Author: JocundaSykes
Date: 2020-12-26T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fanworks; Explicit; Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling; Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter; Draco Malfoy; Harry Potter; Non-Canonical Post-War Timeline; POV Draco Malfoy; Ensemble Cast; Healer Draco Malfoy; Auror Harry Potter; Pining; Slow Burn; Falling In Love; Snogging on Benches; Explicit Sexual Content; Sock Garters; Accidental Harry Acquisition; no infidelity; No character bashing; Obliviator Pansy Parkinson; Dysfunctional Family; M/M; No Archive Warnings Apply
Description: Life is going swimmingly for Draco: he’s a respected Healer, his son is excellent in every way, and none of his patients have died recently. Then he gets landed with Perfect Potter and his hordes of stupid friends. It’s intolerable. But the more time Draco spends with the lonely boy from Surrey, the more he believes that there might be a hero within us all.
Publisher: Archive of Our Own

Preface

Heaven Through a Window
Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/27480274.

Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling

Relationship:

Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Narcissa Black Malfoy & Harry Potter

Character:

Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter

Additional Tags:

Non-Canonical Post-War Timeline, POV Draco Malfoy, Ensemble Cast, Healer Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Pining, Slow Burn, Falling In Love, Snogging on Benches, Explicit Sexual Content, Sock Garters, Accidental Harry Acquisition, no infidelity, No character bashing, Obliviator Pansy Parkinson, Dysfunctional Family, Harry Potter Partially Epilogue Compliant, Hurt/Comfort, H/D Erised 2020, Podfic Available

Language:

English

Collections:

H/D Erised 2020, HPDrarryCollectionOfFavourites, D.r.a.r.r.y

Stats:

Published: 2020-12-26
Chapters: 29/29
Words: 81213

Heaven Through a Window
by JocundaSykes

Summary

Life is going swimmingly for Draco: he’s a respected Healer, his son is excellent in every way, and none of his patients have died recently.

Then he gets landed with Perfect Potter and his hordes of stupid friends. It’s intolerable. But the more time Draco spends with the lonely boy from Surrey, the more he believes that there might be a hero within us all.

Notes

Audiobook version available HERE

A combination of two of Jen’s prompts: working together and Draco’s acts of contrition.

Dear Jen: I was boggled really when I saw that my last 2 fics were (Snarry) soulmate and werewolf, and your last 2 were soulmate and werewolf??? Nice matching work, mods! Anyway, great sign up sheet, we are clearly aligned in many ways, and I truly hope you enjoy this story.

With thanks to space_wingding and Faelyee for their beta reading and insights, and to Marsbar for sensitivity reading Harry & thoughtful discussions!

I’ve seen a few comments about 50 First Dates, which isn’t something I’ve seen, so don’t expect this to deliberately make any references to it! Thanks for the rec though cos now I’m dying to know :D

Some spoilery fic notes at the end.

See the end of the work for more notes

Prologue

Harry’s eyes widened and his heartbeat rocketed.

In the space of two seconds he discovered the familiar warmth of his wand under the pillow. He let relief wash over him.

His nose wrinkled at the whiff of sex and an unusual aftershave, and he fumbled for his glasses.

A note had been tucked beside them:

I’m at work and will arrive home for lunch by one o’clock.
Remember your notebook.
Love you always,
D

What the actual fuck?

“Homenum Revelio,” he murmured.

He was alone.

The large bedroom had whitewashed walls and round friezes on the ceiling. He was in a sumptuous four-poster bed with soft purple sheets.

Naked, Harry went over to the floor-to-ceiling shutters, feet sinking in the plush carpet.

His eyes widened, and his jaw fell when he caught sight of the view.

There was a striking vista of nodding sunflowers, their faces staring like a crowd of children. At his touch, the glass door creaked open, and he peered around to confirm that the area was deserted. He stepped out, entranced, but then scrunched up his nose when he trod barefoot onto crushed blackberries and cigarette butts.

This was not his house.

The morning only got stranger when he saw someone had organised the clothing by colour. Overwhelmed, he chose something at random. He put on some silky pants and oddly familiar jogging bottoms, then grabbed someone’s dressing gown from a hook beside the door. A little embroidered dragon yawned.

In the hallway, a candelabra sprang to life and illuminated a gloomy painting of giant silver horses that grazed by a pond as their tails swished. Beside it hung a framed photograph.

Mouth open, he approached, with his wand at the ready. His photograph-self nuzzled and smiled into the cheek of Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy, with his sleek, coiffed platinum hair. Malfoy, whose lips twitched in a hesitant smile. Malfoy, grey eyes blinking down and crinkling at the corners, in unmistakable fondness at photo-Harry.

What the ever-loving fuck.

“Put that away and don’t do anything stupid,” a female voice said.

He whirled around to find a portrait of a gaunt young woman whose gaze was fixed on her embroidery.

With narrowed eyes, he aimed his wand at her instead. “Who are you? What’s going on?”

“Your notes are in the parlour,” she droned. “I’ll deal with your questions once you’ve studied them.”

Down the corridor was a spacious reception room. It smelt of pine and had a massive stone fireplace. A radio stood on the mantelpiece beneath a grand scrolled mirror, a bookcase overflowed with books and scrolls, and the remnants of a takeaway littered a coffee table in front of the squashy sofa. Boiling an Egg and Other Useful Skills lay on the side.

His shoulders relaxed at the sight of a fluffy, sullen-faced grey cat who dozed on an armchair. A kidnapper wouldn’t leave their pet, or a wand under his pillow.

Disturbed by Harry’s presence, it yawned and blinked at him with orange eyes.

He pointed his wand to cast the Animagus Reversal Spell. There was no blue light.

“Hello.” Harry scratched its head.

It purred, then trotted through an archway to the kitchen, tail held high. He followed and grabbed an overfilled purple notebook from the table on the way.

Everything was grey and white. On the wall hung a grubby portrait of warlocks with tankards of mead and roast pheasant.

His stomach growled and he yearned to dive through the cupboards. But his priority was to find out what the hell was going on.

The cat yowled.

“What? Are you hungry?”

Tail swishing, it rubbed its cheek on a sign beside the bare food bowl:

OF COURSE I HAVE BEEN FED; I AM AN ACCOMPLISHED LIAR

Right. That settled it, then.

He sat on the cool tiles and rubbed behind the cat’s ears whilst he looked through the notebook.

It was full of Spellotaped photographs and sketches. Underneath them were brief notes in his own handwriting.

Trust Narcissa. (She is not your mother) (or an angel)
Draco – Healer. You can trust Draco —> Boyfriend.
Hagrid – half-giant, good advice, dodge his biscuits
Hermione – Nice lady. Good at paper aeroplanes. Friend for a long time. Married to RON WEASLEY. Enjoys books, research, chatting. Has 2 children. ROSE, HUGO
Ron – nice fellow. Likes C. Cannons (find out why). Works at JOKE SHOP
Mr and Mrs Weasley – You can trust them. Gave you the watch.
Ginny – ex-wife, v. good friend. Quidditch reporter. Obsessed with brooms
Albus Severus – SON. Close friend of Scorpius (Draco’s son)
Scorpius Hyperion – DRACO’S SON
Butter – big, grey, lazy
Astoria – nice lady. Hangs in the East Parlour
Sally-Anne – your colleague, likes Pumpkin Pasties. Obsessed with W. Sisters.
Luna – interesting woman, poss from another planet ?
Neville – lopped off Nagini’s head with the Sword of Gryffindor. Good bloke
Don’t trust Blue

The last enemy that shall be destroyed is Death.

Something was very, very wrong with his brain. Perhaps this was an alternate reality, or a bad joke. Or maybe he’d died.

A page in the middle was written in an elegant script and bordered by a sketch of a snake eating its own head. How lovely.

General Life Advice if your name is Harry ‘Hopeless’ Potter

Don’t Open Any Packages – Wait For Draco
Sleep through as much of the morning as you can. Things will make sense later
Forgive and forget
Don’t use Legilimency on people unless you tell them – rude, illegal, et cetera
Dates of birth of your family – in the back
Write in this sodding book otherwise what’s the point?
Keep your wand on you – but NOT in your back pocket
for the love of Godric don’t touch magical artefacts

Solve et Coagula

He baulked at:

If anything happens to me, get Draco Malfoy in St Mungo’s to sort me out. I trust Draco.

“Blue?”

The cat’s ears pricked up.

“Well,” he told the cat, “that’s one mystery solved.”

Just a Man

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Twenty-one months earlier

It was a truth universally declared that Healers had terrible handwriting. However, Draco was not one to observe this tradition. He spared a thought for Penny’s secretary, who held up a scroll to the light and squinted sideways.

“Good morning,” he said to the office at large, putting Anne’s hot chocolate on her desk.

“Ooh, lovely, thank you!” Anne inhaled the drink with divine bliss. “Busy day today.”

He hurled his travelling cloak at the hat stand in the corner of his office, and Anne was at his heels, hot chocolate in one hand, and his in-tray in the other.

“Was just putting things in priority order,” she said. “But since you’re here…” She perched on the corner of his desk and leafed through. “Madam Jennings passed away. Her family are arriving in an hour.”

“Oh no,” he said as he frowned and checked his watch. “What happened? She was stable when I left last night.”

“Not sure, but here are her Healing Records,” Anne replied, then plonked down a great bundle of parchment. “Nothing else is too pressing, but there’s a letter in there from the Circumstances and Complaints Committee about Bobby Smithson, but you might want to check the hospital-wide Avoidable Deaths Report to see if they brought up his case at that meeting.”

Draco tutted. “Even in death he annoys me.”

Anne chewed her lip, as though unsure if she should laugh, and said, “There are also fourteen repeat prescription requests for Extra-Strong Calming Draughts—”

“Fourteen?”

“Yep.”

“Such heathens.” He lit the fire and then his tobacco-free cigarette.

“Little Timmy wrote you a thank-you letter. He says you’re his hero, and he wants to be a Healer when he grows up.”

Draco looked dubious. “I wouldn’t recommend it, not if he wants to live a long and happy life,” he said. “Thank-you notes go with my annual appraisal documents.”

“Your eleven o’clock has cancelled because their owl has died—”

“What?” he scoffed.

“—Don’t ask.” She peered at him over the top of her spectacles. “And there’s a note from Mr Crocus chasing that audit report. I had to move your diary around for this afternoon because of an urgent multidisciplinary team meeting. Oh, and Penny wants to know if you can do her night shift tomorrow.”

“Fine,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I told you to approve them all if it’s not Christmas or school holidays.” The Hogwarts term dates were stuck on his noticeboard next to the photo of Scorpius and his friend Albus.

She nodded. “And finally, I know it’s only the first day of October, but the deadline to pay our deposits for the Christmas Ball is the end of next week,” she said. “Rozz will kill you if you try to join the group once the booking’s gone through.”

“We haven’t even had Hallowe’en!” Draco said. He didn’t know why he was surprised—work was constantly like this. “And I’ve no intention of attending the Christmas party. Who’ll care for the patients if we’re all off making merriment?”

“I’m sure someone else can cover this year. You’ve missed the last five, at least.”

“Mmm.”

She left and he fished out Madam Jennings’s records and the Avoidable Deaths Report. It was best to do a Mortality Report whilst the case was still fresh in one’s mind.

What they don’t tell you about healing is that it involves poring over books for mentions of rare maladies, tedious debates with portraits of bygone Healers, and nursing a spirit of unease that you have to trust in your colleagues after you’ve left for the day.

He liked that a treatment course was predictable. He liked being an esteemed member of society. And on his good days, he liked carrying fifty problems at once.

He briefly considered asking one of the trainees to inform the Jennings family that she had died, before he dismissed the idea. They’d probably cock it up.

****

He didn’t have time to look through his enormous in-tray until his stomach growled at six o’clock. Procrastination wasn’t his style.

Draco had to prepare interview panel questions for a new board member. There was a reminder from Anne that his hairdresser was going on holiday for four weeks, as well as a thrilling audit report.

He found pamphlets for newly patented potions with a note from Anne saying she’d returned the elf-made wine and Quidditch tickets. He didn’t accept bribes from apothecaries trying to curry favour so threw the adverts in the wastepaper basket. There was a hospital-wide reminder that there would be an unannounced Ministry inspection—the fools. Also a court summons to give evidence—not unheard of for Senior Healers.

He saw a letter from a pure-blood begging a private home consultation—Anne let this one slip through the cracks, as he did not undertake private work. After he signed off on the repeat prescription requests, he examined correspondence from a Swedish Healer who had requested his expert opinion on an unusual case—a warlock who thought he was a shark and now struggled with breathing.

The next day wasn’t much quieter.

He resolutely ignored the cheery ‘deposits required by Friday for the office Christmas party’ reminder—as if anyone was possibly unaware—and curled his lip at the agenda for the Outpatients Improvement Steering Group that afternoon.

Draco worked for an hour on administrative tasks and answered an invitation to a conference in Baltimore—no thank you. The quarterly reviews for the Trainee Healers were coming up, but he didn’t sniff at the opportunity to give a lecture in Vienna on the topic of his choice.

He was urgently called away from inspecting the potioneers floor—they’d nearly finished regrowing Madam Fawley’s new bladder—to deliver a baby. So many of his colleagues had gone down with the owl flu, and today they were ridiculously short-staffed. Healers were only rostered for emergencies and triage one day per fortnight, and this usually amounted to a few Splinching and Quidditch injuries, along with alcohol-induced brawls.

Once Penny and Malcolm went home sick, he sent an express owl to Rutherford to call him in from his day off, and got Anne to cancel an afternoon general clinic. (Draco couldn’t live without his secretary, even if she was eccentric and kept leaving Muggle writing implements in his quill stand). There was nothing so galling as to have an unexpected night shift after a day’s hard work.

Of course, he was all smiles and politeness when a man thanked him for sorting out a cork-related eye injury. If you uncorked champagne whilst directing it at your face, you deserved what was coming to you.

At peak times, the hospital was overwhelmed. Recruitment was low—there just weren’t enough applicants with good NEWTs.

Generally speaking, he took as many shifts as possible, and had perfected the art of transfiguring his desk chair into a comfortable bed.

“You should take a holiday,” Dilys said. “I tire of seeing your visage.”

Draco cricked his neck and rubbed his temples. “You’re very outspoken for a portrait.”

****

He returned home at eight in the morning, surprisingly energetic for a long relentless shift. Before he crashed into bed, he dropped in on his grandfather.

The elderly man was in his wheeled chair with a tartan blanket tucked over his knees, staring out the window. He looked at Draco with rheumy eyes.

“Good morning, Grandfather.” Draco kissed the back of the offered hand.

“There’s a Muggle out there!”

“Is there?” He went over to the wireless and turned up the classical music. “How are your feet today?”

“Aches and pains, aches and pains. Be a splendid fellow and dispatch that Muggle for me, would you?” He patted his blanket. “I seem to have misplaced my wand…”

“I’ll sort it out directly. Did you want to listen to this channel?”

“Come closer. I want to look at you properly.”

Draco approached the wheeled chair.

“You always were my favourite, Lucius, always were. Such a good man, a very good man. And how are you today?”

“Splendid. Thank you.”

“Bring me Julius,” he ordered, patting Draco’s hand.

Draco felt the back of his teeth with his tongue, considering how best to respond. “He’s in Australia.”

“Merlin above! Whatever is he doing there?”

“He lives there,” Draco reminded him. “We’ve lost touch.”

“Hm. A rolling Gobstone gathers no moss, you would do well to remember that.” Grandfather squinted at the doorway. “I have not seen Priscilla in an excessively long time. Disgusting behaviour! After all I have done for her. ELF!” he roared.

Bobbin appeared and bowed low to the ground. “Yes, sir?”

“Send for Priscilla at once!”

Aunt Prissy died before Draco was born.

Bobbin’s eyes bulged and she twisted her ears. “She is coming tomorrow, sir!”

Grandfather’s lip curled. “Very well, very well. Lucius is always visiting me. He is a much better child,” Grandfather told the elf. He slapped Draco on the back. “Make sure you do everything he says.”

Her eyes darted between them both. “Yes, sir!” she squeaked, as if she had any choice.

The house-elf began her usual ritual of fluffing up the pillows and emptying the chamber pot.

Draco rubbed his face and sighed. “Good-day. I’ll see you anon.”

“Merlin bless you, son,” Grandfather said, shaking his hand, “Merlin bless you.”

As he left, Draco heard him say to the elf, “Such a handsome, good fellow, I say, such a handsome, good fellow. He’s from good stock, very good stock indeed.”

Draco sat in the East Parlour and spun the giant antique globe that stood next to the sofa. He stopped it to trace the outline of France. On days like today, all he wanted to do was pack his bags and go.

Blue leapt up onto his lap. “Hello, my tuna tin cleaner.” Exhaustion pulled at his brain. “I ought to sleep, soon. I’m afraid you can’t come.” She purred and pawed at his face, and Draco scratched behind her ears. “You’re too troublesome.”

****

The next day, there was a rap at his door.

“Yes?” he called.

“Sir?” Euodias, a Trainee Healer, poked her head into his office. “A patient has been admitted, complex case—Healer Clearwater said to fetch you directly—”

He needed little persuasion to toss the Journal of Investigational Mind Healing to the side and pick up his wand. “You may brief me on the way.”

“They’ve not long arrived via Accidents and Catastrophes to the Auror Ward.”

Draco rolled his eyes. He hated Aurors.

“Burn Paste is doing its magic—”

“Get to the point.”

“Sorry, sir,” she said, and pressed her spectacles up her nose. She didn’t sound at all sorry. “All his fingers and toes are present and correct,” she continued as they descended a flight of stairs, “and his bones and organs all seem fine. The only hassle is, he’s not waking up, and since he’s Mr Potter—”

“What?” Draco barked.

She jogged to keep up with his lengthened stride. “He’s not waking up and—”

Draco shouldered past the guards and burst into the Auror Ward.

“You should have fetched me immediately,” he snapped. “Not only is he on the VIP list, but when I am on duty, I see to him.” Typical, just typical. He was always the last to know. He gave the Healing Records a cursory glance. “These are unacceptably brief. Where the hell is Penny?”

Brilliant, just brilliant. It would be the cherry on the cake for Potter to go and die on his watch.

“Called away to a Faux Floo injury—”

“That’s Rutherford’s domain.”

“He was busy treating a notably severe Splinch—”

“Very well,” he said, washing his hands. “When does your shift end?”

“Four o’clock, sir.”

He waved his wand to check Potter’s vital signs. Good.

Draco frowned at her. “It’s half past five.”

“It is, sir.”

“Bring me plenty of candles and a chaperone, then go home to rest.” She nodded and went to leave. “Euodias?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You will learn a lot from me. But not a proper work-life balance. Good-day.”

As a Malfoy, it would be the pinnacle of stupidity to treat a high-profile case without a witness, so he glowered at Potter and waited.

“Sir?”

“Ah. Lancel.”

The lanky trainee came in, accompanied by several crystal bubbles full of candles which levitated above their heads.

“Potter needs a strip wash,” Draco said without preamble.

Lancel’s eyes bulged.

“For Merlin’s sake. You’re a professional.” Draco sighed. “Get me the things, levitate him, and I’ll do it.”

First, he withdrew his cardinal feather Dict-a-Quill—the hospital budget didn’t stretch to them and that was why Penny’s notes were bloody incomplete—and set it on the Healing Records.

“Third of October two thousand and eleven, five forty-one p.m. Duty Healer: Draco Malfoy. Trainee Healer: Lancel Robertson,” he announced to the quill, which sped along the parchment. He stripped the remnants of Potter’s scarlet robes—Penny had only done the legs. “New paragraph: Extensive burns to both lower limbs comma Bruise Paste applied by Healer Clearwater at… approximately five fifteen p.m. Anterolateral burns to the right shin. Anteromedial burns to the left. There is no neurovascular deficit.” For the love of Godric, it was time for the Auror Office to budget in fireproof robes.

He swiped a stripe of the orange paste with his forefinger, pressed on the calf, scrunched his nose and wiped his finger onto Potter’s soiled sheets.

“New paragraph: New skin is somewhat pink with good capillary refill.”

Potter’s spectacles were missing. He beamed his wand into bloodshot eyes and felt a jolt of fear at their lifelessness.

“New paragraph: Pupils are equal and reactive to light.” He fetched a dropper and moistened the corneas, then used the mildest of sticking charms to keep them closed. “Eyes dehydrated, comma treated and closed.”

He cast some quick diagnostic spells. “New paragraph: Temperature thirty-seven degrees, blood pressure ninety-one over sixty-nine and his heart rate is slow and steady at fifty. Impression: colon not abnormal for such an athletic individual.”

Lancel, cheeks rosy red, levitated Potter to hover two feet off the bed. Draco accepted the conjured water from Lancel with a nod. “New paragraph: No further apparent bodily injuries. The patient’s personal effects are to be cleaned, repaired and catalogued,” he said, shooting a meaningful look at Lancel, who leapt into action and gathered up Potter’s robes.

“New paragraph: Patient is covered in blood. Strip wash performed with assistance from Trainee Healer Robertson.”

Lancel turned around out of politeness when Draco methodically washed off the paste and blood. That wasn’t the fucking point of a chaperoned bed bath.

Then, he dispassionately cleaned all of Potter, including his toes, knobbly knees, cock, chest, excellent gluteus maximi, and muscled back—after all, this was about the tenth time he’d been half blown up. He was intimately acquainted with Potter’s naked body.

Wet with warm water, Potter’s hairless back shone bronze by the light of the candles, like the Fountain of the Victorious Youth at the Manor.

Draco pursed his lips. It was unfair how criminally good-looking Potter was.

“New paragraph: Scar-Fading Solution applied,” he told the quill, as he worked the slippery potion into Potter’s skin. It worked best whilst damp. I must not tell lies was almost gone. The peculiar oval-shaped mark on his chest was now just a shadow.

Draco washed his hands, and Lancel took his cue to dress Potter in a hospital robe. Draco lowered Potter back down and released a single drop of sedative onto his tongue. “New Paragraph: Plan: colon The patient has been sedated and will be reviewed in the morning full stop. New paragraph… Signed Draco Malfoy Mind Healer.”

He took back the quill, added punctuation and his signature, then fed the fire. “Trainee Healers who complete their programmes are certainly not embarrassed by anatomy.”

“It’s just… He’s Harry Potter,” Lancel said.

“He’s just a man. Nothing special,” Draco said. “We’ve all got the same equipment underneath our robes.”

If anything, Lancel blushed even more.

“So. Talk me through patient dignity whilst you wash Mr Potter’s hair.”

The boy scrambled to action and said, “Informed consent and privacy wherever possible.” He drew a curtain around them both even though the ward was deserted and Potter was now dressed, and wheeled over the hair washing trolley. “Care of the skin, hair, facial hair, nails, mouth, eyes, and… p-perineal areas.”

Draco’s stomach growled. “And why is hair care important?” he tested.

Robertson let down Potter’s hair from its bun and lathered away the blood. “To respect a patient’s wishes, and to check for skin complaints and lice,” he replied. The water flowed scarlet.

“What considerations are there when a patient is unconscious?”

“You keep them warm. You tell them what you’re doing in case they can hear.”

“Tell me how this process differs for hags and werewolves.”

“Um…” Lancel frowned. “I don’t quite recall, sir. I shall look it up tonight and answer your question tomorrow, sir.”

“The process is no different,” Draco said. “Have confidence in what you have learnt.”

Lancel stood up taller.

Draco sighed. “Potter, it’s me. Malfoy.” It was like addressing the dead. “I am most displeased at the extra paperwork. Your heroics have reached new levels. The only way this could hack me off even further is if you blow yourself up again and force me to read your stupid name daily rather than bimonthly once they rename this the Saint Potter Memorial Ward for the Care of Stupid Aurors. In fact, I must conclude that you’re doing this on purpose. Kindly refrain.”

Robertson combed the long black hair and tried not to look alarmed.

“Don’t be perturbed,” Draco said. “This is exactly how I would address Potter were he awake. Dry his hair, do his ridiculous hairstyle, brush his teeth, summon his spectacles, store his wand with his personal effects for safekeeping, document your activities, secure the Healing Records and inform the Night Assistant. Good-day.”

“Of course, sir! Goodbye, sir.”

“Potter? Send for me the minute you wake,” he said with a nod to the unconscious form.

Chapter End Notes

Hallowe’en

Draco relaxed back into his seat in his consulting room and rubbed his eyes. Another clinic over. With a twirl of his wand, he sent the drafts of his letters up to Anne to correct. He held two general Healing Clinics a week and a specialist Mind Clinic every other Tuesday.

Contemplating lunch, he snapped his Healers Bag shut and almost collided with his mother in the corridor.

“Draco!”

“Is everything all right?”

She directed him back inside and stuffed a package into his hand. “I was just waiting for you to finish. Not one word until you’ve had your lunch.”

He scowled but knew there’d be no use launching an appeal.

“That bad, is it?” He slumped back at his desk, yawned, and unwrapped the food. Coronation chicken vol-au-vents and a slice of wild mushroom galette. He sniffed it and said, “I really love you.”

“I’ll tell you once you’ve eaten.”

He munched through the galette and said, “I wasn’t expecting you today.”

“I left shortly after you did, Joan wrote in sick.” She smoothed her white and silver Volunteer Healer Assistant robes and observed him devour his lunch with a small smile.

After he gulped down the last vol-au-vent and finished the flask of elderflower cordial, he asked, “Well? What’s the emergency? I presume nobody is dying, otherwise you wouldn’t demand I stop to eat.”

“Healer Clearwater put Potter to sleep. There’s something you should know—”

“He’s awake! Why was I not sent for?”

At that moment, Rutherford barged in.

“Oh! Malfoy. I thought you would have finished your clinic by now.” He held up his pocket watch apologetically. “I’m afraid my first patient is in fifteen minutes and I—”

“Yes, yes, fine.” Draco stood and vanished the crumbs. “We were just leaving.”

They went up to his office on the seventh floor, past the portraits that murmured ‘Hello’ to them on the staircase. Anne, Rozz and Shawn waved from the drinks machine and Draco closed the office door behind them. He wasn’t due anywhere until two.

“Tell me everything,” he said.

Mother folded her arms and waited for Draco to sit before speaking. “Healer Clearwater charged me to keep an eye on Mr Potter. He woke up whilst I was sitting with him. He assumed I was his mother.”

“What?”

“Then he asked if I was an angel.”

Draco rested back, dumbfounded.

“He thought he’d died, there was some nonsense about Dumbledore. He expressed concern that his relatives would be angry with him and then asked me to be his mother when he was better.”

“What did you do?”

“Tucked him in, of course. Checked for Dark creatures under the bed, like I used to do for you—don’t look at me like that, you’ll always be my baby boy—”

“Mother—!”

“Told him a bedtime story—the Fountain of Fair Fortune, one of your favourites—saw him off to sleep, and came to see you.”

“Show me.”

She ceased adjusting her hair in the looking glass above the chimneypiece and settled in the straight-backed visitor’s chair.

“Legilimens,” Draco muttered.

Potter, panicked and small, shrinking in fear, then relaxing in his mother’s arms. The man grew about three inches when his mother called him ‘sweetheart’. Potter’s eyes shone in tears at the word ‘hospital’. Draco saw the look of concern in Mother’s eyes when she sat beside him, threading her fingers through his long hair lit by the candelabra on the bedside table…

Draco drew back, blinking. Of course, Potter got a private ward. Nothing but the best for Potter. “You didn’t tell Healer Clearwater?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Not yet.”

“She’s Potter’s Key Healer. Not I.”

“As the situation appears to be more severe than anticipated, I felt it prudent to go to the top.”

He hummed. “I’ve never come across this malady before. Perhaps Clearwater has during her training in Berlin. Did you document it?”

“Of course.”

“As he doesn’t appear to be in mortal peril, I am inclined to let sleeping Crups lie. In the meantime, we need to warn away the ghosts and remove the portraits.”

Mother went to the door. “I’ll arrange it. I’ve got to sit for Gilderoy for a while, but then I’ll keep an eye on Harry later this afternoon. He seems such a sweet boy.”

Mother talked to people about their feelings, sometimes for an hour every few days. At first, he was bitter about this. Why had he never seen this side of her when he needed someone to talk to himself?

At hospital, she was Mrs Malfoy. At home, she was Mother. Everyone grew from war, even the adults. There would always be some things, however, you couldn’t grow from.

****

Penny told Draco by the drinks machine that she wasn’t permitting anybody to visit Potter that he hadn’t remembered, and they would limit his visitors to Narcissa and his Muggle relatives.

“Mr Potter has a lot of strange dreams,” she told him. “Some appear to relate to things from his past. But he’s also dreaming of things that haven’t happened. He told me he was in the mind of a snake, biting people with his fangs. And then he said he’s slaughtered Muggle children.”

“That’s very odd. Perhaps he’s been hit by some kind of Befuddlement Hex…?”

“I haven’t seen anything like it. You didn’t train in paediatrics, did you?”

Draco shook his head. “I had no desire to. One son was enough for me. What potions have you given him?”

“I built up his dose of Dreamless Sleep and upped his regimen of Calming Draughts, but felt it best to keep it in the range suitable for children, just in case his cerebral physiology is juvenile.”

“An adult who thinks he’s a child… Does his family know? His wife and child?”

She nodded. “I’ve met with them but can’t give them any firm answers yet. The brain damage may be permanent. Like poor Professor Lockhart.”

“You still don’t know what happened to him? If a spell was mispronounced, some work could be done on developing a counter-curse—”

“No. Not a curse. An experiment at the Department of Mysteries and the Unspeakables won’t say a word, you know what they’re like. None of us have experience treating those. Augustus had records about that Death Eater who had a heart attack after his head looped from adult to baby and back again. But they were no use—there was nothing the Healers could do for him.”

“You know what to do. We watch and wait. Is Potter in emotional distress?”

“Yeah,” she said, frowning at the pyramid Draco was constructing from sugar cubes. “I considered music therapy, but he was raised by Muggles, wasn’t he? I haven’t had the time to get Muggle music—”

“Are you not Muggle-born? Don’t you have the music apparatus at home?”

“I’m not Muggle-born,” she said coolly. “I know very little about them since my mother moved to Burma or Burundi or wherever when I was little.” She gulped more coffee. “Anyway. I’m wondering if Harry should have an exercise programme. He is an Auror, you know.”

Draco shook his head. “Head Auror. In years gone by he occasionally got himself blown up, but since his promotion he probably sat at a desk all day, letting everyone else run around for him. You could try art therapy or get him to practise Divination. You should absolutely get him to start a dream diary.”

She nodded and checked her watch. “Well, I’d better be going. I have to put Harry to bed.”

That had been the last day he had time to think about Potter.

The man was Penny’s liability. She told him in the staff room one evening that Potter seemed to be polite yet distressed and made limited progress. But on another occasion, in the corner by the tea bags, she informed him that Potter’s drawings were disturbing, and that perhaps he had latent psychological issues submerged under his brave saviour façade.

As the Head of the Mind Healing Department, he received weekly reports on all the inpatients. Whilst they had Ministry targets on how many long-stay patients they could have, it was pointless, as he only discharged those who were fit to go home. His department was in the ‘red’ category.

It didn’t help that they had Mr and Mrs Longbottom who would be here until they died, Professor Lockhart who, at the best of times, behaved like a rambunctious twelve-year-old, Madam Campbell who thought she was a giraffe, and Mr Wilkes who understood them but did not communicate at all. Old Mr Pagshaugh was progressing moderately with his new graft after a hag severed his tongue during a brawl and was the only patient he could discharge this month.

Recovery from anything that involved language, balance, memory, senses, mood, motor control or personality, was always a slow process.

Potter would mar his statistics even further.

****

Hallowe’en was on a Monday and he went home early after his last appointment cancelled on him.

He was silent throughout supper, food like carpet in his mouth, eager to leave and get out of here, but his father said, “Play something for me, Draco.”

Pleasing Father was still written in his bones, for he ambled over to the pianoforte and swept off the dust sheet. “Just one, I’m very tired.”

He played the swirling chaos and power of Beethoven’s Tempest sonata.

But he could only get through the first half before he slammed the lid shut. The crash echoed in the dining room.

Nobody spoke.

He stared at his lap for a while, and could sense his parents’ eyes on him, before he got up to leave.

Father caught his wrist on the way out. “There were many wrong notes. But you played with passion.”

Draco stared into his father’s bloodshot eyes, then nodded and went to his rooms. He couldn’t bear to be in here alone, not tonight, not on Hallowe’en. But he was sure that this time would be the last.

He did the clasp of his thick travelling cloak with fumbling fingers, and put on his dragonhide boots. Nobody stopped him as he crunched down the driveway to the gates and Apparated the few miles to Stonehenge.

He was early, not many Muggles were around, yet the sky was claustrophobic and black. The wind whipped his face and hauled scratchy scarves of clouds in front of the full moon.

He sat at Astoria’s favourite spot. Hours passed where Draco stared at the grass, back aching, yet it didn’t feel like very long at all.

And soon, light soaked the dawning sky. The rosy hue of daybreak tinted the stones.

At Hallowe’en you were supposed to feel closest to the dead. Never before had he felt further from Astoria.

“Live without me,” she had said.

An easy request from the dying. There was no spell to roll back dawn, no spell to bring back the dead. No spell to fix Potter.

He would not be back.

****

The first person in Potter’s life to invade Draco’s office was his wife.

He was pushing through the throngs of reporters when she clutched his elbow and pursued him into the stairwell.

“Draco, please! I need to see Harry!”

“You cannot see him, Mrs Potter,” he said whilst he walked up the stairs and nodded to the portraits. Healer Berthwick ignored him as he was still bitter about being swapped with Dilys Derwent. “Not until he remembers you.”

“So I’m Mrs Potter now, am I?”

He ignored her and she clattered after him.

“Is that even legal? I’m his next of kin! Are you making these rules up as you go along? Because it isn’t funny.”

The portrait of Healer Hubert Youngfoot tutted and said, “Have some respect, girl!”

She pulled out a tube of lipstick and held it up to the portrait. Youngfoot’s face contorted in horror.

“I swear I will,” she hissed. “You don’t know what I’ve been through.”

Draco charmed the hot chocolate to float behind him and got out his pocket watch. “I can give you ten minutes. And put that away,” he drawled with a nod at the lipstick.

“Only ten?”

He glared at her and continued up the rickety staircase past a house-elf in the yellow cloth of St Mungo’s wiping disinfectant potion on the handles. “I’m not his Key Healer.”

“Penny’s been ignoring half my owls, and the welcomewitch won’t tell me a thing! I’ve had a couple of useless appointments with her and it’s not good enough. Aren’t you supposed to be the boss of this department?”

“I’ll have a word with the secretaries about the letters. Please be quiet, this is a hospital. I prefer not to brawl with relatives in the stairwell.”

She set her mouth in a firm line and the chatter fell silent when they entered the admin office.

He dropped Anne’s hot chocolate on her desk and then held open his office door. He had years of practise at putting up with awkward visitors. “Please sit down.”

She did and folded her arms.

Draco opened the dumbwaiter and offered her tea and biscuits, but she shook her head.

He sat back at his desk, crunched a sugar cube in his mouth, and waited until she met his gaze. “Tell me what you know.”

“That he’s in St Mungo’s, that he’s not dead. I had to find out from a friend who works at the Ministry that he got pushed into some kind of Department of Mysteries experiment. Tell me he’s all right—please.”

He leant forward on his elbows. “Allow me to apologise on behalf of the hospital for not following procedure. His Key Healer is in a meeting for another couple of hours, so I’ll tell you what I know. Mrs Potter—”

“I don’t know why you aren’t calling me Ginny any more. Is that what you do when patients are dying?”

“He’s not dying.”

She stopped squeezing the seat of her chair with one hand. “Tell me why I can’t see him.”

“He has lost his memories.”

She tilted her head, staring unseeingly at the empty grate. “I know that but… What do you mean? Why does it matter?”

“He has the mental age of a young boy and his recovery lies in precarious balance. If he recovers at all. If you visit him before he’s ready, it could be catastrophic. I have no doubt you wish to see your husband back to full health. His best chance is to see whether his mind and magic can rebuild the lost connections on its own. And due to his position in society, and the absolute truth that there are many who wish him ill, you must understand why he is in a closed ward. We will need your help—”

“Anything,” she said. “He’s my best friend.”

He withdrew an eagle quill, parchment and ink. “I’ll make some notes for his Healer. What are the names of his childhood friends?”

“He didn’t have any.”

Draco’s quill was poised above the parchment. “None at all?”

“Nope. He told me his cousin wouldn’t let anyone be friendly with him in school.”

“Muggles,” he said under his breath. “Who are his family?”

“Petunia Dursley is his aunt, and his cousin’s called Dudley. They’re in Surrey.”

He wrote it down and asked, “How old was Potter when you became a meaningful part of his life?”

Two spots of colour rose on her cheeks and she chewed her lip before answering. “When he was twelve, he saved me from the Basilisk. In the Chamber of Secrets, if you recall.” He did recall.

“You even thought he was the heir,” she said with a bitter laugh.

“I’m not here to reminisce about decade-old happy events.”

She caught sight of the photo on Draco’s noticeboard and got up to examine it. “This is a lovely picture.”

Scorpius was giving Albus a piggyback, Albus’s hands over his son’s eyes and roaring in laughter. They’d only met the day before at the World Cup.

“It is.”

She turned back around. “I don’t think Harry really noticed me until he was sixteen.”

“It’ll be a while until you can see him.” She nodded. “I’ll pass this on to his Key Healer, let them know you’re eager to help, and request they keep you apprised of the evolving situation and treatment plan.”

She chose a biscuit after all and pulled her travelling cloak around her tighter.

He rolled up the scroll and stood as she paused beside the door.

“When will our son…?”

Draco charmed his Healers Bag to hover behind him, and tapped her on the shoulder with the scroll. “Mistakes cost lives, Potter.”

“I know that. Do you think it will be weeks, months?”

“He’s recalling more of his childhood years, but it isn’t known whether this will proceed in a linear fashion. His Key Healer will be better placed to make a prognosis in a few weeks’ time.”

Draco glanced through the clinic list on Anne’s desk to check which patients were down to see him today, and picked up his vast pile of correspondence. Hopefully, someone wouldn’t show up, and he could make a start on the letters.

“Anne? Will you show Mrs Potter out?” he asked and turned to Ginevra. “St Mungo’s will do whatever it takes to help Harry Potter.”

Possibilities

Draco only saw his friends every six weeks, but this sometimes stretched to eight when Theo and Tracey were back from Prague. She managed the band The Alchemists whilst Theo just sat around collecting hideous paintings and drinking spiced rum.

He met them late one Friday in the Old Whissing club. It was packed.

Daphne waved and shouted over the din, “Nice cloak!”

He was in his sky-blue hooded cloak of taffeta and brocaded silk. The spun silver thread glinted in the candlelight, and the sleeves ended in silver lace flounces.

“Thanks.”

“We ordered you dinner—you’re so late!”

His companions for the evening were Daphne, Pansy and her husband Julian, Tracey and Theo.

He joined them and did his best to look engaged as Pansy prattled on about Draco’s social life or, more accurately, the lack thereof.

“… And really Draco, it’s not right, you shut up in that big old house, haunting St Mungo’s by day—”

“I don’t haunt St Mungo’s. I am employed by St Mungo’s.”

“Whatever,” she said, waving her hand.

“You do haunt St Mungo’s,” Julian affirmed.

Draco kept his mouth shut.

“You are more than welcome to visit the children on the weekends, little Timmy does so adore you,” Daphne said.

He’d rather die than chase around after Astoria’s nephews and hoped that wasn’t evident in his tight-lipped smile.

“You used to come to Prague constantly,” Theo added. “It was like being poor and having a lodger.”

Draco snorted. “Poor people don’t have such delightful apartments.”

Julian nodded enthusiastically as he blanketed his dinner in salt. Though he was from new money and was a frightful bore, he was a decent sort of fellow.

“There’s a new club opened around the corner,” Tracey said, arm slung around Theo’s neck like a sloth. “The scene is very 2001.”

Daphne gave a pained smile.

The moment Daphne went to the lavatory, Pansy leant across the table, eyes twinkling, and said to Draco, “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

He looked at her expectantly.

“Well,” Pansy said. “Guess, then.”

Draco groaned. “Not another of your games.”

“Ooh, are you trying a new diet?” Tracey said.

“No,” Pansy said, flinging a chip at her. “Just… no. Keep guessing.”

“You’re not pregnant again!” Theo said.

Julian went slack-jawed at his wife.

“Don’t be stupid, darling,” Pansy said, patting Julian’s cheek. “Draco…” She made sure she had everyone’s attention before continuing. “Lukas has agreed to go on a date.”

Everyone looked at him.

“Who?”

“The son of the German Minister for Magic. He’s very excited to make your acquaintance.” She looked at him expectantly.

“… I see.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. “You’ve no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

Theo and Tracey excused themselves for a smoke, and he enviously watched their retreating backs. “Did I agree to go out with him?”

“Yes, you did, and you’re meeting him Saturday next. He’s exactly your type.”

Draco pulled a face. “I don’t have a ‘type’.”

“Yes you do. You’re collecting him at six and taking him somewhere nice for dinner.” She sat back in her chair. “I look forward to hearing all about it. Don’t let me down.”

“Me too,” Julian added.

Draco smiled but it came out more like a grimace. “Terrific.”

He stood up, whether to go to the bathroom or to follow Theo and Tracey, he hadn’t decided. “Do excuse me.”

Not trying particularly hard to find his friends, Draco ended up in one of the smoking rooms. Under the murmurs of a nearby couple muttering in French, and the whiff of coffee and perfume, he could feel France. A sense that put him in the mind of lazy days by the Seine, where he could imagine slow breakfasts on Sunday mornings; he’d rise to the sounds of rushing Muggles in the streets below, the smell of bread from the boulangerie, and a man or woman by his side would brush their lips to the side of his neck, push an espresso into his hand and take care of everything.

Those nebulous days were a possibility.

He just had to make it happen.

****

A week later, Ronald and Hermione Weasley showed up demanding answers.

He didn’t have impromptu meetings with random people, but his secretary said, “They’re saying they’ll submit a formal complaint.”

“Let them.”

Anne stared at him balefully over the top of her spectacles. “Think of the paperwork. And the Board Meeting.”

Draco snapped the nib of a quill, his mind on the business case for two new potioneers, and the extensive paperwork for a Ministry official to perform an Undetectable Extension Charm to increase the number of beds in his wards. He also had reference requests to do, forms from the Apparition Test Centre—

“Fine! Fine. Escort them up. I can only give them fifteen minutes.”

He wrote a few more lines before there was a knock at his door.

The Weasleys were wary-faced, but did accept tea and bourbons. They greeted him and the portrait of Dilys Derwent.

“How may I be of assistance?” Draco asked. “I understand you need to speak with me urgently. And that it could not wait.”

“Nobody’s replying to our letters! We want to know how Harry is,” Hermione said.

Draco tapped his fingers on his desk to the rhythm of Vivaldi’s Spring.

“Healer Clearwater’s secretary has recently returned from holiday and has somewhat of a backlog. I’ll make a request that the staff share out her workload. If you have any specific questions, I will do my best to help.”

Ronald spoke first. “Ginny said he’d lost his memories and she wasn’t allowed to see him. Why isn’t he better yet? When can we visit? It’s been nearly two months! Are you helping him properly?”

“I can’t discuss confidential matters with random members of the public,” he said through gritted teeth. He was a Healer, not an angel.

“Look, perhaps we got off to a bad start,” Hermione said. “It’s just—I know he’s just one patient to you, but we’re really worried about Harry.”

Draco strode towards the door, opened it and pointed at the plaque on his office door:

Draco Justus Malfoy, Healer-in-Charge: Mind Department

Order of Merlin, Third Class for Services to Healing

“I am a Healer. Not God. I have four hundred outpatients, and twenty-five inpatients. Potter may look like just a number, but don’t you dare assume that I don’t care about every single one of my patients.”

He slammed the door and then addressed Dilys who was listening with interest. “Would you be so kind as to check on the Wit-Sharpening Potion? And remind the potioneers of the correct shade of blue?”

Dilys heaved herself out of the armchair with a huff. “Right you are,” she said, leaving the frame.

