstone. Here, let me write the address for you. It’s in a Muggle area, so don’t Apparate in front of the house.”
Harry stands there, feeling his heart beating faster and faster as he watches Draco take a quill and a notebook from another pocket of his robes to write down his address with the most elegant handwriting Harry’s ever seen in his life. He takes the piece of paper and stares at it for a few seconds, as if it were too precious to fold it and tuck it away. Harry eventually nods and places it carefully in the little pocket on his chest, right where his heart is, madly beating away as Harry smiles sheepishly at Draco and wonders if this is a date.
“I’ll be there after work, then,” he says, opening the door to check if there’s anyone around. “I’ll cook at home and bring the food.”
“You can cook at mine,” Draco says before following Harry out of the closet. “I mean, I don’t have all the fancy pans and cooking utensils you have, but I have the basics. I think.”
“I’ll bring everything I need,” Harry says with a grin, and they part with an awkward wave. Harry turns to look at Draco, catching him doing the same and feeling a hurricane of butterflies in his stomach.