“Pardon me,” Draco said. “Due to patient confidentiality, I am only permitted to talk to Mr Potter’s wife.”

Ronald opened his mouth to protest in outrage, but Hermione said, “He’s right. It’s the law.” She turned to Draco. “Is that why you sent away the witness?”

If Draco didn’t know better, he’d say she was impressed.

“No comment,” he said, sitting down. “Mr Potter is in a closed ward. Top security. If you value his life, you will not attempt to visit him before a qualified Healer invites you to. Speaking to you is more than my job’s worth.” He ran a hand over his face. “I’m only telling you this so you don’t do anything rash, like break in.”

“Ginny’s been going spare, and so have we,” Hermione said. “Look—I’m glad you’re in there, looking out for him, Draco. We just want to know how he is and if there’s anything we can do to help.”

Weasley nodded earnestly.

“He’s vulnerable. Unhappy,” Draco said. “He’s remembering more, which is a very good thing. It means he’s not static, stuck as a child. But we’re treading on very thin ice.”

She took a deep drink of her tea. “Of course.”

“Has anything like this happened before?” Ronald asked. “How long till they got better? Will he recover?”

“We are not aware of this specific issue in anyone else. There has been some progress but I’d prefer not to lie to you and tell you he’ll completely recover, or put a timescale on the situation,” Draco replied.

Hermione reached over the desk to place her hand on Draco’s arm. “As horrible as this is, I’m glad it’s you taking care of him. He must be so afraid.”

At the sight of her hand, Draco raised his eyebrows. “It isn’t me you should thank. It’s my mother. She sits with him almost every day.”

Her eyes widened.

Draco suddenly stood. “I’m afraid I must ask you to leave. Dilys will be back.” He nodded to the empty portrait.

“Right,” Ronald said, jamming on an orange woollen hat that clashed horribly with his hair. “Thanks, then. You’ll keep us in the loop? If you can?”

“If I can. Good-day to you both,” Draco replied, unsmiling.

“Thanks,” Hermione said. “For speaking to us.”

Draco said nothing, and just nodded. He stared after them as they left.

****

Penny was away at the Christmas markets in Dresden for the week. As such, he had to review all her patients on top of his usual workload.

He said hello to Sally-Anne Perks, who was the Auror guarding Potter’s corridor today, and watched his mother and Potter.

She was speaking quietly to Potter, and finished brushing his hair back into a low ponytail.

“There we are. You look like royalty.” She spotted Draco lurking by the door. “Doesn’t he look handsome?”

Draco strode in and stock checked the potions cabinet.

“I’m sure you have the skills to conjure Mr Potter a looking glass,” he said to the cabinet, “should he wish to admire his reflection.”

“Hello. My name is Harry.”

Draco turned to stare at Potter. He was in an overlarge jumper with a Quaffle on the front, sleeves hanging down by his thumbs. He’d decorated the oak-panelled wall around his bed with cut-outs of all the dragon breeds of Great Britain and Ireland.

“Good morning, Harry. You look well today.”

Mother kissed Potter on the cheek and excused herself.

“Are you a wizard, too?” Potter asked.

“Yes. I am.”

“What’s your name?”

“Draco Malfoy.”

“That’s a nice name.”

Draco blinked.

“Would you like to be my friend?” Potter asked.

“I… don’t see why not.”

Potter grinned.

“Now, as you know, your Healer is elsewhere. So I’ll just examine your notes, and then ask you some questions.”

He nodded, legs swinging.

“It’s a lovely day!” Potter said, pointing to the sunlit sky through the tiny high window.

“Indeed.” Draco read the last few entries in the Healing Records. “How are your dreams?”

“Weird,” Potter said.

“Did you have any more last night?”

“Yeah.” Harry picked at the bedsheets. “There was a big monster. Big and black. It made this… Awful noise…” Potter trailed off, pressing his arms tightly into his body.

“Did it make you feel afraid?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“I would like you to write your dreams down, if you can. In your dream book.” Draco flipped through the largely empty notebook.

“All right, then. If I have to,” Potter said.

“There is magic that can ward off the creatures you describe. You’re good at that spell. I’m sure I can find someone to teach it to you in future, and you’ll be rather good at it again.”

Draco couldn’t cast a Patronus, but his mother could.

“Really? Thank you.” Potter beamed. “Everyone is so nice here. I’d like to stay, if I can.”

“Here? In St Mungo’s?”

“Yeah! I just had the most amazing breakfast.”

He listened to Potter prattle on, charging ahead on his own steam, requiring just the barest acknowledgment. Potter knew what to do for the neurological exam, and when Draco had concluded, he left him reading The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle.

It was bizarre, thinking of Potter downstairs, reading Scorpius’s old magazines, whilst he wrote up the names of drink-Apparators for the Ministry fines.

He worked through his pile of incoming letters and saw that Granger suggested he and Penny wear Muggle clothing for Potter.

What a stupid woman.

Instead of replying that it would be unsanitary, he wrote:

Anne - for the attention of Penny. Many thanks.

****

On quiet days, Mother and his Auror would escort Potter down a floor to Ward 49 where he’d sit and chat to Gilderoy about werewolves, or practise drawing. It got even more bizarre to see Potter and Gilderoy practising joined-up handwriting together.

Potter’s room was orderly, with neat stacks of books lying on a conjured shelf. He had picture books like Wizards of the Wild West and George the Cowboy and his Escaped Snidget, and it must’ve been Mother’s influence that Calligraphy for Beginners rested on the shelf too. Potter was now too mature for picture books.

“Weather looks good today,” Potter said, with a timid smile.

“It does,” Draco replied.

He saw in the records that Potter hadn’t had a cognitive assessment for a couple of weeks.

His patient broke the silence. “Are we friends? When I’m grown up?”

Draco swallowed and finished flicking through the Healing Records. “We don’t really know each other.”

“Oh. That’s a shame.”

Was it?

“I’ve got some questions to ask you. Don’t worry if you don’t know the answer, just do your best.”

Potter nodded.

“Tell me your full name and date of birth, please.”

“Harry James Potter. Thirty-first of July, 1980.”

“What is your highest level of education?”

“I think… I think perhaps year six SATS.”

“What is the year?”

“Er… I don’t know, sir.”

“And the season?”

“Spring,” he said.

“And the month?”

Potter blushed. “I’m not sure.”

“Tell me where we are.”

“St Mungo’s Hospital. In London.”

“Repeat after me: clock, chamber pot, merman.”

“Clock, chamber pot, merman.”

“Spell ‘chair’ backwards, for me please.”

“Um… R—I—A—H—C.”

“Recite the three things I listed earlier.”

“Clock, chamber pot… merman.”

“Name these items.” Draco pointed to the quill and a candle.

“Quill, candle,” Potter said.

Draco wrote, ‘Clap three times’ and presented it to Potter. He obeyed.

“Nearly done. Write a sentence, please,” he said, handing Potter the quill.

He wrote:

I had cornflakes for breakfast

The handwriting wasn’t joined up.

Draco drew an overlapping square and pentagon. “And finally, copy this for me.”

Potter copied it accurately.

“Smashing!” Draco said.

Harry beamed.

Draco wrote in the Healing Records:

Brief cognitive assessment performed. Results: Eighteen. Severe.

Signed, Draco Malfoy, Mind Healer.

Not good.

When he’d completed his ward round, he reviewed his admin and saw another letter from Granger.

7th December 2011

Dear Draco,

I read an article about personalised music playlists and dementia. Harry’s favourite is Christmas music, year round. It drove Ginny mad. Here’s a tape and a cassette player – Harry will know how it works.

At least it’s December!

With love,

Hermione

He scribbled on the bottom:

Anne: not my patient. For the attention of Healer Clearwater. Many thanks.

7th December 2011

Dear Mr Malfoy,

I am writing to ask about my dad. His name is Harry Potter, his date of birth is 31st July 1980 and I have heard you’re in charge.

I really hope he’s okay.

From,

Albus Potter

Strictly speaking this was Penny’s letter to respond to, but he couldn’t resist penning a reply.

Penny would probably cock it up.

8th December 2011

Dear Albus,

Re: Mr Harry James Potter – DoB 31-Jul-1980

Thank you for your letter. I am not Mr Potter’s Key Healer, but even if I were, I am afraid I cannot convey private information via owl as this is not a secure method of communication. I do hope you understand.

Rest assured that your father is receiving the highest quality care and attention. He’d want you to keep your head down, try your hardest at your homework, and be patient with his recuperation.

From my perspective, I would appreciate it if you kept my son out of trouble.

At the earliest opportunity I will let you know as soon as feasible when you may visit him.

With kind regards,

Yours sincerely,

Draco Malfoy
Healer-in-Charge
Mind Healing Dept.

He finished dealing with his correspondence and intensified the fire with a wave of his wand.

Scorpius was home for the holidays in just two short weeks. The letters from his son had doubled now that Scorpius wasn’t too embarrassed to hear from him. The boy didn’t sound homesick at all, and he had packed his letters with how wonderful Albus was and how dreadfully unfair it was that first years couldn’t try out for Quidditch.

Draco had taken to organising his belongings, throwing away that which he didn’t wish to take with him to France. When they left the country, he’d keep Scorpius’s address in Wiltshire so his son would still be eligible for Hogwarts. Beauxbatons was out of the question.

Frogmore Cottage, Kensington Palace

As Healer-in-Charge, Draco had oversight of the healing interventions, and he looked through the departmental records each week. Every few days, he met with his mother to witness through Legilimency her singing Potter French lullabies, and in time, teaching him beginner’s Latin. She brought in short mysteries and adventure books that belonged to her when she was a little girl.

Potter spent most of his days bored and restless, and Draco was dwelling on how lively young children were when his fireplace flared green and the Chief Executive announced Draco’s name.

“What is it, sir?” he said, rising from his chair.

“The Muggle royalty requests an audience,” Mr Crocus said, his fat head floating in the fire. “They desire a progress report on Mr Potter.”

He had got to be joking.

“It shan’t be long until Healer Clearwater is back from holiday, and as his Key Healer, she—”

“No,” Mr Crocus said with a frown, his eyebrows crawling together like dead caterpillars. “Their Auror is on his way to collect you.”

“Of course, sir. Which royal…?” Draco trailed off. Mr Crocus had already gone.

He racked his brains for the correct form of address to heads of state. His etiquette lessons seemed a very long time ago. In the looking glass, his hair was still immaculate—

Draco leapt out of the way when a man rushed through the Floo.

“Hello!” He flung a handful of Floo powder in Draco’s fireplace without so much as a by-your-leave, said, “Kensington Palace!” and pushed Draco in.

Draco fell out of the fire into a dim chamber. Dust sheets covered stacks of furniture.

The Auror whooshed out behind him, and brushed ash off his suit. He wore a scarlet-red tie in lieu of the red robes of his department.

“Sorry about this,” the man said unapologetically. “Follow me, please. No time to explain.”

He threw an Invisibility Cloak over Draco and strolled out the room.

Bloody Aurors.

A door opened onto a courtyard opposite a tiny cottage covered in what Draco thought were climbing roses.

“Are you certain this is the right place?” Draco asked, shaking ash out of his hair and crunching through frost after him. It looked nothing like a palace.

“What? Oh—yes.”

The Auror led Draco through a white picket fence, pressed some metal beside the front door, looked around to confirm they were alone, then grabbed at thin air for Draco’s cloak.

Draco pulled it off and handed it to him.

“I’ll be sticking around out here. He’s down the hallway, first room on the left. Hurry.”

Draco ducked inside and found himself in a poky hallway with a polished wooden floor. The door to the parlour was open, and he knocked.

“Hullo! Come in!”

Creepy unmoving landscapes hung on the walls, yet the room was bright from warm electrical lamps and vases of peonies. Draco approved of the Persian rug, roaring fire, and large sash windows. Everything was cream and beige.

A gentleman with an unfortunate hairline was relaxing on a sofa and cradling a tiny Cocker Spaniel wrapped in a blanket. Voices came from a box with moving pictures.

“Your Royal Highness,” Draco said, bowing his head at the neck.

The man didn’t hold out his hand, so Draco didn’t kiss it. No servants were in sight.

“And good afternoon to you,” Draco added, addressing the miniature people within the box.

“Good afternoon!” the man said. “They can’t hear you. Television is recorded in advance, you see.”

“Of course,” Draco replied blankly.

“This is Lupo,” the prince said, rubbing a glossy black ear. “Do sit down.”

He didn’t know Muggle social decorum. Ought he take a seat lower in height?

The man wasn’t paying attention, so Draco shrank an armchair by an inch before sitting in it.

“What a marvellous dog,” Draco chanced. People always loved it when you lauded their pets.

“Indeed!” He peered around at Draco and shook his head a little. “Well, then.” He grimaced. “Nasty business about poor Harry. But I’m terribly sorry, there appears to have been some sort of mistake—I asked to meet with the man in charge. Could you fetch him?”

“I am he.”

“Oh! You’re senior enough to be looking after him, are you?”

“I plead your pardon, sir, but I am the Head of the Mind Healing Department.”

“Ah! Well done, then,” the prince said, nodding with raised eyebrows.

Patronising bastard.

“I assure you, a career in healing is not for the delicate of heart or low in ambition.”

“Oh, I do apologise for causing any offence. Please tell me how he’s getting on—I’m ever so fond of him.”

Was it a sign of propriety to admit one’s mistakes? Ought Draco refute him?

“Physically, he is in top form. He is, however, making slow progress with respect to his memory.”

“Aren’t you a wizard? Can’t you just…” The man gestured at Draco’s attire, “…do a spell?”

Draco inclined his head. “Yes, sir, but magic can’t solve every ill.”

The prince nodded. “No, I suppose not. Well… please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

“Many thanks for your kind offer,” Draco told the fool. “I shall remember it.”

“I apologise for not providing any refreshments, do excuse me, but I’m heading out shortly. Do let me know if Harry’s condition deteriorates. He’s got me out of some tight spots—he really is a marvellous chap.”

Draco sensed his dismissal and stood. “Not at all. Thank you for inviting me to your pleasant, quaint palace.”

The man chuckled. “Cheerio, then!”

“Good-day, sir.”

Draco bowed again and left.

****

The start of the Christmas holidays dawned bright and clear. Scorpius ran up to him on Platform Nine and Three Quarters, trunk forgotten on the Express, and wasn’t yet too cool to accept a bear hug.

“I’ve missed you!” Scorpius cried. “Gosh, it’s jolly cold in London too.”

“Why aren’t you wearing a travelling cloak?” Draco said into Scorpius’s hair.

“Forgot it in the dungeons!”

Draco removed his fur-lined cape and draped it over his son’s shoulders.

“Ooh, lovely,” Scorpius said. “Wait, just a moment!” He trotted off down the platform, cloak trailing along the ground.

Draco saw Scorpius hug Albus and shake Ginevra’s hand, who’d summoned the trunks and owls.

Scorpius returned with his things and Draco Apparated them home.

“So you’re spending a lot of time with Potter these days,” Draco said.

“Yeah. I am.”

“Why?”

“He’s nice,” Scorpius said to his shoes. “I like him.”

Draco was jealous of the easy way that his wife would proudly listen to their son, how he’d watch in wonder and fall in love with her even more. How it showed him what a normal parent-child relationship should be like.

His son was good, pure and special. And try as he might, he couldn’t have the same bond with Scorpius as his son had had with Astoria. It wasn’t for a lack of love, but his difficulty with parenting affectionately. He vowed to be nothing like his grandfather, and only like the good parts of his father—fiercely devoted to his family line.

“I’m not really Malfoy material,” Scorpius mumbled, interpreting his silence as disapproval.

“Don’t be silly. Let’s sit in the Orangery and you can tell me all about what you both got up to.”

Scorpius filled the next three days with chit-chat about his new best friend, how he longed to be in Somerset with Albus, how much Christmas shopping there was to be done, the names of everybody he had met, and extended reports of tales already spelt out in his letters.

When Draco returned to work, his son spent his days with Mrs Greengrass in central London, and in the evenings he’d talk a mile a minute about cooking, libraries and zoos.

Draco dropped in to see Harry, more out of habit from the past week than for any other reason.

“You’re back!” Potter said, a smile lighting up his face.

“It’s only been a few days.”

“I thought you’d left me. Like the last lady.” He flung Latin for Beginners to one side.

“Healer Clearwater?”

“Yes. I prefer you, though. You don’t treat me weirdly.”

“Don’t I?”

Potter got up and bounced on the balls of his feet.

“Do you think I’ll be better soon? I want to go outside! It looks lovely. But…” A small frown creased his forehead. “They tell me it’s Christmas next week. So it’s not warm outside, after all.”

“It’s icy. A clear day, today.” Draco wanted to keep up the pretence that the window wasn’t a complete lie a little longer. “Blue skies, as you can see.”

Harry chewed his lip and nodded. “All right.”

Draco felt a pang that they’d not decorated Potter’s ward.

For the past few days, the building had been pleasantly festive: the crystal orbs that illuminated the hospital had been switched to Gryffindor colours so they became vast, glowing baubles; holly or mistletoe hung above most doorways, and Christmas trees covered in everlasting snow and icicles glittered in every corner, each topped with a gleaming gold star.

He assumed Penny was working to keep up the illusion that it was spring for as long as she could. To what end, he didn’t know. At least Potter had his Christmas music player.

****

He popped in on Potter after that whenever he was on the Sixth Floor—of course, for healing reasons, not personal ones.

It distressed Potter that he was locked up and he paced his room in the afternoons. His ward was just seventeen feet by twelve; ample space to be sure, but intolerable as a permanent living area.

With each passing week he evolved from a docile child into an angry, confused tiger.

He advised Penny to put in exercise equipment, but he wasn’t exactly prepared when he put his head ‘round the door and found Potter doing chin-ups on a suspended bar. Sometimes he jogged topless on a moving walkway.

The room expanded itself during the night to include a punching bag in the corner, and he saw Potter kicking it with all of his might. He funnelled his anger, energy and confusion into punching and moving and sprinting.

Anne repackaged Harry’s gifts, removed the names, and arranged for an elf to fetch him a Christmas tree.

It irked him when Anne said that Potter’s son sent thick socks and a bar of Honeydukes finest chocolate. Eleven-year-olds shouldn’t be able to shop in Hogsmeade, but perhaps they did owl-order nowadays.

He had another few days off work before Yule and spent them eating chocolates, grooming his horses, and showing Scorpius hexes.

They had the traditional feast on Christmas Day, this time with Draco’s cousins from the Sunshine Coast. Draco had yet to meet his mad Australian uncle. Mrs Greengrass dropped by for a few hours before returning to Daphne and co.

Christmas was the only acceptable time of year when they could laugh at Grandfather for being utterly off his rocker, Father for his drunken antics, and his cousins for bickering. Scorpius played the pianoforte for everyone in the drawing room whilst everyone cheated at cards, and it was rather a relief when Auntie Dromeda popped by with Edward. It made an agreeable change and a welcome distraction for Scorpius, who kept shooting Draco incredulous looks whenever the cousins said anything exceptionally stupid.

But all too soon, Draco was due back at work, and on Boxing Day left his son in Mother’s hands.

The hospital operated with skeleton staff from Christmas Eve through to Boxing Day, and as such, he had three times the number of ward rounds to complete, on top of an afternoon covering the emergencies with Rutherford. At least his clinics were cancelled for the fortnight.

“Draco! Look!”

Harry brandished a picture and Draco took it from him. It was a line drawing of Draco in blue ink, and underneath in large writing was ‘FRIEND’.

“Do you like it?” Harry asked.

Draco swallowed a lump in his throat. “Yeah. Very much. Thank you, Harry.”

“I got Gilderoy to draw it, and Narcissa has been helping me with my handwriting. It’s never been so good!”

“It is very good. You should keep this safe,” he said, handing it back, “to help you remember me.”

Harry nodded enthusiastically. “That’s a good idea. I wouldn’t want to forget.”

He put it on his bedside table and grinned.

“It looks nice outside today,” Harry said, nodding to the window.

“It is.”

“So how are you?”

He should be asking Harry, his patient, how he was. Instead, he sat down by the bed and told him about his boring paperwork, and what he got for Christmas. Harry snorted with laughter at Draco’s re-enactments of the stupid things his cousins said and did.

“My cousin is a few chips short of a Happy Meal, too,” Harry said. “Hey—look at these cool socks. Do you want some chocolate? And I got some new tapes, as well. If you’ve got time, I can show you how my radio works.”

It wasn’t how he used to imagine it when he was a child. But for now, he was friends with Harry Potter.

****

After everybody had gone home and visiting hours were long over, Draco gathered some paperwork, made a mug of hot chocolate and headed to Potter’s corridor. He nodded at Sally-Anne, the Auror stationed at Potter’s door, and ducked under the ‘STAFF ONLY’ sign.

Beside the empty VIP and Hit Wizard wards was a door marked ‘DANGER. DO NOT ENTER’. He unlocked it and clanged up the spiralling cast-iron staircase.

Icy air hit his face at once. Draco knew the staircase intimately even in the pitch black, and at the top he cast a spell to let only those with the Dark Mark pass.

Finally, he sat on the shoulders of central London and leant on the railing to watch the tiny people rushing beneath him like busy mice. Mad Muggles on bicycles weaved through the perilous roads amongst honking horns, and crowds laden with shopping bags packed the pavements. Yule lights burning with electricity hung above the motorcars, sparkling in stark contradiction to the abyss of blackness stretching over him.

The biting air was welcome in his lungs, and Draco paused for a while, clutching his hot chocolate to stare at London.

Draco sat on the bench he’d purloined from home, lit a nicotine-free cigarette, and conjured bluebell flames and floating candles.

After winter sunsets, he only did proofreading. He hugged his knees to his chest to ward off the cold and read through his forms.

“Back again, young master?”

Draco jumped. “Materially.”

Wulfric Simmonds was one of the less useful ghosts. He was middle-aged when he died a couple hundred years ago and wasn’t a Healer.

“May I sit with you?” Wulfric asked.

A bizarre question from a ghost.

“You may,” Draco said. “I’ll be able to see you better.”

“Your unusual ways bring a bit of excitement to the hospital,” he declared with a mournful air. “It is so dull of an evening. It’s pleasant to have company.”

It was pleasant for Draco to have company, as well, but he didn’t reveal that.

“And what are these proceedings?” Wulfric asked.

“A business case for a new Healer.”

“Merlin, St Mungo’s has gone to the dogs. The Healers did not do such fiddly forms in my day I’m sure.”

“Such is the joy of modern healing.”

Wulfric rested his hands on his ample belly and Draco worked in silence for fifteen minutes.

He stopped to look up at the sky, his mind a swirling mess.

“You are despondent,” Wulfric said. It wasn’t a question.

Draco pursed his lips around a second cigarette, and weighted his paperwork down with a pot of ink. He clasped his hands over his knees against the chill and gave a one-shouldered shrug.

“So what if I am? Is ‘happy’ in my job description?”

“What is ailing you?”

Draco huffed out a laugh. “No one can help me. But I appreciate your attempts all the same.”

Wulfric nodded, his face half visible by the light of the bluebell flames. “One ought not to be alone at Yule.”

“Yule was two days ago. And I am only alone because I haven’t… made the choice to leave.”

It was safer, whispering your secrets to ghosts. You couldn’t hurt them in the same way, and they couldn’t leave. Myrtle eased his loneliness at school, and Wulfric eased it now.

“Ah… I see. Your patients need you.”

“Yeah,” Draco said. “They do.”

Wulfric brushed off an imaginary piece of lint from the shoulder of his smoking jacket. “Your soul is not chained here like mine.”

The cold was becoming too much, and the thought of dinner made his mouth water, so he rolled up his scroll and dissipated the flames.

“You were a broomstick craftsman, were you not?”

The ghost puffed out his chest. “Yes, sire, I was.”

“Mr Potter, in Ward 59, would enjoy speaking with you.”

Wulfric peered at him beneath his bushy eyebrows. “I am glad to help.”

“Good man, Wulfric.”

“Have a pleasant evening,” he replied. “Do leave the candles, if you will. There’s a good fellow.”

****

“Healer Malfoy! You are needed!”

Draco was at the fireplace, just leaving for St Oswald’s Home for Old Witches and Wizards. He whirled around to see Wulfric floating towards him.

“Whatever’s the matter?” Draco asked.

“Mr Potter is undergoing a crisis.”

“Tell Anne I’ll get to St Oswald’s when I can,” he said, jogging for the staircase.

He took the stairs two at a time, several portraits said, “Hurry!” and when he got to the sixth floor, the guards were nowhere in sight. What the hell.

Two Trainee Healers had their wands on the curtains which were alight. Grey plumes of smoke pervaded the room, and Potter was curled up in a ball.

“AGUAMENTI!” Draco cast. Streams of water burst from the tip of his wand to join the others and together they doused the flames.

He couldn’t open the window. It was fake.

“Come with me,” Draco said.

Potter didn’t look up.

Draco knelt beside him, put a hand on his shoulder. “What’s the matter?”

“It was an accident. N-nobody came. N-nobody…”

The trainees exchanged a worried look.

“Shh,” Draco murmured. “It’s all right, now.”

He held out his hand, and this time, Harry accepted it and got to his feet.

“Put this room to rights,” he ordered the students.

Draco flung his travelling cloak over Harry’s shoulders and led him out.

Penny was busy overseeing the dinner selections in the Dai Llewellyn Ward by making Mr Fitzhubert blink at his menu choice when he sat Harry down in the corner.

He arranged for someone to bring Harry a steaming hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and said to him, “I’m afraid I have to leave. Somebody needs my help. But I’ll come and see you directly when I’m back.”

Draco glanced at his pocket watch that pointed to ‘LATE’ and swore.

Harry sniggered.

“Perhaps you can save me some dessert,” Draco said with a wry smile.

****

Three hours later, Potter was softly snoring in his bed. Draco’s stomach rumbled, and he smiled at a slice of Swiss roll atop his folded travelling cloak and the note beside it:

HANDS OFF IF YOU ARE NOT MY FRIEND DRACO

He devoured the pudding and scratched a reply.

Dear Harry,

I didn’t wish to wake you. But I kept my part of the pact by visiting you, and you kept yours.

Thank you for the food. I shall see you tomorrow.

Your friend and Healer,

Draco

Friend. Friend. Friend.

He chanted it in his mind that night. This new picture of Harry didn’t live up to how Draco had imagined him from when he sat on long lonely days in the grounds of the Manor pretending he was playing with Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, his best friend. They would fly loops around the trees dodging helicopters, catch Nifflers, go fishing and horse riding, and play Gobstones.

Instead, Harry was kind to him and saved him cake, and knew nothing of Gobstones or Quidditch.

The next afternoon, he went up to the Visitors’ Tearoom to speak to Moira. She remembered all the snacks she’d ever sold on the Hogwarts Express and helped pick out some Cauldron Cakes for Potter.

He couldn’t pop in until eight p.m. His patient was fast asleep, the room lit only by the fairy lights on the Christmas tree.

Draco sat quietly in the chair, put the cakes on his bedside table, and took a minute to study him.

Potter looked vulnerable without his spectacles, and his skin dazzled under the silver fairy lights. His face was untroubled by nightmares, hair in a messy bun. Draco wondered if he always slept on his side.

He saw a scrap of parchment weighted down by a Chocolate Frog.

It read:

Where is Hedwig??

His stomach plunged into icy water.

And so it begins.

Amateur Dramatics

“It’s a nice day,” Harry intoned, forehead to the wall.

It was a poor start to Draco’s night shift. He’d spent the day with Scorpius at the bookshops in Diagon Alley, then seen Auntie Dromeda for tea and cakes. Penny had just left, and a Trainee Healer had the presence of mind to detain Potter without magic and fetch Draco.

“Please let me see your hand.”

Harry shifted so the side of his face rested against the wall, listless eyes measuring Draco for a moment, and then held out his arm.

The knuckles were fractured and bloodied from hammering on the doors and trying to break the window.

The view he had of the River Thames was just an enchantment. He couldn’t get out.

“Weather’s nice outside.” Harry winced at the pain when Draco moved a finger.

“It is. Episkey! Episkey! Episkey!” The bones reformed, and he syphoned the blood away. “Wiggle everything for me. Have you any pain?”

Harry sat on the edge of the bed, and put his face in his palms. “What’s happening to me? Why am I locked inside?”

“I know it must look that way. But it’s for your own safety.”

Potter sniffed, wiped his eyes behind his spectacles, then nodded.

“I trust you, Draco.”

Draco twisted his lips. “You’ve had a head injury.”

Potter rolled his eyes but grinned anyway.

“And on that note…” Draco got up and headed over to the Healing Records. “Tell me your name and date of birth.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “Harry Potter. Thirty-first of July, 1980.”

“What is your highest level of education?”

“Year six SATs,” Potter said defiantly.

“What is the year?”

“I—I’m not sure.”

“And the season?”

Potter’s eyes flitted to the window that was always charmed to show the same mild day, then over to the Christmas tree. “Winter…”

“Tell me the month, if you can.”

“Christmas.”

Draco skipped the date question again and said, “Tell me where we are.”

“St Mungo’s Hospital. It’s in London.”

“Repeat after me: wand, teapot, dragon.”

“Wand, teapot, dragon.”

“Spell ‘magic’ backwards, for me please.”

“Um… C—I—G—A—M.”

“Repeat the three items I named earlier.”

“Wand, teapot… dragon.”

“Name these items,” he said, pointing to the quill and a floating candle.

“Quill, candle,” Potter said.

Draco wrote ‘Blink three times’ on the parchment, and showed it to Potter. He complied.

“Write a sentence, please. Any sentence,” he said, giving Potter the quill.

He wrote, ‘The weather is always the same every day’. The handwriting was not joined up.

Draco drew some overlapping shapes and Potter copied them.

“Good,” Draco said.

Then he wrote:

Brief cognitive assessment performed. Results: Nineteen. Severe. No sig. change.

Signed, Draco Malfoy, Mind Healer.

Not good.

“Will you be all right by yourself?” Draco asked. “I shall have to monitor the emergency admissions, tonight.”

His eyes darted around the room. “Am I really Harry Potter?”

“I’m afraid so.” Draco wished he wasn’t.

“Have I gone insane?”

Draco smirked. “Not yet.” He replaced the quill in the inkwell and stood by the door. “All in good time, I am sure.”

“All right, then.” Harry found a copy of Which Broomstick? and clambered into bed. “See you soon?”

“Tomorrow is my rest day, and then I’ve got the weekend at home. But you’ll see my mother tomorrow.”

His shoulders loosened. “Oh. Good. I hope you have a nice time off.”

Draco nodded. “Well… Goodnight, then.”

“… Goodnight.”

****

He did not have a nice time off. Draco spent New Year’s Eve in the parlour. His only respite from his father involved sitting with his batty grandfather. Elves shoved food in his face and Scorpius buried his nose in a book, except when he or his son were press-ganged into playing the pianoforte. Draco laughed when he was supposed to, and listened as intently as he could, and the drunker his father became, the more vehement Draco was in declining the alcohol. He had scant chance to flee to his daydreams of France.

So it went on. Draco was alternately filled with a restless energy that made him incapable of doing anything, during which he paced his chambers or rode his horses; and with a lethargy so complete that he retired to bed early to lie for hours at a time, reflecting back to his school days.

He met Potter in the robe shop whilst that oaf waited outside. A short month later, they were on the train to freedom, friends and magic. He remembered the feeling of regret that he’d not introduced himself properly to his future best friend at their initial encounter.

Everyone knew Potter’s snowy owl. He just had to have the best before everyone else.

Potter must have purchased the bird the day they met. And as Potter remembered the owl, that could only mean two things… Potter would remember Draco any day now. And it was time for the onslaught of adoring fans.

On the first morning back at work, he put a hot chocolate on Anne’s desk. “Please write to Hagrid and arrange for him to visit Mr Potter.”

“The Gamekeeper?” she asked disbelievingly.

“There are no other Hagrids.” Perish the thought. “Get the Visitors’ Team to arrange for a Portkey to be sent. I don’t want him killing a Thestral on the way to London.”

He spied Hagrid and Potter a few days later. The giant was surrounded by eight mugs of tea, and Potter, about four tins of cakes and biscuits. They were laughing.

Draco held his General Healing Clinic that afternoon and one of the trainees accosted him on his way to the office. “Hagrid is waiting to see you, sir. He’s in the Visitors’ Tearoom. I said you’d spare him a minute.”

Hagrid took up an entire table by himself and was reading an old issue of the Daily Prophet.

“You wished to see me?”

The giant’s black eyes roamed his face, but not unkindly.

“Malfoy,” he said with a nod. He clapped Draco on the shoulder which sent his knees buckling. “Harry isn’ doin’ too well, is he?”

Draco sat down heavily in the seat opposite. He peered at Hagrid for a while before responding.

“He’s making progress. I hope it shall continue. I am unable to discuss it with you, however, as you aren’t his next of kin, nor am I his Key Healer.”

“There’s things more importan’ than keepin’ a job,” he said, and Draco narrowed his eyes. “I s’pose you’ll be invitin’ Ron up next. He was his firs’ friend.”

“I expect I shall.”

“When Harry was younger, you an’ he weren’ the best of friends, were yeh?” Hagrid asked.

It seemed a little accusatory, but his eyes were warm and twinkling.

“An understatement, as you are well aware.”

“He’s a good lad and has a lot o’ good will in his heart. You’d do well ter remember that.”

Draco frowned at a burn on Hagrid’s hand. “Do you need me to look at that?”

“Wha’?” He followed Draco’s line of sight. “Jus’ bumps and bruises,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I got a rough job.” He emptied his tea, set it back upon the table, and got to his feet. “I’ll be seein’ yeh, Malfoy… Take care now, there’s a good lad…”

Draco trailed after him, his mind on the reflections the trainees handed in earlier that day.

He didn’t drop in on Potter for several days, since Penny’s most recent report was very good. He cleared a package of clothing from Weasley (the words ‘Mrs Potter’ were sour on his tongue) but he regretted this immediately when he saw Potter.

“There are holes in your clothes!”

“Jeans. Put your bloody wand away, don’t you dare! They’re supposed to be like that. It’s a fashion choice.”

“Is it?” Draco asked in disbelief. “I assure you it isn’t a good one.”

The appalling sight compelled him to do something, so he aimed a powerful Scourgify on a grubby pair of trainers on the floor and rounded on him. “Your shoes are an assault on my senses. Why do you dress like a vagrant?”

“To annoy you, obviously.”

Harry clambered up onto a chair to press his nose to the high window. “Healer Clearwater’s already looked at my eyes and stuff, and asked me the questions. So you can go.”

Perfect.

Draco strolled to leave, but then paused. He turned and scrutinised the tense line of Potter’s back.

Sighing, Draco asked, “What is it?”

“Weather’s nice today,” he intoned.

“Yeah. It is.”

Potter shifted so that his forehead rested on the window. “I’m stuck here,” he muttered. “And they’re never going to let me out.”

“Sit down and stop your dramatics.”

He hung his head, miserable, sat on the chair, and stared at the floor.

“Merlin, you’re so tragic. Have you remembered anyone else yet?”

Potter nodded at Draco’s shoes. To his alarm, his lower lip quivered.

“Are they all right?” he asked thickly. “Where are they? Why haven’t they come to see me?”

“I’ll have them visit at once. They’ve been blocking up my in-tray by writing incessantly. And I have much better things to do than to respond.”

Potter’s head jerked up. “They have? You will?”

“Not much can keep your armies of devoted friends at bay.”

“Are we mates? I know we got off to a bad start—”

“No,” Draco said, beside the door. “We aren’t.”

Anne wasted no time in contacting the Weasleys. When he spotted Granger rushing past the room Draco was in, he lingered in the corridor in case it didn’t go as well as hoped.

“HARRY! Ron, he’s in here, Harry’s here! We didn’t know they’d moved you! Oh, how are you? Are you all right? Have you been furious with us? I bet you have, I know you’ve been stuck here with Malfoy—but we couldn’t visit you, the Healers made us promise we wouldn’t sneak in, they said it wouldn’t be safe, oh, we’ve got so much to tell you that I don’t think we can, and you’ve got things to tell us—the accident in the Time Room! When we heard—and that fire—we were worried sick, I’ve looked it all up, you’ll probably just have to sit tight and hope you’re back to normal soon—”

“Let him breathe!” Weasley said, laughing.

Hermione met Draco’s eye out in the corridor. He nodded and left.

When he went into the Seminar Room to hear that week’s difficult situations, Euodias had already written up Potter’s case on the blackboard.

“He’s pacing his room rather a lot,” Euodias said to the trainees, “and exercise is only of partial benefit. Mrs Malfoy has got him doing jigsaws, and Healer Clearwater has arranged for him to see only the friends he remembers, and she regularly tests his memory.

“He asked me why he needed to be locked up, begged for me to let him go, and he wants to know why he’s not better yet. I told him about a patient who survived a mispronounced jinx but with some Mind Magic and music therapy, she recovered within three months, but he didn’t seem relieved by this. He had a lot of questions about our role, so in response to this,” she said, like a squirrel who had found a particularly large nut, “I’ve created a pamphlet explaining the role of a Mind Healer…”

Draco suppressed a yawn and watched her hand out copies. Euodias clearly didn’t have enough to do.

****

A week into January, Draco was a good kind of tired. He’d had a rare weekend off and taken an international Portkey to Prague to visit Theo and Tracey. They saw The Alchemists play in an intimate gig and wound up in a four-floor nightclub that had been converted from a townhouse. Following the afterparty, Draco ended up going home with a brunette with a large smile and small breasts and her burly partner who didn’t speak a word of English.

Dark Marks weren’t such a turnoff to the Czechs.

With every part of his body aching from dancing and hedonism, he returned to work bolstered and alive.

His visits to the Czech Republic were always last minute and always wild. Theo and Tracey were an odd couple. Tracey worked all day, smoked all evening and they both partied all the time. He’d never asked Theo why he’d changed his name and moved there—and Theo had never brought it up. They had one of those ask-no-questions friendships.

Pansy, however, was the opposite. No fun and all questions.

“Why didn’t you go back to Lukas’s flat?”

“He bored me,” Draco said, grimacing at the menu.

“This is the worst thing that’s happened since I tried to cut my fringe in seventh year. You must realise I live vicariously through you.”

Draco smirked. “Cry me a river, Pans.”

Opposite, Daphne was talking ardently to Greg about her poor view of Hogwarts.

“I mean, some people arrive not even knowing Latin, and that’s just ludicrous, isn’t it? Why there’s no entrance exam, I do not know, and raising children in this day and age …”

Julian was rhapsodising about the safety features on his illegal flying carpet to anyone who would listen. He was looking at Daphne’s husband, whose eyes were glazed over and fixed on his menu.

“… automatic braking when it gets within eight-and-a-half inches from the Anti-Intruder Jinx. Not bad, is it? When you think that the Egyptians only got it down to seven according to my contact in Cairo?”

Pansy was still talking to Draco.

“… and he told me it was going really well! And he’s still awaiting your owl. Don’t you think he’s attractive?”

“I—maybe. Yeah, I suppose he is.”

“Well? Why didn’t you shag him?”

Thankfully, a waiter rounded the corner.

“Excuse me!” Draco called. “We must be ready to order by now, surely.” He looked around at everybody and Greg, bless him, gave a thumbs up.

“I’ll have the salted pork belly with savoury apple pie,” Draco announced. “And a glass of water.”

After their orders, Pansy was still awaiting an explanation.

Draco shrugged. “No charm, no foul.”

“Is it because you’re leaving Britain?”

“I have no immediate plans to leave Britain.”

Pansy tutted. “It’s like getting blood from gold, getting straight answers from you. I don’t know who’ll be my slice of sanity when you’re gone.” She muttered into his ear, “All Daphne talks about is her children, she’s become such a bore in motherhood. Greg’s only fun in group situations. Blaise is unreliable, always cancelling, and you know I hate that, especially when I’ve arranged a babysitter.”

“What are you two gossiping about?” Daphne asked.

Pansy replied without batting an eyelid. “Your birthday party, you silly bint!”

They giggled and beamed at each other, then Daphne returned to her monologuing.

Witches were unfathomable.

He let her prattle on, a repeat of a previous topic they’d discussed last time, and he thought he was doing a fairly good job until she said, “You’re rather boring, tonight.”

Greg made a sound of unseemly enthusiasm at the arrival of the food and the entire table laughed.

Saved again.

Potter’s Request

Covering for Penny when she was on holiday was a disagreeable experience for Draco.

“Do they make me spicy food because I’m brown?” Potter scowled at the barely touched curry. “They shouldn’t assume. I’m just a guy from Surrey, nothing special.”

Once Potter remembered Hogwarts, he found his tongue and started moaning constantly.

“You were such a dick in school,” Potter said. “I want to go home.”

“Tell me something new,” Draco said, shining his wand into Harry’s eyes. “Look to the left, now.”

Harry scowled to the left.

“Just bloody comply,” Draco said. “I can’t do this when you frown. It’s late and I want to finish for the day.”

“I want to fly,” Potter said through gritted teeth.

“Well you can’t. Sit still.”

He listened to Potter’s chest with his stethophone and wrote in the Healing Records that there was no nystagmus and his heart sounds were clear.

“What’s Neville doing nowadays?”

“I couldn’t tell you.”

“Are you always like this?”

Draco gave him a hard stare and went back to reviewing the records.

“A nimbus is going to go by in a few minutes’ time,” Potter said, looking at his watch. “It’s my favourite cloud.”

He stood on the chair by the window to watch the show.

“Simply thrilling,” Draco muttered.

“I wish I could fly,” he repeated, nose to the window.

The next review was worse.

At the sight of him, Potter bellowed, “HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME!”

“Calm yourself, Mr Potter,” Draco said, his palms held out.

“You-you—Mr Malfoy, no, get away—”

Draco’s blood went cold. “What did you—?”

Potter’s eyes were wild, but before he could reply, Healer Pye burst into the room.

“Mr Potter, whatever is the matter?” he asked kindly, taking him by the elbow. “Come on, let’s take a seat and see what we can do.”

Pye retrieved a bar of chocolate from his robes.

“Th-that man!” he said, pointing at Draco. “What is he doing here? What’s going on?”

Draco left the room and stood behind the door.

“You look quite pale,” Wulfric commented.

Draco turned and pressed his forehead against the wall. He didn’t need to pretend around ghosts.

“What upset you, dear boy?”

They were quite alone. The Auror guards now only stayed during the visiting hours, and Draco had arranged for the portraits to be taken down until Potter remembered magic again.

“He assumed I was my father.”

“And that would be bad.”

“Yes,” Draco said tightly. “Obviously.”

“Get some fresh air in your lungs my dear fellow, you don’t look well at all, and I’m sure this’ll all blow over soon enough.”

Draco shuddered as Wulfric glided through him, then he turned on his heel to go to the roof garden.

He did not visit Harry for a week.

Mother came to his office to tell him that Harry was sad and alone and fully aware of who was who.

Draco repeated in his head that Potter was not his responsibility, Penny was the Saviour’s Key Healer, and he did not care one whit about him.

****

“Hello?” Potter called.

Draco entered and saw Potter with his legs hooked over a bar like a monkey, doing some kind of hanging sit-up.

He climbed down, face red, and put his spectacles on. “Hi,” he said shyly.

His T-shirt had ridden up, and a wisp of hair had worked its way loose from his bun.

Draco said nothing.

“You cut your hair!”

Draco patted his coiffed hair. “I did,” he said absently.

“Erm,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’m sorry for yelling at you. The other day.” Harry tugged his T-shirt down.

“No harm done. I’m a big boy now.”

Potter cocked his head to the side and his tongue traced his bottom lip. “You look more like ‘you’, again. But you’re nothing like I remember.”

“Fear not. I assure you I’m the same as I ever was.” He reached inside his robes and offered him a little octagonal box. “Your loyal compatriots wrote to explain they were going on holiday and no doubt couldn’t enjoy themselves at the notion that you’d be bored without them. So I felt compelled to bring something to occupy you.”

Potter opened it to see a tiny golden ball, struggling to get free.

“Oh! A Snitch!”

“Just an old spare. Something for you to chase instead of your own tail.”

“Thank you.” He beamed at Draco, eyes bright. His cheeks were still rosy from the exercise. “Thank you so much.”

“Don’t lose it. Don’t tell anybody. It’s not considered proper to give gifts to patients.” He paused by the door. “And I fully expect you to stop pestering me about Quidditch.”

****

When Anne was away, it was down to Draco to put the correspondence in priority order. The secretarial cover was abysmal. He’d got another invite to Prague from Theo. There was the usual rubbish, of course, plus some junk mail and circulars, more repeat prescription requests, and some speculative CVs from jobless hopefuls.

But by the time he’d read everything, he felt sick.

One letter troubled him greatly:

24th January 2012

Dear Healer Draco J Malfoy,

Our client : Ginevra Potter on behalf of Harry Potter
Address : Smethwick Farm, nr Morton-on-the-Moors, Somerset, England
Date of Birth: 31st July 1980
Date of Incident : 3rd October 2011

We are instructed by the above-named client in connection with a compensatory claim in the divorce courts.

We shall be indebted if you would act as an expert in this case, considering your position as Head of the Mind Healing Department at St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.

We recognise that you will be familiar with the approach of the court to expert evidence, but we hope you do not object if we remind you of the duties of an expert witness, before going on to delineate some specific matters we would urge you to deal with.

i) It is, of course, the duty of an expert to assist the court on all matters within the expertise of the expert. This duty is paramount and overrides any obligation to the person from whom instructions have been received.
ii) Expert evidence should, of course, be the independent product of the expert uninfluenced by the pressures of litigation to assist the court in granting an objective, unbiased view on matters within the expertise of the expert and without adopting the role of an advocate.
iii) An expert should regard all material facts, including those which might detract from the conclusion, and should be candid when a question or remark falls outside the expert’s expertise and when the expert cannot arrive at a definitive opinion.

Form and content of expert reports

Details of qualifications ought to be given. You must detail any literature or other material relied on in making the report. Your statement should summarise the facts and instructions given which are material to the opinions asserted in the report or upon which those opinions are based. Where there is a range of opinion on the matter dealt with, you are to summarise the range and produce reasons for your own opinion.

There should be a synopsis of the conclusions reached. There should be a statement that the expert understands duty to the court, has complied with that duty, and will continue to comply with that duty.

You must write the statement of truth: “I do hereby declare that I have made explicit which facts and matters referred to herein are within my own knowledge and which are not. Those that are within my own knowledge, I confirm to be true. Opinions I have expressed represent my true complete professional opinions on the matter to which they refer.”

The background

On the 3rd October 2011, the claimant was on duty as an employee of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. At around 7:49 p.m. the claimant went to carry out an arrest in the Department of Mysteries. There was a fire, aetiology unknown. Unbeknownst to the claimant, the assailant struck him with a curse that caused him to hit his head on an unknown experiment in the Time Room. The claimant has been resident in hospital ever since.

Your opinion

It would be advantageous if you could, in your report, let us have your opinion on the following matters:

The nature and scope of the initial injuries with minutiae of immediate treatment provided for each

Subsequent progress with details of further treatment

The period over which the injuries have afflicted our client, particularly justifying any absence from the family home and matrimonial duties

The likelihood that the claimant ought to be declared a Ward of Court

The likelihood that the claimant will require his/her wand to be snapped

The nature of any further treatment envisaged and prospects this may offer by way of improvement

The extent to which our client’s capacity to enjoy social, recreational and domestic activities is/has been diminished as a result of the injuries

The extent to which, as a result of the injuries, our client’s working capacity has been restricted and/or our client has any disadvantage on the labour market and/or our client has any loss of value to wizarding society

The likelihood of our client returning to full-time work within the next two months

Confirmation, if this is justified on healing grounds, that our client requires/has required day-to-day care with personal needs and tasks as a result of the injuries

The prospect of heightened risk of the onset of some connected or resulting condition. Should there be such a risk, please can you, if possible, appraise the risk in percentage terms and advise if that risk is likely to increase or decrease materially in the future

Exclusion of any relevant previous injuries or relevant details and the contributory effect, if any, on our client’s present condition

And finally, your prognosis

The report is due on 24th February 2012 and it is exceedingly likely your attendance will be desired at court. We confirm that we shall be liable for your reasonable fee and you will be paid on a deferred basis at the conclusion of the claim.

The court must, and considering what is just, consider proportionality: in other words, the cost of the action required on our client’s behalf must remain proportionate to the case. We do ask you to bear this in mind as this issue may arise when costs are determined.

We hope that you are able to proceed with these instructions and we look forward to receiving your report in due course.

Yours faithfully,

Cadwyn Fuller
Trainee Solicitor
Wizengamot Administration Services

Divorces were rare outside the Zabini family so he wasn’t accustomed to receiving letters like these.

Dumbfounded, he read the scroll again. Fury sang through his veins.

‘Justifying absence from matrimonial duties’? ‘Loss of value to wizarding society’? ‘Compensatory claim’?

Was he truly being ordered to testify in court that Potter was a hopeless case, so his ex-wife could get a pay-out?

The move was beastly, to be sure. Potter was powerless to defend his wealth in his present state.

He withdrew his quill and approved the instructions with such force that he drove a hole through the parchment.

The last thing he expected was a visit from the bitch herself.

****

“Why are you here?” Draco asked acidly the next morning.

She accompanied him into the stairwell. “I really need to talk to you!”

“There can be no higher pleasure,” he spat.

He refused to make a spectacle in front of the portraits. She followed in silence.

“Welcome back from holiday, Anne. You have been missed.” He put down a hot chocolate on her desk with unnecessary force and stalked to his office before she could reply.

Weasley followed him and he banged the door shut behind them.

“Leave us,” he commanded Dilys.

She peered between them and sidled out of her frame.

“Let me explain—” Ginevra began.

“There is nothing to say.” Draco flung his cloak over the back of his chair and sat down.

“I really didn’t mean for them to write to you until I’d had a chat with you first.” She twisted her scarf in her hands.

“I don’t see how your wasting my time would have any bearing on the situation.”

“Oh fuck off and listen. Nobody knew, but Harry and I had already separated. And we planned to divorce within a few years.”

Draco leant forwards on his elbows, jaw clenched. “Your marital problems—”

“He’s known about my boyfriend for a couple of years. Do you remember Oliver Wood?”

Draco’s mouth fell open in disgust.

She rubbed her bare ring finger, and continued, “The thing is, with Harry ill, we can’t get divorced unless we go through this process. I know this is what Harry would want.”

He had never hated her more than at this juncture.

“I don’t believe you.”

Ginevra spluttered. “I have pictures, I can prove it—”

“I do not wish to see evidence of your sordid affair.”

It was as though his lungs were filled with fire. He could not believe the betrayal. The minute she could be free of him, get his money and leave—

“I’d do anything for him. And he would do anything for me. So we split because we were happier seeing other people. Will you do your best?” she asked. “For Harry?

“How dare you even—?” There were no words. “I took a Hippocratic oath. I don’t weasel out of my duties unlike some—”

“Look. This is really hard on our son.”

He couldn’t take any more. He had too much to do today. Draco smiled thinly and surreptitiously pressed his wand into the underside of his desk.

Right on time, Anne burst in. “Draco! You are urgently needed downstairs!”

He stood and said, “Please show Mrs Potter out. She was just leaving.”

****

The day he found Potter’s note was the day he finally completed the Personal Property of Patients Audit. He’d been putting it off for four months.

The Standard Operating Procedure was to place the property in a box, store it alphabetically, along with a sheet of parchment with the patient’s name, Healer’s name, date of admission, date of expected discharge and a list of their belongings.

During an audit, one noted the standard (in this instance, one hundred per cent compliance of the PPP paperwork) and summoned an arbitrary box from every shelf.

All laborious work was the domain of the Trainee Healers, but as these forms were completed by the trainees themselves, this audit had to be done by a qualified Healer.

Shelf by shelf, box by box, Draco worked through the forms, and when he got to ‘P’, he summoned Potter’s as he was a VIP.

His slip of parchment read:

Harry James Potter

Date of Birth: 31-Jul-80.

Personal effects:

Ring: Gold, plain band
Wand: Eleven inches, holly
Watch: dented, gold. Returned to patient.
Clothing: Auror robes, repaired. Underwear. Shoes, size eleven. Socks, Snitch pattern.
Scrap of parchment in pocket of robes.

Key Healer: Penelope Clearwater
Healer-in-Charge: Draco Malfoy.

Paperwork completed by: Lancel Robertson, Trainee Healer.

Date completed: 3rd October 2011

Draco frowned and pored over the contents of the box. He found a sheet of parchment folded into a minuscule square.

If anything happens to me, get Draco Malfoy in St Mungo’s to sort me out. I trust Draco.

His eyes swam as he read the note again and again.

Nobody had ever requested he be their Healer before. The wizarding world had a long memory.

He wrote ‘Projected Discharge Date: Not Known’, and marked the audit as a failure. Later on in his report, he’d write, ‘Plan of action: further training for the Trainee Healers. Re-audit in a year’.

Almost four months to the day, he’d found Potter’s wishes.

He needed to speak to Penny about taking over Potter’s care.

When You’re Home, You Can Fly

“Healer Clearwater, might I have a private audience?”

She followed Draco out into the corridor, and he told her, “Mr Potter is no longer under your caseload. He is now solely under my care.”

Penny blinked. “Oh. Why?”

“Orders from up top, I’m afraid.” He clapped her on the shoulder.

“That Mr Crocus, I swear…” Penny rolled her eyes and went back into the ward.

When he’d got back to the office, he paused by Anne’s desk. “I am now Mr Potter’s Key Healer,” he snapped. “Send me his admission notes.”

Draco used the next five minutes to compose tomorrow’s surprise neuroanatomy test for the trainees before Anne returned with the records.

Now that he was taking over Potter’s care, he reviewed and rechecked all the investigations. A reformed Malfoy had no room for error.

Blood, urine and tear analysis—normal.

Heart rate, blood pressure, blood oxygen—normal.

He had no detectable curses or poisons.

Allergies/adverse potion reactions: Nil. Mood Enhancement Potion—acute distress.

Of note, Dr Ubbly’s Oblivious Unction had no effect.

In the loose filing section were reams and reams of drawings. Some pages were coloured red and labelled ‘blood’. There were crude sketches of motorbikes, owls, woodland animals. More disturbing than this, however, were Potter’s dream diaries:

I remember seeing goblin blood flowing like a waterfall, some snapped wands, the smell of rotting bodies, the taste of sick in my mouth. I didn’t mind, because I was unable to feel any pain.

All around me was the smell of fear, and I just knew that I was going to die.

The dreams were many and varied.

Potter had chronicled bursts of green light, a flying car, a rat strangling him. Sleeping in a palatial bedchamber, seeing through the eyes of a great snake, murdering an old man. Flying across a tremendous black ocean, a woman screaming, a schoolgirl with bushy hair lying dead.

I dreamt of World War Two, of being hungry for death. Maybe I’m dying? Is that why I’m here?

And another:

Last night I dreamt that I met Death. He didn’t speak, but I could read his mind. He said he had a job for me to do, and it would be quicker and easier than falling asleep. I woke up before he told me what I needed to do to get better.

Draco skimmed through mentions of tortured children, a howling wolf outside a giant castle, of having a family who loved and cared about him, and as much food as he could eat.

I dreamt that I had friends.

Merlin, at least something was positive.

When he was ten, Draco’s dreams would have been similar. He’d never thought of himself as having anything at all in common with Potter.

On review of his older healing notes, Potter was no stranger to St Mungo’s. Draco had avoided gossip by simply never entering the staffroom. It seemed he’d missed out on a great deal. Potter had suffered two head injuries in the past and got caught with some nasty hexes. It was a rather impressive record for the Head of the Auror Office. Half of his hair had been regrown after it was flayed off his scalp, he’d survived a Blood-Curdling Curse and Draco remembered patching Potter up after someone had cast a Bombarda just inches from him.

Beyond that, Draco saw records from Mother and the trainees documenting mishaps with accidental magic and falls from his stupidly fast broom. They often described him as a lively and polite individual.

Potter was clearly vulnerable. And Ginevra, who had vowed to stay by his side forever, had abandoned him.

He met with Granger in the Visitors’ Tearoom after her next visit with Potter.

He bought a Cauldron Cake for Potter and his own lunch, and sat in a deserted corner. They’d run out of forks so he had to eat his jacket potato with a spoon, and that about summed up his life.

Granger approached him, and without so much as a preliminary hello, Draco said, “I am now his Key Healer. Tell me everything you know about the accident. Potter’s notes were sparse on the details.”

She yawned and dissolved a packet of sugar into her tea with her wand. “Nice to see you, too, Draco.”

He was too busy feeling distressed at the disgusting food to be polite, and she continued, “Well, there was a duel in the Time Room in the Department of Mysteries—”

“Why would there be a duel down there?”

“Some people are interested in living forever, eternal youth, that sort of thing.”

Nodding, he said, “Solve et coagula.”

“Exactly.”

“What happened next?”

“His colleague told me she used the Impediment Jinx to stop him being pushed straight through the experiment. Then she knocked Harry out, hoping to prevent any more damage to his brain. I gather more Aurors arrived and arrested the witch. I They took Harry straight here and that’s all I know.” She offered him an apologetic shrug.

Draco watched some visitors at a distant table whilst Hermione chewed her muffin.

“Is there anything you’ve thought of that you’ve not tried?” she asked.

“Yes.” He didn’t see why he should tell her.

“How about a Pensieve?”

Draco shook his head. “They’re incredibly rare. And there’s a high chance that he’ll get upset and blow things up. His mind is damaged, and it’s not a case of… someone reminding him.”

“If I come across anything in my reading, I’ll let you know.” She got up and swung her handbag over her shoulder. “I’m sorry, I’ve got to get back to work.”

“So do I. See you later, Granger.”

She rolled her eyes at the use of her old name and left.

Sir Kildwick, one of the portraits, had no useful advice. “Mr Potter,” he lectured, “should give, from himself, the plainest and fullest account he can of his complaints, without using any terms of art, or rhetorical terms that might mislead the Healers by their not having the same meanings to these terms.”

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement was hardly any more useful. The witch who duelled Potter was in Azkaban and that was that. The motivation didn’t really bother him, and he soon realised they were clueless with no helpful information.

He desperately needed Potter to get well and out of hospital, so he could move to France and have a nice quiet life before deciding what to do next.

He’d received an owl that morning from an Agences Immobilière in Normandy. The package contained photographs of a splendid home complete with a vineyard and swimming pool. Scorpius would love this one. There were delicate mouldings, baths with clawed feet, huge fireplaces, fountains, and wrought-iron balconies not large enough to stand on but decent enough for smoking.

He wrote back to tell them to keep looking. The pink velvet was deplorable and never before had he seen such a poky cellar.

****

Potter’s room was silent; for once, the wireless was off. Cassettes lay strewn across the floor, black ribbon everywhere.

“Reparo,” Draco said, pointing his wand at the tapes. The ribbons whizzed back inside, and he waved his wand so they surged back into their cases and settled into a neat stack.

“I’m going to die in this windowless room,” Harry whispered, his eyes on the Thames, “I know I will.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say. And that’s saying something.”

Harry’s eyes flashed to his, lit with rebellion. “I want my wand,” he demanded.

“You can’t have it.”

He jumped down from the chair and stalked towards Draco. “Why not?”

“You’re not well. You’ll cause untold chaos. Can’t have a revolutionary like you blowing up the Houses of Parliament, can we. Open wide and say ‘ah’.”

Draco went up to Potter’s face, and they had a staring match, Potter’s jaw clenched shut. After a few seconds—he refused to blink or look away—Potter complied.

The rest of the examination passed in silence.

“I miss magic,” Potter said.

“Let me give you something that may help,” Draco said, nose in the cabinet. He straightened up, uncorked the potion, and sniffed it.

“Do excuse me,” he told Potter.

He pocketed it, strode up two flights and poked his head round the door to the secretarial office. “Call the trainees. Immediately. To the basement stairwell.”

He waited for ten minutes in the bowels of the hospital, leaning against the bannister and tapping his wand against his palm.

The four Trainee Healers gathered, some out of breath.

“You,” he said, turning to the youngest. “Recite the five Rs of healing.”

“Right patient, potion, dose, route and time,” she said.

He nodded and withdrew the potion from his inside pocket and held it up to the flaming wall sconce. They all peered at it, some of them afraid.

Good.

“Would anybody like to volunteer what this is supposed to be?”

A couple of them looked fascinated at the black stone floor, but Lancel rolled back on his heels and stuck his hand in the air.

“Yes?” Draco asked.

“Memory-Enhancing Draught, sir. Of moderate strength, sir.”

Draco nodded. “Follow me,” he said, and spun on his heel.

They entered the brewer’s basement and he collared the first wizard he found. “You. Take me to whoever brewed this.”

The man glowered at Draco, then the potion, and led them to a man at a workbench.

“Your name…?” Draco inquired, the trainees filing in behind him.

“Neil Mitchell,” he grunted.

Holding out the potion, Draco asked, “Do you consider this to be your best work?”

The oaf pursed his lips at the potion, frowned at the small crowd, and shook his head.

“What would you venture is wrong with it?

The man took it and raised it up to the light. He then uncorked and sniffed it. “Not enough Madagascan periwinkle.”

“Mistakes are easily made, however,” Draco said.

The man’s shoulders relaxed.

He addressed the group. “If a Healer gives this to a patient and they die, who is legally responsible? Euodias?”

“The Healer, sir,” she said.

“And Miriam, what safeguards are in place against slapdash brewing?”

“Er.” She turned bright red. “I—regular training? And, um… spot checks?”

“Tanwen?”

“Accuracy checks, sir.”

“Correct,” Draco said.

He turned to Neil Can’t-Brew-To-Save-His-Life Mitchell. “Fetch the individual who checked this. Now.”

The students glanced at each other as they waited. Mitchell came back with a lady.

“And what is your name?” Draco asked.

“Bronwyn Fuller. What’s the trouble?”

He passed her the potion. “Would you be satisfied if I dispensed this to your mother?” She opened her mouth to say something, but Draco continued, “I wouldn’t even give this to an elf.”

She flushed red.

“This is for Harry Sodding Potter.”

He turned to his students. “We won’t be meeting in the seminar room this Wednesday. Instead, you will each give a three-minute talk on your suggestions on how we can reduce disastrous and avoidable mistakes in this sorry excuse for a hospital. Dismissed.”

He addressed the brewers. “I need every vial from that batch vanished. And a dose of fresh, correctly brewed Memory-Enhancing Draught sent up to Ward 59 by close of business. Good-day.”

The following day was just as fruitless as the previous one. They’d admitted a man suffering a botched Obliviate, and presumably would be with them for weeks, and Potter had had a poor reaction to the Memory-Enhancing Draught.

“You’re miserable because of the potion,” Draco told him. “Do you remember anything else?”

Potter shook his head, eyes wide and listless. “I had eighty-six bits of cornflake this morning. I listened to the first eleven songs on my favourite tape and read up to page two hundred and seven of The Hobbit. And I feel like shit, and my magic isn’t working properly.”

Draco jotted it down. “What do you mean, your magic isn’t working properly?”

“I can do small things without a wand.”

Draco regarded him for a moment. Potter’s pupils were pinpricks amidst the striking green. “Show me another day when this potion has worn off. You’re not well.”

“So are you like a psychiatrist, then?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What sort of diseases do you help people with?”

Draco put away the Healing Records.

“On days where I’m on duty, all of them.” He examined the potions cabinet for anything unacceptable and explained whilst he looked. “All Healers are trained for emergency situations and can at least stabilise someone until a specialist can be called in. But as a Mind Healer, I have specialist outpatient clinics to run, and inpatient wards to oversee. There are so many conditions relating to the brain. Balance. Mood disorders. Pain. Language. Senses. Learning. Behaviour. Grief. Of course there’s a big overlap with curses and poisoning—those that cause lingering pain, love potions that won’t wear off…”

He straightened up and saw that Potter was paying him rapt attention.

“Is that what psychiatrists do?” Draco asked.

“I dunno. Maybe a bit. You really enjoy your job.”

“In a sense,” Draco said, giving him a sidelong glance.

“When can I fly?”

“Merlin save me,” Draco muttered to himself. He leant against the wall. “When you’re home, you can fly.”

Potter’s lips twitched.

“And I know you’re feeling better,” Draco continued, “because you’re annoying me on purpose.”

****

Draco used Veritaserum to interrogate the Aurors guarding Ward 59. He discovered nothing of interest. Pansy wiped the last hour for him as he didn’t want to risk botching up the Memory Charm. Better leave it to the Obliviators.

He held a multidisciplinary team meeting to discuss Potter’s case, and got up to speed on the smaller details of Potter’s confinement. Over his dead body would this end badly.

Draco was still learning how to react to Potter’s odd behaviour.

“Malfoy!” Potter exclaimed, appalled. He leapt up, his comic book falling to the floor.

Draco approached him as though he were a skittish deer. “It’s me, Draco,” he said. “I bought you another Chocolate Frog.” He flung it towards the bed and Potter caught it like a Snitch.

“Cool! I hope I get Snape this time.”

Draco’s gut clenched like a fist.

Potter gave him a crooked smile, then unwrapped the frog. “Sorry… You remind me of someone I don’t, er, get on with very well. I don’t always recognise you properly.”

Draco busied himself at the potions cabinet, and twitched when Potter said, “Oh… I’ve got Professor Dumbledore again… Better luck next time.”

“What potions have you taken today?” Draco asked, straightening up.

“Um… I dunno. A brown one.” Potter grimaced and bit the head off his frog. “I never was any good at potions.”

Draco felt purposely attracted to Harry’s jaw, which surely meant he’d passed the point of total madness.

“I see. Let me take your temperature.”

Merlin—he needed a day off. And a shag.

Potter complied. “It’s a nice day,” he said blithely.

“Mmm.”

If Harry had noticed the raindrops on Draco’s shoes, he didn’t say anything.

Draco cornered a trainee as he trudged his way up to the consulting rooms and said, “Tell Brian that the colour of the Regenerative Draught is making me lose the will to live.”

Sitting at the desk, he eyed the stack of Healing Records with trepidation. Draco was quickly coming to terms with the reality that this Harry was not the Potter that he knew. Harry wasn’t confident, commanding, or fearless. And although he was still tall, he seemed smaller somehow, and afraid.

He’d assumed that this was some kind of side effect of losing one’s mind. But now he faced the alarming alternative that this was just what Harry was like as a young teenager. It didn’t fit with his own schoolboy memories.

He was pulled out of his reverie by a knock at the door.

“Come in,” he called to his first patient.

Cure Potter, Then Go to Paris

“Draco!”

He turned from the staff fireplace to see Granger.

“How is he?” she asked, trailing off her scarf. Her daughter hid behind Granger’s legs.

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

She grimaced. “That bad? Let’s get lunch tomorrow. Can you make it to the Atrium at one?”

He couldn’t think straight—he’d not had a moment to eat today.

“Whatever. Fine.”

The next day, the Weasleys were early to their meeting. The Atrium was crammed, but they’d secured a table near the coffee kiosk.

He weaved over with a mint tea and pasty, and Hermione beckoned him. Her idiot husband was advising their young daughter on her colouring book.

They greeted him and before replying, Draco peered around to make sure no one could overhear. The nearest table were chattering in a foreign language.

“Rose, this is Draco,” Ronald said.

“Look!” The little girl held up her colouring. The unicorn had red and pink stripes.

“Marvellous,” Draco said, “I like what you’ve done with the tail. Very original.”

“Thanks!”

He bit into his lunch, starving. “How old are you?” he asked.

“Five and three quarters!” Rose exclaimed. “How old are you?”

Draco blinked. “Er… Approximately thirty-one and two-thirds.”

Ronald snorted. His daughter’s mouth fell open.

“Anyway,” Hermione said, “let’s put some music on, darling, we’re going to be talking about private things.”

She placed a Muggle device over her daughter’s ears and fiddled with some knobs, then turned to Draco. “Tell us how we can help,” she said.

“Strictly off the record…?” Draco asked, voice low.

Ronald looked to the heavens and nodded.

“It goes against confidentiality regulations,” he continued. “But as Potter’s wife isn’t replying to my owls… I’m at a loss and need information.”

“Anything,” Hermione said. “We’ll do anything to help Harry.”

“Ginny’s in Crete,” Ronald added, around a mouthful of baguette. “So it’s nothing personal.”

Draco repressed the urge to say something rude. “Why did Potter say it was wonderful to ‘have a room’?”

Granger exchanged a look with Ginger and replied, “He didn’t have one as a child. He lived in a cupboard under the stairs.”

“Sorry?”

“He slept in the cupboard under the stairs,” she repeated. “When he was a child.”

Ronald nodded and grimaced.

“Oh,” Draco said, gathering the pasty flakes with a finger. “I hadn’t realised he was from such abject poverty.”

“No, you don’t understand,” she said. “They had extra bedrooms but kept Harry under the stairs.”

“Like an elf? Why?” Draco asked.

“Because they were fuckers,” Ronald said.

“Because they were terrible people who didn’t love him,” she added.

“I’ve got more questions about his childhood.” Draco sat back and crossed his arms. “But you must keep quiet about this.” He eyed the raucous group nearest to them. Confident that no one was listening, he spoke quietly anyway. “If word got out that I was breaking patient confidentiality—”

“Yeah, yeah, we get it,” Ron said. “What do you want to know?”

“Would it help him to bring in his family? Where do they live?”

Granger exchanged another look with Ronald.

“They’re mental,” Ronald said, tearing a leaf of lettuce into shreds. “He was on better terms with his cousin, but Harry’s not mentioned his aunt in years. They’re a bad sort. The worst kind of Muggle,” he said. “Didn’t his uncle die?” he asked Hermione.

“Yes, about ten years ago of a heart attack. I think his aunt still lives in Surrey.”

Draco gulped his tea, considering.

“So you don’t think a child Harry would want to see his cousin?”

“No,” Ronald replied with a single shake of his head. “No way.”

“We used to send him food in the summer holidays because they wouldn’t feed him properly,” Hermione added.

“You can’t be serious!”

Yet it made sense. Harry didn’t act like a normal child.

“Something to do with a strict diet his relatives were following—” Hermione said.

“But he’s Harry Potter!” Draco hissed, leaning in. “Surely someone would’ve done something—”

“He wouldn’t want anyone making a fuss,” Ronald said. “Before second year, my brothers and I nicked a flying car and broke him out. We flew him all the way to Devon,” he continued, puffing out his chest. “They stuck bars to his window, fed him through a cat flap. Trust me—bringing in his relatives is a bad idea.”

“I see,” Draco said. “Does he have childhood belongings you can fetch?”

Again, there was a shared look between Ronald and Hermione.

Draco scowled. “What is it this time?”

“He didn’t have much,” Ronald said. “Even his clothes were hand-me-downs from his cousin. Once Harry got a fifty pence coin for Christmas.”

“That’s a few Knuts,” Hermione said, nodding.

“I don’t understand,” Draco said.

“Because his owl showed up, expecting a gift. The Dursleys had to give him something.”

“In fairness,” Ronald said, “fifty pence is better than that tissue he got one year.”

“I wish you were joking,” Draco said.

“I wish we were too,” Ronald said, draping his arm over the back of Granger’s chair.

“It’s sick,” Draco said. He thought of his own son who had received a set of Quidditch balls, new quills and a camera for his birthday.

“You can’t fit much in a cupboard,” Granger said coolly. “I suppose we could bring in a radio so he’s got more than just tapes.” She said to Ronald, “Perhaps your dad might be able to modify one so it works in hospital.”

“Yeah, we can have a poke round his shed.”

“I can see if my parents have anything in the loft,” Granger said.

“Of course,” Draco said. “They’re Muggles.”

“How could I forget,” she said blithely.

Draco looked at his pocket watch—he’d be late for teaching duties. He downed his drink and got to his feet. “I didn’t mean any offence. Goodbye, Weasleys.”

After work, he headed into the Reading Room. Whilst the library was chock-full of books, the Reading Room was full of cabinets stuffed with Daily Prophet issues dating back to its inception, as well as the Evening Prophet and the Sunday Prophet. First published in 1855, Ranunculus Malfoy was its first investor, and as such, the family had a perpetual subscription.

He went over to the cabinet containing the last two decades and soon found what he was looking for.

WEDDING BELLS FOR HARRY POTTER

Ah, yes, the wedding of the century.

Potter beamed at the camera, Weasley on his arm, barefoot on a beach.

Draco’s lip curled. The witch had had so much yet threw it all away to be with Wood.

There was a photograph of Potter on one of the gossip pages towards the back. Harry Potter, despite everything, was living the sort of life Draco had only read about in fantasy books. There he stood, with an average-looking healthy wife and a home full of laughter.

He would cure Potter. The man was obviously improving, albeit slowly.

He would cure Potter if it was the last thing he did.

Failure was not an option.

Draco penned a letter to Weasley and his wife, and then to Pansy. He didn’t bother with Blaise; he was an idiot. The line of inquiry was the same: ideas for helping Potter, and to look out for unusual Healing books in the private libraries they had access to.

He spent the following Saturday at Parkinson Park (how gauche). Julian played with the toddler in the parlour whilst he and Pansy ransacked the library.

“I don’t think you’ll find anything,” Pansy said, through a haze of cigar smoke, “but my great-grandfather was a patron of St Mungo’s, so you never know.”

Mrs Parkinson brought them decaf tea and biscuits and told him he could borrow anything provided he signed his name and the title on a slip of parchment.

“Don’t mind her,” Pansy hissed. “Likes to get involved.”

Draco picked at some lint on his robes. “Sometimes I think your family is madder than mine.”

“Not possible. Wanker.”

They flipped through the contents of likely books as though they were back at school, and he could almost pretend they were fifteen again.

“It’s like being at Hogwarts, isn’t it,” she said wistfully.

“It is,” he replied. “I don’t imagine you have to read much for your job.”

“No,” she said with a sniff, rejecting another book. “Get good at Memory Charms. Learn how to talk to the Muggle please-men, even though it’s simpler to Confund them. It’s a piece of cake. This one could be relevant,” she said, passing him Obliterating The Mind of Your Enemie.

Draco frowned at bloodstains on Surreptitious Potions and Hexes to Rid the Worlde of Bastard Children and looked at the contents page of the book she’d handed him. “Thank you.”

“Lukas said it’s been weeks and you still haven’t written to him.”

“Haven’t I?” Draco said absently.

“No,” she said. “He said it had gone very well indeed, and that you’d promised to write and see him again.”

“Mmm. Promise is a strong word.”

She tapped the ash off the end of her cigar onto the carpet. “So you’ll be moving to Paris, then, I take it?”

“What?”

“Paris. You said before that you wanted to go there.”

“I don’t know that I will,” Draco said, nose in a book.

“Why, what’s happened?”

“Nothing’s happened. I like my job.”

“No you don’t.”

“Yes I do.”

“No you don’t.”

“Yes I do.”

“You like Potter.”

“Yes I—no, I do not like—” Draco clamped his mouth shut.

Pansy smirked. “I see.”

“You tricked me. And you do not see,” Draco said, scowling. “There is nothing to ‘see’.”

“Right. Of course.” She grinned at the pile of books.

“This is useless,” he said. “I don’t know why we’re bothering.”

“I think we’ve exhausted this library.” She waved her wand in a sweeping motion and the books arranged themselves into a tall stack. “Let us have some gin and orange on the lawn.”

“An excellent suggestion.”

“No gin for you, of course. I’ll let you light the bonfire if you promise to stop being so boring,” Pansy said.

Draco offered his arm to Pansy, and she took it.

“I hate you,” he said, patting her on the arm.

Pansy smiled sweetly. “I know.”

****

The day the funding ran out for the Auror guards, Draco picked up a Foe-Glass from Wiseacre’s Wizarding Equipment and installed it on Potter’s wall.

“Your enemy’s eyes will glow in the looking glass,” he explained to Potter. “Ghosts are on hand and will fetch help if you alert them. Just shout loudly.”

“Ghosts?” Potter repeated. He sat cross-legged on his moving walkway machinery, T-shirt damp with sweat. Disgusting. Definitely not even a little bit charming.

“Spectres. The departed. Souls.”

“I know what ghosts are!” Potter exclaimed. “Are they friendly?”

“Of course they’re friendly. They haunt a hospital. Don’t you remember ghosts?”

“Not very well.” Potter screwed up his face. “I hope Ron or Hermione will visit me soon. It’s been days. Are you going to ask me all those questions? To measure how mad I am?”

Draco sat in the seat beside Potter’s bed. “No,” he said softly. “Not today.”

Then Potter pointed at the window. “The cloud that’s about to come by is a really weird-looking one. Won’t be long.”

“Would you be happier without the window?” Draco asked.

Potter’s arm fell to his side, and he stared at the walking machine. “No.”

It made a bleak sight. Even so, Draco dropped in at least once a day. Mother saw Potter every morning she volunteered, and she said, “He’s such a sweet boy,” the next afternoon.

“Yeah, just wonderful,” he drawled.

The lowing sun peeked through the trees and the Portafires warmed the Orangery. Normally he could see the waking stars from here, but it was cloudy up above.

Because of his night shift, it wasn’t safe for him to work until tomorrow. He invariably found it hard to sleep during the daytime, so lingered about the home in a daze. He’d written to his son and sent him a box of Sugar Quills, demanding an update on the marks in Scorpius’s recent tests. Then he’d taken his grandfather a pot of tea and whiled away the hours playing Wizarding Snooker with Father, who was having one of his good days.

Flaming torches lit the main garden paths, and he wandered aimlessly about the grounds, up to the Fountain of the Victorious Youth, just to avoid his echoing vacant room.

When the rain crept into his bones, he had a hot bath, and at last, it was time for bed, so he found Mother to kiss her goodnight.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

She looked up from her sewing and pulled Draco down for a peck. “Hello, darling. I’m taking up the hem of your old summer robes.”

“Whatever for?”

“Harry doesn’t have any lighter ones.”

“They’re mine!”

“You never wear them, dear.”

“Yes I do!”

“I found them in the attic.”

Draco scowled.

“I can hardly take him to Twilfitt and Tattings, can I?” she said, teasing out Draco’s initials from the label with the tip of her wand. “I suppose I could make him something from scratch… They had some fine grey silk the last time I went in…”

“Fine,” Draco said. “Goodnight, then.”

He was at the door when she said, “Harry said he liked your new haircut.”

Draco’s head snapped around. “What? Why?”

Mother smiled. “Because you’re a handsome young man, Draco.”

He groaned and left.

As he undressed, the rustling of his clothing roared in the stifling silence of his chambers.

Draco drifted for a moment in his cold, lonely bed, before sleep dragged him down into dreams of paradise.

****

Draco collated all of Potter’s Healing Records together and compiled his statement—the deadline for the court report was Friday.

The prognosis was shaky. His improvement, slow. Potter’s magic was intact but erratic, and he certainly shouldn’t wield a wand for the foreseeable future. His memory—at least, the first twelve years of it—seemed to be back, but who knew if his recollections might cease? What if he was mentally thirteen forever? Or he woke up one day a toddler? It could be cyclical. They had no way of knowing.

The report was still open to question. There were no comfortable conclusions to be made, no projections of timeframes and certainly no guarantees.

He didn’t include the details from Harry’s dream journal. Somehow, they seemed more confidential. And they didn’t help elucidate a trajectory for his recovery. It said things like, ‘We are all capable of doing evil things, there’s a bad person deep inside all of us’ and ‘We are all dying, some of us faster than others’.

Potter’s ex-wife had been a year below them at school and it wouldn’t be long until she could visit him too, and perhaps then he’d remember more. However, as a divorcée, would she be willing?

Anne interrupted Draco’s reverie to bring him a mug of decaf tea and a bourbon.

“Just what I needed,” he said, leaning back in his seat and rubbing his temples.

“They’re looking for a Freedom to Speak Up Guardian,” Anne said.

“Oh?” Draco asked, munching the bourbon and eyes scanning his paperwork.

“The successful candidate will be zealous about making St Mungo’s a safer place to receive care, and will have the ability to operate independently, impartially and objectively to—”

“I do not meet those requirements.”

He scowled at the parchment in annoyance that ‘Go to Paris’ had spiralled into ‘Cure Potter, then go to Paris’.

A Peckish Patient

The Ministry of Magic still respected the Malfoy name, and as he swept through the Atrium in his emerald green Healer-in-Charge robes, several heads acknowledged him.

Draco threw a handful of Galleons into the Fountain of Magical Brethren and bought a croissant from the coffee kiosk in the Atrium.

“Good morning,” he said to the watchwizard. “Eric, isn’t it?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

Draco presented his wand without being asked, and the watchwizard eyed the square silver badge pinned to the front of his robes.

Healer Draco J Malfoy,
Expert Witness

A narrow slip of parchment came speeding out of a slit in the base of the Wand Weigher, and Eric tore it off and read the writing on it.

“Ten inches, hawthorn, unicorn hair core, been in use for nearly twenty-one years. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

Eric impaled the parchment on a small brass spike and handed the wand back to him. As Draco turned to leave, Eric grasped his wrist. “Take care of Mr Potter,” he said quietly. “Not many people speak to me, but I like him.”

“I’m doing my best.” They stared at each other for a long moment. “I truly am.”

“Thank you,” Eric replied.

He caught sight of Pansy getting into the lift and she waved at him, grinning. He nodded back at her.

They only needed him for the morning. By the end of the day, his contact at the Ministry, a nephew of Cornelius Fudge, had sent him an owl detailing the legal outcome.

It’d hit the papers soon enough that Potter and the Weasel would divorce, she’d get half of everything blah blah blah, and Potter was entering a three-month assessment period for mental stability.

Frowning, he stared into the flames of the crackling fireplace.

It didn’t sound great, but Draco had heard nothing like this before in his thirteen years of healing.

He couldn’t concentrate on his paperwork, but he hated procrastinating, so forced himself through it anyway.

Then, he went down to see Harry, as he was wont to do at about six o’clock before calling it a night. The offices were deserted, and the paintings called out ‘goodnight’ to Draco as he went downstairs.

Draco peered through the gap between the door and the jamb when he heard voices in Potter’s ward.

Mother was sitting on Potter’s bed, and he was in his pyjamas already.

“… Yeah, I love flying,” Potter said.

“Then I’m sure you’ll enjoy these.” Mother heaped a pile of magazines onto his bedside table.

Harry seized the nearest one. “Cool!”

A Quidditch player in navy-blue robes zoomed from one side of the cover to the other. “This is amazing! Was I a professional Quidditch player?”

In your wildest dreams.

“These were my son’s. He subscribed to Quidditch Weekly throughout your childhood years.”

“Wow. Thank you so much. It’s so wonderful that I can keep them.”

Draco knocked and went in.

“Draco! Hi!”

“Good evening, Mr Potter.”

Mother then said, “Goodbye, boys,” as if they were best friends having a sleepover. As if.

“I never said you could have those, by the way,” Draco said, nodding to the magazines.

Harry smirked. “Whatever. Your mum said I could have them. She’s really nice!”

Draco sniffed.

“Sit down, have some chocolate,” Potter said.

He checked his pocket watch, then sat down beside the bed and yawned.

“Rough day?” Potter asked.

Draco nodded. “I was in court. Giving evidence.” Potter opened his mouth to say something, but Draco cut in, “Yeah, about you, but I’m not allowed to say.”

Potter pressed his lips together. “Okay, then.”

“Is that all you have to say? Normally I can’t get you to shut up.”

“I trust you.”

“You’ve lost your memory.”

“I trust you anyway.”

“You shouldn’t. You can’t.”

“Why are you scared?”

“I’m not scared. I’m just saying… You’re vulnerable to people taking advantage of you.”

“Fat chance when you don’t let people visit me.”

“Have you got any snacks?” Draco asked. “I’m famished.”

Harry needed time and attention, and this version of Potter was a good listener.

Draco found himself telling Potter about his community service. Every weekend of the year after school he had to take the Floo to St Mungo’s, and he mopped floors and brought people cups of tea. By his third year as a Trainee Healer, he’d done his own projects in long-term nerve damage and goblin lung physiology. He truly wanted to specialise in potions and plant poisoning, but the department was full and named after his father, so it would have been too awkward.

“So why are you in the Mind Healing Department?” Potter asked.

He shrugged. “Colleagues were nice. There was an opening.”

Draco looked at his pocket watch and swore. “I’ve got to go.”

“See you tomorrow?”

“Yes. I hope they bring you something nice for tea.”

The next morning, he sat at his desk and scanned the latest news from Scorpius. Albus had smuggled in contraband broomsticks and enclosed was a photo of them both grinning and holding matching brooms. By the sound of things, Albus was a bad influence with his ‘top secret hiding places’. Still, he stuck the photograph to his noticeboard.

Ginevra finally wrote back with the dates of birth of Potter’s friends and family. Draco could’ve passed her reply to Potter, but for some reason he couldn’t name, didn’t want Potter to have anything of hers.

“I spoke to someone who knows you well and got a list of birthdays and such,” Draco said at lunchtime. He shifted piles of The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle, and sat on the seat next to the bed. “They said you never knew your grandparents.”

Potter took the parchment and stared at it, eyes skimming the page. His mouth twisted. “My aunt and uncle told me my parents died in a car accident.”

Draco opened his lunch bag. “That’s absurd. They were a powerful witch and wizard.”

“Did you know them?” Potter asked, eyes wide.

He swallowed his truffle arancini. “No. Sorry.”

He watched Potter construct some sort of wrap from peppers and onions, and waited for him to continue.

“My mum’s dad died when I was really young. A heart attack, I think. But he was a Muggle. And I think my other grandparents died before I was born, but… I wasn’t allowed to ask questions.”

“Your grandparents—the Potters—were elderly. I have a portrait of one of your ancestors somewhere.”

Potter froze, wrap halfway to his mouth. “You do?”

“Yeah, well, we are distantly related. Our families had a long alliance until the sixteenth century.”

“Wow! That’s so cool!”

“It’s very common. To be distantly related. It’s not special.”

“… Oh. How do you know all this?”

Draco unwrapped the paper around the tiny chunks of Cheddar and Fourme d’Ambert before replying. “I was encouraged to learn genealogy. Bloodlines, occupations, relationships are all highly important in our society.”

“Are they?” Potter looked sceptical.

“They were.” Draco snapped his jaw shut.

Potter put a Cauldron Cake on Draco’s plate. “What do you know about them?”

“Well, Fleamont and Euphemia Potter, your grandparents, had a haircare potions line—”

“What?” Potter asked, head cocked to the side.

“I can’t tell you if you constantly interrupt!”

“Fleamont? Was that really their name?”

“It’s a traditional name,” Draco snapped. “I’m not going to tell you a single thing if you persist in mocking wizarding traditions like the half-blood you are—”

“Sorry. Please go on. I really want to know.” Potter gripped the arm of the visitor’s chair. “I don’t know anything about them, not even their names.”

Draco pulled a face. “Muggles. It’s outrageous that they don’t teach even names to their—”

“It’s not a Muggle thing, it was my aunt and uncle. Most Muggles are normal people who don’t lock children away in cupboards and ban them from asking stuff! If I had a child, I would never raise them like that. Hermione knows all about her grandparents.”

Draco tried his best to split the Cauldron Cake in half without magic and passed a piece back to Harry.

“There are probably old documents in your bank vault pertaining to the potions. They patented and sold Sleekeazy’s haircare potion, an excellent product if I may say so, and I to this day can’t fathom why you don’t use it. It’s one of life’s great mysteries.”

Potter rolled his eyes.

“Anyway,” Draco continued, “they made a lot of money, my great-grandfather was a shareholder in Sleekeazy’s, you know, and I’m sure there’ll be stories to tell. My great-grandfather hangs in the second parlour and is an engaging wizard.”

“I’d love to talk to him. About my grandparents. And see their paintings. I saw them once, you know, but didn’t really take it in. There was this mirror, you see…”

Potter described a looking glass that showed you your heart’s desire, and it sounded Dark, and Draco told him as such.

“Do you like your job? Are you happy with your life?” Potter asked.

“I am perfectly happy.” Draco said it with a straight face and even used Occlumency, just to be safe.

Yet Harry said, with a little uncertainty, “Are you sure?” and a line creased between his eyebrows.

“Quite sure,” Draco replied.

****

Draco snuck down to the kitchen and filched an extra slice of Swiss roll for Potter. He passed one of the Trainee Healers on night watch, and gesturing the pudding, said, “Peckish patient.”

“Of course, sir.”

He knocked in case Potter was having a wank. Potter sounded a bit flat when he called for Draco to come in.

Potter’s mouth curved in a poor facsimile of a smile and he accepted the saucer. He stared down at the Swiss roll with sad eyes.

“Whatever’s the matter? Someone spit in your tea? Finally remembered how dreadful the Cannons are?”

“No,” Potter said hoarsely.

Draco sat down and just stared at Potter until he spoke.

“Um, thanks. For the cake.” He chewed a teaspoon of the pudding as though it were cardboard, eyes fixed upon it.

“Tell me what’s wrong, or I’ll never risk my job to bring you bonus cake ever again.”

Potter glowered at the floorboards instead.

“I…” Potter cleared his throat. “I bet it’s a matter of time before one of them is killed… I hope it’s Granger,” he said dully.

It felt as though a bucket of water had been chucked over Draco’s head. He said nothing, breath caught in his throat.

“You don’t deny it,” Potter challenged.

“That was… years ago.”

The look of pure contempt in Potter’s eyes was heavy. Draco stood so quickly that Potter reached for his wand, or where he’d keep it were he allowed one.

“Saint Potter,” Draco spat, “expects to be surrounded by perfect people wherever he goes.”

Potter sprang up, face red. “That’s the Malfoy I know.” He pointed at Draco. “It’s like you’ve been pretending, all this time! But you’re a fake! A-a liar—”

“That was a very long time ago. I was twelve! I have served my time for all crimes I was convicted for—”

“Crimes!” Potter backed away. “Get away from me.”

Draco ran a hand over his face. “Potter. Might I remind you we’re thirty-one—”

“Get away!”

He left. Draco didn’t send for help. This was different to Potter’s usual crises.

He remembered Draco for who he really was, and he wanted Draco gone. It was a matter of pride that he didn’t seek to swap Potter for one of Clearwater’s patients. But early the next day, whilst Potter was still asleep, he salvaged the sketch of himself entitled ‘FRIEND’ from the wastepaper basket with a lump in his throat.

It was better this way.

****

Draco saw Pansy that week. Julian was with their baby again, and they took a light supper in the second drawing room at the Manor. He expected her to pester him about Lukas, but instead she asked, “You’re not yourself. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You’re behaving very… oddly,” Pansy said. “Like you don’t really want to be here.”

“Don’t be stupid. Of course I want to be here—it’s my house!”

Pansy clicked her fingers in front of his face. “It’s like you’re in a daze.” She pushed the cheeseboard away and sat back in her seat. “Go on, then. Out with it.”

She studied him with shrewd blue eyes that used to remind him of their departed headmaster.

“There’s nothing to say,” Draco replied.

“It’s Potter, isn’t it. You’re getting all weird about him again.”

“I’m not getting ‘weird’ about him. Nor have I ever been! It’s just work. Work is stressful. Potter is stressful. He’s always ruining everything!”

Her fingers hovered between the cakes, deciding. “I probably shouldn’t… I’m trying to lose weight…” she murmured, selecting a minuscule raspberry cheesecake. “I won’t tease you about Potter if you do a better job of listening to me and my woes.”

“Yeah, that sounds reasonable,” Draco said. He chose a strawberry one and mentally set aside a chocolate one for Potter. “Tell me more about young Johnny’s teething problems.”

Pansy grinned. “That’s better. But you needn’t look so happy about it.”

After she left, an owl arrived from Hogwarts. It read:

Dear Father,

I write with excellent news, and that is to say I’ve got excellent marks on all of my recent essays.

You must let Al come and stay during the Easter hols. It’s important for homework reasons, you know how important this time of year is, it’s just 77 days until our first end-of-year exam. I’ve checked and Grandmother, Grandfather, Grandmama AND Al’s mother all say it’s fine. Then can we stay with Al’s mother for a few days? They do an awful lot of Quidditch matches and it sounds jolly good fun. Then I’d like to show him Grandmama’s wonderful library and Al really wants to visit London, he’s never been, isn’t that terrible?

Has Benbecula had her kittens yet? Can Al and I have one? They’d love the dungeons. I heard that Harry Potter’s friend had a Death Eater disguised as a rat and for years he slept in Gryffindor tower. Imagine that! Therefore, I think it will be handy to have our own cat down here.

How are you? Are there any balls planned for Easter?

Love,

Scorpius

****

When he next saw Potter, Draco overheard him murmuring to an elf about his ‘good friend Dobby’ who worked at Hogwarts.

Draco knocked, and the elf squeaked and vanished.

“Hey,” Potter said, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s been ages. You all right?”

“Fine.” Draco reviewed the recent assessments Trainee Misselthwaite had done on his behalf.

“My name’s Harry Potter, born thirty-first of July—”

“I’m not here to assess you,” Draco said. “Just wanted to see your records.”

Potter sat quietly on the bed for a while, but interrupted Draco’s reading. “There’s this phrase in my mind…” Potter started. “That I’ve repeated so often that I’m not sure it’s true any more. The words have lost their meaning. Know what I mean?”

Draco nodded.

“Do you want to know what the phrase is?”

He pretended to scrutinise the potions cabinet. “I know it’ll be something trite.”

“‘I hate Malfoy’.”

Draco pursed his lips, eyes on the potions. “Your dinner should be coming soon.”

There was a beat where neither of them said anything, but when Draco straightened up, eyes still down, Potter said, “… Stay.”

He looked around at Potter, who stopped fidgeting with his sheets and met Draco’s gaze.

“All right,” Draco chanced.

The air was thick between them, and he was so relieved when Misselthwaite arrived with Potter’s food tray.

“Oh! Hello, sir.”

Potter snorted. Draco ignored him.

“How are you, Harry?” Miriam asked.

“Great! Thank you.”

She left, and Harry ripped his naan bread in half and passed it to Draco.

“You were such a fucker in school,” Potter said. He ate some of his curry, then downed his glass of water. “God, this jalfrezi’s hot.”

“Yeah,” Draco said. “Turns out I was wrong. Imagine that.”

“Do an Aguamenti for me, would you?”

Potter told him he once had a photograph album of his parents and gave his permission for Mother to collect it. Draco organised for Granger to go, who was only too glad.

He didn’t want to send his mother away on harebrained schemes across Britain. Who knew what spells and enchantments the adult Potter had put up?

Potter’s face lit up when Draco gave it to him.

“Hagrid made it for me in first year,” Potter said. “I was in the hospital wing after I first met Voldemort, before Slytherin nearly won the House Cup, remember?” Potter said, running his hands over the leather cover. He didn’t see Draco flinch at the Dark Lord’s name.

“Yes,” Draco ground out.

Potter smirked. “Not still pissed off about that, are we?”

“I am a grown man, mature, a professional. I don’t care about house point injustices.”

“Ha! Keep telling yourself that if it’ll make you happy,” Potter said. “So Hagrid wrote to my dad’s friends.”

Potter opened the album and saw his parents laughing together.

Draco couldn’t contain himself and perched on the side of the bed to get a better view. “He looks just like you.”

“Yeah,” Potter whispered. He pointed at a colour photo. “Bit browner, though.”

Potter hadn’t recognised Professor Lupin.

“Did your mum know my parents?” Potter asked. “I wonder if they knew each other at school.”

“I don’t think so. You should ask her.”

“I will.” Potter smiled at Draco. “Thank you. For getting this.”

Draco realised he was inches from Potter’s face, so swiftly made towards the door. “Thank Granger. She’s the one who fetched it. I’ll see you later.”

“Bye!”

It was cool and dark by the time Draco got home to the Manor. An elf had lit a fire in the grate of his chambers, and Blue was asleep at the foot of his bed.

He dropped his robe to the floor so it would get laundered and sighed in relief once he’d removed his sock garters. Then he smoked a nicotine-free cigarette, dressed in nothing but his underwear and sagging socks, and surveyed the moving photographs on the chimneypiece.

Him, Greg, Vince and Blaise in Suffolk after fourth year. Blaise’s birthdays were always a lavish affair. He and Astoria on their wedding day in the chapel at the Greengrass Estate in Norwich. She had butterflies in her hair, and her sister was pulling a silly face over her shoulder. In a third photo, Draco kissed Scorpius’s hair on his third birthday, beside an enormous levitating cake.

Astoria wasn’t in that photo as she’d taken it.

She was into weird Muggle things like cameras, tiny notebooks she’d buy and never write in, and collected travel guides for all the places they’d never visit. By that point she knew she was dying and liked to browse the Muggle bookshops to pretend she was someone else.

He tossed his cigarette into the fireplace and pulled on his nightshirt.

He took down the photograph of their wedding day and fetched the shoebox at the back of his third armoire. Inside, he rediscovered Scorpius’s first socks and birth record, a lock of Astoria’s hair, her wedding ring, newspaper clippings of their engagement and wedding announcements, of Scorpius’s birth, of her death and funeral arrangements. At the very bottom was a scroll addressed to Scorpius for when he came of age.

Draco hadn’t read it.

He put the wedding photo in the box.

Astoria could always help him find light in the darkness. He pressed the lock of her hair to his lips, wiped his eyes, and went to bed.

He hadn’t dreamt of Astoria in years.

On his day off, he went horse riding, wrote a letter to Scorpius and Astoria’s mother, and in the evening went to a club in Edinburgh.

He didn’t tell his parents he was going out—why should he have to?—and before long, a Muggle approached him.

“Hello, gorgeous! Can I get you a drink?” a man shouted into his ear over the noise of the club.

“You may! I’ll have whatever you’re having.” No need to break the statute over something like a Daisyroot Draught.

He had a tight T-shirt, dimples when he smiled, and trimmed stubble. Will sold insurance for a living and had his own flat.

Draco put his hand on the small of Will’s back—it was deafening so he had to lean in close. The cologne smelt amazing.

They stood and chatted awkwardly at the bar, and Draco laughed off not understanding pop culture references by explaining that he’d led a very sheltered life and was home-schooled.

“Ah, your parents were religious, then…?”

“Yeah. Very,” Draco yelled, nodding vigorously.

“What sort?”

Draco was still nodding. “Wiccans.”

“What?” Will spluttered. “Really?”

The song changed and Will said, “Oh, I like this one. Dance with me?”

“All right,” Draco said, taking his hand. “If you’ll take me back to your place tonight.”

Will laughed at him, brown eyes sparkling. As they danced, he felt the man’s smile on his neck, their bodies pressing together, the hot breath beneath his ear.

They didn’t stay long.

The Dark Lord

Draco was just rubbing his temples at his desk the next morning when his son barged in.

“What are you doing here? Is everything all right?” he asked.

Scorpius handed him a packet with the words ‘MARS’ written on the top. “What’s this?”

“Nice to see you too,” Scorpius said. “That’s chocolate, because it’s Good Friday,” he said, nodding to the packet. “Grandmama went out.”

Draco hugged him and said, “This is a staff-only area! How did you—never mind, don’t tell me.” He held Scorpius at arms length and appraised him. “What on earth are you wearing?”

“They call them hoodies. All the cool people wear Muggle clothes now,” Scorpius explained.

“I don’t want you spending time with Muggles.”

“Why not?”

“Because you look ridiculous. And shouldn’t be spending your pocket money on rubbish when you have so many robes. Why not buy sensible things, like school supplies, or Quidditch magazines?”

All of a sudden, he spotted Albus lingering by the door. As a rule, the Malfoys did not argue in the presence of others. “Come in. Are you having a nice time?” Draco asked.

His mind was still half on the document he had been completing.

“Oh, yes!” Albus said. “Can I see my dad?”

Draco leant back in his seat. “Fetch a pot of tea from the dumbwaiter, please,” he said to his son. He drew up another chair from thin air. “Have a seat, Albus.”

Albus dithered, then offered the new chair to Scorpius. It was velvet and had a squashy cushion.

The boy looked just like Potter, with the same stupid, wild hair. “When you come to stay this weekend, remind me to tell you about Sleekeazy’s hair potion. Your great-grandparents invented the line.”

“He means you have bad hair,” Scorpius told Albus in a stage whisper.

“That’s not what I said,” Draco qualified.

Scorpius winked at his friend.

“I’m afraid this is not the best place for our conversation,” Draco said. “But I’ll be pleased to speak with you at Easter.”

He thought of Harry alone downstairs. “I’ve not got long. I’ve got to see to a patient, then I’m in clinic all afternoon. How are you getting home? Please tell me you didn’t ride in a motorcar!”

Albus produced three Pumpkin Pasties, and Draco spent a quarter of an hour with the boys before shooing them off. “And don’t travel in aeroplanes, on bicycles, or anything that isn’t magic. Muggles die every day using transport without magic.”

“You’re so embarrassing!”

Albus exchanged a mischievous look with his son and they left.

It couldn’t be good.

Uneasiness was probably the reason Draco found himself walking past Potter’s open door a couple of times per day, just to verify that all was well.

“… Draco?”

“Hmm?” He paused by the door and saw Potter pull out a crossword from one of his Muggle newspapers.

“You wouldn’t happen to know the most northern one of the Orkney Islands?”

Draco checked his pocket watch. He still had twenty minutes before his three o’clock, so he sat by Potter’s bed. “My grandfather used to breed cats and name them after various islands surrounding Great Britain, and Father continues the tradition. So I’m sure to know the answer.” He pretended to think.

“I didn’t know you had cats!” Potter cried. Why would he? “Tell me about them.”

“They’re all very fluffy and expensive. We’ve got Iona and Benbecula, the parents,” Draco said, counting them off on his fingers, “as well as Westray, Alderney, Foulness—don’t laugh, it’s rude—Sheppey, North and South—short for North and South Ulst, obviously—then there’s Jura, Barra, Lundy, Skye and Blue.”

“Blue?” Harry squinted and offered Draco a Fudge Fly.

“I named that one. To buck the trend.”

“We didn’t do geography at Hogwarts.”

Draco wrinkled his nose. “We went to a school for magic. Geography, languages, spelling, music, elocution, calligraphy and dance are all subjects to be learnt in the home.”

“Oh,” Potter said. He ran his finger down the crossword clues. “Well—nine down is two words. Second word is nine letters.”

“Let me see,” Draco said, nicking the paper. The answer was North Ronaldsay. “I haven’t the foggiest.” He got up and hesitated by the door. “I’ll check a globe and return tomorrow. I have an appointment.”

“See you soon!”

The stairwell was empty and Draco leant against the wall, sucking on his Fudge Fly.

“I hath heard about thine tragic case, young boy. Wilt thou weep for him? Wilt thou weep?” Sir Kildwick asked.

Draco gave him a sidelong glance.

“I’m thirty-one,” he replied at last.

“He capers, he dances, has eyes of youth, speaks holiday and smells of springtime. It is a sad, sorry—”

“You’re a painting. You don’t know how he smells.”

He went back up to his office to get his Healers Bag before clinic, and Anne cornered him. “Excuse me, Draco, Shaun wants to know if you’re going to the ‘Who said it: Nobby Leach or Greta Catchlove?’ pub quiz on Thursday, they’re need to book the table this afternoon—”

“Not for all the tea in China. Thank you.”

****

He went down to see Potter after the Easter holiday and something was wrong.

Potter stood on his chair and didn’t turn around. At first he thought Potter was staring out the window, but then Draco saw he was just resting his head against the glass.

“Nice day.” Potter laughed humourlessly, his voice hoarse. “What d’you want?”

“Sit down and tell me what’s wrong.”

Potter turned, his jaw clenched, eyes smouldering in defiance. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

Draco sat in the visitor’s chair, hand on the wand in his pocket.

“Please—sit down. It’s a request, not an order.”

“No,” Potter whispered. An empty teacup rattled on the bedside table. “I don’t have to do anything you say. Get out.”

“For Merlin’s sake, man, what is it?”

“Hagrid’s my friend. I don’t know how he can bear to look at you.”

“Let me guess,” Draco drawled, “you’ve remembered something heinous that I said or did.” He got up. “I don’t have time for this.”

“It’s your fault they executed Buckbeak.”

“The Hippogriff? That’s what this is about?” Draco barked a laugh. “Of all the things, that’s what you—!”

“I bet you didn’t lose a wink of sleep over him—”

“No, Potter, I did not,” Draco said with relish.

His mouth opened in outrage, but before he could speak, Draco continued, “I was thirteen. I’m sure the death was swift, and it didn’t see it coming. I can’t believe—”

“All because you can’t listen in Care of Magical Creatures and had Daddy to run to—”

“Don’t you dare speak ill of my father,” he hissed.

“Or what? You’ll go running to him, will you? Shut up nasty little Harry?”

Draco strode out and slammed the door.

The next day, Draco asked his usual questions in a toneless voice and didn’t look him in the eye.

“Ignoring me now, are you?” Potter spat.

Draco put away his quill. “I am not ignoring you, Mr Potter.”

“Stop calling me that, it’s so bloody fake. I hate it, it’s like I’m in trouble at school. I hate this place. You’re locking me up, you’re keeping me here—”

“I’m not your enemy!”

“I want a different Healer.”

“That’s nice,” Draco said loudly. “Thanks for telling me.” He dropped a Chocolate Frog onto the bedside table. “Good-day.”

“Wait—”

Draco left.

The following day, Potter was contrite.

“Um, I’m not sure if you’re aware…” Potter rubbed his collarbone, gaze on the floorboards.

“Spit it out,” Draco said. “I’m not a mind reader.”

“Buckbeak. He wasn’t executed.”

“I know,” Draco murmured. He approached Potter, and pressed on his shoulders so Potter sat on the bed, then took off his spectacles.

“Lumos.” He shone his wand into Potter’s eyes. “Look to the left, please.”

“You should’ve told me,” Potter said.

“I don’t care a whit what you think of me,” Draco murmured. “Look to the right.”

“Malfoy would’ve cared,” he muttered.

Draco put out his wand and said, “I am Malfoy. Follow my finger.”

He watched Potter’s green eyes track his finger.

“You look the same. But you’re weird, different—”

“Not the horrible beast you knew, yes, what a revelation. I’m not very different. And don’t judge a spellbook by its cover.” Draco sat beside him on the bed, and listened to Potter’s heartbeat with the stethophone.

“Grown up—” Potter continued.

“I’m thirty-one. I’m your Healer, for Merlin’s sake. Surprise surprise, I don’t act thirteen.”

He went to write in Potter’s Healing Records. But Potter wasn’t done.

“Are we friends? When I grow up?”

“You are grown up.”

“You know what I mean.”

Draco looked at him properly, just then. He took time to look between each eye, as though considering what to say. But he didn’t need to think about his answer.

“No,” he said. “Not really.”

****

Draco sent his mother into hospital with a copy of their family tree as a peace offering.

“He was delighted,” Mother reported, “but I’m concerned about him. He ought to get some fresh air. It’s not right for a young boy to be locked up.”

“Quite right!” Dilys said. “Take him to the roof garden. It was lovely up there in my day. Superb views!”

“I didn’t know we had access to the roof,” Mother said.

“It’s out of bounds,” Draco said.

“Take him swimming in the Thames,” Dilys continued, her silver ringlets shaking with every word. “A strapping young man like him ought to be out—”

“We do not take patients swimming in the Thames.” Draco waved a hand.

“It’s dirty, the Muggles have kept it filthy for a century,” Mother added. “Surely you don’t need permission to take him out for some fresh air, with your level of seniority?”

Draco grimaced. “Probably not. I’ll think about it.”

He had already been thinking about it.

Draco dropped in on Potter with Beating the Bludgers: A Study of Defensive Strategies in Quidditch by Kennilworthy Whisp. He nearly had a heart attack when he saw Potter, topless, sprinting on his running machinery. A few hours later he walked past Potter’s ward, and Potter called him in to ask for more crossword help.

Potter had taken to doing that a lot lately, calling Draco in to help him with something, and then Draco would stay for a few minutes.

On days like today, he was less chatty.

“The weather looks nice,” Harry whispered, arms around his knees. He was still in his pyjamas.

“If it’s upsetting you, I can remove the fake window.”

Potter shook his head. “I want to go outside.”

Draco ran a hand through his hair. “Fine. Tonight.”

Harry’s eyes lit up and Draco folded his arms.

“I have conditions. Number one: no more whinging about the window. I’ve got enough to do without listening to your non-stop whining.” Harry nodded and bounced on the bed. “Number two: tell anyone and I’ll kill you. Behave and don’t do anything stupid.”

“Yes! Great!” Harry punched the air.

“Be ready at nine. Dress appropriately for the outside.”

Potter’s eyes widened. “You’re breaking me out?”

“This isn’t a prison, Potter. I’m not breaking you out. I am merely taking you outside,” he said. “Against regulations. And my better judgement.”

“Why’s it against regulations?”

“You’re safest here. It could jeopardise your recovery if you ran into someone you haven’t yet remembered. And the place I am taking you to is off-limits to everybody.”

“Why?”

Draco was about to tell him to stop asking questions, but then remembered Potter’s aunt and uncle. “Someone killed themselves. Nasty business. It was a very long time ago.”

Potter nodded. He climbed onto the chair beneath the window, palms pressed against the glass. “I can’t wait.”

That evening, he Disillusioned Harry. The hospital was eerily quiet, and Draco cast a repelling charm on Potter’s door to stop the Night Assistant coming in.

“Be as silent as a mouse,” he murmured to Potter.

The corridor was empty except for an old snoring warlock in a painting. “Not a word, Nigel,” he said. The wizard stopped pretending to sleep and winked at Draco. They ducked under the ‘STAFF ONLY’ sign and Draco pushed open the door marked ‘DANGER. DO NOT ENTER’.

At the top of the stairs, Draco reversed the Disillusionment Charm and lit some floating candles.

Potter’s face was beatific, his head flung back, mouth slack. He held his arms out and spun around.

He was speechless, but not for long. “It’s so good to have the wind on my face. God I hope it rains!”

Potter rushed over to the roses and trailed his fingertips across the unopened buds, then ran them down the stems, weaving around the thorns.

Draco sat on the bench and contented himself with watching Harry. It reminded him of the first time his father returned from Azkaban and roamed around in the gardens with no shoes or socks.

They didn’t speak of that time.

With a loud hoot, an owl swooped over their heads.

“There’s another stairwell at the other end of the corridor and it leads up to the owlery,” Draco explained. “Behind that wall.”

“The Muggles don’t notice the owls in central London?”

“The Ministry spread a rumour that some owl breeding programme had got out of hand.”

Draco uncorked and passed a Butterbeer to Potter.

“Thank you,” he said, eyes shining. “This is amazing. Is that the London Eye?” He pointed at a strange construction that glowed blue in the night sky.

“I’ve no idea,” Draco said. “It doesn’t look like an eye.”

Potter joined him on the bench. “Hermione told me about it. You step into the booth-things and look out at the view.”

“It looks horribly dangerous. I shouldn’t like it much.”

Potter grinned. “I shouldn’t think you would, no.” He sat back and sighed, listening to the traffic below and the cooing of pigeons. “What should we do when I get out of here?”

It was as though he’d been hit over the head when Potter said ‘we’.

“Pub?” Draco replied, only half-joking.

Potter beamed and savoured his drink. “The Three Broomsticks. Warm crackling fire. Lots of laughing people. Madam Rosmerta.” Draco stole Potter’s beer. “Great tits—”

Draco’s eyes bugged out of his head.

Potter burst out laughing, shook his head and said, “You should’ve seen the look on your face! Ron fancied her and Hermione was all jealous.”

He quietened and frowned at the floor. “I wish she had more time to see me,” Potter added.

“She’s awfully busy. And she spends a lot of time researching your condition.”

Potter’s head jerked up. “She does? That’s good.”

He got up to lean over the railing, and Draco followed.

“Look at them… Everyone just going about their normal lives… And they have no idea about us.”

They gazed down at the Muggles milling about on the street below. What level was Potter referring to—unaware of magic? Unaware that the Chosen One was locked above them in his ivory tower?

“If they looked, they’d see.”

They were elbow to elbow. Potter took back the Butterbeer and had another swig.

“But they don’t. They’re always looking down, at where they’re going or at their phones.” He glanced at Draco. “It’s hard to appreciate what’s under your nose. You know what I mean?”

“Mmm.”

He could see goosebumps on Potter’s neck; the moron had only a thin jumper. “Here.” Draco unclasped his travelling cloak and flung it over his shoulders.

“Thank you. For everything.”

Draco sighed. “That’s all right.”

“I appreciate the effort. You know, in helping me.”

Draco shrugged as though shaking off an insect. “It’s nothing. The sooner you’re better, the sooner you’re discharged.”

“Right. Yeah. Great.”

“You don’t sound very convinced,” Draco said. “You’re desperate to leave. That’s why I dragged you here, to stop you whining so much.”

Harry cleared his throat. “You’re right.”

“I know,” Draco said. “I’m always right.”

The next morning, Potter grinned at him as if they were old friends, and from then on Draco came back after dinner on Thursdays to take him up onto the roof.

“I miss flying,” Potter said, leaning over the railing. Wind whipped through his hair. “When can I fly?”

“As your Healer, I cannot in good conscience permit you to ride a racing broom.”

“You could do an Undetectable Extension Charm to make an indoor pitch.”

“I’m flattered,” Draco said, hands wrapped around his teacup. “They’re regulated. That spell can go horribly wrong.”

Rain started to fall, so Potter retreated onto the covered bench, knees to his chest. Draco directed the candles so they hovered between them.

“Were you always this boring and old? Is that why we’re not dating?”

Draco choked on his tea, so Potter patted him on the back.

“What?” Draco gasped.

“Well—things are obviously a bit weird. Did we fancy each other?”

Potter squeezed his eyes shut and put a hand over his face. “Oh my God… Do I have a boyfriend?”

“Funnily enough, I’m not intimately acquainted with your private life. And no, we did not fancy one another.”

The next few weeks were not easy ones. Potter remembered the ‘Potter Stinks’ badges—not Draco’s finest hour. Then he constantly asked about Sirius Black. Why hadn’t he visited? Was he safe? Was he in gaol? There was only so long Potter would accept that Draco knew little about his hordes of admirers and their living situations.

Granger wrote to say that Potter had been angry with her and her husband, too. He hit his head on the window, angry that no one would tell him anything.

Mentally, Potter was halfway through fourth year. Recovery would be uphill from here.

****

Mercifully, the Ferret Incident didn’t come up. Potter must be less of a dickhead than Draco once thought.

“I like you better now,” Potter said, halving his custard tart. “Not once have you insulted my parents.” He put Draco’s portion on a saucer and handed it to him.

“Cheers,” Draco said. “Forty-five per cent of a custard tart and Prince Potter’s approval. What more could a man want?”

Potter’s mouth twisted. “Course, I probably said stupid stuff too…”

Draco cocked his head to the side. “Not really. Only in retaliation.”

Harry bit his lower lip as he grinned. And it was very compelling. “I appreciate your honesty!” He mixed his gravy into the mashed potato. “The food’s been good today.”

Potter had low food standards.

Draco nicked Potter’s spoon for his own packed lunch: buttered spinach, shallots, toasted almonds, and Dover sole à la meunière.

He didn’t see Potter every day—after all, he didn’t even work every day—but when he was home tending his horses, letting the sun warm his face in the Orangery, or fixing the grandfather clock in the fourth guest suite, his mind wasn’t far from Potter.

Potter, any day now, would remember Diggory and the resurrection of the Dark Lord.

Father had described in great detail what had happened that night—the glory and power, and magic the likes of which had never been seen before. Horror thrummed in the depths of his mind.

Draco reflected on the exciting months after fourth year. The Dark Lord had risen! His family were jubilant to be on the winning side. They had held several summer balls and reunited many old friends. The Manor was abuzz with activity: Nogtail hunts, lawn games, drinking and smoking and cards, copious amounts of Elixir to Induce Euphoria, not to mention the quartets and dancing. And yet he dreaded the dead look it would bring to Potter’s eyes, the dark circles under them, and the pain Draco now realised no child should face.

So when it finally happened, at least Draco was prepared.

Potter wouldn’t get out of bed. His tired eyes darted around the room, red-rimmed.

“He won,” Potter rasped. “That’s why I’m locked up.”

“He didn’t win.”

“You’re lying,” he said. “To make me feel better.” Potter’s lips were cracked, and he wasn’t wearing his spectacles. “I don’t believe you,” he breathed. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Voldemort is alive. I saw him with my own eyes—”

“I believe you.” Draco sat down on the bed. “Look at me. Put on your spectacles, sit up and stop moping like a child.”

Potter scowled and put his spectacles on.

“So you’ve remembered the rebirth of the Dark Lord. Afterwards, people didn’t believe you. They didn’t want to believe it,” Draco explained. “But my father was there, and it’s been nearly twenty years.”

Potter’s brow furrowed. “So… I’m not locked up because Voldemort’s—”

He flinched. “Do not speak his name!”

“I—” Potter reached out a hand and rested it on Draco’s forearm. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Sorry. Are you all right? You don’t look well.”

Draco swallowed, shook off Potter’s hand and stood.

“You should draw. Write in your dream diary. Go running, lift weights, exercise. And speak to someone else. You’ll feel better for it.” He paused by the door. “It’s a confusing time, and it’ll get worse before it gets better.”

“So… it gets better?”

“Yeah,” Draco said, nodding. “It does.”

Thanks to you.

Harry smiled weakly. “Oh. Good.”

Later, Potter cried into Mother’s arms for Cedric Diggory. The real Hogwarts champion, his mind unhelpfully supplied.

Once, Draco used to fantasise that he was the Hogwarts champion. He imagined holding the cup aloft, a thousand-Galleon money bag in hand, his parents cheering, everyone applauding him from the stands.

Would Potter have cried for him?

Malicious Communication

Potter’s fifth year was not a good one.

He hurt himself trying to break the door down, shouted his throat hoarse, and Nigel, the painting in the corridor, rushed to find Draco. He ran in, Euodias hot on his heels, but Mother was already there, rocking Potter and stroking his hair.

Potter hadn’t seen him at the door, so Draco quietly left. Mother smiled over the top of his head.

Things would get better.

He’d make sure of it.

To take Potter’s mind off things, Draco took him onto the roof that night and quizzed him about simpler times.

“We learnt the usual stuff,” Potter explained, hands clutching his Butterbeer. “You know, English, maths, PE, science, art—”

“You’re an artist?”

Potter grinned. “You know how some people, they’re like nine years old and really good at drawing and can like draw a lion just from their imagination?”

“Yeah?”

“Well that’s so not me—I was rubbish at art! At primary school, you’re just sticking down leaves you picked up from the playground, making collages from feathers, that sort of thing.”

“How old were you when you started school?”

Harry pulled Draco’s cloak against the mid-May wind. “I must’ve been four. Cos my birthday’s in July.”

Draco pointed his wand at a weed in the rose bed and it shot up into the air. “And how many went to your school?”

“Oh gosh, I dunno. There were a hundred and twenty in our year. So… maybe seven, eight hundred?”

“… Wow. Hogwarts must have felt like home.”

Harry smiled wryly. “It did, but not the way you’re thinking. We didn’t live at school, just went for the day. They randomly assigned our houses, for you know, sports day and stuff.” He hopped up onto the wall of the flower bed and tore the leaves off the weed’s stem.

Draco turned to sit beside him and looked out over London.

“School was bloody miserable,” Harry went on, “my cousin’s gang would beat people up for being nice to me. Hogwarts was a dream. All that food! A nice bed. Nice people. Not too many who wanted to do me in,” he said, jabbing Draco on the shoulder. “Still, if I hadn’t gone to Hogwarts, I was looking forward to secondary school, Stonewall High… I thought I’d be an electrician or a fireman or something.”

Draco shook his head, laughing. “You, of all people—”

“I know I was Head Auror,” Potter said softly.

“I don’t even want to know how you know that.” He laughed and bowed at the waist with a flourish of his arm. “Our Most Revered Sir Saviour Head Auror had dreams of being an electrician!”

“Stop being a twat!”

Draco shook his head and got out a cigarette. “I don’t believe you.”

“Well, what did you want to be?”

“Easy!” Draco said around his fag, lighting it with the tip of his wand. “A professional Quidditch player.”

“Our Most Revered Head of the Mind Healing Department had dreams of being a Quidditch star!”

“Don’t be stupid,” Draco said, lip curling. “I’m not revered.”

Potter’s smile turned wistful. “Things don’t work out the way you plan.”

“No,” Draco said, blowing out smoke. “They don’t.”

****

Potter threw himself back into his exercise and saw his friends once or twice a week. Sometimes Weasley’s parents or Hagrid came to visit on weekends.

He and Potter didn’t get on particularly well in fifth year. Or sixth year. Or first year. Or second year. Or any year. Waiting for Potter to remember the defeat of the Dark Lord was excruciating, and even though Potter smiled, he still had a dead look in his eyes.

They still regularly went to their garden. Now that June rapidly approached, the sunset painted the sky at about half eight.

Draco couldn’t quite remember what life was like before he sat up here talking rubbish, solving crossword clues, and teaching Potter how to smoke cigarettes.

“I know you’re not supposed to tell me about the future,” Harry said. “But I know I killed him.”

They looked down at the Muggles, their elbows on the railing. Draco was conscious that the orange and pink rays from the setting sun made Potter glow, and he couldn’t look at him properly.

Then, Potter rested his forehead on his palm, spectacles in hand, and said, “I know I killed Sirius, too. It’s the only explanation.”

Draco didn’t know what to say.

“I wrote to him once, to tell him my scar was hurting,” Potter continued. “He dropped everything, moved countries, risked his life to make sure I was okay. Sirius is the only one who cares about me, Draco, don’t you see? He’s not here. He’s not come to see me. I’ve seen Hermione, Ron, Hagrid, Neville, Dean, even Lavender Brown, but Sirius is gone, and Hedwig is gone, and who fucking else is gone?” He straightened up, stared Draco in the eyes. “I know you know. I—”

Potter took a deep, shuddering breath. “Sorry. Tell me to shut up. I know you’re doing me a favour bringing me here.”

“Shut up,” Draco said fondly. He thwacked Potter on the shoulder and passed him a hazelnut swirl.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

“Have you finished having your little breakdown?”

Potter’s lips twisted. “I’m not very good company, am I. It’s a wonder you put up with me.”

“Agreed.”

Draco followed him to the bench and they sat down.

“No matter what shitty mood I’m in, fresh air and Quidditch makes everything better. I wish I could fly,” Potter said.

“Oh, not this again. This falls firmly into the category of ‘annoying Draco’ and ‘being poor company’.”

Harry snorted, swung his legs up onto the bench and faced Draco.

“What?” Draco asked.

Potter stared.

“None of this feels real,” he said. “But you are.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You look a lot like him. But you’re… different.”

Draco heaved a tremendous sigh, but it changed into a yawn part way through.

“I think you work too hard,” Potter said.

“You think a lot of absolute rubbish. Don’t you support the Cannons?”

“No.”

“You’ve got pictures of them.”

“Yeah, well, Ron supports them, not me.”

“Why? They’re appalling.”

Potter shrugged. “He’s from a village near Chudley. And you never know…” He grinned. “They could win the League.”

“Never!”

Potter took off his knitted jumper, and whilst he couldn’t see, Draco took a moment to ogle him.

It was just a crush—a mild one at that. He was sure it’d go away.

They sat in silence for a while, watching the sky change from orange to red.

“I remembered the Inquisitorial Squad, you know.”

“Can’t vanish the past,” Draco said around a cigarette. He lit it and offered one to Potter, who shook his head. “Wish I could.”

“Do you still use the M-word?”

Draco glanced sharply at him. “I assure you, I’m quite reformed.”

“I didn’t think Malfoy could be reformed.”

He blew out a puff of smoke. “Well. You thought wrong.”

Potter sat up properly so he could elbow Draco in the ribs.

“Any more of that and I’m taking back my mother,” Draco said.

“You wouldn’t!”

“I’m highly sadistic, Potter.”

“You’re a bloody Healer for crying out loud.”

Draco grinned out into the sky. “Precisely. Catch them unawares.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “You’re so full of shit, you know that?”

He snuck Potter back into his room. When Potter said “Goodnight” and studied him with such warmth in his eyes, Draco’s stomach lurched. He forgot what the appropriate response was, so just nodded and left.

“Good-day to you, young sire,” Sir Kildwick said. He was visiting Nigel’s painting.

Finding his tongue, Draco said, “Good-day, Sir John, Nigel,” with a nod.

“Thou must kneel in hope that thy constancy will cease,” Sir Kildwick advised. The other wizard nodded in agreement.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The painting narrowed his eyes and puffed on his pipe. “And stop looking at me like that. It’s rude.”

He strolled off but heard Nigel say, “Leave him be, man.”

The next morning, he was called away from his ward round to help yet another idiot who had used counterfeit Floo powder. For Merlin’s sake—a scoop was only two Sickles! Since the Duty Healer was busy tending to an emergency, he stayed to sort out the poor lad who had been bitten in the eye by a diseased Doxy.

Draco then finished his ward round and worked steadily through his paperwork. Besides the usual rubbish, he needed to write a report for the Aurors for an attempted murder, a patient assessment regarding domestic violence, and reply to his third cousin asking whether their daughter could shadow him for a week to get work experience.

There was no chance of seeing Harry before the end of the day, what with the teaching seminar and the Mortality Report due this afternoon. But Mother came in with news and a very welcome lunch.

“Thank you, this looks lovely,” Draco said. She’d brought a salad of beetroot, black fig, pickled walnuts and goat’s curd, as well as a pear and frangipane tart topped with almonds.

“You’re welcome, my darling.”

“What happened?”

She gestured to the food and didn’t say a word. It was family policy not to give bad news until after one had eaten.

When he’d finished, Mother said, “Harry has been asking after his godfather.”

“Back to that are we?” Draco grimaced. “When did he…?”

“The summer that you took the Mark.”

“How old does Potter think he is at the moment?”

“About fifteen, I believe. I put some Calming Draught in his tea.”

“Thank you. How is he?”

“Upset. Mistrustful. Lonely,” she said. “You should sit with him for a while. I think he needs to see someone his own age and the Weasleys are away in Spain.”

He fiddled with his parrot quill, unsure of what to say. Draco felt exhausted all of a sudden.

“As his friend,” she added. “Not his Healer.”

Still, he said nothing.

****

Though Potter often smiled, the dream diary told a different tale. Draco noticed a strained look on his face when Potter thought he wasn’t watching, and the smile didn’t reach the windows of his soul.

Potter was having one of his pyjama days, which was never a good sign, and worked his way through about a thousand sudoku puzzles, resting them on the back of Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches. He answered Draco’s questions about the date, who he was and where they were, as though he were some kind of puppet.

Draco sat in the chair next to his bed. “How have things been?”

“Fine. You?” He didn’t need Legilimency to know that Potter was lying.

“Never better,” he drawled. He leant back in his seat and crossed his arms. “Why don’t you tell me the truth?”

“Why don’t you tell me the truth?” Harry asked.

“Spit it out.”

He threw his quill down on the puzzle. “I’m not getting better. I’m going to be stuck here forever, with the brain of a child, no magic, nothing to look forward to except breathing in the London air every few days for as long as you’ll put up with me—”

“Potter. I do not put up with you. I do not take you there against my will. And the reason why you have no hold over me,” Draco explained, “is because I am not one of your adoring fans.”

Potter pursed his lips and squashed a smile. “We hate each other, right?”

“Something like that.”

Potter tore out a completed sudoku and shredded the paper. He nodded slowly and said, “At least you treat me like I’m normal. I hate it when… people talk to me like I’m special for doing something when I was a baby.”

It would get so much worse for Potter when he defeated the Dark Lord.

“They treat me like I’m a rock star or something,” Potter went on.

“What’s a rock star?”

“Never mind. The other Healers… Well, I prefer you.” Potter frowned at the duvet cover. “… Though you only introduced yourself to me when you knew I was Harry Potter.”

Draco had dreamt of being Potter’s best friend for his entire childhood. “I was just being polite,” he said.

Potter snorted. “Being Slytherin, you mean.”

He leant forwards on his elbows and raised an eyebrow. “If you play your cards right, one can be both,” he said. “Polite and Slytherin.”

Potter grinned. “I suppose so.” He stared into Draco’s eyes for a bit too long without blinking, and then Draco got to his feet.

“Malfoy?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m an adult, I don’t want to live here any more, I give up. How do I… leave? Where’s my wand? I need my wand. Give me my wand.”

The scraps of sudoku puzzle swirled around above his bed like they were in a tiny tornado.

“Calm down.”

He stared unseeingly at the paper, and he gripped his biceps. “I can’t take it any more. I need to leave.”

“You’re making progress—”

“I’m not!”

“Nonsense,” Draco said. “Every broomstick has two ends. You had the mind of a toddler eight months ago. Do I look like someone who puts time and energy into hopeless cases?”

“How can I trust you? How can I trust anyone?”

He heaved a great sigh. “I’ll tell you if you just breathe for a moment and stop making an awful mess.”

Draco swept his wand in an arc, and the pieces of paper landed neatly in a pile on Potter’s bedside table.

When Potter looked calmer, he continued, “Back when you were admitted to St Mungo’s, this note was stored with your personal effects.” Draco reached into his inside pocket, found the folded scrap of parchment and stared at it. “It’s written in your handwriting. The moment I found it, I took over your care.” He passed it over. “Here. It’s yours.”

As Potter read it with raised eyebrows, Draco added, “I’ve been saving it for a moment like this. I knew you’d have a little breakdown sooner or later.”

Draco had memorised it anyway.

“I trust you,” Potter said, eyes on the parchment.

“Apparently, you did.”

“No… I trust you now, as well. I don’t remember writing this, but… the feeling is still inside me.”

It was encouraging that his emotions were there, even if the memories weren’t.

Draco’s throat felt thick so he cleared it. “Yeah, well, that’s all very well and good, but you’ll probably forget tomorrow.” He stood up. “Keep that note safe. Good-day, Potter.”

****

All of this good progress was brought to a screeching halt one morning on one of Draco’s rare days home. Nobody was ill or on annual leave, and after two night shifts he had a mandated rest day. Anne always filched him a Concentration Potion from the supply cupboard after double nights, so he didn’t feel too bad.

The morning went like any other: he wrote to Scorpius who was in the throes of exams, practised the pianoforte, brushed his cat and groomed the horses. Then, the mobile hairdresser visited, and after a second bath, he flopped in the Orangery intending to read A Compendium of Unusual Memory Complaints but ended up dozing, his eyes unable to focus on the words.

Crack!

His book tumbled to the ground.

“Mr Malfoy, sir!” Winley cried.

“Yes? What is it?” Draco rubbed his eyes.

“It’s an emergency with Mr Harry Potter, sir, they says—”

He sprang to his feet. “Fetch my robes.”

Winley clapped her hands and his Healer’s robes appeared in her arms, almost swamping her.

“Thank you. You’re an angel.”

Her eyes brimmed with tears and she picked up his book.

He jogged to the fire in the Entrance Hall, flung off his summer robes and put on his work ones. Flinging a handful of Floo powder from the trinket box on the chimneypiece, he shouted, “St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries!”

Miriam stopped wringing her hands and pacing. “Welcome back to work, sir! I’ll brief you on the way.”

They took the stairs three at a time. “You’d think they’d come up with a faster way of getting around, but no—” he complained, holding the stitch in his side.

“Potter received a package. Your secretary said she’d reviewed it and passed it to the Duty Healer—”

“Who’s on duty?”

“Healer Devine, sir.”

“Hurry!” a portrait called.

“Go on,” Draco said.

“Mr Potter didn’t open it straight away, and Healer Clearwater and Healer Pye are busy saving someone’s life, and we’re so short-staffed, sir, I’m so sorry to bother you on your rest day—”

“No matter. Tell me what happened.”

“Potter just opened it, you see, no one was around—”

“Shit.”

He burst into Potter’s ward, wand aloft, to find Potter asleep.

“I sedated him, sir, and fetched you straight away.”

Potter’s jaw was slack and he drooled onto the pillow.

Draco ignored the racing of his own heart to peel back Potter’s eyelids and check his pupillary light reflex. “And why didn’t you call the Duty Healer? It’s my day off.”

“Er, sorry, sir, he’d gone home and it’s just that it’s Harry Potter, and he’s your patient, and you did say I should—”

“It’s fine. I wouldn’t want anyone botching him up further. So long as you are aware of the standard operating procedure.”

Miriam let out the breath she’d been holding in.

“What was in the package?” he asked, stethophone to Potter’s chest.

“Photographs, sir,” she whispered. “Hundreds of them. No note.”

He looked at her sharply. “From recent years, I presume?”

She nodded towards the floor by the window. Draco finished listening to Potter’s breathing, then knelt down to shift the pile around with the tip of his wand.

“He was screaming, sir,” she said, “his magic was out of control, a ghost came to fetch me. I put out the fire and healed his vocal cords, but—anyway… I wrote it all up in his Healing Records…”

Draco stood, chest hurting, and glanced over the dose of the Sedating Draught. “Pull yourself together, woman—you’re a Trainee Healer. Healers sort out emergencies.”

He turned to look directly into her eyes.

“Go to the Floo and bring me Pansy Newell. She lives at Ringworth Estate. Don’t speak of the situation in front of the portraits. Direct her up here, then finish your shift on the lower floors. Tell no one.”

“Right away, sir.”

He gathered the photographs back into their box, some of which were labelled in Potter’s own handwriting, and banished them to his office. Then he looked back over the Healing Records, sat beside Potter, and waited.

If Pansy wasn’t home, he’d have to go to the Ministry.

Would Potter remember anything at all when he woke? Would he die? Fear clamped his heart in an icy grip and it was hard for him to breathe.

Few patients had died on his watch.

Pansy’s Palliation

“What the hell is going on?”

Draco turned around to see Pansy in a fluffy dressing gown, slippers with pom-poms and her hair in rollers. He smirked. “Good morning.”

She rolled her eyes and pointed her wand at him.

“Look, I’m slightly hungover, my toddler is having a mental breakdown in the playroom, and I’ve left behind my domestic familial bliss to be at your side like the fantastic compatriot I am,” Pansy said. Her lips were twitching, which ruined the effect somewhat. “Bloody tell me what’s going on, or so help me—”

“I need you to Obliviate Potter.”

Pansy lowered her wand and studied the sleeping form.

“As an Obliviator? Or as your friend?”

Draco didn’t answer, jaw clenched.

“All right, then…” she said with an exaggerated sigh. “But you’ll owe me.”

“You’re a brick, Pans.”

“I know.” She perched on the bed. “Is he asleep, knocked out, in a trance, or…?”

“Sleeping Draught. Strong.”

“What happened? Why didn’t you call the Ministry Dispatch Team?”

“I needed a touch of discretion.”

“Not another one of your schemes, again…” She opened Potter’s lids to peer into vacant green eyes. “He’s quite fit close up, don’t you think?”

“I—what?—No, not really—”

Pansy cackled. “You’re so easy to wind up.” She sniffed at the smoke smell, the only other evidence that something had gone wrong. “What happened here?”

“Potter opened a package full of photographs from his future, a malicious communication. Someone sent it anonymously. It’s my day off, but at least I dress by eleven o’clock.”

Pansy ignored the slight. “So why do you need an Obliviator?” She narrowed her eyes. “I’m not doing your dirty work. You’re more than capable of a simple charm—”

“It won’t be a simple Memory Charm,” Draco said. “He opened the package, had some kind of magical meltdown. There was a lot of shouting, and then he had a seizure. So you’ll excuse me for calling in the professionals.”

She pursed her lips and nodded. “What lovely long hair he has.”

“Stop ogling my patient.”

“So do we need to wipe the last day? Or all his future memories, which he hasn’t remembered yet, or…?”

Draco paced. “He could wake up and die. He could wake up and remember nothing ever again, transfer to the Janus Thickey Ward to rot for the rest of my career. Alternatively, it might already be too late, and he’ll have lost his mind—”

“Stop panicking and just do your best. You know I hate it when you blame yourself for situations beyond your control. It wasn’t your fault, it’s a shitty situation all round.” She tapped her wand against her chin. “Hmm, I can wipe the package from his memory, but the results might not be pretty… “

“What do you mean?”

“Memories are tied to other memories by associations.” Draco nodded; he knew all this. “He’s got a weird experimental-induced memory loss that behaves like no other magical disease. He’ll probably lose a lot of progress. Can’t be helped. He’ll be exhausted, definitely.”

“There’ll be increased engagement with the thalamus,” Draco said, “which might reflect an attempt to compensate for attentional performance during demanding conditions.”

“How was his attention before?” she asked.

He stared at Potter’s prone figure before answering. “Generally good, though he had lowered engagement of spatial attention, seen through his impairment in saccadic eye movements. But his reasoning ability and attention tended to be static throughout the day. What do you think will happen to his non-declarative memories?” he wondered aloud.

“Probably fine. He should still be able to create new long-term memories, but…” She stood up and drew her wand. “Let’s get on with it, then. No use agonising. We either do it now or do nothing, and you know I hate inaction. Wake him up. Come on. Quickly.”

Pansy was usually right. As he rummaged in his Healers Bag for a Waking Solution, she said, “I could always Obliviate you, too. Then you’ll come into work tomorrow, find a bit of backwards progress, and stop tearing yourself apart on your day off—”

“No.”

She shrugged. “Just a suggestion.”

“You never know who’s watching, here. Portraits. Ghosts. And one thing I will not surrender is my reputation.”

“Hurry up, then. I dread to think what the state of the playroom will be when I get home…”

Draco pipetted two fluid drachms onto Potter’s tongue.

Before panic could fill Potter’s eyes, Pansy cast, “Obliviate!”

****

Of course, Harry was worse.

Before lunch, he was hopeless. At about one or two o’clock, it was like having teenaged Harry back. In the evenings, he remembered snatches of his adulthood but didn’t retain a thing the next day.

On discussion with Penny, and on review of some research by a Mind Clinic in Denmark, it seemed likely that the mornings were worse due to the effect of the circadian rhythm on alertness and cognitive performance. The circadian nadir was late afternoon when Potter was at his best. It just made no sense.

“What’s declarative memory?” Potter asked, when he was mentally sixteen.

Writing in Potter’s records was so annoying when said patient lurked at his elbow.

“It’s any memory that you can consciously recall,” Draco said, screwing the lid back on the inkwell. “It’s limited, and includes semantic memory—information about the world—and episodic memory—which holds autobiographical knowledge.”

“That’s the type I’m bad at, then.”

“Yeah,” Draco said. “It’s not all bad news, though.”

“No?”

“Your non-declarative memory is intact. That’s to say, you haven’t forgotten English, how to waltz, or the knowledge that you love or hate someone even if you can’t remember why.”

Potter grinned and perched on the seat of his stationary bicycle. “You’re a good teacher, y’know.”

“Yeah…” Draco smiled triumphantly. “I know.”

Potter scrunched up his nose. “I can’t waltz.”

“I know that, too.”

“… Wanker.”

****

Draco wasn’t mindful of when fixing Potter turned into an obsession.

When he got this exhausted, he felt like a shell with no soul or organs. Some evenings, he leant back in his chair and drifted off.

He loved his job. He thrived on fixing problems and being respected for accomplishments that society valued. But when that package arrived and ruined Potter, it became personal.

Things only got worse when Penelope quit.

“It’s a great opportunity,” Penny had said, grimacing, after she’d dumped that particular Dungbomb. “Don’t hate me.”

She was being seconded for a year to a mediwitch role with the Tornados. It was a great opportunity. But he did hate Penny, in that moment. Just a little bit.

“You could let Jenkins transfer to our unit,” she’d proposed.

But Draco refused to have substandard Healers in his team. When your colleagues were useless, you had to double-check all their work. And when you double-checked all their work, you might as well do the damn job yourself. Draco insisted on externally advertising the position.

The Chief Executive, Mr Crocus, was not happy with Potter’s setback. “How could this have happened?” he’d demanded, slamming the desk with his fist.

“I am not a miracle worker,” Draco hissed, “nor am I his guardian angel.”

That wasn’t his finest moment.

Sir Kildwick was his usual self. “You look ill, my dear sir,” he said to Draco.

“Oh.” Draco continued walking down the stairs to Magical Bugs.

“I impute your late weakness to your poor constitution, and I recommend a total abstinence from wine,” he advised, following Draco by pushing through portrait after portrait.

“I shall certainly advise you to go as soon as you can to Buxton where I think you will both drink water and bathe with more safety and advantage. These past few years you have been a stranger to that quiet of mind which you formerly enjoy’d.”

“Have I?” Draco intoned.

“It is owned entirely to the nature of your complaint, which has harass’d you exceedingly, a vast uneasiness in your mind. I imagine it must proceed from a weakness in some part of your body or from a bad state of the blood.”

“I don’t think so.” God there were so many stairs.

“If there is no griping in your bowels, I recommend you bathe for four or five weeks in salt water and drink tar water one pint of it to six of water, taking half a pint twice a day after standing for forty-eight hours. I hope you will be able to hit upon the cause of your sufferings and by the favour of Merlin above be likeways able to prescribe something that may afford relief—”

“No thank you.”

“I am your most obedient servant!” Sir Kildwick called after Draco, when he could follow no longer.

Later that evening, he yanked off his visor, gloves, eye shield, breathing apparatus and overrobes, and dumped them into the incinerator. Dragon pox outbreak. Draco sat on the floor of the shower cubicle, held his head in his hands and felt numb.

Not for the first time, and not for the last, he slept in his office.

He didn’t make time to go to Penny’s leaving party.

****

The most frustrating thing of all was that Potter was improving. When anyone spoke to the Longbottoms, or to the lady who thought she was a giraffe, nothing ever changed. They were the same one day to the next.

But Potter’s trajectory wasn’t hopeless. He’d wake totally clueless, panicked, upset, and lonely, and would cuddle Mother. Magic upset him. Mother refused to wear Muggle clothes, so some days just told him she was his angel and held Potter until he fell back to sleep.

He didn’t think Draco was a bully or Lucius. It was worse: Draco was a total stranger. Draco rarely visited him in the mornings.

Then by afternoon Potter felt fifteen or sixteen or even sometimes seventeen. And therein lay progress. Draco clung to that improvement, held it tightly in his chest.

Draco needed that hope. With Penelope gone to Tutshill, he was covering many of her clinics, shifts and annoying patients.

Truly, Draco liked all his patients—even the weird ones. They were his weird patients. Penny’s? They were just awful.

There was no point having days off—more things went wrong when he wasn’t there, and the minute he turned his back the paperwork doubled in size. The Potter he knew from before the postal incident was there in the evenings though, and Potter was spirited, restless, sometimes angry.

“Don’t give up on me,” Potter hissed on one of his more lucid days. “Don’t you fucking dare. All my hope is in you. So don’t cock it up.”

“No pressure, then.”

Ronald’s parents would sit with Potter for a few hours on Saturday afternoons, and Draco’s aunt was writing all the time asking to see Potter. By now, he’d given up writing personally to everyone clamouring to see the Amazing Auror and left that to Anne, whom he couldn’t cope without.

Draco didn’t have time to go to all the monthly meals with Pansy, Daphne, Theo et al., and the only ones who understood were Mother, Potter and his cat, Blue, who was an antisocial useless lump of fur.

He missed his horses. He missed dozing in the Orangery. He missed the feeling of actually getting somewhere with fixing Potter.

****

In the morning, Scorpius’s trunk was packed and Mrs Greengrass was running late. His son hopped onto the reading desk, legs swinging.

“What do you want for your summer present, then?” Draco asked, hands cradling his decaf coffee.

Scorpius shrugged.

“Do you want to go away? We could go to Monte Carlo. You liked it there.”

“I suppose.”

“Do you think you’ll be bored? Tell Grandmama, and I’m sure she’ll find you plenty to do. Have you finished your homework?”

“Of course,” Scorpius said, rolling his eyes. “Even though I’ve got weeks.”

“Have you done it properly? Nothing is more important than your schooling.”

“You sound just like Al. Between you and him I’ll go mental.”

“You’re picking up a lot of funny words from that family. Remember who you are.”

Scorpius rolled his eyes. Again.

“Can I have a cigarette?” Scorpius asked, eyeing the packet.

Draco snatched it and stowed it in the inside pocket of his robes. “Absolutely not. You’re too young.”

Scorpius scowled. “Al said you did much worse at my age. Like challenging Harry Potter to a duel at midnight.” He swung off the desk. “I am far more well-behaved than you.”

“And yet I didn’t give my father anywhere near such cheek.”

His son kissed him on the cheek. “I keep you young, Father.”

“Scoundrel.”

After Draco saw Scorpius and Mrs Greengrass off to their Portkey, he interrogated the hospital portraits about memory loss.

Some portraits were incredibly helpful. They’d tutored him when his superiors didn’t want a Death Eater Trainee Healer, and he’d spent many nights with the candles burnt low, making notes.

Dilys was telling Draco about what kinds of adapted Memory-Enhancing Draughts he ought to try next, when she dropped the bombshell: “Now, Draco. There was a youngster I’d heard of whose memories were lost and gradually returning.”

“What? Who?” He dropped his quill. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Sir Kildwick urged me to mention it. I didn’t think it relevant before, as it didn’t involve Ministry accidents. Let me think, goodness gracious… It must’ve been after I died, and I believe the victim was taken care of at home.”

“Did that help their recovery? Being in a home environment?”

“I know nothing further,” Dilys said. “This all came about whilst I was being repaired. They’d taken me to Filleighmore Frames off Diagon Alley—gosh, I daresay it’s gone now—and I didn’t see the other painting I was talking to. The portrait seemed dreadfully familiar, though. The patient had unstable magic, lived at home, and was making some progress.”

“That’s it? That’s all you know?”

She crossed her arms over her large bosom and leant forwards. “Being a Healer is not about having answers delivered to you on a platter, young man. You must evaluate the reference books—”

Draco jumped to his feet, eyes wild. “I’ve checked every reference book I can get my hands on! I’ve checked several personal libraries. My team is dangerously understaffed!”

Wulfric drifted through the office wall. “What’s all this, what’s all this?”

Draco covered his face with one hand, teeth gritted together.

“Come on up to the roof, young man, there’s a good lad,” Wulfric said. “Come on.”

Dilys’s overheard conversation was a ray of hope. He instructed a private investigator to find out what painting this was, or better yet, find out the name of the patient and what had become of them.

He enlisted every painting, and they visited their counterparts in other buildings such as the Ministry, Hogwarts, the Intellectual Property Library at the Serious Patents Office, and private homes. Discretion was key, as he couldn’t risk another little stunt. Anne now read every single letter in its entirety before passing them to Potter. Hermione and Ronald were combing every bookshop.

During one of their Thursday evenings on the roof, Potter said, “There must be something else we can try!”

“Do tell.”

“Well, I dunno, you’re the expert,” Potter said. It was mid-June, and Potter laid on the concrete in shorts and a T-shirt. “There’s got to be a potion or something.”

“You had an adverse reaction. I’m not trying that again.”

“Why isn’t Dumbledore here, or Snape? They’d know what to do!” He sat up, squinting at the sun in his eyes. “Why didn’t I think of this before?”

“I’m sorry, but that won’t be possible.”

“Why not?”

“Can’t tell you.”

“You tell me that Voldemort didn’t win,” he said, ignoring Draco’s flinch, “but I’m locked up without my wand, by you, a Malfoy, you say you’re a Healer but you’ve not helped me get better, you’re probably making me worse—”

“Let me guess. This is all some delightful ruse under the Dark Lord’s regime because I have nothing better to do.” He lit a cigarette. “Give me strength,” he mumbled around it.

Potter laid back and watched a helicopter pass by. “I suppose you’re right. If this is some scheme to torment me, it’s not a great one. Nobody’s breaking my bones or attacking me, as far as I know…”

“What delightful ideas has the mind of Harry Potter dreamt up now?” Draco drawled.

“Unless you’re Obliviating me on purpose. You claim to be a Mind Healer—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. And Granger and Weasley are in on it, too, no doubt. The Imperius Curse.” Draco stood up. “You’re going back to your room.”

“No. Wait. I didn’t mean it. Please don’t send me back yet!”

Draco scowled and moved to the railing. “I’m here out of the goodness of my heart—”

“Because I’m such amazing company, you mean.”

Draco’s lips twitched and Potter joined him and elbowed him in the rib. “Yeah, simply riveting.”

“Do you have many friends?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Well. You’re sat up with me quite a lot. Who else do you hang out with?”

“The usual crowd. Pansy and her husband Julian. I write to Theo a lot, he lives with Tracey Davis in Prague, remember her? I also see Daphne sometimes, oh and of course Blaise and Greg. Luna sends me Christmas cards.”

“Luna?”

“Loony Lovegood.”

“Don’t call her that.”

“I was just trying to jog your memory. I don’t call her that,” Draco said, shaking his head. “Not any more.”

“Somehow I think I can trust you more as a friend of Luna’s.”

****

“What would you do if you weren’t a wizard?”

Draco leant back in the visitor’s chair and steepled his fingers. “Kill myself.”

Potter threw a Fudge Fly at him, and Draco snatched it like a Snitch.

“Answer the sodding question, you’re ruining the game.”

“I’m a wizard, it’s in my soul. It’s like asking a dragon what it would do, were it not a dragon.”

“I think I’d be a fireman.”

“What on earth is that?” Draco asked delightedly.

“They put out house fires. By driving fire engines and shooting water from long hoses.”

“Do they really?” Draco hummed. “Perhaps I’d be a member of the House of Lords.”

Potter snorted. “That’s not a real job.”

“They’re an essential part of Muggle politics. A nobleman. You know, to oversee the other Muggles and be a pillar of support in the community.”

“Not a million miles away from what you’d be doing if you weren’t here. I think they wear robes, too,” Potter added. “Why are you here? You don’t need the money, surely.”

“No, Potter, I do not need the money. There are easier, nicer ways of making money than putting Splinched people back together, regrowing kneecaps and prescribing Dreamless Sleep.”

“Oh. I suppose you’re right.”

“Like investments. Stocks and shares. Breeding Persian cats.”

The sound of Potter’s roaring laughter was a rather attractive sound. Draco hoped for a swift and timely death.

“Cat breeding!” He gasped in between his laughter. “How do you come up with this stuff?”

“You laugh, but that is an actual job. As is owl handling and racehorse training.”

“You’re so bloody posh.”

Draco checked his pocket watch and stood to leave.

“Oh, hang on. There’s a crossword clue I got stuck on.”

Draco sat back down and helped himself to a banana from Potter’s fruit bowl.

“Go on, then.”

Remedial Potions

Draco’s birthday was not a private affair. Scorpius made coffee ice cream terrine and invited all of Draco’s friends, and conveniently, some of his own friends too. Weasleys and Potters ate tiny pastries on one side of the parlour, whilst anyone sorted in Slytherin sat around a card table. Scorpius and Albus disappeared and came back with a low-flying toy unicorn for Hugo Weasley, but then Daphne’s and Pansy’s offspring squabbled over it.

Potter’s birthday was two months later. The cook brought up a birthday cake in the shape of a fire engine, Gilderoy wrote invitations for the other permanent residents, and Mother hung streamers from the ceiling. A few Weasleys, birthday presents and Butterbeers later, and they were both thirty-two.

“Everyone’s gone mad for the Olympics,” Potter said, nodding in the direction of a cheering pub down the street. “Wish I could go.”

“Piss off,” he said with a smile.

“Could I borrow your wand?”

Draco looked at him askance. “Why?”

Potter hung his head and scuffed his trainers against the railing. “… Just miss being a wizard, that’s all.”

“It probably wouldn’t work properly.”

“Oh, I think it will.”

Draco withdrew his wand. He thumbed the hawthorn and a gold spark shot out the end, announcing his mood. Draco passed it to Potter, handle first. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Promise.”

Their fingers brushed. Another gold spark shot out the end.

“Does it normally do that?” Potter asked, his voice hushed.

“No.”

Draco sat down, hand tingling, his eyes not leaving Potter. The man grinned as he switched pebbles into ice cubes, and shot a butterfly out the tip of his wand.

“Did you mean to do that?” Draco asked.

Potter frowned at the wand. “Sort of. Narcissa taught me the Latin for ‘butterfly’ but I didn’t think it would be a real spell!”

“Give it back. I don’t want you experimenting, you’ll blow us up or something.”

“You think I’m that powerful?”

“I wasn’t trying to compliment you. Besides,” Draco continued, “I want to light a cigarette and don’t trust you.”

They sat and had a smoke.

“I’ve had an idea,” Draco said slowly.

Potter’s eyes were restless, like a caged bird tasting release. “Oh yeah? For sorting out my head?”

“As you may be aware, I’m not one to sit around, waiting for results…”

It would be labour intensive, possibly futile, and almost certainly would end in tears. However, Draco had to try. Anything.

“Have you heard of Occlumency and Legilimency?” Draco asked.

Potter grinned and blew cigarette smoke in his face. “Remedial Potions, some would call it.”

Draco’s jaw dropped. “I knew you were up to something!”

“No, you didn’t! You were delighted I was bottom of the class!” And now Potter was delighted in proving him wrong.

“No comment.”

“Anyway. It should’ve been called Remedial Occlumency. I was awful at it. Me and Snape didn’t, er, work very well together. So… I suppose I’ll be practising Legilimency on you?”

“Absolutely not,” Draco said. “I’ll be casting it on you. Seeing whether I can unlock future memories, or if learning to compartmentalise will help. It might not work, but it’s worth a try.”

“If you get to see all the shit in my mind, I get to see the shit in yours.”

“It’s not necessary for your healing for you to delve into my mind.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Tough luck.”

“Is there anyone else that can teach me?”

“Hardly.”

“Let me get this straight. I’m supposed to let you poke around, maybe learn to block you out,” Potter said with a scowl. “And I don’t get to learn Legilimency whilst you… Hang on…” He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t trust me. Well. If you don’t trust me, then this isn’t going to work.”

“I am generously offering—”

“Don’t care.” Potter stubbed out his cigarette, scowling at the sky. “As you said yourself, it probably won’t work. Let’s go.” He stood by the cast-iron gate at the top of the staircase.

“You are such a child.”

****

“What’s this?” Potter asked, taking a scroll from Draco.

“A confidential disclosure contract.”

“… Oh.” Potter accepted the parrot quill. “Why?”

“Mutual Occlumency and Legilimency. Our memories stay memories.”

“So you don’t trust me. But you want to make it legally binding that I don’t tell people you’ve got nineteen pairs of dress shoes and shagged Pansy Parkinson.”

Draco snatched the parchment back and made to leave.

“Wait.”

He put his hand on the door jamb and sighed.

“You’ve put a lot of effort into this. Thank you. And I trust you not to blab. You’re my bloody Healer, for God’s sake. I’ll sign your thingy.” Potter snatched back the paperwork, and went hunting for some ink. “You could always Obliviate me if I saw something really bad, God knows what they get up to in Slytherin.”

“That’s not funny.”

“If anyone’s allowed to joke about Memory Charms, it’s me. I’m the sixteen-year-old trapped in an old man’s body,” Potter said, handing back the agreement. Draco rested the parchment on Potter’s back to countersign.

“We’re thirty-two!”

“That’s fifteen years I won’t get back.”

“Not if I can help it.”

He grinned and clapped Draco on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit. How do you know when my birthday is?”

Potter’s birthday was precisely eight weeks after his. Not to mention he had dropped in on the party three days ago.

“The paperwork you generate is horrendous,” Draco said, lip curling. “It’s etched into my mind.”

****

For their first Legilimency session, they went upstairs to one of the consulting rooms. They passed two bickering visitors on the stairwell who didn’t notice them, and Harry waved at some paintings in the corridor.

Draco’s hands were sweaty. He hadn’t consciously tried Mind Magic with anyone outside his family.

“What do you know about Occlumency?” Draco asked once they’d sat down.

“You’re supposed to clear your mind before bed. Think of nothing, somehow. And you can lie to Legilimens, like Vol—You-Know-Who. Did you know that Professor Dumbledore and Professor Snape are Occlumens?”

“Yes,” Draco said tightly. “I did know that.” He leant forwards on his forearms, wand gripped tightly, and said, “Get ready, then. I’ll give you five seconds.” Potter pushed his spectacles up his nose and nodded. “Legilimens,” he whispered.

At once, Draco’s mind was teeming with memories that were not his. A woman was swinging a frying pan at Potter’s head… Potter was falling off a broomstick hundreds of feet in the air… Potter was grinning at Diggory across the Entrance Hall… Potter’s hand was bleeding whilst he wrote lines in Umbridge’s office—

Draco broke away. “What the fuck was that?”

Potter gasped for air, trembling in his chair.

“Which bit?”

“Your hand. Show me.” Draco seized it, but he knew as he’d seen it before… “It’s gone. I healed the scar.” He dropped Potter’s hand. “I didn’t know Umbridge did that to you.”

Potter grimaced. “For saying that You-Know-Who was back. I had loads of detentions, remember?”

“It was a long time ago. For me.”

Potter felt the back of his hand, contemplating. “When did you get rid of the scar?”

“You normally come in, every year or so at least, after getting yourself blown up—” Draco clamped his mouth shut. “Anyway, occasionally I’m the Duty Healer, so I have to put you back together when you’re unconscious. I used a Scar-Fading Solution to get rid of blemishes.”

“I do look different, now. I’m bigger and I’ve got long hair, but I never really thought about my scars.” He examined both sides of his hands.

“Come on, then. Let’s get this over with.”

Draco pushed his wand over the desk towards Harry.

“Legilimens!”

He was seventeen, staring at his elocution instructor in the cellars—nobody knew Linus was Muggle-born. … He was six, shrieking in delight as Father flew him over Salisbury Plain. … He was seventeen, trying not to be sick as he cleaned up blood from the floor of the parlour. … He was twelve, and Potter caught the Snitch from under his nose. … He was fifteen, drunk and dancing in the Slytherin common room. … He was twenty-nine, curled up in bed, clutching a pillow to his chest—

“Enough!” Draco said, chest heaving. “Enough. For today.”

Rain clattered on the roof garden. They faced each other, feet tucked onto the bench out of the wet, and Potter conjured some bluebell flames to put between them. Draco saved a spider from the rain.

“You look a bit sick,” Potter said. “Here.”

He snapped a bar of chocolate in two and passed half to Draco.

“If you could put your brain in a robot and live forever, would you?” Potter asked.

“What’s a robot?”

“It’s a machine. Er… never mind. Okay, new question. If you could replace the handshake as a greeting, what would you replace it with?”

Draco let the chocolate melt on his tongue for a while.

“A snog.”

Potter threw his spectacles off, flung his forearm over his eyes and laughed. It felt nice. Perhaps he was laughing at Draco’s jokes on purpose to make him feel better.

Draco said nothing because he couldn’t think of anything cleverer to ask than ‘Did you really snog Cho Chang?’

“What was the worst guest you had in your house and what did they do?”

Draco’s mouth went dry.

Potter frowned. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“What?” Draco rubbed his forehead. “Er, nothing immediately comes to mind.”

Potter held out his palm into the rain to collect a small puddle. “You’re not very good at this game,” he said.

****

“What always sounds like a good idea at the time but never is?” Potter asked, whilst he weeded the rose bed.

“Do you sit up and think of these questions all day?”

“Answer the sodding question, Malfoy.”

“Mixing Bloody Marys with shots of Firewhisky, then agreeing to a game of Strip Billiards.”

“Strip Billiards? What the fuck?” Potter laughed.

“Don’t try it.”

“Who won? Do I want to know?”

Draco groaned. “You don’t want to know. There was an abundance of regrettable nudity involved.”

“What fact are you really surprised people don’t know?” Potter asked.

“It’s illegal to drink and fly in France.”

“Is it?” Potter squinted at him. “How do you know that? Have you got a good story?”

“No—I’ve learnt the common laws of France.” Draco vanished the growing pile of weeds with a flick of his wand. “Ask me something else.”

“What’s something you’ve never been able to do well?”

Draco shook his head slowly. “Er… I can’t do a handstand. You?”

“I can’t ride a bike.”

“Nobody can ride a bike,” Draco declared.

“Muggles do it all the time.”

“Muggles,” he said slowly, “are maniacs.” He pulled Potter by the arm over to the railing and pointed. “Just look at them. Look! Look at that one, there.” A bicyclist careened around a motorcar and lurched to a stop at the funny lights. “See? They nearly died!”

“Fair point, yeah,” Potter conceded. “Cyclists in London are something else. You’re still clueless about Muggles, though.”

“I’ve used the Undertrain, I’ve got several excellent suits. Let’s face it, if I were to sit the Muggle Studies NEWT, I’d get a comfortable O.”

Potter looked unconvinced.

“What do you wish people would stop asking you?”

“That one’s easy. ‘How’s Harry Potter?’ I don’t mean to be rude, but my life doesn’t revolve around you.”

“Fair enough!” Potter nodded. “That does sound annoying.”

“You?”

Potter shrugged, wiping muddy hands on his jeans. “I don’t talk to people much. Your mum’s nice, though. She’s been showing me calligraphy and sewing.”

“She loves that sort of thing. I was never interested, growing up. And of course I was away at school, whereas she gets to see you nearly every day.” He turned to look at Potter. “Careful, she’ll prefer you to me, soon.”

Potter elbowed him in the ribs and winked. “Might already be too late,” he said. “What’s the stupidest argument you’ve ever had?”

Draco searched his memories for a suitable answer, then smirked. “I had a friend. We, er, thought the other… Well. I thought she fancied me a lot, and she thought I fancied her a lot. We had this tremendous fight just because we didn’t know how to break up. But it all came out over a cocktail later on, that we were just dating because it seemed like something we ought to do.”

“It’s Pansy Parkinson, isn’t it.”

Draco’s eyes went wide. “How the blazes do you know—”

He shrugged. “You took her to the Yule Ball. She was stroking your hair in sixth year. So, er, she’s not your girlfriend any more, then?”

“Certainly not!” Draco spluttered.

Potter pulled out a pen and started writing.

“You’re not bloody writing that down, are you?”

“You said I should make notes. To help me remember things.”

****

“What’s the biggest lesson that life has taught you?”

Draco frowned and took a swig of his Butterbeer. “Make your own path. And keep your head down.”

Potter nodded slowly. “I don’t suppose I can ask you about it?”

“Firstly, your memory isn’t back yet.” Potter stole Draco’s Butterbeer. “Secondly, and I don’t know how else to put this, but we are not friends.”

“Right. Course we aren’t.” Potter smirked into the bottle.

“Have you any life wisdom, or are you not old enough?”

He shook his head. “Nah, I don’t think you get all wisdom-y until you’re old and a ton of nasty shit has happened to you. Oh, and don’t trust the government. Does that count?”

The breeze ruffled Draco’s hair and he scrunched up his nose. “Not really. Not unless you want to be an anarchist.”

Potter looked down at his list. Merlin’s beard and balls, he must have been bored to come up with these.

“What do you think is becoming increasingly socially acceptable?”

“Muggle culture,” Draco said, thinking of his son’s clothing. “It’s like a weed amongst the roses.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “Muggle stuff is really handy, you know. Like trousers.”

Draco made a face. “I hate trousers. With a passion. I hate trousers even more than I hate you.”

For some reason, this delighted Potter.

“And don’t even mention pens!” Draco continued. “My crazy secretary keeps on leaving them in the inkwell, she’s so eccentric it drives me up the wall.”

“And aeroplanes?”

“Aeroplanes are for the suicidal. You couldn’t pay me to get in one.”

“Mars Bars are nice, too.”

“Now I have tried a Mars Bar. A bit heavy. Yet quite palatable.”

“Who bought you a Mars Bar?”

Potter shivered from a gust of wind, so Draco got out the jar of flames from his Healers Bag.

“A pure-blood of good breeding and impeccable manners. I don’t know what got into him.”

“Not Ron, then.”

“I’m not on confectionary-purchasing terms with Ronald Weasley, no.”

“Give it time.”

Solve et Coagula

Potter was right—he was terrible at Occlumency.

“Try again,” Potter said, wiping sweat off his forehead.

“Legilimens!” Draco cried.

His mind flooded with memories—Potter was white-faced and sitting by Mr Weasley in a St Mungo’s ward. … Potter was burying a wand near Dumbledore’s White Tomb. … Potter was sprinting away from a bulldog. … Potter was driving a sword through the roof of a great Basilisk’s mouth. … A tiny boy wept in a dark cupboard. … Potter and Chang were sitting in Madam Puddifoot’s—

Draco withdrew. “How do you feel? Any headache?”

He thought Potter looked seventeen or eighteen when burying the wand, but he didn’t say as such.

Potter rubbed his scar. “No, I feel fine. Some of those memories are a bit hazy, though… Is it normal to not remember them all?”

“Yes. You’ll dredge up long-forgotten ones and possibly ones you haven’t remembered yet. If it goes horribly wrong, I shall have to Obliviate you.”

Potter nodded. “Should I have a go, then?”

Draco gritted his teeth. “Fine. Do be careful.”

He passed Potter his own wand, and some silver sparks flew out of the tip.

Potter smiled down at it, pointed the wand at Draco and said, “Legilimens.”

The spell came out at him like a battering ram and Draco clenched his jaw against the onslaught.

He was five, and his godmother Charis was reading him a bedtime story. … He was sixteen, naked and reaching between his shoulder blades to rub ointment onto brutal bruises. … He was fourteen, dancing with Daphne at his first Midsummer Ball. … He was seventeen, retching at the sight of maggots wriggling in the face of a corpse—

At that, he threw Potter out of his mind. He went to clasp the chimneypiece with clammy fingers.

Draco started when he felt a hand at the small of his back. He hadn’t realised his jaw was chattering.

“Are you all right?” Potter asked.

Draco nodded his head jerkily. “Fine.” He accepted a glass of water and his wand. “We should try again another day. I’m tired.”

“Did I do the spell right?”

“There was a lot of power behind the spell. I wasn’t Occluding you, obviously. And you were using a foreign wand. But it was like being struck over the head, and so you will need to learn finesse. Practice makes perfect,” he said bitterly.

Potter made a face. “Sorry,” he said. “Why don’t you nick some chocolate from the kitchens and we’ll go up to the roof?”

“It’s raining.” Draco gulped the cold water. “Thanks.”

“Oh. I don’t care—let’s go anyway.”

“I ought to timetable in the Legilimency last thing at night. So I don’t have to go and reply to my letters, and for your own safety in the corridors.”

“Yeah. I think my memory gets better as the day goes on.”

Draco nodded. “But you are getting better in the mornings. You’ll remember being a wizard soon.”

He walked Potter down to his rooms in silence. “I’ll be back in half an hour.”

Draco fetched two mugs of hot chocolate heaped with whipped cream from the kitchens and took Harry outside.

“Thanks,” Potter said, accepting the drink.

The rain was spitting but the cool air did Draco some good and the nausea passed.

“Thanks, for, um… you know.”

Draco nodded. He did know. “Talk me through which memories you were familiar with.”

“Um. I lived in a cupboard under the stairs and I was hoping…” Potter’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I hoped that somebody would come and take me away.” He squinted out over the skyline. “I know I moan a lot about being stuck here, but it’s a damn sight better than home.”

“That place wasn’t your home.”

Potter nodded. “And, er, I had a run-in with a Basilisk. Did you know Ron and I snuck into the Slytherin common room, once?”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Impossible.”

A grin spread over Potter’s face like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. “Polyjuiced as your two cronies. The way you spoke, we thought you might’ve known who the Heir of Slytherin was. Turns out you were full of shit and hadn’t the foggiest!” Potter started laughing. “You should see the look on your face! God I hope I remember this tomorrow.”

Draco slowly shook his head. “I don’t believe it. Prove it.”

“It’s all gloomy and green. Nowhere near as good as Gryffindor tower. Rubbish fireplaces—”

“Shut up. You are such a tosser. Give me your hot chocolate. I deserve both.” Draco made a grab and tried to look all serious and pissed off, but it wasn’t really working.

Potter held his mug high above his head, the arsehole, and said, “And I remember a disastrous date with Cho Chang. I hope I don’t get any memories back like those, they can stay forgotten, if you ask me…”

“I know you’re trying to distract me. Go on, then, why was it so bad?”

Potter dunked a finger into his whipped cream and licked it, considering. “She cried a lot. And then she got weird about me wanting to hang out with Hermione afterwards.”

“Fair play, though. Getting a date with a pretty girl in the year above.”

Potter pulled a face and drank deeply from his hot chocolate.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked. “From before. Your memories are a bit grim.”

“I’m aware of that,” Draco said. He fished out a marshmallow. “Solve et coagula, Potter.”

He squinted. “What’s that mean?”

Draco blasted the Hot-Air Charm at their feet; the rain was picking up. “You don’t know any Latin?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say I don’t know any Latin. There’s, you know, Lumos. And Nox. And your mum’s taught me loads. Hic dominus toto pendet.”

Draco shook his head exasperatedly. “Solve et coagula means dissolve and curdle.”

“Right…” Potter looked at him uncertainly. “And why are you saying it?”

“It means I’m over it.”

****

They tried again, and Draco saw more awful things in Potter’s mind, like giant spiders, a skinny teenaged Harry lounging by a cat flap, and merpeople wielding spears in the depths of the lake.

Then it was Potter’s turn to delve into Draco’s mind.

He was sixteen, drunkenly playing truth or dare. … He was twenty-seven, closing the eyes of a patient who was dead on arrival. … He was nineteen, pacing and waiting for his son to be born. … He was three, and Clara was dragging him around by the hand and he pushed Potter out, gasping—

“Draco! Are you all right? Talk to me.”

Draco was surprised to find his forehead on the desk, forearms shaking, feeling as though someone had stabbed him in the gut.

Potter’s hand gripped his shoulder. “Here.”

A glass of water was pressed into his hand. He took a shaky gulp.

Potter’s hands were on his face, wiping it dry, and Draco jerked away and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his cheeks.

“C’mon,” Potter said. “Let’s get you outside.”

Draco put a Disillusionment Charm on them both, and they went straight up, Potter’s hand grasping his elbow all the while. He cast the spell that made the stairwell only passable to Death Eaters and sat down heavily on the bench once they were visible again.

Potter’s hand was still on his elbow. “Who was she?” he whispered.

Draco cleared his throat, frowning at the concrete.

“Clara…” he replied at long last. “It’s stupid, really, I-I hardly remember her.”

“It’s not stupid.”

Draco buried his face in his hands and felt Potter’s arm around his shoulders.

“I’m just tired. That’s all.”

“Yeah,” Potter said.

After a while, Draco spoke. “She died when I was three. She must’ve been about four or five… I-I’m not sure, we don’t speak of her.”

“She looked pretty. Was she kind?”

“I-I think so. Yeah. Yeah, she was.”

Potter took back his arm, and they leant against the bench, not speaking, knees just touching, and it was as though they were almost friends. Draco felt raw, like someone had peeled his skin away. Only Astoria knew about Clara. And now Harry Potter did, too. “You are not to tell anyone.”

“No. I wouldn’t.”

Draco believed him.

A couple of weeks later, Potter saw his face contort in agony at the Marking ceremony. When the same memory of Clara came up again, Potter rubbed small circles on his back. Draco clung back like a starfish sticking to its home rock, and that was all he could think about for a while: that Potter was like his familiar stone in a rock pool.

“I find it hard to remember her,” Draco said, trembling. “So it’s funny to see her twice.”

“I remembered the bathroom thing,” Potter said. “With all the blood. And I’m sorry.”

Draco clung harder. There must be something wrong with his brain. “When… when did you remember?”

“A few weeks ago.”

“I see.” He swallowed.

“Er, I’ll promise not to use Sectumsempra on you if you promise not to use an Unforgivable.”

Draco snorted into Potter’s shoulder. “All right, then.”

Potter pulled back a little, and his hand hovered over Draco’s chest. “Did the curse… have any lasting effects?”

Draco cleared his throat and strode to the fake window. It was sunny. He rolled his neck to click it and said, “None of your business. Don’t worry about it.”

“Er, right. Okay.”

When Draco turned back around, he saw Potter hugging himself and staring at the floor.

“What?” Draco asked.

“You… really wanted to hurt me.”

“You think the Cruciatus would’ve worked? You must be joking. Or you’re stupider than you look. You have to mean it. I’m glad you stopped me when I did. It would’ve been humiliating had you realised I couldn’t even torture you. Some Death Eater I was,” he spat. “And I was a couple of minutes from dying, at least a Crucio wouldn’t have killed you.”

“I… didn’t know what the incantation would do—”

“You thought it would produce a bouquet, did you?” Draco sneered. “How lovely! Or give me pleasant dreams?”

“Well, no…”

“It’s all right,” he said dismissively, waving a hand. “I don’t want to argue with you, it’s just an old habit. Snape told me you didn’t know.”

“What did he say?”

“That those who are Muggle-raised just see spells and wave their wands without acknowledging the greatness of the power they wield. That you had only survived for so long because of a combination of arrogance and foolhardy friends who were more talented than you.”

Potter took off his spectacles and rubbed his temples. “Snape’s a clever guy.”

They increased their sessions to twice a week and sometimes had them as late as seven o’clock. After any particularly nasty reminiscing sessions, they went outside straight away. Draco was conscious that they were crossing into an inappropriate bond, but such was often the case when one had prolonged studies in Mind Magic.

“You’re going to remember something soon,” Draco blurted out, “and it’ll be upsetting.”

Potter tugged out a tiny weed next to the rose and wiped his hand on his jeans. “Well that’ll be a nice change. Things had been going so bloody well.”

“If it helps, sixth year probably wasn’t the worst year of your life.”

“Whoopee.” Potter picked up a snail and placed it onto the weed he’d pulled up. “So you’re going to do something horrible, right? Or, let me guess, Luna’s going to top herself. Or maybe Snape will marry Madam Pince, you know, I always thought they had a thing going on—”

“I’d rather not talk about your childish speculations,” Draco said, getting out a cigarette and a Butterbeer for them both to share.

“All right.” Potter shrugged with one shoulder. “Let’s talk about something else, then.”

“No doubt you’ve been cooking up more questions.” He tried to sound pissed off, but it came out a bit interested.

“Yep!” Potter sat heavily down on the bench, and put his parchment in his lap whilst he took down his hair, and then twisted it up into a neater bun. “If you didn’t have to sleep, what would you do with the extra time?”

Draco just shook his head and lit his fag. “I don’t bloody know. Probably work.” He huffed out a laugh around his cigarette.

“You’re so boring and strange. What would you actually do?”

“Er… I’d probably play the pianoforte. See what my cat gets up to at night when she’s awake—”

“You have a cat?”

“Yeah. I do.”

“You didn’t tell me that.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Draco said, “I didn’t realise I needed your permission.”

“Well. I mean… I live in your place of work. You know all sorts of awful shit about me. I’m not allowed to leave or have my wand. It just, I dunno, seems weird to me that you’ve got all these pets I don’t know about.”

“All these pets,” he mocked. “I have one cat, which I’ve mentioned before—you just forgot.” He took another drag of his cigarette. “Does it count if they’re family pets? Probably not.”

Harry nicked the cigarette to take a drag and passed it back to him. “I’d say so, yeah. What else have you got?”

“We’ve perhaps twenty owls, a few owlets, some peacocks, a parrot, Merlin knows how many cats—my grandfather breeds them—and just three horses.”

“Just three?”

“Just three. That enough for you?”

The way Potter was watching him made him tingle all over. He suddenly felt very hot.

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw Potter’s neck bob as he swallowed some Butterbeer, and a tongue traced his lower lip.

“What’s the most beautiful view you’ve ever experienced?” Potter asked, voice low, arm slung over the back of the bench. They were close, but not touching. He felt Harry’s watchful eyes on him.

“The Manor in spring.”

“That’s your own house.”

“It’s quite spectacular when the blossoms come out, I assure you,” Draco said. “How about you?”

Potter slowly turned to fully face him on the bench. He put his feet up and crossed his legs.

He took the cigarette out from between Draco’s lips and they tingled in response.

Draco didn’t dare to breathe.

Potter didn’t take his gaze away from Draco’s as he stubbed the cigarette out and dropped it onto the floor.

“This one,” Potter said.

“We can’t,” Draco breathed.

Harry hummed noncommittally and traced shapes on Draco’s cheek, across his smooth jaw. Heart stuttering like the Hogwarts Express, Draco sat stock-still, unable to breathe at the feel of a gentle finger tracing the boundaries of his lips.

Harry’s face was unguarded, and Draco wanted to shake him, make him realise what he was doing.

“I knew the answers to the crossword puzzles,” Harry whispered. “I just wanted an excuse to talk to you.”

“Oh,” Draco said, a little strangled. Fuck.

“Are you sure we’ve never gone out?” Harry asked. “You’re not just shaking your head cos you’re embarrassed, right? You can tell me.”

Draco was utterly speechless.

Potter’s arm was on the rear of the bench, and he was leaning on his hand, grinning at Draco. “You’re not just saying that cos my head’ll explode, right?”

“We have never,” Draco said, “gone out. Full stop. Put the thought far from your mind. You’ve an extraordinary imagination. I didn’t like you then, and I don’t like you now. Everything about you is horrific, from your hair to your shoes. Stop smiling! I’m trying to insult you.”

“You’re all bark and no bite.”

Draco cleared his throat and got to his feet. “I need to go home. Tired.”

Harry sprang to his feet too.

Draco waved his wand to break the enchantment and Potter followed him in silence.

“Good evening, then,” Draco said, at the door to Ward 59.

“Good evening.”

Walking away from Potter felt wrong, as though he had turned his back on a pool in the desert.

A Man and His Horse

“Where’s Ginny?”

Draco stood by the door and stared at it. “She’s away a lot. I can write to her, if you’d like—it would probably be safe for her to visit.”

“Yeah. Unless…” Potter rubbed the back of his neck. “We had this, er, thing… in sixth year—”

“I see.”

“It would be weird if that went anywhere, and I forgot.”

“I don’t give a fig for your romantic exploits. Tell me your name, date of birth, et cetera.”

“Wanker,” Potter muttered, before continuing on with the examination.

Draco didn’t know if it was the Legilimency, or if the return of Potter’s memories were gathering speed on their own accord, but Potter didn’t leave his room, exercise or talk to anyone for a month.

The only person Potter would look at was Mother, and she advised everyone to keep their distance for the time being. She brought in lavender from the grounds and helped Potter sew them into tiny bags—Mother was wonderful at taking your mind off things. Then she’d sit and read whilst Potter slept, to ensure nobody disturbed him.

Draco took Scorpius to Monaco for the last week of the holidays—they’d finally replaced Penelope Clearwater—and all too soon he was back at King’s Cross for his son’s second year of school.

It stung, going back to enemies or arch-rivals or whatever they were, and Draco sent the Trainee Healers in his place to assess Harry.

They didn’t go to their garden, practise Legilimency, or even have a proper conversation in all those weeks, and it was like losing a friend.

Still, with the extra free time he could chase the Private Investigator, see Theo and Tracey in Prague, and he even managed to go to a single-day symposium in Athens. It was a good thing he wasn’t traipsing around after Potter, larking about like he didn’t have a job to do, and it was a damn good thing he could devote more time to filling out paperwork and brushing his horses and walking his cat.

Despite all this, Draco met the Weasleys in the Visitors’ Tearoom on the top floor after they called on Harry.

“It was a long time ago, but you ran into us that year, and it wasn’t exactly a holiday.”

“I’m not suggesting it was,” Draco began, shoulders approaching his ears.

“I’m not saying you were, it’s just… You know, Fred died, Remus and Tonks, we saw Snape die, too, that was traumatic…”

Ronald grimaced. “And Hedwig, his owl. He never got another one, you know.”

“We also saw the dead body of Professor Bagshot animated by a snake-Horcrux, that was lovely.”

“Not to mention Colin and Dobby—”

“My elf,” Draco said, nodding.

“Harry himself died—” Hermione started.

“What?”

“You didn’t know?” Ronald said, frowning.

Draco looked between them both, flummoxed.

“You should speak to him about it,” Hermione suggested. “When he’s ready.”

“I will,” Draco promised, “if he brings it up. How do you think he’ll feel about the divorce?”

Ronald shared a look with his wife. “Dunno,” he said. “They’re really good mates. Not upset at all when they separated. But I wouldn’t spring it on him or anything.”

“Ginny would love to see him. Al, too, whenever that’s possible,” Hermione said.

“He’s a good lad, though,” Ronald said. “He understands.”

****

“Are you going to talk today?” Draco said, pulling up a chair.

“How long have you been fixing me?” Harry croaked.

Draco rubbed his eyes. “About twelve months.”

“So… longer than the Vanishing Cabinet?”

He sighed. “Longer than the Vanishing Cabinet.”

Potter’s gaze drifted around the room. At least he was wearing his spectacles today.

“It’s cruel, you know,” Potter said. “To not charm the windows to match the weather outside.”

“I know. My boss won’t fix them—I’ve already asked.” Draco took out a quill and rested his parchment on the bedside table. He wanted fresh essay questions this year for the new trainees. “Don’t feel like you have to talk unless you want to. I’ve got loads to do, anyway.”

Potter nodded.

Twenty minutes later, Potter said, “I remember the summer after Voldemort died. Snatches of it. It was shit.”

“It was,” he agreed.

“What’re you doing?”

“I came up with new essay questions, and now I’m writing a quiz for tomorrow.”

“Oh yeah—for your teaching seminar every Wednesday.”

Draco’s lips twitched. “Well remembered.”

“What else have you got on?” he asked, nodding to the pile of paperwork.

“Let’s see…” Draco leafed through the parchment. “A note from my secretary reminding me that the deposits for the Christmas party are due on the twelfth… No, thank you… A request from my boss for ideas in publicising the dangers of Nogtail hunts—he enjoys pretending to care about my opinions… And applications for the Trainee Healer positions next year.”

“How many will you take on?”

“Up to six, but usually four. We only take the best.”

“Nice one. I can see why they picked you, you’re good at your job.”

Draco eyed him bemusedly. “I’ve not healed you yet, though.”

“You will.”

****

Draco took the week off and went back to the Czech Republic.

In the bars and lights of Prague, Draco couldn’t stop thinking about Harry. What was he doing? Would Harry like Prague? Had he started any fires?

Upon Draco’s return, Harry’s face lit up as though Christmas had come early.

He knew Harry wanted him. And Draco’s response was like the Knight Bus: one flick of his hand and Draco was there, by his side.

Several weeks passed before Potter suggested Legilimency again. By implicit agreement, they returned to practising twice weekly. Potter didn’t behave inappropriately again.

Really, the whole ordeal was probably because Potter was a man who hadn’t been touched in Merlin knew how long. Draco did not speculate whether that applied to himself.

And then he was back in Harry’s mind—a gang of children were chasing a young boy. … A dozen students were practising the Patronus Charm. … A woman was screaming, then there was a surge of green light. … Harry was tracing Draco’s lips, feeling intense desire and tenderness. … Draco’s first cousin once removed was singing ‘God Rest Ye, Merry Hippogriffs’ at the top of his voice—

The next thing he knew, they were both breathing heavily in the chairs of the consulting room.

“Good,” Draco said. “You pushed me out.”

“Yes! Yes, I did.” Potter nodded and looked relieved at the conversation starter.

“Once more, then.”

Draco pushed in with no further preamble, and saw Potter jogging through a park. … Harry was duelling someone in his Auror robes. … Harry was sitting in the dark next to his future wife with a hundred Muggles, staring up at moving images on a screen. …

Draco pulled out of his mind and Potter wasn’t even trying to Occlude him.

“Try it on me without the incantation this time.”

Potter’s mind pushed and Draco squeezed his eyes shut.

“Gentler—try again but take more care.”

“Sorry,” Potter muttered.

This time, their minds brushed together and Harry slipped in, and all at once images raced through his mind. He was sixteen, crouching in a broom shed, arms around his knees, wishing he had someone to talk to. … He was fourteen, eyes damp, as his father cast the Killing Curse on his dying horse. … He was eight, leaving flowers on his grandmother’s grave. … He was twenty-two, pressing his forehead to the sheets as Astoria breathed her last breath. … He was twenty-six, cradling Scorpius on his lap, who was desperately trying to stay awake for the birth of the kittens. … He was seventeen, shakily pointing his wand at Luna and Ollivander. … He was thirty, staring at Harry tending a barbecue, topless at the World Cup—

“I think that’s quite enough for now,” Draco said, chest heaving.

They looked at each other for a moment.

“Who was she?” Potter whispered.

“Did she look familiar?”

Potter screwed up his face. “Don’t think so.”

“She will,” Draco said with a nod. “Won’t be long now.”

“Am I getting better? At Legilimency?”

“Marginally. You need to knock at the door rather than smash it down. It’s supposed to be not only painless but undetectable. And your Occlumency is still… requiring practise.”

“Bloody rubbish, you mean.” He pulled Draco to his feet.

Harry fancied him. There was no denying it.

It didn’t come as a horrendous revelation, or even an unwelcome one, and Draco would have to dwell on that later whilst alone in bed.

“Shall we go up to the roof?” Harry suggested.

He didn’t respond for a while, so Potter said, “It’s a nice day,” nodding to the window.

Draco rolled his eyes. “It’s overcast today, I’ll get you a cloak.”

Potter beamed.

“But I must spend at least another hour on paperwork and get something to eat.”

“I’ll nick you some extra chips.”

The dinner menu was in a fourteen-day rotation and today was sausage, eggs and chips, with Arctic roulade. Draco pulled a face. “The food is appalling. I can bring you something from our kitchens.”

“No, it’s fine.”

Two hours later found them shivering around a fire. Their feast comprised of a pile of cold chips, a packet of nicotine-free cigarettes, two Butterbeers, a package of duck with buttered black turnips, and a side of mandarin, chicken liver parfait and grilled bread.

All Draco could think about was the memory of Harry brushing his fingertips over Draco’s face, how badly Draco had wanted him back, and the unbearable thought that he’d seen it twice.

There was only so much a man could take.

****

Draco had an unusual two days off in a row and his mother was avoiding him at home.

She didn’t like to talk about work. She said gossiping was uncouth, but really Draco knew she wanted to relax and forget for a time. He knew something awful must have happened to Potter, but as Draco had barely spoken to him once they’d left school, there was a good decade of knowledge he didn’t have about Potter. It unnerved Draco that he didn’t know what was coming round the corner.

Draco found his cat, Blue, with her beady eyes on the Japanese koi in the pond. A thick invisible barrier repelled her, so he picked her up and carried her into the Orangery. “I might go riding,” he told her.

He composed a letter to his son, made his grandfather a pot of tea (he was snoring next to the wireless), and he pretended he didn’t hear Father calling out for him as he walked down the passageway. Once Draco was out riding Butter, he didn’t need to think.

There was something magical about doing such a Muggle activity. Rippling muscles between his thighs, a near-soulmate bond with his favourite horse. The giant took him through acres of woodlands, along paths forged by long-remembered wonder. The early November air was crisp, and the chill burnt his nostrils.

Out here he could forget all about Potter and his woes, Madam Campbell and her non-improvement, the Longbottoms and the Legilimency memories, the baby he helped deliver who wasn’t looking well when he handed over to the Night Assistants. The half-finished Mortality Report still on his desk. The dire applicants for the next intake of Trainee Healers. How he’d forgotten to visit Stonehenge last week on Hallowe’en.

Out here, it didn’t matter. He was just a man and his horse.

The following afternoon, however, he was face to face with Potter, who was back to judging him as a piece of shit.

“What is it now?” Draco asked.

“I don’t want to see you.”

Potter hadn’t got out of bed today.

“Fine.”

The next day Potter had done a record number of hanging sit-ups, torn up a hundred sudoku puzzles, and snapped at his mother.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Draco snarled.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Potter cried. “How’s your wife?”

Draco’s blood chilled in his veins. His lip curled.

“I have no wife.”

“Liar. I remember her. You-you…” Potter faltered at the look on his face.

“So sure, are we, that you know what’s going in the year of 2012?” Draco asked, twisting his lips. “Go on, please tell me more about my life, who I am and what I deserve!”

Potter opened his mouth to speak, but Draco carried on, “You think I’m an awful Death Eater who waits for life to be handed to him on a plate, but you KNOW all I do is work myself to the bone, you have no idea how often I sleep in my office, that I have four hundred outpatients and twenty-three inpatients under my care. No, it’s all about you. Most people kiss the feet of the Chosen One but I am certainly not afraid of offending the great Harry Potter. Well guess what—you don’t know a thing. Far be it from me to assume you’re anything other than a clueless child and I—”

Draco stepped back at Potter’s stricken face and passed his fingers through his hair.

“You can punch me if you like,” Potter suggested.

He remembered who he was, when it was, his position. That it wasn’t 1997.

“You make me behave like such an arsehole,” Draco spat. “This is your fault.”

Potter looked sorry for him, which pissed Draco off even more. “What happened? You broke up?”

“My wife is dead.”

He asked Potter the year, where they were, checked his eyes and heart, wrote in his Healing Records and left without another word.

Potter didn’t stop him.

****

“Sorry,” Potter mumbled the next day.

“Tell me the year, where we are, et cetera.”

“I’m sorry. I-I didn’t know.”

Draco clenched his jaw.

“You saw her. In my memories.”

“Yeah,” he whispered. “She looked like she was sleeping.”

Draco shook his head, staring at the Healing Records. “She had been dying for years. It was a long time ago.”

He felt Potter’s hand on his arm. “You’re too young to be a…”

Draco looked him directly in the eyes. “Widower. Say it.”

“I’m sorry you’re a widower. That’s awful.”

Draco twisted his lips. “Awful is my middle name.”

Potter flinched. “Let’s go outside.”

“Can’t.” Draco shook off his hand. “I’ve ordered someone’s fingers to be regrown in the laboratory and I need to reattach them. The world does not revolve around you and you alone, Potter.”

Non-Declarative Memory

Harry clambered off the pull-up bar, from which he was doing hanging sit-ups. “Hi!”

Oh God. Hating Potter was simpler when he had short hair and a skinny frame. His T-shirt was far too tight. But recognising that he was distressingly attractive was not a crime—just objective fact.

Draco postponed his mental breakdown and found his tongue. “You’re chirpy today.”

“Are you all right? You’ve gone a bit red.”

“It’s very warm in here.”

“No it isn’t,” Potter said. “Isn’t it November?”

“I’ve just come in from outside.”

“Oh.” Harry sat down and gulped a glass of water. “I saw Ginny just after lunch.”

Draco looked at him for a while, trying to read his face. “You need a bath,” he said, then feigned checking the labels of the potions.

“You’re so horrible,” Harry said with a laugh. He sniffed his armpit and nodded reluctantly.

“Horrible in spending my free time feeding you cakes in my secret roof garden,” Draco said, nose back in the potions cabinet. “So, how was she?”

“It was nice seeing her. She was acting strangely, though. And it seems she doesn’t like Narcissa much. It’s like my life is a film and everyone knows the ending—”

“Is that yet another Muggle cultural reference?”

“Yeah.”

“You are a wizard. You’d do well to remember that. Who you are.”

“Are you always interrupting your patients?”

“No, you brute,” Draco said, turning to face him. “You’re a special case. How did she get in? She’s not on the approved list.”

“Dunno. Ginny’s a good mate, she should be allowed in. Is Luna on the list?”

“The last I heard, she’s in Mongolia looking at plants or whatever. You ought to write to her.”

Draco passed his wand over to Harry, who tidied the ward, cleaned the window, and organised his sock drawer.

“You’re getting good at household charms,” Draco said.

“Thanks! Hermione’s been teaching me. She thinks I’m getting the hang of it quickly, because something deep inside me remembers.”

Draco would like to be deep inside him, too.

He cleared his throat and stood. “Non-declarative memory.”

“Yeah!” Harry handed the wand back. “You’ve got a night shift tonight, I suppose? So you’ll be off tomorrow.”

Draco felt tingly all over that Harry remembered.

God he needed to get a grip.

He got out his pocket watch. “Yes. I’m the Duty Healer from four o’clock. Till four in the morning.”

Harry pursed his lips in sympathy. “Sounds rough. Does that mean I’ll get Robertson tomorrow?”

“Probably. I’ll see you in a few days, then.”

“See you!”

Draco went straight up to the staff quarters to have a slow, private shower.

****

When Draco was back at his desk on Wednesday, his mother came to find him.

“Is everything all right?” he asked. “Is it Potter? What’s happened?”

She poured herself a glass of pumpkin juice from the dumbwaiter and sat down.

At long last, she said, “Harry remembers his engagement.”

Draco held his chin high and stared at the crackling flames dancing in the fire.

“He’s been put to sleep,” she said. “He’s angry again.”

Draco nodded, brow furrowed. “How have his mornings been?”

“He feels about thirteen or fifteen in the mornings,” she replied.

“That’s good. He’ll probably be completely better within a year.”

“How are his afternoons?”

“He’s perhaps eighteen in the afternoons. So remembering Weasley before lunchtime is good progress.” He curled his lip. “She let herself in the other day.”

“That woman is not on the approved list!” Mother said, appalled. “She is jeopardising your hard work.”

“And yours,” he added with a nod. “He wasn’t distressed afterwards, though. Not really. I don’t think she told him much.”

Mother made a face as though she had smelt something sour.

“You think she was wrong to leave him,” Draco stated.

“My parents raised me to believe that marriage endured until death. We must pity those who have not been taught right and wrong.”

Draco tried to imagine Ginny Potter, kissing Harry and holding his hand and taking him home, and he just couldn’t agree. Savagely, Draco was looking forward to telling him that she’d left him. “We’ll tell Harry his dear wife dumped him when he remembers his son.”

“Dear Albus,” Mother said with a sigh. “He is such a sweet companion for Scorpius, whom I long to see.”

“It’s not long now until the holidays. He wants to see a concert in Coventry with his friends. I suppose they can stay at the Manor and take the Floo.”

“Such sweet boys,” Mother said. “And it’s good for your father to have guests in the home.”

“Mmm.”

“Your grandfather misses you.”

Draco hated speaking with his grandfather. “I’ll pop in on him tonight.”

He wasn’t in a terrific mood when he visited Potter early that evening.

“You’ve remembered your wife,” Draco said without preamble.

“Yeah,” Harry whispered. “Where is she?”

“Your marital problems are none of my concern.”

“Sod off, then.”

Draco examined his fingernails. “I am professionally obliged to listen to you.”

“I need to see her!”

“You already have.”

“Why isn’t she on the approved list?”

Draco leant against the door and just stared at him.

“Please,” Potter said. “Tell me.”

Draco looked between his desperate eyes and knew he couldn’t keep the truth from him any longer. “You’re divorced.”

“That’s a lie!”

Draco’s heart cleaved in two.

“It was mutual. She tells me you were living as friends rather than man and wife for some years. She’s living with her boyfriend and is very happy.”

“But—our vows…”

Draco’s lip curled. “Clearly they are less valuable to you than you once thought.”

Potter buried his face in his hands. “Everything is so fucked up,” he mumbled.

Getting out his pocket watch, Draco said, “Arthur Weasley is arriving soon. You should get dressed.”

Then he left.

That night, he levitated his grandfather’s wheeled chair to the balcony overlooking his favourite pianoforte in the East Wing. He played some of Grandfather’s old favourites—Debussy, Fauré, Saint-Saëns, and pretended he was alone. He wondered what music Potter would’ve wanted him to play, the uncultured fool.

The following evening, he could no longer put off seeing Potter. He dragged Potter up to the roof where the air was rich with the sweet, dewy petrichor of the post-rain afternoon. The sky was grey and unkind.

“What fun,” Draco said. “I’ve got Pessimistic Potter today.”

“I’ve gained and lost a wife, have a little compassion,” Potter snapped.

Even so, Harry accepted the Chocolate Frog, snapped it in two, and gave the greater half to Draco.

“Oh boo hoo. She claims you’re still the best of friends, so I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” Draco said, waving a cigarette. “Ask me one of your silly questions.”

Potter sighed. “Don’t want to.”

He swallowed the chocolate before replying. “Just fucking do it.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sitting out here for my health,” Draco said. “And don’t speak whilst you eat. It’s revolting.”

Harry stole his cigarette, and Draco couldn’t be bothered to fight him.

“If I died, how would I be remembered?” Harry asked.

He sighed. “Everyone will be wondering where you were, because naturally I’ll have drowned you in the ocean for being the most annoying person I’ve ever met. There won’t be a body at your funeral, of course, because I’ve no desire to be implicated and sent to prison. I will instead live out my days on a beach. Perhaps Brazil.”

“You’ve given this a worrying amount of thought.”

Draco smiled. How little he knew.

“You wouldn’t cope in Brazil,” Harry declared. “Why aren’t you in your normal robes today?”

Conjuring a few more floating candles, Draco said, “It’s Wear Your Ugliest Robes To Work Day today, and I don’t own any ugly robes. So I had to wear my old ones.”

Harry looked him up and down, examining the lime-green uniform that almost every other Healer wore. “Fair enough,” he allowed. “You do look better in emerald green.”

“Everyone looks better in emerald green. These are vulgar.”

“Is that why you got a promotion?”

“One motivating factor, yes. Never let it be said that Slytherins aren’t ambitious.”

Harry got out his parchment and started on his questions. “What’s something that people can go on and on about, and you just can’t sit through it?”

“Bewitched in Shoreditch.”

“That’s an amazing programme!”

Draco held up a hand and looked away. “Please. Don’t. It is so dull. And everyone is so addicted to it. Sometimes I wish there was more than one wireless network.”

“You could try the Muggle radio.”

“That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard. Go throw yourself off the roof,” Draco commanded, pointing with his cigarette.

Potter stole it and took a drag. “You’re such a wanker.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Christmas lights look nice.”

“Mmm. They do.”

Draco lent him his wand so he could practise magic, but they didn’t stay out long in the frigid air. Now that Harry had two-thirds of his life back, he’d presumably be gone within a year.

A couple of weeks later, Potter asked to practise Legilimency again. He was still rubbish at it but they did make progress in other areas.

“I have a son,” Potter said, his face a picture of wonder.

“You do,” he replied. “Do you remember him properly, or are you just joining the dots?”

Potter covered his face with his hands. “I remember him… When? How old is he?” His head shot up. “Is he safe?” He sprang to his feet. “Tell me he’s all right!”

“Calm down,” Draco ordered. “Sit and speak rationally, and only then will I tell you.”

Potter sank into his seat. “Albus… His name is Albus.”

“Your son is twelve.” Draco beamed and added, “He is safely ensconced in the Slytherin dungeons.”

“What?”

“You must be honoured! The greatest wizards of our age were in Slytherin.”

Draco grinned at him as Harry threw his head back to laugh.

“I have a son. He is in Slytherin. I don’t believe it! And yet… it feels true. In my mind.”

“Right, I’m going to tell you two true things and two false. I want you to identify them.”

“Go on, then.”

“Let me think of something safe…” Draco said. “All right. Your son is proficient at the pianoforte. He plays Chaser. He has a Cleansweep XIX. He attends the Charms Club.”

Potter repeated the phrases back to himself, savouring the words on his tongue. “It’s the last two. He’s got a great broom, and he’s in Charms Club.”

“Correct.” Draco was mildly impressed.

“Try me again! It’s like remembering.”

“Albus isn’t my best friend—I’m not armed with various facts,” Draco said. “Let’s see… He likes Nogtail soup. His eyes are brown. His best friend is Mariah Courtstone. He supports the Chudley Cannons.”

Potter pulled a face and repeated the phrases to himself.

“He likes the soup. And the Cannons. God, are they still crap nowadays?”

“They are.” Draco stretched his legs out. “Poor parenting, allowing him to get so emotionally invested in the worst team in the league. You’re setting him up for failure.”

“Nogtails. What the fuck are they?”

“We have them in the grounds at the Manor. Nasty creatures.”

“Poor parenting… yeah… I’ve just been sat here, for over a year. Does he need me? Is he all right?”

“He seems fine but you ought to write to him.” Draco rummaged around in the desk for parchment and ink. “I can forward on letters for you.”

“What should I say?” Potter asked, taking the parrot quill.

“You can enquire after his health and his marks in his subjects, find out how Slytherin are doing at Quidditch, tell him what you’ve had for breakfast… And you can invite him to visit at Christmas. It’s not as if you’re dying, so I don’t see why he should miss his lessons.”

“Fuck,” Harry swore softly. “I’m a dad.”

“For what it’s worth… you aren’t too bad at it.”

****

“You’ve a son, too,” Potter said, two weeks later. “He’s the boy I saw in your memories. I remember my godson trying to play Tea Rooms with our boys.”

“Such a weird child.” It was only seven, but the end of November was freezing and he was so tired.

“Wow. You had kids young.”

“Yeah. You too. They’re the same age.” He chewed on his lower lip before continuing, “The Healers told Astoria she couldn’t have children. So we didn’t bother with the nasty-tasting potions.” He snorted mirthlessly. “Astoria fell pregnant in her final year of school.”

“Shit. Bet that went down well.”

Though his eyes were closed, he could feel Harry’s gaze on him. “We had a brief engagement. Our parents were… displeased.”

“You must miss her.”

“She had been dying for several years, and she’s been gone for many more. One could say that I’ve had time to make my peace with it.”

Harry nicked his wand and conjured some bluebell flames. He was sitting in one of Draco’s old winter cloaks, his breath fogging white tendrils in front of his face, framed by the silver fox hood.

“When did we get married?” Harry asked.

“We are not married. I got married in 1999, as did you—thirteen years ago. Our boys were born in the year 2000.”

“Crikey. We didn’t waste any time.”

“We did not have a child—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. What kind of name is Scorpius, anyway?”

“At least I don’t name my children after schoolmasters.” Draco ran a hand over his face before adding, “I keep on resolving to be a less petty person, but you always get on my nerves. You make everything so difficult.”

Harry nudged Draco’s shoulder with his own. “No hard feelings.”

Then Harry gently rested his head on Draco’s shoulder. Draco stiffened, eyes wide. He cleared his throat and did nothing, waiting.

Nobody spoke.

So he lowered his head on top of Potter’s, and he could see that Potter had stopped breathing, for there was no more mist. They sat like statues for a few seconds.

“So,” Harry began, “how’s fatherhood?

Draco squeezed his eyes shut and smiled a tiny smile. “Terrifying.”

“Is it? Why?”

“I don’t want to fuck him up! He’s so perfect.”

“Ah yes, the Malfoy ego.”

“It’s not ego. It’s fact.”

Draco remembered being the most tired he’d ever felt when his son was a baby who refused to sleep unless Scorpius was on his or Astoria’s chest.

Sleep.

His eyelids were heavy.

He was so comfortable in front of the flames, body flush next to Harry’s, cheek resting on the fur hood.

Some time later, Draco felt a hand on his face.

“Draco,” someone whispered.

“Hmm?”

He gave a jaw-cracking yawn, disorientated to find Harry’s face so near his own.

“You nodded off.”

He swore. “How long was I…?”

“Not long. But I didn’t want you to freeze, or anyone to come looking for us.”

Us. There was no ‘us’.

“Come on,” Draco said through another yawn.

Once downstairs, Harry tugged him into his ward. “You need to warm up,” he said. “Can’t go home like that.”

“Right.”

Boots kicked off, they sat at opposite ends of the bed, legs not touching under the duvet. Harry scooped the bluebell flames out of a conjured jar, and the room glowed by the light of the floating candles.

“Did we see much of each other, after school?” Harry asked.

“Your feet are freezing. Stop jabbing me with them.”

Draco forgot to breathe when Harry rested a hand on Draco’s feet.

God he was so pathetic.

“Er,” Draco began, collecting his wits. “We have mutual friends at the Ministry, have run into each other once or twice at events. I’ve never seen you at a Quidditch match, we must support different teams. Our sons are inseparable. When Scorpius and I went to the Quidditch World Cup, you invited us to your barbecue there. And that’s it.”

“I did? What do we talk about?”

“Nothing of great import.”

“You must be a big part of my life still.”

Draco’s stomach squirmed. “We haven’t spoken in years.”

“Our boys are best friends.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “They don’t need written permission to have sleepovers. They just arrive, joined at the hip.”

“Scorpius is a good lad.”

“Good parenting, some would say.”

“Some would.”

They looked at each other for a long moment. Harry’s eyes sparkled. The moment dragged on and on.

“I should go,” Draco whispered.

He didn’t reply, and watched Draco put on his boots and travelling cloak. Harry even walked him to the door, his tongue wetting his lower lip.

“Goodnight, then,” Harry said.

“Goodnight, Potter.”

Mistletoe

On the first day of the Christmas holidays, Albus and Ginevra visited the hospital. Draco booked the day off so that he wouldn’t accidentally punch her in the face.

“How was it?” Draco asked. “Lumos. Look to the left.”

“Weird. Al asked me if I was getting better, and I told him I poured boiling water in my breakfast cereal this morning.”

“Good, look to the right,” Draco murmured.

“He assured me I was a bit scatty before, as well. I reckon he’s a bit of a joker.” Potter followed Draco’s finger and Draco wrote in the Healing Records. “Then as soon as Ginny’s back was turned, Al asked if he could have a cat, and ‘Mum said it was fine’, which I didn’t buy for a minute. Sneaky one, isn’t he? Bet he learnt that behaviour off Scorpius.”

Before Draco could butt in, Potter continued, “Anyway, I told him I was making no parental decisions. Told me all about his friends, how my godson’s coming to visit me soon. Then Ginny came for a chat and it was really awkward. Did you know she was shagging some Quidditch player?”

Draco pressed the stethophone to Potter’s back. He smelt nice. “Breathe in. And out,” he said. “And again. Yes, I did.”

“It’s so weird. On one hand, I remember being happily married to her. But I just can’t imagine us at all long term. Know what I mean?”

“Yeah, well, you are divorced. There is a reason for that.”

Potter crossed his legs and rested his chin on his hand. “I always thought I’d meet someone, fall in love, become an Auror, get married, have three kids and a house. Be with someone who would care about me forever. But instead, I’ve been locked up in here for a year, my wife isn’t my wife any more, my son is a stranger who is weirdly similar to me, I’ve no wand, presumably I’ve lost my job? I’ve got no house, and it could be months till I’m normal. Unless someone tries to do me in again. That about right?”

“Not succinct. But essentially correct, yeah. Want to go upstairs?”

Potter plastered a smile on his face but Draco wasn’t convinced. “Yeah! Should we try Legilimency again soon? I think it might be working.”

Ever the optimist.

Draco smiled. “All right.”

****

Over the course of the next two Legilimency sessions, it became apparent that Potter actually fancied him.

Draco pretended he didn’t see the memory of Harry looking at him when Draco’s back was turned, the vision overlaid with romantic interest. But Draco couldn’t ignore the tender look in his eyes when once again Draco pushed him out after a disturbing memory from 1998.

“You okay?” Potter murmured, rubbing Draco’s arms.

He didn’t shake him off and felt his face soften. “Yes,” he said hoarsely. “You?”

Potter nodded. “I’m fine.”

“Good.”

Potter was not six inches from his face. His gaze flickered down to Draco’s lips, and the room was very hot.

“I… should get back to work.” Draco ran a hand through his hair and made towards the door. He halted at the threshold, staring at a sprig of mistletoe. “I’ll see you again after dinner.”

Harry’s gaze drew up to the mistletoe as well.

“Okay,” he said, eyes not leaving the sprig.

Draco fled.

Approving the Healing Records for the Longbottoms and Mr Wilkes helped refocus Draco’s mind on rational matters. Therefore he was his normal composed self when he took Potter to see the Christmas lights.

“Go on, ask one of your questions, then.” Draco passed him some of his salt-baked beetroot, pickled carrots and toasted pumpkin seeds.

“I’ve just had dinner!”

“You’re like a bottomless pit.”

Potter nodded, considering. “True.” After swallowing a mouthful, he asked, “What’s your favourite piece of clothing?”

Draco smirked. “That cloak you’re wearing. It cost three hundred Galleons.”

Potter’s eyes bugged out of his face. “You’re joking!”

“I assure you I’m not. It wouldn’t be an amusing joke.”

“Yes, well, sometimes you say I’m gullible, and I didn’t know if this was one of those times—”

“My cloak is indeed very expensive,” Draco said. “You’d do well to treat it nicely.”

“Wow. Er, thank you. For letting me wear your cloak that cost more than my wardrobe combined.”

“I can tell. You dress like a blind man. For instance, what possessed you to wear that jumper under my fine cloak, and why is it slug coloured?”

“Oi, let’s not turn this into a slanging match.”

Draco let Potter conjure a large bowl of bluebell flames and they sat beside it, knees knocking.

“When was the last time you climbed a tree?” Harry asked.

Draco laughed and shook his head. “I’ve never done such a thing.”

“What?”

“I said nothing confusing. I’m not sure where I lost you.”

“That’s mad,” Harry said.

“I’m not a monkey, I was not raised to climb trees. I have, however, ridden my horse around a tree. Does that count?”

“No. No it doesn’t,” Harry declared. They finished the savoury food, then Potter nicked the raspberry and lemon petit fours.

“So uncouth,” Draco said.

“I’m halving it!” he protested.

“That’s the smaller half,” Draco accused, pointing at his portion.

“No it isn’t!”

“You’re right, it isn’t. I just wanted to argue with you.”

Harry took Draco’s wand and conjured tiny lights of ruby, violet and blue. Sometimes he just liked to hold the wand, to feel the power coursing through him. Today, his tanned skin glowed with the jewelled lights. Draco racked his brains to break the silence, and was about to mention Christmas, when Harry asked, “What would be your first question after waking up from being cryogenically frozen for a hundred years?”

“Cry-oh-what?”

“Frozen in time.”

“Muggles can do that?” Draco asked, mystified.

“No, not yet. Just in stories. But Muggles can do a lot.”

“Merlin. Better watch out. Like ants—not too bad until you sit on them.”

Potter wrinkled his nose.

“Well,” Draco said, “to answer your question. If I woke up in one hundred years, my first question would be where the hell is Potter, because I want to kill him, for he is surely responsible for sending me into the future and I want his bollocks for breakfast.”

Potter snorted. “It’s always my bloody fault, isn’t it.”

“Yes.”

“Fine. You think of a question, then.”

“This is your game.”

“Just do it.”

“What’s the best way to start your day?”

Potter shrugged. “Er, I dunno.”

“This is why I don’t ask the questions. You’re so ineloquent it’s painful.”

“Um… I suppose I’d put the kettle on, have a wee, eat breakfast, go to work…”

Draco rolled his eyes. “How the famous live.”

“I don’t get that question. Isn’t that what everyone does?”

“No.” Draco lit two cigarettes and passed one to Potter. “I rise, have a decaf espresso, shave, bathe, smoke a lovely nicotine-free cigarette whilst I style my hair, have a slice of watermelon, then let in some fresh air and make sure the cat has been fed—”

“How many days do you think you’ve spent styling your hair, if you added it all up?”

“I do not care and do not want to know.” Draco looked him up and down. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand hairstyling.”

Potter just grinned into the flames, then stretched. One arm went behind Draco on the bench.

“How do you relax after a day at work?” Potter asked.

Draco tapped the ash off his fag into the flames and stared resolutely ahead. He gave a roguish half-smile. “… That’s private.”

“You know what I mean!”

He leant back ever so slightly, so that he was resting against Harry’s arm. Draco continued on, to push through the thick air between them. “If I’ve got bodily fluids on my person, I have a bath. If I don’t, I have a mint tea and a crumpet, or maybe I’ll play the pianoforte or check on the horses.” Draco waved a hand. “There’s always something to do at the Manor. Can you keep a secret?”

Harry gave him his full attention, and Draco continued to stare into the dancing flames.

“Of course,” he replied.

Draco watched the smoke rising from the cigarette between his fingers. “My grandfather… You won’t tell anybody?”

“No,” Harry whispered.

“He caught dragon pox when I was nine. It’s highly contagious, and the older you get, the more likely you are to die. The infection spread to his brain and spine, and the Healers sent him to the Manor to die, as was his last wish. Too much riff-raff in here.” Draco rolled his eyes. “We held a funeral in the small chapel. His gravestone is next to my grandmother’s. But… he’s not dead.”

Draco couldn’t find any judgement in Harry’s eyes.

“He can’t walk, of course,” he continued. “Nor does he know who I am. But sometimes after I get home from work, we have a cup of tea and complain about things together. And I wanted to answer your question fully. About my routine.”

“Thank you for telling me. I like the sound of it.”

When Draco was younger, he’d get upset when he didn’t get what he wanted. Once upon a time, he’d wanted Potter as a friend and had been bitterly disappointed. Now, he wanted him as a lover. Life was so unfair.

“I also thought… that if you ever came to visit… well, I shouldn’t want you to be shocked. If you met him.”

“Oh,” Harry said softly. “Right. Of course.”

“Ask me a question, then,” Draco demanded.

Harry looked as though he didn’t want to change the subject, but gracefully conceded. “Where do you see yourself in ten years’ time?”

“Merlin, I don’t know. I’m already Head of the Department. By then I’ll be forty-two, and Scorpius will be twenty-two, which doesn’t bear thinking about. But I’ve always… I’ve always dreamt of moving to Paris, of starting again.”

Potter met his gaze. “Oh. Paris is far away.”

“It is,” he replied softly. Draco looked down at his knees. “We should go. I’m cold.”

Two weeks later, Harry was despondent at the prospect of spending two Christmases in a row at St Mungo’s.

“Would you… like to go outside tomorrow? To some gardens?”

Harry’s eyes lit up. “Could I? You’d… do that?”

His shoulders tensed. “I’m not in the habit of lying to people.”

“My Malfoy wouldn’t,” Potter said, shaking his head. He flicked through his purple notebook to check.

“Your—?” he spluttered. “You do not have a Malfoy.”

“You know what I mean. Let me check my notes.”

“Yeah, well, mention the offer to anybody and I’ll deny everything.” Draco sat in the visitor’s chair. “Memory bad again, then?”

Potter nodded grimly. “It’s funny, I can remember us hanging out, you know, on the roof. I can remember my son. But I can also remember you docking us a load of points in the Inquisitorial Squad like it was yesterday.”

Draco wrinkled his nose. “You’re right, it’s a bad idea. Spend the day in this room.”

“No, I want to go!”

“Too hard to sneak you out. And the worst idea I’ve ever had.”

Potter sat up straight, mischief glinting in his eyes. He leaned in close and dropped his voice. “I’ve got an Invisibility Cloak.”

Folding his arms, Draco sat back and shook his head. “I don’t want to know how. Be ready after lunch, in some robes. Don’t make me regret this. Tell anyone and you’re dead.”

****

“I look like a git.”

“They are my robes, Potter. They are valuable. If you disrespect them, I shall take them back.” He looked Potter up and down. “You look… respectable.”

Potter scowled in the looking glass. “I look like a twat.”

“Perhaps ice blue isn’t your colour.”

“Are these dragons?” he asked, tugging at the sleeve.

“Chinese brocade, Potter. Look it up.”

“What’s the weather like outside?”

“It’s not too bad in London. But this morning in Wiltshire we had our first frost and it’s bitterly cold.”

“Where are we going?”

“My home.” Draco took off his own travelling cloak and draped it over Potter’s shoulders. “Here.”

“Thanks!”

Draco traced his fingertips over the silver-tipped fur edging the black wool. “This magnificent cloak is wasted on you.”

“It’s really nice.” Potter grinned. “Thank you.”

Draco raised an eyebrow and handed him the Invisibility Cloak. “Say nothing. Follow me.”

In the passageway they passed Wulfric who winked and hovered by the door.

Draco acknowledged the portraits but didn’t run into anyone on the way downstairs. He usually used the Floo Network, but led Potter to the Apparition point around the corner from the welcomewitch’s desk.

No one was watching. Draco held out his hand and Potter grasped it, then embraced him, and Draco Apparated them to the wrought-iron gates at the foot of the drive.

He released Potter, relieved he hadn’t Splinched them both. Potter was a dreadful distraction.

The iron contorted, twisting itself out of the abstract furls and into a frightening face which spoke in a clanging, echoing voice: “State your purpose!”

“I am Draco Malfoy.”

The face melted back into shape and the gates swung open. The high hedges muffled their footsteps and they were soon at the broad stone steps. Once they were inside, he told Potter it was safe enough to take off the cloak.

He became visible in all his glory.

“That is a marvellous cloak indeed,” Draco said through a lump in his throat.

Potter grinned at him, delighted to be out of hospital for the first time in over a year. Draco led him through the drawing room, and Potter gazed open-mouthed at the crystal chandelier, waved at a few portraits who inclined their heads at them both, and trailed his fingertips along the grand marble fireplace.

“We don’t sit in here,” Draco explained. “It’s frightfully cold at this time of year.”

They went through the grand hallways, cut through the deserted courtyard and the Garden Parlour, and into the grounds.

“One of my father’s owls, Wilbur,” Draco said, pointing.

“How many does he have?”

“God knows. Do you ride?”

“Er, what?”

“Are you able to ride?”

“What, a bike?”

“No,” Draco said, “a horse.”

“Course not! What do you take me for?”

“I’m trying not to judge a spellbook by its cover. Do give me some credit.”

“Is anyone home today? How long can you bunk off work?”

“Father takes to his bed for most of the day. Grandfather will be in his rooms. Mother is visiting my aunt. And I don’t call this bunking off, it’s therapy.”

“What’s that?” Potter asked, pointing at the stable guardian.

“A Mughal jewelled falcon. To prevent horse theft.”

“What are the stones? Is that gold?”

Potter peered at it, then leapt back when the bird cocked its head.

Draco laughed at him. “Rubies, emeralds, sapphires and onyx, amongst others,” he said. “Eleutheria,” he told the bird.

Its beak opened wide, deeper than should be possible, to reveal a tiny golden key. Draco scooped it up and creaked open the door.

The stables were freezing but the space was bright from the skylights.

“What sort are they?” Potter asked.

“Butter is a Dutch draft horse, Peggy’s an Andalusian, and Giles is a Friesian.”

The horses blinked at them, and Potter rubbed Giles’s glossy black face and cooed, “Hello.”

“Take off my lovely cloak and robes and put these on.” Draco threw him some riding robes and turned to face the corner whilst he stripped off himself. “Don’t you dare get my things dirty.”

“Why are you a Healer?” Harry called. “That bird must be worth a million. You obviously don’t need the cash.”

“Who else will look after you?”

Draco saddled Butter and led him out.

Potter reached out a finger to stroke his grey face. “It’s massive.”

“Oh, don’t let his size put you off.” Draco clapped Butter on the flank. “He’s just a big, lazy potato.”

He gave Potter a leg up and clambered on behind him. Potter was only slightly shorter than him, and his stupid nice-smelling hair was getting up Draco’s nose.

They trotted past the family cemetery, disturbing a murder of crows, and Draco laughed that Potter’s ability to identify bird calls was limited to ‘seagull’ and ‘not seagull’.

At the heart of the valley lay a clearing where the ancient oaks gave way to an acre of grassland. The sheep kept the grass trimmed and none of them paid the wizards any mind.

“Accio broom!” Draco cast, and the door of the shed in the corner of the clearing flung open.

He caught the broomstick and held it out to Potter. “Go on, then.”

Potter took the broom, but his eyes didn’t leave Draco’s face.

“It’s what you’ve been nagging me all year for, isn’t it?” Draco asked. “Don’t tell me now that we’ve finally got here, you don’t want to fly!”

“You aren’t joining me?”

Draco hadn’t flown out here since the summer before sixth year. “No. I’ll stay with Butter.” He scratched the horse’s chin. “And keep an eye on you. Don’t go far.”

Potter grinned, mounted the Thunderclap D-Lite and shot off into the sky.

In the split second before Potter became a dot in the distance, he saw joy light up his face like a firecracker, and then Draco turned to bury his face in Butter’s neck. Winding his fingers into the mane, he breathed in a lungful of air. The big docile horse under his hand calmed his breathing.

For all his incessant whining, Potter didn’t stay in the air for long.

“Finished trying to break your neck?” Draco banished the broom back to the shed. “You’re worse than Wales.”

“I think I saw that match!”

Draco helped Potter up and climbed up behind him.

They chatted about the World Cup with broad smiles on their faces, and Draco knew that today was a very good day for Potter remembered 2007.

“Are there any Muggles nearby?” Potter asked.

“The Muggle-Repelling Charms run out about fifteen acres away. I nearly hit a helicopter once.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Yes I did.”

“No. Don’t believe you.”

Draco sniffed.

When they got back to the stables, Draco hooked his hand into the strap of the brush and showed Potter what to do.

“You don’t come across as someone who does this kind of job themselves,” Potter said.

“Put your back into it,” Draco said, as Harry groomed Giles. “You think me some sort of lazy brute.” Draco stroked Butter’s soft nose. “They don’t like house-elves and Father said we’d eat them if I didn’t take proper care of them.”

“He said what?”

“He may have been joking,” Draco called as he fetched the Fly-Repelling Potion. “But, when it comes to my father, I prefer not to put him to the test.”

He threw it to Potter who caught it. They grinned at each other.

“Sounds wise,” Potter said.

The Hall of Forgotten Things

New Healers traditionally covered the worst shifts for their first year, and Healer Mo Ghanbari was only too happy to oblige. Anne press-ganged Draco into taking off the two weeks of Christmas and New Year, and Draco grudgingly conceded that Mo was an excellent replacement for Penny Clearwater.

On the last day before Draco’s holiday, Anne brought in fish and chips. “I’ve passed Healer Ghanbari your patient list. And I think Mrs Jones will be fine,” she said helpfully. “I had my dream interpreted.”

“Marvellous.”

A generous Christmas present and a daily hot chocolate were how he showed his appreciation to Anne, whom he could not live without.

On Christmas Day, he unwrapped his gift from Anne. It was dealcoholised wine—Potter was his only addiction—and Draco thought of him, what he might be doing. Was he still smiling? Would he have enough visitors?

Since Potter’s visit to the Manor, he’d had a grin on his face every day. Whenever Draco popped in, Christmas cassettes would be playing, or he’d be listening to the European Cup on the WWN.

Portkey to Your Heart was on the wireless when Draco went in to see Harry after the New Year.

“Hello, Stranger,” Potter said. His ward was dark, and most of the light came from candles suspended in crystal bubbles. His hair cascaded down his back, wet from the shower. Oh God.

“Good afternoon. How was Christmas?”

He just grinned and held up, Why I Didn’t Die When the Augurey Cried, Healing Horizons, An Anthology of Eighteenth-Century Rare Healing Cases, Holistic Hypotheses in Healing, and Healing with Hindsight.

“Nice,” Draco said. He sat down and helped himself to a miniature chocolate bauble.

“These must be for you. Hermione probably didn’t want to be rude and get them for you outright.”

He couldn’t tell Potter how much his mother mourned Auntie Bella at the holidays, how that now she was dead nobody danced at Christmas any more. But Potter noticed the look in his eyes and didn’t ask him about his time off.

“Al tells me Scorpius got two fishing rods for Christmas, and he’s desperate to go to Wiltshire,” Harry said. “I blame you.”

Draco smiled at the floor. “I want him to be happy. It’s not much to ask. Do you…” He broke off and shook his head. “Never mind.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, what were you going to say?”

“Use Legilimency. Work it out.”

Draco took a few seconds to break down his Occlumency shield to let Potter in.

Potter drew out of his mind and grinned. “Really?”

“I could sneak you out every six weeks without it being too suspicious. Tell anyone and I’ll never speak to you again.”

“Our secret, then.”

“Yes,” Draco said softly.

****

This time, they explored some of the more interesting spaces in the Manor. Harry trailed his fingertips over the magnificent wrought-iron bannisters, a copy of those at Chantilly castle. He introduced Harry to Astoria, Howard Potter and Rosana Northcott née Black.

“There’s something else I want to show you,” Draco said, pulling him into the Games Room.

He wiped a drop of blood on a nondescript oak panel and a door shimmered into existence. The torches burst into flame as Draco ducked inside, his footsteps echoing. The candelabra on a spindly table beside the door lit itself, and he passed it to Potter.

The room was gloomy, with countless glass cabinets rising to the ceiling. Threadbare flying carpets and ancient tapestries hung from one wall, large cobwebs stretching between them, and the air was musty.

“Wow,” Potter breathed.

“The best secrets hide in the most unlikely places.”

He kept a watchful eye as Potter approached the grand pentagonal fish tank on its cast-iron stand. It had bronze herons, intricate scrollwork and carved flowers, and the five raised plant stands with accompanying candles dripped wax onto the leaves below.

Draco warned, “Don’t get too near. Don’t know what’s living in it still.”

Harry held up the candelabra to the alabaster Egyptian boat and said, “It’s like a museum. What is this place?”

“The Hall of Forgotten Things. I wasn’t allowed to enter until I was sixteen. And my father couldn’t until he was twenty-one and had proven himself of sensible mind—Grandfather was very strict.”

Harry wandered to a glass cabinet, his candles illuminating the framed first drawing of the moon by Galileo and the original telescope—the one in Florence was a copy—alongside a notebook belonging to da Vinci.

This room wasn’t designed for nosy guests, so no plaques labelled any of the treasures.

“What the fuck,” Potter whispered, as he stared, lips parted, at the carved Tibetan skulls that were three hundred and fifty years old. They lay beside the death mask collection—Draco didn’t know to whom they belonged.

“Is that what I think it is?” he asked, pointing at another cabinet.

“Yes. A crocodile foot scabbard. The three dagger blades are crystal.”

“That glove looks creepy.”

“If you hold it in your hand, it spins towards that which you most desire.”

Draco pointed out the taxidermied Sphinx curled next to the armour that once belonged to a Muggle earl.

“There’s quite a bit of non-magic stuff in here.”

“The armour was gifted to the family. Before the Statute, my ancestors had… diverse connections.”

Harry squatted down to stare at the stuffed beast. “I met a Sphinx, once.”

“Did you really? Where?”

“Triwizard Tournament.”

Potter wandered over to examine an Aztec skull covered in jade and turquoise mosaic.

“That one’s cursed. Stay back,” Draco said. “Look at this!” He tugged off a dust sheet from the great glass tank to reveal a pickled shark.

“Woah. This is insane.” Its great form loomed out of the darkness. “How old is it?”

“My great-great-grandmother liked experimenting on animals.”

They roamed through the hall, largely keeping to the cabinets. Harry was drawn to the great lapis lazuli and bronze vase gleaming in the candlelight. He reached out a finger, but Draco caught it. “Careful,” he warned.

“What is it? It’s beautiful.”

“Do you see those runes at the bottom?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s rumoured that if you drink the water in the vase, it’ll relieve aches and pains. But it could also kill those who are not pure of heart. You’re better off keeping your distance.”

Somehow, they were now holding hands. Draco’s heart fluttered with jolts of energy.

Harry traced a warm thumb over the back of his hand.

“Draco? Have you… taken other patients here before?”

Draco had lost the art of speech.

Harry stepped forwards, and he was so close Draco could feel his breath ghosting across his lips.

“I think you already know the answer to that question,” he murmured. Draco reluctantly dropped his hand. “I’m a Healer. I don’t seduce my patients.”

“Discharge me, then.”

“You know I can’t do that either,” Draco said.

Harry opened his mouth to say something more, but shut it again and nodded. “Come on, then. Let’s take one of your horses out for a walk.”

They left the house, crunching through the snow, and Draco let out a breath he didn’t realise he had been holding in.

****

“Draco?”

He dragged his eyes away from his correspondence to see Anne hovering by the door. “Good morning. Everything all right?”

“Thanks for the hot chocolate. The welcomewitch says Mrs Potter is downstairs, and she’s insistent on speaking with you.”

He looked at the clock. “Tell her to make an appointment.”

“I did—she wouldn’t leave. Threatened to hex me. Says it’s urgent? About Harry Potter.”

Draco tutted. “Send her up.”

When Weasley arrived, he didn’t look up from his paperwork. “Don’t you dare threaten my colleagues ever again.”

“She said you had a twelve-week waiting list.”

“I do,” Draco said. “So be quick.”

Weasley sat in the chair and twisted an umbrella in her hands, the February rain sprinkling over the carpet. “Jenny, my friend at the Ministry, told me that the Guardianship Committee is applying for Harry to become a Ward of Court because he failed a mental stability risk assessment!”

His mouth went dry. “Mental stability risk assessment?” he repeated. “How do the Ministry—” He broke off at the look on her face. “My testimony. From your divorce proceedings.”

“She said I should talk to you about it. It sounds bad. Do you know what it means?”

Draco frowned at her. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “I learnt about it during my training. It’s a law that hasn’t been used for a very long time.”

There was a knock and Anne poked her head round the door, wincing. “Draco, your nine o’clock’s here!”

“Right.” Draco pinched the bridge of his nose before scribbling a name and a message on a slip of parchment. “I have to go. Take this, and be discreet.” He handed it to her. “Give this to Marcus Fawley. He’s a legislator in the Wizengamot. Friend of the family. He’ll tell you everything you need to know. Let me know straight away what he says.”

She came back the following lunchtime.

“Please give me good news,” Draco said, finishing off his lemon posset. “Just so you know, I’m the Duty Healer today, so may get called away in an emergency.”

“Fine.” Her voice was strained and she looked sick. “I spoke to your legal friend… A long time ago, a wizard with brain damage ran amok with a wand, exploded some shops, burnt down some workhouses. So to protect the Statute of Secrecy Act, the Wizengamot formed the Guardianship Committee—”

“I don’t like where this is going—”

“If the committee thinks there’s a low likelihood of medium-term recovery, they declare you incompetent and you become a Ward of Court. Then they snap your wand.”

Draco swore.

“I know,” Weasley said. “They’re saying Harry might meet the criteria. As he’s failing the ‘mental stability’ part.”

“So in essence, it wouldn’t look good for the government if our ex-Head Auror is going berserk in front of Muggles.”

“Yeah,” she croaked.

“And he’ll never be able to leave,” Draco said hollowly. “That cannot be correct. For the love of Godric, this is a hospital, not a prison of the Ministry!”

“He seems happy in here, though! And not dangerous at all.”

“But will he always be? He could live for a hundred years,” he said. “Or more. And never be allowed to leave.”

Draco checked his pocket watch—he had to go.

“He’s improving, though, remembering more each week! He could be completely recovered in a few months!” she said. “Mr Fawley thinks you said in court that he might never get better.”

“He might not,” Draco said simply, throwing up his hands. “I have no idea. Nobody does.”

Weasley looked at him with an unfathomable expression.

“I couldn’t lie!” Draco shouted. “And this would never have happened had you not turned your back on him!”

“You blame me?” Weasley asked, tears streaming down her face.

He ran a hand over his face. “I have to go. I’ve got a patient waiting.”

****

His patients were a welcome distraction. There was no space to think about laws, captivity or snapped wands. He just had examinations, spells and potions to administer, and clinic letters to compose.

Draco beckoned Potter and snuck him up to the roof garden early that evening. Even though it was two degrees outside, and too cloudy to see the moon, Potter never refused an opportunity to see the heavens.

Draco didn’t want to ruin Potter’s buoyant mood, so didn’t tell him the news.

They leant on the railing, watching car lights vanishing in the distance like twinkling rubies, then observed the Muggles in their minuscule flats and guessed their occupations.

“Do you ever wonder what things would’ve been like,” Harry asked, “if you’d never got your letter? You could’ve been a window cleaner, like him.”

“He’s not a window cleaner.”

“He might be,” Potter said.

“He might be,” Draco conceded. “From the age of ten I’d check the Daily Prophet first thing every morning—certain some sort of tragedy would have befallen it—certain that I wouldn’t get to go.”

“It must have been so exciting. Knowing about it all, looking forward to Hogwarts. I wish I’d had that head start you had.”

“Everyone loved you,” Draco scoffed, “and you didn’t even have parents. You didn’t know any magic, or how to behave. And it was so easy for you. People loved you anyway. As soon as your arse touched that broom, Saint Dumbledore—”

He stopped at the feel of an arm around his shoulders, and allowed Harry to lead him to the bench.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked.

Draco shook his head and pressed his eyes with the heels of his hands. Little stars erupted in his vision. Potter sat down on the bench beside him and Draco knew he was staring at him.

He thought about making up an excuse. After all, Rutherford’s patient died. The clinic overran by an hour. And Mr Crocus wanted to know why they have so many long-stay patients. It was bloody marvellous and he wished he could wake up this morning and do it over again. Instead he said, “Nothing. Just a bad day.”

Harry rummaged around in Draco’s pocket to steal his wand, and conjured a bowl of hot blue flames.

“Good idea,” he said, rubbing his hands together.

“Question time,” Harry announced.

Draco groaned.

“If you suddenly became a brilliant carpenter, what’d be the first thing you’d make?”

He appreciated that Harry was trying to make him laugh.

“A coffin.”

“For me?”

“For you,” he said with a nod.

“Wanker. You can tell me what happened today—if you want.”

“It does concern you.”

Draco looked at the way the blue flames cast lively reflections on Harry’s spectacles.

“I’ve learnt patience. Being stuck here. And… in other ways. You know.”

Draco did know.

He explained everything Ginevra told him this afternoon. Harry seemed remarkably uncaring, and said, “I’ll stay here with you, I suppose.”

“The novelty would wear off eventually,” he replied. “You’re taking this news very well. I thought that you would have been outraged.”

Harry pursed his lips. “Ginny would have told Hermione. They’re probably going to kidnap me or change the law. I’m Harry Potter,” he said with a shrug. “They can’t snap my wand.”

Draco nodded. “You’re right.”

He let out a sigh and huddled nearer. Their legs brushed together, and they warmed their hands by the flames.

“How long have I been here?” Harry asked.

“Sixteen months.”

“Be honest with me—have we kissed?”

Draco froze, lips parted, and blinked. “Ah… no. That would be inappropriate.”

“Sorry, I just… I know my memory is dodgy, so…”

“Another reason as to why it would be inappropriate.”

Neither of them made to move, their legs were still touching, their gazes fixed upon the fire.

“Yeah. So. We should probably change the subject, talk about something else—”

“That would be a good idea, yeah.”

****

“Someone had better be dying, Weasley.”

“It’s Potter.”

“What?”

“My last name. It’s Potter.”

“Whatever,” he said. “I don’t want to see you.”

“It’s your job to help people, I swear to Merlin—”

“To help patients. You are not my patient.”

“It’s about Harry,” she said.

Draco ignored her and continued rummaging through his drawers. He knew he’d seen that Mortality Report in here somewhere…

“Please. I visited him. He didn’t seem thrilled to see me.”

“I have no sympathy whatsoever,” Draco said. “You’ve ruined his life. Well done. Quite an accomplishment.”

She ignored the barb. “He seems happier in general, though,” Ginevra continued.

“Compared to when?”

“I haven’t seen him this happy in a very very long time. It must be because he can’t remember our marriage,” she said bitterly. “When all this is over, I hope you stick around. It would crush him if you never spoke to him again.”

When all this is over… It was what they’re working towards, but he just couldn’t picture it. Harry Potter: alive and well. Reunited with his wand.

No doubt he’d go back to work and never see Draco again until the next time he got attacked in the line of duty. Potter would hardly start coming around for afternoon tea.

“I wrote a letter for him,” Ginevra said, putting a scroll on the desk.

Draco didn’t answer.

He hoped she was leaving when she got up.

“The first day I met you,” Ginny said, staring at the photograph of their sons stuck to the noticeboard, “was in Flourish and Blotts. Do you remember?”

“No.”

“Harry gave me the only first-hand schoolbooks I’ve ever had.”

“How thrilling. What a wonderful man.”

“You were so nasty to him. And nothing has changed, really, has it?” she asked coolly.

“Get out.”

“Your dad ruined my life. I was eleven,” she hissed. Draco stood. Dilys Derwent snored softly in her frame. “And I hated him for putting Voldemort in my schoolbag, but have I ever hated you?”

“I don’t give a fig.”

“Harry likes you. And I have to trust you because of your Healer’s Oath. But don’t fuck this up. Don’t fuck him up—”

Draco pressed the tip of his wand to the underside of his desk so Anne could rescue him.

“Draco!” Anne cried, bursting in. “You are urgently needed downstairs!”

“Goodbye,” he said to Weasley.

Later, Draco read the letter before giving it to Potter:

Dear Harry,

We met properly again before Christmas and you were really happy to see me. You were in a shitty mood today, though, and I thought as your memory is bad, I should write down what happened between us in case you forget.

I realise that it may seem like I’ve given up on our marriage.

We got married really young and had a wonderful son. We were 19!!! We became romantically distant and everything was shit for a while. When Al was five, we got marriage counselling and Mum would mind Al whilst we went out on dates every week. It was bloody awkward, and we both felt the same way—that our marriage had run its course. We agreed to divorce in a few years once Al was settled at school. We got on so much better as friends that lived together. And then we had a lot of laughs, good times, nice holidays. I don’t regret any of it.

Then I met Oliver. He coaches the Junior League. You’re friendly with him and we always said that when Al is at Hogwarts, I’d spend a few nights a week at Ollie’s cottage in Dorset.

Anyway this all went to shit when you had your accident. Al didn’t know we were splitting up but I’ve sat him down and told him because it could be years or never until you’re back to your old self. I hope you understand. It’s obviously not your fault but parenting without you has been really hard.

I’m really sorry, Harry. I’m horrified that you’re hurt because you can’t remember the decisions that we made together.

It’s been horrible not seeing you for an entire year. I popped in once or twice under the cloak to check that you were doing okay. Sometimes I was seconds away from hexing everyone to bits and visiting you anyway, but I was scared that I’d make everything worse. You’re one of my closest friends and I love you to bits.

You can always count on me to be your friend when you’re ready for it!!

Take care, and don’t let the Malfoys get you down!

With love,

Ginny

Draco dropped in on him later that day.

“What’s wrong?” he asked at the look on Potter’s face.

“Nodded off. Had a bad dream.”

Potter hadn’t eaten his dinner.

“Did you write it in your dream diary?”

He nodded.

“Can I see?” Draco asked.

He nodded again.

Last night I dreamt that I was at the bottom of a valley. The trees were speaking to me and they sounded like people I know who have died. There was blood on the leaves. I could hear piano music and followed the sounds. There was this road paved with pearls, and I walked along, and then I realised I was naked, not wearing any shoes, and there were angels crying. Then everyone disappeared and the pearls turned into crushed blackberries and I woke up.

“What do you think it means?” Harry asked.

“It mightn’t mean anything. I never believed in Divination.”

“Me neither!”

“I’ll send up some Dreamless Sleep tonight, if you like.”

Draco turned to leave, but then Potter said, “I spoke to Ginny.”

They peered at the same patch of wall.

“She asked if I fancied you, didn’t think it was a good idea.”

Draco said nothing.

“Because she thinks you’re straight,” he continued.

Draco’s lips quirked. “I always thought that she was a stupid woman. Good-day.”

Dracosexuality

Paperwork arrived from the Ministry, and thanks to Ginevra, Draco was expecting it. The Guardianship Committee were coming to collect Potter’s wand. They wanted a report with an updated prognosis, the extent to which Potter needed to be watched if he ever went outside again, the extent to which he remembered spells of protection, and his ability to discern risk.

The Ministry had set the court date for three months’ time, but required the documentation in six weeks.

The Private Investigator had found a few leads, but they were all dead ends. They’d tracked down the descendants of that art restoration place Dilys had visited all those years ago. Draco looked through two hundred pages of interviews with portraits just in case, even though the summary concluded that the investigation had been unsuccessful.

Draco now had over a year of Healing Records to parse through, and the photograph debacle to downplay.

Again, he skipped the dream journal entries that said things like, ‘When I’m dying, I’ll want my heaven to look like today, but whilst I’m alive, I’d like tomorrow to be different’.

Draco had to be honest in the report. He was cautiously optimistic and concluded that if Potter continued at his current trajectory and nobody cursed him or sent him malicious communications, he’d be back to his annoying self by autumn or winter.

****

About a month later, Ronald wrote requesting a meeting. Draco went up to see him in the Visitors’ Tearoom after his ward round.

“All right?” Ronald asked.

At that moment, Neville and Augusta Longbottom walked by, and Neville clapped Draco on the shoulder. “Nice to see you both.”

“Good afternoon,” Draco said.

“Good to see you taking a break, Healer Malfoy,” Mrs Longbottom said over her shoulder.

Ronald raised his eyebrows and dropped a sugar cube into his coffee. “Didn’t know you were chummy with Neville.”

“I’ll have you know that Longbottom and I are cordial.”

Weasley didn’t need to know that Mrs Longbottom ignored him for his first two years as a Trainee Healer.

“So,” Draco began, “what do you want?”

“Harry seems to be doing well. He says there’s a couple of months till that Ministry hearing.”

“Yeah.” Draco wondered where this was going.

Ronald leant forwards on his elbows. “He says you’re a dickhead, but he trusts you.”

Draco looked around to check that the tearoom was deserted, then nodded as this was a fair judgement. “What do you expect me to say: I’m a lovely person out to kill him?”

“Look, I know we don’t know each other very well, but as Harry’s friend, I’ve got to find out what your intentions are towards him.”

“Explain.”

“To be frank, you do what’s in your own best interests. So why are you helping Harry like this?”

“I’m a Healer. I work in the best interests of my patients.”

Ronald cocked his head to the side. “Don’t you think you’re going a bit above and beyond?”

“It might be that what is best for him is what is best for me.” Draco crushed his fingers into a fist and straightened them out again. They had no right to know, no right.

“But you hated Harry.”

Draco barely knew himself, hadn’t ever had cause to put into words how he felt about Potter. He couldn’t explain why he was skirting the line, or was dangerously close to throwing everything away on a man who sometimes even didn’t know who he was.

One thing was certain, though: “I do not hate Harry.”

“You… like him then?”

Draco dragged his eyes away from Ronald’s coffee cup and met his gaze. “Not quite love at first sight.”

Ronald’s eyebrows crept up towards his receding hairline. “Love at ten thousandth sight?”

“Yeah, well, let’s not quibble over the specifics!”

There was a pregnant pause where they just looked at each other. Then Ronald rubbed his face and said, “Just… take care of him. Make sure he’s okay.”

“That’s my fucking job,” Draco hissed. “It’s all I ever do.”

“Don’t be so defensive,” he said, getting up. Ronald downed the last of his coffee. “We’re all on the same side. See you, then.”

****

The Easter holidays were not exactly relaxing. The hospital had never been so busy. There’d been another stampede at a Celestina Warbeck concert, then a spate of Muggle attacks that had them recovering from sprouting antlers before their memories were wiped, and a woman who’d spilt Shrinking Solution in her ear. The Trainee Healers had never had so much hands-on experience. Malcolm Devine seemed close to a nervous collapse, and he wasn’t the only one.

“Three babies born this morning!” Hannah Abbott called across the secretarial office at no one in particular. “I don’t think I can take this any more, what’re they playing at?”

“Submit a business case for another Healer, then,” Rutherford said, frowning at his paperwork.

But nobody had as much to do as Draco. At least he’d finished Potter’s report early. He was usually last to leave the office at night, first to arrive at the hospital the next morning; he had shadows under his eyes and seemed constantly close to breaking something.

Out of solidarity, Pansy and Daphne looked through the Private Investigator’s files and when they all occasionally met up, would discuss who they thought had sent Potter the box of photographs. They were so absorbed in helping, they even forgot to be rude about Potter and his gang.

Draco, meanwhile, had to fit in as much paperwork as he could before going on holiday. He’d booked off half of Easter to spend time with his son. But he wouldn’t leave before attending to the pile of prescription requests and every last scrap of correspondence.

On the final day before his holiday, Mother brought Scorpius to play the pianoforte at the bottom of the stairwell. Draco was lucky enough to catch snatches of the music between his rounds.

In the dark months after Astoria’s death, only his son and his job kept him sane, his chin held high. Draco wanted his son to succeed where he failed: to make his own decisions and never to accept second best; and to have confidence in things he ought to, like his angelic music.

He spoke to Harry that night. He was remembering more and more each day, and was excited to spend next week with Albus and various Weasleys.

Leaving him was hard.

****

A few days into his break, Draco sat up late in the Drawing Room. He loosely held Holistic Hypotheses in Healing whilst he thought about Harry. Even though they were a week into April, it was four degrees outside and the fire crackled merrily in the grate.

Father was having one of his more lucid days. Still, Draco preferred to sit as far away as he could to avoid the smell of the spiced wine.

“Your mother says you are not talking of France any longer.” It wasn’t a question.

“Oh,” Draco said, eyes fixed on the rug.

“Shall you remain here, then?” Father’s hands shook around his glass.

“I hadn’t given it much thought,” Draco replied.

“I haven’t seen Astoria for a long time.”

“Mmm. She died.”

Father gawked; Draco got up and left.

He’d long got over the injustice of losing his father to Azkaban. Just five years and a stint of potions abuse was enough to send him round the twist. The man who’d once taken him to gather chestnuts for roasting at Christmas was long gone—lost to the Elixir to Induce Euphoria.

Draco ignored the call of his grandfather and the whining of his cat, and let his feet take him wherever. In the grounds, his robes whipped out behind him and the trees bowed in deference to the wind.

After the war, he’d seen family friend after family friend carted off to Azkaban. The Malfoys were considered lucky that Father had only got five years in exchange for names.

The dismantling of the only world Draco had ever known was disquieting.

When Astoria fell ill, Draco had disappeared from society. There were no tea parties, no balls, few invitations and in all honesty, he found himself wishing he wasn’t a Malfoy. That his past could be erased.

But his horses didn’t know. They just knew his voice and blinked awake at the sight of the oil lamp floating behind him.

“Good evening, my darling,” he said to Peggy, who was nearest the door.

In the corner sat the Apple-Summoning Bucket, and he tapped it thrice with his wand to get some snacks from the kitchens. Soon everyone stood munching, tails swishing, and Merlin it was so easy to make them happy.

His knuckles were white on the stable door, and Giles shuffled up to put his noble head beside Draco’s.

Draco wrapped his arms around the horse’s glossy neck, and told Giles what he could not tell Harry.

****

“Comb your hair,” he told Scorpius.

His son just rolled his eyes and hugged him.

“As your parent,” Draco began, a smile on his face, “I am socially obligated to guide you through your formative years—”

“Shut up, Father,” he replied with a laugh.

“Will you find time in your schedule to write to me?”

“Second year is much harder than first year,” Scorpius told him seriously, “and what with the end-of-year exams coming up…” He bit his lip. “I’ll have to see what I can do.”

Draco tried and failed to keep a straight face.

“I’ll have to choose my extra subjects soon! Ted said he’d show me the ropes for Arithmancy but it looks jolly difficult—”

The doorbell rang.

“That must be Grandmama—must dash, don’t want to be late for the train!”

Scorpius gave him another quick hug and left.

“Be good!” Draco called after him.

Later that morning, Healer Smethwyck pulled Draco out of a teaching seminar on vampire cravings.

“Really, Draco, Mr Potter is not doing very well at all today,” he said sadly. “Panicked he hasn’t got a wand—”

“He’s always whining about that,” Draco said, striding down the stairs two at a time. “What else is new?”

“He thinks that you’re a Death Eater trying to kill him. His memories are very muddled today, very muddled indeed—he’s not sure who anyone is. I didn’t think it wise to put him to sleep so gave him a heavy Calming Draught, but he really ought to be reviewed—”

“I’ll deal with it—please dismiss my lecture. Tell the students we’ll continue next week,” Draco called up the stairs.

When he reached Potter’s ward, he saw Potter lying in bed, eyes half-closed.

“Wha’s going on?” Potter slurred.

Sighing heavily, Draco sat and felt Potter’s pulse on his wrist. “Hush, now. You were upset, but will feel better soon. Try to sleep, if you can.”

Draco took off Potter’s spectacles and put them on the bedside table, and he saw Potter’s eyes drift shut and his breathing even out. There was a crease on Potter’s forehead that he brushed away with a soft kiss. There. Gone.

He sat for some time, watching him. Head Auror, disarmed and alone. The room was messy, but Draco didn’t know any household charms to put it to rights. Since he’d cancelled the last twenty minutes of the seminar, nobody expected him anywhere. Resting his chin on one hand, he closed his eyes and fought desperately against the pull of sleep, lulled by Harry’s gentle breathing.

It was no use. He must get to work, else he’d sleep through all his afternoon appointments.

He pressed his lips to Potter’s forehead again for good measure and went back upstairs.

****

“What’s something that you wished everyone knew?”

Potter sliced the jam scone in half with surgical precision and handed Draco his portion.

Draco looked out over the sun setting behind the blocks of flats and rubbed his sock garters. It had been a long day, and his feet ached.

“I.e. stands for id est, or ‘that is’,” Draco said, after he’d finished his half-scone. “E.g. is short for exempli gratia, or ‘for the sake of example’. You can easily remember them by thinking of ‘in essence’ or ‘example given’. But the trainees confuse them all the time!”

“I didn’t know that,” Potter said, through a mouthful of scone.

“Colour me surprised. You?”

Potter’s throat bobbed as he swallowed his bite, and he considered what to say.

“There is life after death.”

Draco nodded. “Hermione said you’d died.”

“I did,” Potter whispered, frowning at the ground. “I think about it a lot. I suppose you often see death.”

“Yeah,” he said. “You get desensitised after the fiftieth Quarterly Unexplained Mortality Review. And the seventieth Avoidable Deaths Report.”

Potter’s knee bumped into his and Draco’s entire body tingled. He was aware of eyes roaming his body, had he heard Draco’s sharp intake of breath? Then Potter was saying, “Draco…”

Potter chewed his lip, rested his head against the back wall of the bench, lolling it sideways so that their faces were quite close.

There was a swooping feeling in his stomach, as though he had missed a step going downstairs.

“That wasn’t a question,” Draco murmured.

“I can’t think of any more,” he said. “Except…”

He didn’t think he wanted to know, shouldn’t encourage Harry. It would surely ruin Draco—ruin them both.

“Is it a question I want to answer?”

“I… I hope so.” Potter’s hand hovered in the air for a moment, before settling back on his own thigh.

“It’s getting late… We should probably head back in.”

The lie was feeble—they often stayed out much later.

Draco stood up on wobbly legs, his mind buzzing. The air felt heavy around him, like a shroud, and he levitated the plate and knife so they bobbed alongside them.

Potter stopped him beside the cast-iron gate, eyes burning, and said, “There’s something else.”

“I’m all ears,” he drawled, sounding far more in control of the situation than he truly was.

“I want you to promise to always be honest with me.”

Draco advanced towards him, crowding Harry against the brick wall beside the gate. His gaze flitted back and forth between both eyes which were bright with lively spirit, and Draco leant into his ear to say, “That, Harry… is a dangerous ask.”

Harry held him where he stood. Draco could feel the quickening of breath against his neck, as though Harry were prey and Draco predator, and grazing Potter’s earlobe with his teeth was so easy.

Harry gasped and clutched at Draco’s biceps. “Have we ever… you know?”

“You will have to be more specific,” Draco purred.

“Have we kissed?”

Draco pulled away from Potter’s ear to look down at his lips. They were mouth-watering. He shook his head slightly.

“You’re positive we’ve not done this before?” Harry breathed against his mouth. They were so close he could count Harry’s eyelashes. Harry ran his fingers through Draco’s hair, and Draco swallowed a sigh.

“You are… appealing,” Draco admitted. “In the dark. If I stood on my head.”

His heart did unnamed things at the sound of Harry’s throaty laugh. “But,” Draco continued, “to answer your question…” Harry’s face turned serious. “This is our first.”

Draco pressed Harry’s body against the wall, as though he were made of glass, and touched their lips together.

His brain seemed to have been Stunned.

Wand, plate and knife clattered to the ground, and Draco shivered at the fingers tracing featherlight patterns on the back of Draco’s neck, across his cheeks, before Harry pulled him flush against his body. Heat pooled at the base of his stomach, and goosebumps erupted down his arms.

Harry pulled away to taste the skin under Draco’s jaw, and he was so gentle, and Draco couldn’t string together one single coherent thought.

Round and round his mind chanted Harry Potter is kissing me. Harry Potter is kissing me. And all Draco could do was surrender, grasp Harry’s chest and sides and back through his thin jumper.

He couldn’t bear not kissing Harry any more, so Draco pressed their lips together again, and the motions of Harry’s mouth were simple, considered, exquisite, then Draco arrived at the rapid realisation that he was awfully aroused.

Perhaps Potter felt it too, for he started kissing with a hungry greed, one hand gripping Draco’s arse and the other pulling Draco’s hair, and their bodies pressed together like a reflex, an instinct, a roaring need.

Like a burst dam, Potter used his entire body: hands scrabbling down the back of Draco’s robes, feet stretched onto tiptoes, tongue breeching into his mouth, neck pressing their heads together.

Draco groaned; an aching hole within his chest filled. He pinned Harry’s wrists above his head, anything, anything to gain some control over the situation.

He wanted to take Harry inside him—pin him down, climb on top of him and ride him. He wanted to feel Harry arch up within him, thrusting slowly and steadily until Draco came on his cock, moaning his name into his mouth and he would make Potter come as well, panting and babbling and raising the pitch of his voice as he broke with desire and need.

They parted for air, gasping, foreheads pressed together.

“You’re cold,” Draco said, pulling off his cloak.

“No, I’m fine.”

Draco flung his cloak over Potter’s shoulders and rolled his eyes.

Harry said, “Ooh, lovely,” as Draco pulled up the hood. The inside was patterned with sparrows and songbirds.

Draco pulled Harry towards him, who pushed him backwards, and they ended up back on the bench in a tangle of limbs. Then Potter was learning Draco’s face with his kisses.

On the street below, a Muggle emergency vehicle whined past and there was a flash of distant music from a motorcar. But Draco could only hear panted hot breath against his face.

Harry planted sloppy kisses up the column of Draco’s neck, and he groaned. It had been so long.

“Harry…”

“Mmm?”

“We can’t,” Draco said. “This is wrong.”

“Is it?” Harry said, nipping and sucking his neck.

Draco rested his hands on Harry’s marvellous arse and said, “Stop doing that. I can’t think straight.” He stopped and stared. “You clearly haven’t had any for a long time, and you’re seducing the first person on legs that—”

“You’ve the sexiest legs I’ve ever seen. I think I might be gay.”

Draco scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Harry shifted his hips. “This is what I mean.”

“You’re clearly not gay. I shan’t be your experiment.”

“I’m Dracosexual, then.” He sucked Draco’s earlobe into his mouth.

Draco hissed in a breath. “Merlin…” he murmured. “What is it that you want?”

“I don’t know.” Harry squinted, cocked his head to the side, and said, “Something involving you. If you’ll let me.”

Potter traced the edges of Draco’s lips with a fingertip. “Do you… like me back?”

“Like you?” Draco asked, disbelievingly. “You’re intolerable. And I’ve discovered the only way to shut you up, stop your endless questions.” Draco clung to him, pulled Harry’s face down by his chin, unable to get enough.

Potter kissed tenderly, carefully, as though he were trying to tell Draco something without words.

“We can’t,” Draco whispered. “I’m your Healer.”

“Rules were made to be broken.”

“That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said. And that’s saying something.” He scratched his fingertips at the hair behind Potter’s ears, and he leant into it like a touch-starved cat.

“And it’s not just rules,” Draco continued. “You’ve had a head injury. What if you remember this but forget flirting with me and begging me to kiss you?” he asked, an eyebrow raised.

“Begging?” Potter spluttered. With no word of warning, he put his palm on Draco’s crotch. Potter pursed his lips. “You seem eager enough.”

Draco buried his face in Potter’s neck and breathed in deeply. He smelt perfect.

“What do you want?” Harry asked.

“How nice of you to ask,” Draco replied. “What I want…” He took a moment to stroke his fingers over Harry’s hair. “I want you to be fit and well, and discharge you home. I then want to lock you in a room for twenty-four hours where you can shag me senseless. That’s what I want.”

Harry nodded as though this were reasonable or possible.

“I didn’t know you were bi.”

“Imagine that,” Draco said, scrunching up his nose. “My appreciation for both sexes is not my defining personality trait. I suppose you think I ought to go up to people and say: hullo, I am Draco Malfoy and I’m a raging bisexual, I like to have my bread buttered on both sides.” He grabbed Harry’s arse. “This is not brotherly sentiment.”

Harry smiled as though he’d caught the Snitch. “You’re funny. I like you.”

“No you don’t.”

“You’re all prickly on the outside. But on the inside, you’re soft.”

“I assure you, I am not,” Draco said with a single shake of his head.

“Like a pineapple.”

Draco laughed.

Potter snuck his hand up Draco’s sleeve so it rested on his Dark Mark and traced circles around the edge. It tickled a little. It seemed so natural for Potter to be touching him that it took a while for Draco to pull back his arm with a hiss. “What the hell are you doing?” He shook his sleeve back down.

“What’s wrong?”

“That’s—private.”

“If you say so.” Potter rubbed circles into the palm of Draco’s hand instead. “Why did you become a Death Eater?”

“Sounded like a good idea at the time.”

Harry frowned. “Your past is a part of who you are. Do you hate me because I had Voldemort in my head?”

Draco flinched. “Do not—”

“Say his name?”

“We’re not all foolhardy Gryffindors. Though I can see why you’d be confused. I’m acting like one right now, making stupid decisions. Will you even remember this?”

“I’ll write it down.”

“Do not write it down.”

“I’ll write it down in code.”

Draco huffed.

“But first, kiss me again,” Harry commanded.

He did. He did.

Wilful Fire-Raising

The day after that blissful evening, Potter was guarded and quiet. Draco neither brought him to the roof nor had their game of ‘Twenty Million Questions’. Things were uneasy between them, so Draco armed himself with the excuse that he was too busy for Legilimency—but Harry never asked.

On the third day, things were still weird between them. Draco did a cognitive assessment in the late afternoon, and as he turned to leave, Potter caught him by the elbow and asked if they’d ever kissed.

This time, his body knew what to do. He backed Potter against the wall, grey eyes locked on the wide and wild green.

Draco’s fingertips sank into Potter’s shoulders, his lips pressed together in a thin line, and he spat, “Is this a test?”

“What?”

Draco looked between his eyes and nodded. “You don’t remember,” he hissed into Harry’s ear, “but you will.” He gripped Harry’s hair and pulled it to expose his neck. “How could you forget this?” he asked, running his teeth lightly down the bared throat.

Harry gasped, shoved him away, and there was a gleam in his eyes—there was more of Harry, a spirited recognition, and Harry slammed Draco’s shoulders into the wall and pushed his leg between Draco’s thighs.

“We have,” Harry moaned into his neck. “Draco…”

Draco permitted Potter to snog him senseless for a time before they melted, and Harry kissed his way to Draco’s cheek, on a path down to his pointy chin. “I thought it was a dream,” Harry whispered. “But I hoped it wasn’t.”

“Tell me about it.”

Harry locked the door and tugged him onto the bed, and they sat cross-legged opposite each other, Harry rubbing his thumbs into Draco’s palms. “We were on the roof.”

Draco nodded. “Yeah. We were.”

Potter bit his lip. “It’s a bit hazy, I don’t remember what we were talking about. I just… remember how I felt. I got the impression that you cared about me. And that you were a good kisser.” Harry pushed his fingers through Draco’s hair and inched nearer. “And now I want a third kiss.”

“We shouldn’t,” Draco said, eyes on parted lips, shaking his head. “Anyone could knock.”

“Okay,” he replied. “Take me outside, then.”

****

The next week wasn’t any easier. Draco had two days off in a row and on his return, his Harry had slipped away from him.

They were up on the roof again. Harry must have seen something in his eyes, though Draco had been trying to act normal, for he asked with wild eyes, “Why should I trust you?” He gripped the front of Draco’s robes, whether to pull or push him away, Draco didn’t know.

“Because I know you,” Draco snarled. He allowed Draco to back him against the wall. “I know how you like it when I pin you against this wall and kiss you slowly, again and again until you complain that you can’t bear it any longer.” He was so close he could feel Potter’s breath against his lips.

Potter’s eyes were wide yet fearless. “You’re telling the truth,” he stated.

And because Potter was so irresistible, Draco sighed in exasperation and gave him one of those near-promised slow kisses, drinking down Potter’s appreciative little grunts. “You may not remember me,” Draco said against his lips, voice low, “but your body does.”

He kissed Harry’s sharp jaw, cheekbone, the jut of his wrist. “You will remember this,” Draco said. “You will remember us.”

“I will,” Harry vowed; a promise he could not keep.

“You will.” He must.

“Draco…?”

“Mmm?” He pulled him onto the bench, and Harry curled up with his head in Draco’s lap.

“I don’t think I’m getting better,” Harry confessed.

“You are.”

“I’m scared.”

Draco didn’t have to be a Legilimens to know that. He could tell from the lost look in Harry’s eyes.

“You’ll be all right.” He stroked Harry’s hair, and his eyes closed in appreciation. “You always are.”

They sat quietly for a while, then Draco listened to Harry prattle on about his cousin’s enterprise with Computers. Muggles came up with the most unbelievable things. Then Harry blurted: “We could take the train. To France.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The Eurostar. All the Muggles use it.”

Draco stopped stroking his hair to gape at him. “Have you forgotten about the little thing called the Channel?”

“The train goes from London, under the Channel. Straight to Paris. It only takes two-and-a-half hours.”

“It cannot be safe to go under the sea,” Draco said, shaking his head. “And without magic! Preposterous. Where would the steam go?”

Harry looked up at Draco blearily, his spectacles lost. “Modern trains don’t use steam. It’s safe—millions of people use it! It’s dead handy when the aeroplanes can’t fly cos there’s bad weather.”

“Now, aeroplanes I don’t understand. How do they stay up?” Draco asked, gesturing to the sky. “And what about those Muggle Death Eaters, who ride about in planes killing people?”

Harry laughed. “Terrorists? How the hell do you know about those?”

“I am up-to-date in world affairs, Potter,” he said with a sniff. “I’m no more likely to ride in a flying box in the sky than I am to go under the sea.”

Draco had stopped stroking Harry’s hair to gesticulate, but Harry caught his hand and replaced it on his head.

“It leaves from the station next to King’s Cross,” Harry explained, “so loads of magic people use it. Easier than human transfiguration, cheaper than an international Portkey.”

“You come out with the craziest things. How do you remember this, have you been?”

Harry frowned. “I think I must have.” He nodded towards the sky. “We’re what, in Marylebone?”

“I think so.”

“Just imagine. A couple of miles away is St Pancras. Probably just a forty-minute walk.” He placed his palm on Draco’s chest, and snuggled his nose into Draco’s stomach. “Then it’s two-and-a-half hours,” he mumbled into Draco’s robes. “We could be in Paris by nightfall.”

****

In between Potter’s mad antics, lots of snogging, countless clinics, treading neck-deep in correspondence and several night shifts, Draco re-reviewed Potter’s notes for the court hearing.

The Healing Records were transparent, so at most he could be generous with the truth. Potter’s outbursts were few, his mind was calm, but he was still a teenager in the mornings and wouldn’t be fit for discharge for many months.

And yet, the Wardship Hearing loomed, like a weight around his neck.

Potter felt it too, had written how he felt about it in his notebook, and Hermione regularly visited with a pinched expression on her face.

Time seemed to speed up. All of a sudden, just five days remained before the hearing. It had defined the past six weeks like a shadow over their heads.

Draco was the Duty Healer today and dragon pox was still on the second floor, so he hadn’t immediately gone upstairs, and instead peeled off his overrobes to incinerate them, and sat under the cascading waters of the shower.

His eyes ached and he tried to avoid thinking about the court case. He felt as though a golf ball was stuck in his throat. After a while, he scrubbed his skin pink, put on some robes, styled his hair, and was just trying to guess how fast he could get his admin done when Sally-Anne met him on the stairs.

“Draco! There you are!” Sal said.

He hadn’t seen her since she was guarding Potter’s ward. “What is it?”

“You’d better come quickly.”

He followed her up to the seventh floor to find Anne weeping at her desk, comforted by Shaun and Rozz. “What on earth is the matter?” he asked.

“It’s your office,” Sal explained, “there’s been a fire.”

Draco’s stomach dropped like a stone, and he strode down the length of the floor to inspect the damage. The stench of smoke grew stronger as he approached.

“Shit.”

The room was entirely black, gutted of almost everything. A silver candelabra had melted into a pool, his hat stand was a charred pile, his desk a pile of ash.

“We think the Floo powder exploded, making the fire worse,” Sal said.

“Who did this?” Draco asked. His noticeboard was gone.

“Nobody saw. I’m just writing up the report, now,” Sal said. “Do you think they wanted anything specific?”

The security was abysmal.

“Burglars don’t burn offices.” He waved his hand. “And look—there isn’t anything left.”

“The insurers will want an inventory—”

“Hang the insurers. Get Anne to try to remember what admin she put in here, so the patients don’t come to harm. I think there were eight prescription requests. Or nine.” Thank Merlin he’d submitted both the Quarterly Unexplained Mortality Review and the Audit Report to Mr Crocus.

As soon as he realised, though, it was like being hit by a Bludger… The Wardship Hearing notes were gone. Along with Potter’s Healing Records.

Aside from the photo of Scorpius and Al, the desk, chair, blackened cabinets, were all hospital property. He could re-buy the books, parrot quills, cigarettes and his Dict-a-Quill. Everything was replaceable except his work.

He couldn’t bear the smell and sight of the empty room, and went back out to the main office and collapsed into someone’s chair, head in his hands.

“Draco?” Anne blew her nose on a handkerchief.

“What’s the time?” he mumbled into his hands.

“Half past five, sir. I’m so so sorry I didn’t get there sooner—”

“Please be quiet. Write down all the correspondence you can recall.” He rubbed his face, still not looking at her. “We’ll deal with it in the morning.”

Nobody spoke. Anne stared at the carpet with red-rimmed eyes.

“Clean my office, please,” he said to Rozz and Shaun. “Inform Mr Crocus.”

Draco got to his feet. He was bone tired, and this was the icing on the cake.

“I’m going to drop in on some patients and then go home early. I’m not needed for the investigations and—” He waved towards his office “—I have nothing here. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Anne nodded, not looking at him.

It was raining on the roof.

“Knew the weather was shit,” Potter mumbled.

“No you didn’t. It’s always sunny in your ward.” Draco closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the raindrops pattering on his Rainsafe Charm. His boots were getting wet, but he didn’t give a shit.

Potter rested his head on Draco’s shoulder, and Draco relaxed his head to rest on Harry’s.

“What stuff got burnt? Sentimental things? Did you have money in there, or valuables?”

“Everything is gone,” Draco said, drawing shapes on Harry’s palm. “Only one photograph was irreplaceable. I keep no blackmail material in my office, and I care not for gold.”

“You seem really bummed out,” Harry said.

“I’m fine,” he replied.

The more he repeated the lie, perhaps the likelier it would come true. With Harry’s head on his shoulder, he could pretend he was someone else.

Harry twisted round, touched the circles under Draco’s eyes. “You’re a shit liar.”

“I lost a lot of work. Probably about fifty hours’ worth.” He groaned. “Oh, I’ve just remembered—the business case for a new Healer. Nearly finished it. That’s ten hours down the drain. Fuck’s sake. I don’t want to think about it—I’ll just remember more work I’ve lost.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

He shook his head.

“Why would anyone do it? To your office specifically?”

“Don’t know,” Draco said, mind still on the business case.

“Why your office in particular? Were they looking for something?”

“Don’t care,” Draco said, racking his brain for the names of the patients whose prescriptions were waiting to be signed.

Potter put a tentative arm around Draco’s shoulder. “You work too hard. You need assistants.”

“I have a secretary,” Draco countered.

“Is it normal to work all the time?”

“Does this count as working…?” Draco said, lips on Potter’s ear. He nosed Harry’s clean-shaven cheek.

“No…” Potter said, fingers interlinking with Draco’s. “Not in my book.” He smiled into Draco’s cheek. “Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?”

“Stop flirting with your Healer, you maniac.”

“Ask me a question,” Harry said.

“No. Tell me about the postboxes again.”

They smiled at each other.

“They’re red—same colour as the Hogwarts Express,” Harry began, tracing the shadows under Draco’s eyes. “A postman comes round every morning and empties them.”

“Every morning? On foot?”

“And then they walk up to every house in Britain with the post. People work all night,” Harry said. He frowned. “You’re cold.”

“I’m fine.”

“You aren’t,” Harry whispered.

Draco did not reply.

****

Between recreating his notes for the Wardship Hearing, writing two dozen letters a day, Anne’s sniffling apologies, and more Legilimency and kissing, Draco’s manager called him in for a meeting.

“There’s no easy way to say this,” Mr Crocus began, jowls wobbling, “so you’d better take a seat.”

Draco’s gaze snapped up from his boss’s quivering neck to concentrate on what was being said, mind half on the wizard downstairs in a healing trance.

“Do you remember a patient called Madam Jennings?” he asked, polishing his monocle.

“Older lady, tall… I believe she died nearly two years ago.”

“Yes, well, the family has decided to take you to court for malpractice. She died quite unexpectedly, you see.”

Draco could feel his heart beating in his ears. A portrait looked on in sympathy, shaking her head. “I-I don’t understand.”

“Do you remember anything unusual the day she died?”

“She seemed stable. I came to work the following morning and was surprised to hear she’d passed on. I’d have to review the Healing Records—”

“It won’t be possible, they’re with the legislators as we speak.”

Draco looked at his hands and nodded dumbly. He heard the creak of his boss’s chair as Mr Crocus sat back and surveyed him.

“What do I need to do?” Draco asked. He wasn’t one to shy away from sorting things out.

Mr Crocus got to his feet. “Perhaps you should take a holiday. Wait for this all to blow over.”

Draco did not stand, but he didn’t scowl either. He had some self-restraint around the appropriate people. “My unit is exceedingly short-staffed, sir. I had a business case almost prepared—”

“Results, young man, results! Not excuses.” He waggled a finger imperatively. “Now, then. I’m sure this’ll probably all blow over, but keep your eyes peeled on your in-tray over the coming weeks.”

“Right, sir. Yes.” Draco nodded, mouth dry, and made to leave.

“And Malfoy?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I took a chance in taking someone of your sort on.” Mr Crocus peered down his nose and cuffed him on the shoulder. “Don’t let me down.”

“Thank you, sir,” he said, mouth dry. “I won’t.”

Draco found his feet took him to the roof. Nobody could follow him there and he needed to see the sky.

Wulfric heard what had happened and came up to sit in silence and stare at the passing clouds with him for a while.

That afternoon, Draco did something he’d rarely done in his fifteen years at St Mungo’s: he wrote in sick.

Someone else would have to cover. Anne contacted his patients to let them know, and everyone else be damned. His boss had even suggested it, hadn’t he?

Back at home, someone tapped on the door to Draco’s quarters, probably his mother, but he didn’t reply.

Fully dressed, he crept under the covers of his four-poster bed and slept until four in the morning. He might have slept even longer were it not for Blue prodding him in the face. Someone had put a steaming silver jug of hot chocolate on his bedside table whilst he slept.

“Stop that,” he grouched, scratching the fur behind her ears. “If it’s still dark, you don’t get to punch me in the face. It’s rude.”

Blue purred and rubbed her cheek against Draco’s.

“I suppose I have slept for long enough,” he told her. “Time to get up, then?”

He arrived at work hideously early, and did his ward round first thing during breakfast time.

He hadn’t seen Harry for a while, so dropped in on him at eight.

“Malfoy?”

Harry didn’t back away, which was a start.

“Good morning, Mr Potter. I’m going to ask you some questions.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Draco Malfoy, I’m your Healer. You’re not well, et cetera, et cetera. Can you tell me today’s date?”

“Where’s Narcissa?”

Draco looked at the stars encircling the face of his pocket watch. “She’ll be here in about half an hour. Please tell me the date and where you think you are.”

“Narcissa comes and has breakfast with me. Then I lift weights and go for a run. Then I read. Then she’ll sit with me some more, tell me stories, or teach me something. Then I have lunch. Then… I don’t… this isn’t supposed to happen. You’re not supposed to be here.”

Draco spoke as he wrote in the Healing Records. “Mr Potter was distressed and noncompliant this morning. He will be reviewed again in due course—”

“Wait!”

Draco glared at him.

“Are you trying to help me?” Potter asked.

“I’m your Healer. I see you every afternoon.”

Potter rubbed his biceps, his back against the wall and spectacles askew. “What the actual fuck?”

“I’ll come later,” Draco said softly. “After Narcissa’s arrived. I didn’t mean to change your routine and upset you.”

Potter nodded. “So… she’s okay?”

“She’s fine.”

“You’re Draco. My friend.”

He nodded curtly, his jaw tight.

“You’ll remember me soon,” Draco said. “I promise.”

Because he was a fool, he took Harry to the garden again that afternoon.

“You’re upset,” Harry stated.

Draco supposed he was; he didn’t know what to think.

“When things seem unattainable, you just work harder,” Draco said. “I’ve always ascribed to that.”

Harry pursed his lips. “Or… you could split the work up. With friends. You know, share the burden. Talk about things.”

Draco patted his pockets, got out a cigarette and offered one to Harry who shook his head.

Harry put his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands together, and stared at a line of ants on the concrete.

“Say something,” Harry said gruffly, a little later.

Draco sighed around his cigarette and elbowed Harry in the side. “It’s a nice day,” he said, smiling around it.

Harry laughed and then they lapsed into silence.

“I can’t stay here,” Harry said, shaking his head.

“No. You can’t.”

“I think they’ll fail me at the hearing.”

Draco nodded, a lump in his throat.

Harry swore.

It wasn’t as if he knew that his records were destroyed.

“I’m sorry your work got burnt.”

Draco couldn’t bear Harry looking at him as though he was someone to be pitied and went to the railing to stare at the tiny Muggles. Harry’s footsteps echoed across the ground, and then Draco felt the press of a forehead between his shoulder blades. Harry wrapped his arms around Draco’s waist.

It made his throat feel thick and something prickled behind his eyes. “I don’t want to be a Healer any more,” Draco confessed.

The arms tightened around his middle, and Draco took a few heaving breaths.

“I don’t think I’m cut out for it,” Draco continued.

“You’re a fantastic Healer—”

“You’ve lost your memory. You’ve no idea.”

“I still know you’re good at your job. The youngest Head of the Department in a century. See? I can remember things.”

Draco hung his head and squeezed his eyes shut. “You didn’t remember me this morning.”

“… I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

Harry turned him around, ran his fingers through the hair behind Draco’s ears, and said, “Promise me something. When you quit… which you should, you’re cracking up… you’ll still visit me. You’ll see me again. Because there’s not a lot I like about this place.”

Draco took a shuddering breath. “I won’t be leaving you here to rot, I’m too self-serving to do that. Nor will I stand by and let them snap your wand.”

Stating that truth bolstered his sense of purpose. He would not let them take Harry’s wand. He was not leaving Harry.

“No matter what it takes,” Draco said.

The Hearing

Draco kept his head held high as he strolled through the Ministry corridor, a trick that he’d learnt as a boy from watching his father. People sensed his power and the crowds parted.

He arrived early to the courtroom in time to see a small group of the Wizengamot file in. It looked as though they were a subcommittee within the legislation team, and several recognised him and raised a hand as he sat on his usual bench.

“I think we’re all here, so we’ll start early and get this over with,” a warlock said, looking around the courtroom.

The Senior Undersecretary to the Minister, Derek Johnson, began. “Wardship Hearing of the twenty-fourth of May 2013. We at the Guardianship Committee are all here united in one goal: to help Harry Potter and do what’s best for him. But we must also balance what is best for society at large. Safety first, in all matters.”

There were a few nods.

“We all here at the Ministry have been deeply concerned for Mr Potter’s wellbeing. Tomorrow it will have been exactly six hundred days since he was committed to St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.”

A few people gasped.

“Jayne Wilkes was sentenced to five years in Azkaban for reckless endangerment to human life, when she unwittingly injured Mr Potter in an altercation at the Department of Mysteries. Today we have a brief report from her, and a briefer report from an Unspeakable. Also in attendance today is Draco Malfoy, Healer-in-Charge of the Mind Department, who has provided a detailed report on Mr Potter.”

When Draco was called up for evidence, the Undersecretary was not pleased. “You did not come dressed for court.”

It wasn’t a question.

“I am a Healer. Our department is short-staffed and time is of the essence.”

“You are Draco Justus Malfoy, of Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire?”

“I am.”

“Is it true that the Healing Records were destroyed in a fire this week?”

There were some uneasy frowns and furious scribblings.

“Yes. But my report was thorough, and I have written a thorough summary of Mr Potter’s stay.”

Johnson waved his hand. “Please describe the nature of Mr Potter’s injuries.”

“Objection!” a woman called.

Draco hadn’t even opened his mouth.

“What is it?” Johnson asked.

“Mr Malfoy has a long-standing animosity with Mr Potter.”

“Have you any comment, Mr Malfoy?” he asked.

“I’m here in my capacity as a Healer. Harry and I have been acquaintances for about twenty years. I bear him no ill-will.”

“Continue, please!” Johnson said, looking at his watch. “With any luck we’ll be done by lunchtime.”

Draco said his piece, recalling his summer lessons as a teenager in speech and elocution. Looking into the stern eyes of the Guardianship Committee, he could tell that the Malfoy name no longer held sway in the government.

They seemed to accept his statements and dismissed him. He wouldn’t know the outcome until the Committee had made their decision, perhaps days later.

They had not informed Harry about his Wizengamot Charter of Rights and apparently this was legal. What a joke this country was.

A couple of weeks later, someone knocked on the door to his chambers late in the afternoon. He’d been lying in listless rest after a night shift and was still awake, drifting and daydreaming and warm.

“Come in,” Draco called.

Mother perched on the side of the bed. “I have bad news,” she said, smoothing the bedsheets.

Draco had a nasty feeling the Committee somehow knew when he’d be off work.

“I am sick and tired of bad news.”

“Let us get some fresh air and go out for a ride, I’ll tell you on the way.”

Ten minutes later, they strolled out into the warm June air.

“I was sitting with Gilderoy this morning when one of the secretaries came to find me. Anne and Rozz seemed well-apprised of the situation concerning Harry, and were anxious to speak with me in your absence. A Committee Liaison Officer was to visit him in half an hour, to brief him in person, and so I said goodbye to Gilderoy and waited with Harry.”

Merlin, his mother was slow at getting to the point.

“He’s making wonderful progress with his calligraphy,” she continued, “and listened to me when I said he should be as placid as can be when they came, to give as good an impression as possible.”

They got changed into their riding robes in separate stalls. “I don’t like where this is going,” Draco called.

“Harry remained calm throughout,” she replied. “As I understand it, he thinks you or his little friends have some kind of plan.”

She saddled Peggy whilst he readied Giles.

“He’d be mistaken,” Draco said tightly.

“Well, you can guess what they said. They’re to snap his wand in four weeks’ time, according to a subsection of the Muggle Protection Act. As if the Muggles need protecting from us! They reminded him about the Statute of Secrecy Act, and apparently it’s not all bad news—” Draco snorted at this, and she continued, “because one day they might let him live in a convalescent home.”

“A convalescent home?”

They mounted their horses and trotted in the direction of the brook.

“It cannot be borne!” Draco cried. “We don’t even have convalescent homes. It’s St Mungo’s or nothing!”

“They can’t be talking about St Oswald’s Home for Old Witches and Wizards,” she said, shaking her head. “He may be able to appeal. It is unwise to get embroiled, however.”

Draco scowled. “Since when did we care about the government?”

“You are a Healer, not a revolutionary. You’d do well to remember that.”

She squeezed Peggy’s flanks and Draco galloped off behind her.

****

When Draco got into work the next morning with Anne’s hot chocolate, she glanced at the tarot cards and back to Draco and hid an expression of concern.

“It’s good to see you,” she said bracingly.

“Good morning.” His office was full of new furniture, but absent of all his familiar things.

The time dragged as he wouldn’t visit Potter until he was ‘himself’ in the afternoon, and he had a two-hour meeting to sit through. At lunchtime, Mother fussed over him and made sure he ate a full meal.

When he got to Ward 59, Potter was not impressed.

“This is insane! We’ve got to do something!”

“Overthrow the government? Run away?” Draco asked. He’d forgotten his Dict-a-Quill upstairs and jabbed at the parchment with such vigour that he poked a hole through the page.

“Yes! Escape!”

“You cannot escape,” Draco said, voice clipped. “This is your lot in life. Deal with it.”

“I’m getting out of here. With or without you—”

“You’re forgetting yourself.” Draco scowled at the wall. “You’re an incompetent child for half the day, very soon it will be unlawful for you to carry a wand. Think about what you’re saying. Use what little brain cells—”

“Yes but—”

“You are the same idiot who played with Basilisks and took on hordes of Death Eaters. Except this time, you’ve no wand.” Draco slammed the notes shut. “I’m going. I have another fourteen patients to review.”

He strode towards the door.

“Wait!”

Draco turned to see Potter’s scared eyes.

“Will you… will you help me? Don’t you want to help me?” Potter asked.

Draco searched his face.

“I don’t know what to do.”

Harry’s mouth was set in a grim line. “Right, well. Football’s a game of two halves.”

“What?”

“You’ll think of something, I know you will,” Potter said. “You always do. And there’s always Hermione.”

“I don’t know if I can help. But if I can…” Draco turned back towards the door. “I… need to think things over.”

“You’ll come back? Later?”

“Of course.”

Harry approached him. Draco was surprised that Harry didn’t pull him down for a kiss, but just squeezed his hand.

“I’ll see you soon,” Draco said.

Harry grinned. “I know.”

He immediately went up to his office and on his way through, said to Anne, “Please don’t disturb me for half an hour unless someone’s dying.”

It still smelt faintly of smoke.

Draco sat at his brand-new desk and stared at the wood grain of the oak-panelled wall for a few minutes.

He imagined what things would be like if life were simpler. If they were staffed adequately. If Madam Jennings hadn’t died. If his father hadn’t been a Death Eater. If Astoria had never died. If Harry was straight and married. If society accepted Draco for his contributions rather than his teenage misdemeanours.

Draco was good at falling in love with the wrong people. Quiet, sick, Muggle-loving Astoria, who came from a line of women with a blood malediction. Add Harry fucking Potter to the list.

What if there had been no such thing as Harry Potter? Where would he be then?

The sketch entitled ‘FRIEND’ was a talisman in his inner pocket.

With little thought, he got out his Dict-a-Quill and placed it on a sheaf of new parchment, buried his face in his hands, and dictated a letter:

“24th May 2013,

“Dear Mr Crocus,

“It is with regret that I am officially tendering my resignation from St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries effective from today. My last working day will be in four weeks from now.

“I never envisioned leaving my dream job at such a marvellous place of work, but an opportunity has arisen that I simply have to take advantage of.

“I cannot say enough good things about my colleagues, the patients I have met over the years of my service, and of course, your second-to-none leadership and guidance over the course of my career to date.

“It is my hope that we will part on excellent terms and I thank you for accepting my application for Trainee Healer after my community service all those years ago.

“My son was born here. My late wife was treated here. My secretary used to babysit my son. I will be very much saddened to leave behind my second family, that is to say, my dear colleagues whom I depended upon for over a decade.

“I feel that my replacement has a very bright future indeed as the hospital moves in exciting directions, particularly under your forward-thinking management.

“I thoroughly appreciate all the lessons learnt at St Mungo’s and wish you every success in the future.

“With kind regards,

“Yours sincerely,

“Draco Malfoy
“Healer-in-Charge
“Mind Healing Dept.”

With shaking fists, he folded his arms on the desk and allowed his breaths to come out in heavy gasps, shoulders shaking, as they had not done for many years.

Sanctum

The sun had no choice but to shine on a new day. Though it was Draco’s day off, a Saturday, Draco went through his normal routine anyway. He bathed, ate his watermelon, styled his hair and was by the front door in his emerald Healer-in-Charge robes before he’d even thought about it.

Draco clung to the gates to the Manor, awash with birdsong yet still feeling hollow. He hated that he had no agency, no choices that belonged to him.

He had to go in. As he was rather good at compartmentalising his feelings, he strode through the corridors of St Mungo’s as though it were his proper place.

Draco left a generous leaving voucher for his secretary, Anne, and an explanatory note. He didn’t want there to be any fuss or public acknowledgement of his resignation. But she had served him for many years and deserved better.

Downstairs, Enchanted Heart was playing on Potter’s wireless. Harry dozed to the pop music and blinked at Draco’s entrance.

“Wha-?” Harry frowned.

“Do you remember me, Harry?”

“You don’t usually call me Harry.”

“An oversight, I’m sure.”

Harry squinted. “What’s going on? This doesn’t normally happen.”

Draco sat down heavily in the visitor’s seat, and helped himself to Potter’s toast.

“It’s my day off. You sleep in late like a teenager, then normally wake up disorientated. You occasionally have some kind of tantrum late morning and I am pulled away from whatever healing duties I am embroiled in. Then, you think I am my father, Lucius Malfoy, and I ask all healing professionals to leave the room so I can calm you down. Then, sometimes I kiss you here,” he said, reaching out to brush his fingers in the spot beneath his ear. “Sometimes you want to punch me in the face, sometimes you kiss me back. After lunch, you generally know what’s going on, and we like to sit in the roof garden.”

Harry’s expression cleared. He reached out a hand and Draco took it.

“Draco. Draco,” he said. “I thought you were a dream.”

Harry yawned, and Draco took the opportunity to lock the door.

“I’ve been having bad thoughts…” Harry had the most woebegone face he’d ever seen. “I don’t think I’ll feel happy ever again.”

Loving Potter was perilous, like scaling a wall without magic. But loving him was also an honour, and Draco would hold on to him for as long as he could.

Draco took back his hand. “You will.”

“Look. They’re going to snap my wand.”

“Do you think they arm the likes of Professor Lockhart? And Mr and Mrs Longbottom, do you think they are free to wave a wand?”

“It’s hardly the same!”

“It’s exactly the same. In the morning you are a clueless child, we don’t let children create havoc. It’s the way things are.”

Harry tightened his grip on Draco’s hand. “So we give up?”

“No. We decide what to do next, after careful consideration.”

“Why don’t we just leave now? And hide somewhere?”

Draco pecked Harry on the lips.

“Because Potter, I, unlike you, make rational decisions after weighing up all options and their strengths and shortcomings.”

“I wish I could disappear,” Harry said, winding his fingers into Draco’s hair.

“Well you can’t,” he snapped.

He wanted to give Harry what he needed. Already he was formulating in his mind how to get Harry out of hospital. Now that Draco had quit his job, nothing stood in the way except himself.

Draco pulled him in closely. Pacifying himself on the steady pulse of Harry’s throat, he breathed in the scent of his neck, redolent of home.

“We will sort this out,” Draco murmured against his skin.

“I know.”

Draco looked down into the earnest face that had become so dear to him. “I’d better go,” he said. “Your actual Healer will be in soon.” His words felt heavy in the air of the ward, burdened with the smell of floor wax and Disinfectant Potion.

His face fell. “Oh! I almost forgot. Hermione dropped by first thing, asked me to give you this. Said you’d understand…”

Harry reached into his bedside table and passed him a Galleon.

At first, Draco was flummoxed. Then he shook his head and laughed. “Oh God…”

Harry grinned. “Welcome to Dumbledore’s Army.”

He covered his face with his hand. “Kill me now.”

Harry snorted, pulled his hand away and kissed him.

They said their goodbyes, then Draco sent Hermione an owl. She met him by the coffee kiosk in the Atrium at lunch.

“What’s the plan?” he asked.

Hermione looked around to check no one was listening. “We appeal, of course,” she said, eyes alight with challenge.

“Where do we meet?”

“I don’t know, we were thinking perhaps the back room of the Hog’s Head. We know the owner—”

“I am not going to some shady public house.”

“Fine, we can meet somewhere Muggle, then.”

“Nor am I going to a Muggle establishment. How about the Manor?”

She gritted her teeth. “Not all of us have good memories there.”

Draco felt as though someone had punched him.

“Have you got any better ideas?” Hermione asked with a sniff.

“Let’s go to Sanctum. Blaise’s uncle’s bar. There’s a private room upstairs and he’s… discreet.”

Hermione pursed her lips.

“I don’t know why I’ve got a silly coin if you don’t trust me,” Draco said. “In fact, you can do this on your own—”

“Of course I trust you! You bring Harry and I’ll rustle up the others.”

Later, the coin burnt hot in his pocket and he saw that they were to meet tonight at half nine.

“I suppose this means you’re officially in my club,” Harry said, before pulling him in for a fierce kiss.

“It feels dangerous and stupid,” Draco replied against his lips.

Draco dressed him in some fine robes of dark green, and smuggled him out under the Invisibility Cloak.

He’d told everything to Wulfric, who stood at the door and watched as they left.

As it was a Saturday night, they Apparated to the back entrance. After a brief argument, Draco insisted on lending Harry his wand—the man was more valuable a target.

“I’m not getting involved,” Blaise said, arms crossed at the sight of Draco. “You never saw me. But you’ll have complete privacy.”

Draco nodded. “That’s all I ask.”

Upstairs was a narrow room containing a long table lit by hanging oil lamps. Draco counted four Gryffindors who all sprang up at once. Harry whipped off his cloak and Draco’s arm protectively found the small of his back.

“It’s good to see you in a different part of London, mate,” Ronald said, thumping Harry on the back.

George winked at Draco and Neville grinned over Hermione’s shoulder.

At that moment, Pansy came in. “Oh, am I interrupting?”

Everyone stared.

“Hello Pansy,” Hermione said primly.

“Hello.” Pansy lit a cigarette.

Draco inhaled deeply, then held out a hand.

“Absolutely not,” Pansy said, batting his hand away. “You’re doing so well.”

“Did you know that smoking in Muggle pubs is illegal?” Hermione asked, scrunching her nose.

Pansy blew out smoke into her face. “I honestly don’t care.”

At that moment, Ginevra pushed through the door and bowled Harry over with a hug.

“Oliver at home?” Harry asked. “He all right?”

“Yeah, mate,” Ginevra said. “He needs an early night, nothing’s more important than Quidditch. Not even you,” she added, jabbing him in the chest.

“Nice to know some things never change!” George called.

A few more hapless Gryffindors hugged Harry, then Ginevra came back with an armful of Butterbeers and passed them round. “Nothing stronger. We need to keep our heads,” she said with a wink.

Luna Lovegood drifted in, looking so vague that she may have strayed in by accident. “Oh, hello everybody.”

“Luna!” several of them shouted and waved.

“Isn’t this lovely?” she commented, examining them all one at a time with her protuberant eyes. “It’s like old times, isn’t it,” Luna added dreamily. “Of course, we weren’t all friends concurrently—”

“Too busy being evil!” Ginevra cut in, punching Draco on the shoulder. “God, remember that Bat Bogey Hex in fifth year?”

“Vividly,” Draco replied.

“Best day of my life,” Neville said with a wink.

“You weren’t even there!” Draco replied.

Pansy smirked. “That says a lot.”

“Right, everybody!” Hermione called. “We’re all here—”

“Who put her in charge?” Pansy asked.

“Shut up,” Draco hissed.

“Who invited you?” George asked.

“Pansy can stay,” Harry said. “If she can be nice.”

Ron opened his mouth as if to argue, but Harry said, “She saved my life last summer.” He turned to Pansy. “But you’ve got to stop insulting my friends.”

“Anyway,” Hermione continued, “as you all know, our government has helpfully decided that Harry is to become a Ward of Court because it’s taking so long for him to get better. It’ll be illegal for him to carry a wand.”

George swore. Luna stared at Pansy. Draco put his arm around Harry’s waist and decided he wasn’t going to move it.

“Ginny and I spoke to Draco’s legislator friend, Marcus Fawley, first thing this morning. He says we’ve got twenty-one days to appeal.”

“That’s not long,” Neville said.

“The laws are so archaic,” she agreed.

“Stop being such a Muggle-born and focus on the issue at hand,” Pansy said. “Your best friend is having his wand snapped and all you want to do is complain—”

“I’m just saying—”

“Quiet, both of you,” Harry said. They shut up and looked at him. “Three weeks to lodge an appeal. Who do we know that can do appeals? Your legal friend?” he asked Draco.

Draco made a face. “I don’t think he’d take it on.”

“How about Percy?” Ronald suggested.

“Percy Weasley?” Pansy queried. “Does he have the experience?”

“I don’t think anyone has the experience,” Draco said. “This hasn’t been done for decades, I only learnt about it in training. They haven’t enacted this law for at least twenty years, so an appeal would be an even unlikelier thing.”

“I’ll make Percy do it,” Ginevra offered. “He owes me a favour after I got him amazing Harpies tickets for his date with Marina Hardship.”

“Nice one,” George said with an approving nod.

Ginevra leant in. “And if the appeal fails, what then?” She looked around at them all, with a spark of manic revolution in her eyes. “I say we break in. Before they snap his wand.”

“How predictable,” Draco drawled.

Ronald shifted in his seat. “I dunno, it’s kind of Harry’s current place of work. And Dad’s. And Percy’s. And Hermione’s.”

“And mine,” Pansy added.

“You didn’t make that argument when we flew to the Ministry on Thestrals to rescue Sirius Black,” Luna pointed out.

“We were fifteen—” Neville began.

“Sixteen,” Hermione corrected, grimacing.

“Fourteen and proud!” Ginevra said, fist punching the air. “You know what Harry’s like when he sets his mind on things. No offence, love,” she said to Harry, grinning. “So. I say we keep ‘breaking in and nicking the wand’ as a backup plan. Oh, that reminds me…” She rummaged around in her handbag and pushed a trunk the size of a matchbox across the table. “Harry. Packed up all your things. And a few beers, for good measure, in case you need to go on the run, and a couple of broomsticks, tea bags, you know—the essentials.”

“Honestly!” Hermione said. “No one is going on the run.”

Pansy shrugged. “He might have to.”

“You could come travelling with me, Harry,” Luna said. “I can tell everyone you’re my cousin Reginald. Reg is always misplacing his wand.”

“Maybe,” Harry said encouragingly. “Does anyone else have any other ideas?”

“How would we smuggle you out?” Neville asked. “Polyjuice?”

“Might get arrested,” Pansy said.

“It takes one lunar cycle to brew Polyjuice,” Draco said, “as you ought to know.” He looked meaningfully at Hermione.

“They broke into the Slytherin common room in second year,” he said to Pansy.

Pansy sprayed out her beer. “What?”

“As you said, let’s focus on the issue at hand,” Hermione said savagely, as Neville passed a pile of napkins down the table.

“Fine. We use the Imperius Curse on a random member of the public,” Draco suggested.

“That’s illegal,” Hermione pointed out.

“I think Draco is joking, but I can’t be sure,” Luna mused.

“They’re going to snap your best friend’s wand,” Draco said.

“Which is legal, much as we don’t like it,” Hermione said.

“You could lie low at Grimmauld Place,” Ron suggested.

“No,” Harry said.

“How about the Manor?” Pansy asked.

“The Manor is not a suitable place for harbouring runaways,” Draco said.

“You could get on a boat to France,” Neville suggested.

“How would I manage in France?” Harry asked.

“Pretend to be confused and English,” Ronald said.

“I am confused and English.”

“That’s the spirit!” he said, clapping him on the shoulder.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Luna said.

Everyone looked at her.

“The French mafia are monitoring the borders, collecting teeth for trade on the black market. I thought everybody knew that—Daddy published an exposé months ago.”

George took a swig of Butterbeer to hide his grin. Pansy looked at Luna as though she’d suggested a naked tap dancing lesson.

“Right,” Harry said. “Thanks Luna, that’s good to know. To tell you the truth, I didn’t fancy going to France in a boat.”

“That sounds like a Plan B, if I’m honest,” George said.

“Or a Plan C,” Ron added.

“Plan A is to lodge an appeal and win,” Hermione concluded. “We should meet again if that doesn’t work out.”

They broke off into smaller conversations, and although Draco planned to have his arm around Harry all night, they now just held hands under the table.

“Take care of him,” Hermione muttered, eyes on Harry. He was deep in conversation with his ex-wife.

“He’ll be all right,” Luna said. “You have the face of safety, Draco.”

Pansy snorted.

“Thanks,” Draco said.

He told Harry’s friends about the malpractice case, just so they were aware, and they were suitably disgusted on his behalf.

“Draco,” Pansy called, “I need a private word.”

“If you’ve got anything to say, you can say it in front of us,” Ronald said.

“No,” Pansy said. She beckoned Draco with a jerk of her head and dragged him into the men’s lavatories.

“So,” she said, after she had slammed the door. “What’s going on between you and Potter?”

Draco folded his arms. “I—well, that is to say, we…”

She rolled her eyes. “I knew you fancied him, but this is going a bit far, don’t you think? When are you going to Obliviate him?”

Draco’s lips parted. “You think I’m… toying with him? As a plaything?”

“… Aren’t you?”

Draco had no words.

“This is Potter we are talking about,” Pansy clarified. “Harry Potter. So are you in love with him, then? And you’re in a permanent… relationship?”

Pansy batted his hand away from her packet of cigarettes. “Stop that, you’re such a nuisance.” She raised her eyebrows and lit a fag. “Well. That wasn’t a ‘no’.”

“I might… like him…” Draco said, gaze fixed on the tiles beside her head.

She made a frantic ‘go on’ gesture.

“We haven’t really… defined… whatever it is that we are.”

“Oh my God. You’re so hopeless. Please don’t go and get yourself in mortal danger—you’re the only one I like in our friendship group.”

They returned to the table and everyone came up with theories about Dilys Derwent and this other person who recovered from their memory problems. But since the Private Investigator failed, they decided that it wasn’t a worthy area of research.

“We should check the hospital discharge summaries anyway, just to be thorough,” Hermione said.

“There are thousands.”

Pansy volunteered herself and Theo, who was back from Prague for the month, and Hermione signed herself up too.

“Since it’s illegal, if you like I can Obliviate you all afterwards,” Pansy offered. At the look on their faces she said, “It’s a generous offer! I’m very good at my job!”

After a while, nobody had any new ideas, and since it was getting late, they said their goodbyes.

Draco and Harry left in the Invisibility Cloak, creeping up the rickety staircase of the hospital. Conveniently, they only fit with their arms around each other.

Then three days later, Draco received a letter from Luna:

Dear Draco,

How are you?

I’ve been thinking about it for a while and have an idea who the other person with the memory problem is.

I’ve cancelled my trip to Antigua to help Harry so you are welcome to visit Daddy and I for tea any time this week.

Daddy is very excited to meet you.

Hugs,

Luna

The letter had been sitting in his in-tray, innocuously buried under repeat prescription requests.

Draco poked his head around the door.

“When did this arrive?” he asked Anne.

“What’s that?” She took the letter. “Oh, yesterday, I think. Is everything all right?”

Reaching for his travelling cloak, he said, “Rearrange this afternoon’s tutorial, please.”

Draco had seen little of Luna since Easter of seventh year, when he’d smuggled her food during her stay in his cellar. He’d certainly never been to her house, and he frowned at the letter as she hadn’t left an address.

He turned up at the Weasley joke shop and Ronald Apparated him to Devon.

“We’re just a few miles away from my parents’ house, actually,” Ronald explained. They were at the foot of a hill and he pointed to a peculiar house shaped like a rook. “Listen, I’ve got to go back to the shop or George’ll kill me. Be nice, okay?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“They’re a bit weird,” Ronald said. “But be nice.”

“I’m always nice!”

Ronald clapped him on the back. “Right. Course. See you, then.”

He Disapparated and Draco scowled at the thin air where he had stood.

Then Draco walked up the zigzagging path, and found Mr Lovegood puffing on a pipe beside the front door, sheltering under an aged crab-apple tree. A little owl with a slightly flattened, hawk-like head peered down from one of the branches.

“A good omen,” Mr Lovegood said, pointing at a cloud.

“What is?” Draco squinted at the sky.

“Seven cumuli in a row.”

“So… it is unlikely to rain?”

The man didn’t reply and just looked at him. His puff of white hair waved in the wind.

“I’m here to visit Luna,” Draco announced.

Mr Lovegood laughed in delight and clapped his hands together. “Are you a friend of hers from school?”

“In a sense. My name is Draco Malfoy.”

The man must need a Mind Healer himself, for it was distinctly odd that he hadn’t recognised Draco.

“LUNA!” Mr Lovegood bellowed. “You’ve a friend at the door!”

She clattered downstairs barefoot, in a yellow robe so long it swept two feet behind her.

“Ooh, Draco!” Luna flung her arms around him and he patted her on the back. “You came! It is so nice to have visiting friends, isn’t it, Daddy?”

“I received your letter,” Draco said stiffly.

“Oh, yes!” Luna filled a teapot in the shape of a shoe and didn’t elaborate.

Mr Lovegood followed them inside and before walking upstairs, said, “If you’re here for a tour of the printing press, my friend, I’m afraid I’m far too busy today. You’ll have to give more notice.”

“That’s a pity, but it can’t be helped,” Draco said, hiding his relief. “Perhaps another time.” He turned to watch Luna pile pink wafers onto a saucer.

“So, Luna. I need to get back to work as soon as I can. I came straight away to hear what you had to say.”

“Oh yes,” she said, nodding. They sat down at a triangular kitchen table and she poured out some kind of herbal tea. It was vile.

“Who is it?”

Her eyes bulged out like a fish. “Well it sounded a lot like Miss Dumbledore. You know, the missing sister.”

If this was a joke, it wasn’t funny.

“Professor Dumbledore’s missing sister,” he repeated dumbly.

“Harry knew all about her.”

“Harry has lost his memory.”

This was ridiculous.

“They spoke about it in the place between life and death.” Luna frowned. “I can see that I’ve upset you.”

Draco stared into his tea. “I’m fine,” he said.

Perhaps it would be true if he repeated it often enough.

The Missing Sister

Draco visited Ronald and Hermione that evening.

“Ariana?” Hermione said, scratching her chin. “I suppose it could fit.”

“I reckon we should look into it,” Ronald said. “We wouldn’t have found that Horcrux without her.”

“Dumbledore’s sister,” Draco repeated flatly.

One of their offspring started zooming around on a toy broomstick, and he only had half of the couple’s attention.

“Have you told Harry?” she asked.

“No. I didn’t want to upset him.”

“It’s best to be honest with each other,” she advised. “Can I tell him about the malpractice case?”

“I suppose so.”

There was an uncomfortable silence that followed, and Ronald hid a grin behind his hand.

“You could speak to Aberforth,” Ronald suggested.

“You don’t visit ‘shady pubs’, though,” she said to Draco. “Mr Dumbledore owns the Hog’s Head.”

“Not if I can help it,” Draco said. “And I didn’t know that.”

“That’s because you don’t spend enough time in shady pubs,” Ronald said with a wink.

“Of course, we could speak to Professor Dumbledore himself by visiting his portrait. It’s a bit suspicious to go marching on up to the castle, but I suppose you could use the Vanishing Cabinet if you still have access to it.”

Draco flinched. “I’d rather not. There is a portrait of Professor Dumbledore in the Wizengamot Administration Services, however.”

“Is there? That’s on Level Two,” Hermione said.

Ronald got up to fetch his toddler. “Same floor as Dad.”

“I’ll speak to him tomorrow, if you like. I’m at the Ministry anyway.” Hermione fished out a notebook from a bulging bookshelf. “Let’s make a list of questions!”

****

Hermione’s report, though detailed, didn’t help.

Dumbledore had a little sister who was sheltered from the public eye for fear of being detained as a Ward of Court. She was worse in the mornings, sometimes didn’t know her own name, and her magic was unstable when she was upset. She died in a tragic accident.

Although Ariana Dumbledore was in all likelihood this mystery patient, Harry’s situation wasn’t similar at all.

Draco was glad to scratch it off the list of ideas and wrote his thanks to Luna.

Meanwhile, Pansy, Theo and Hermione looked through numerous discharge summaries he’d smuggled out of St Mungo’s as he just didn’t have time to read them all on his own. He’d kept Greg out of this so far, because he was frankly a liability.

Greg was the only soul he’d told about his job situation. Over a beer, Greg nodded and took it in his stride that Draco had quit his job and might leave the country. That’s what Draco loved about him: he just accepted things. Greg trusted that he’d thought through all eventualities and chosen the correct course.

If only Draco himself could be so sure.

Now that he’d handed in his notice at work, Draco found that he just did not care. He had sympathy for his patients, but everything else? It was all a pointless waste of time. Draco scowled at the Ministry’s inspection results, scrunched it up and tossed it into the wastepaper basket.

He didn’t talk to Harry about Ariana. There was no point.

By an unspoken agreement, they quit whatever they were trying to achieve in Legilimency. If it was working, it wasn’t a miracle cure.

Harry’s wand was going to be snapped. That was the end of it.

Instead, they went up on the roof. Sometimes they sat in silence, shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand, listening to the traffic and pigeons. Other days, Harry clung to him like a limpet, his nose nestled in Draco’s ear, cloaked in a penumbra of stress and fear.

“You’re up to something,” Harry said one evening.

“Oh?”

“You’ve been spending more time with me.”

“Have I?” Draco turned to him. “You look upset.”

He sighed and buried his face in Draco’s neck. “I dreamt that you left this place and I never saw you again.”

Draco’s blood ran cold and he tightened his arm around Harry. “I won’t leave you, don’t be silly.”

He nodded, gaze on the ground, and bit his lip. “Because you’re my Key Healer.”

“No. That’s not why.”

“It’s funny—you’re acting like you care about me.”

“Why wouldn’t I care about you?”

Harry shifted on the bench and stared ahead. “Well… not everyone has thought me worth the bother.”

“Yeah, well,” Draco said, “they’re idiots, the lot of them.”

“You’re hiding something. But it’s okay. I trust you.”

“You shouldn’t trust me.” Draco traced circles on Harry’s shoulder with his thumb. “I could have dastardly plans to whisk you away, lock you up, and keep you for myself.”

Harry smiled broadly. “I’d like that.”

“My just reward. For working so bloody hard.”

“Sign me up.” He could feel Harry’s hot breath on his cheek, before lips pressed softly on the side of his nose, down to his mouth.

The late May weather was warm, even at this hour, and Harry took off his jumper. Draco’s gaze lingered on his stomach when it was briefly exposed by his T-shirt. He wanted to touch Harry, so he did—fingernails grazing across his skin.

They froze, Harry’s hand lacing their fingers together on his abdomen. Harry stood, chest heaving, sucking in his lower lip, and he stared at Draco’s mouth heatedly.

Looping his arm around Harry’s lower back, Draco pulled him down onto his lap.

Harry flung off his spectacles and kissed him deeply, as though he were drowning, desperate. Draco squeezed Harry’s biceps, the thick muscles of his shoulders, and slipped his hands under his T-shirt to feel the skin of his back. It was just as he had imagined. Harry gasped into the kiss, “Yes, touch me. I want you to.”

Draco trailed kisses underneath Harry’s jaw, nosed down his neck, and crushed Harry’s torso against his.

“Run away with me,” Harry sighed, grinding his hips, fingers in Draco’s hair. “Yes.”

The thought was tempting indeed.

Harry bucked into Draco’s hips and they sighed, forehead to forehead. “Perhaps we shouldn’t do this,” Draco murmured. “Is it wrong?”

“No. Not wrong.”

“You’ve had a head injury.”

“Mmm,” Harry murmured, as he poked out his tongue to trace the shell of Draco’s ear.

Draco shivered and pushed his erection into Harry’s. “How old are you, today?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Prove it. Tell me something only the twenty-eight-year-old Auror Wonder would know.”

“Umm…” Harry gasped when Draco squeezed his arse. “You’re distracting me. Err… My hair is shoulder length. My boss is a wanker. Saw you at the World Cup two years ago.”

Draco urged him closer by the neck and murmured, “Good enough,” against his lips. “Take off your T-shirt.”

He pushed Harry back to trace Harry’s clavicle with the back of his forefinger.

“I think about you when I touch myself,” Harry confessed. “I have really long baths and imagine you’re there with me.”

Draco tasted the skin behind Harry’s ear, considering what to do. He wanted to say that any time Harry desired, Draco’s mouth was his. Instead, he swapped their positions so Harry was sitting on the bench and replaced his spectacles.

“Are you cold?” Draco asked.

Harry shook his head and pulled him nearer.

They kissed some more whilst Draco worked up the courage, his hand drifting lower and lower until he cupped Harry’s cock through his jeans. Harry smiled against his mouth and whispered, “So long. Waited so long.”

Eyes fixed on Harry’s wide gaze, Draco got up to kneel on the ground, and tugged down Harry’s trousers and boxers. Then, he kissed Harry’s stomach, as he had so often dreamt of doing, avoiding the needy cock whilst he satisfied himself exploring the tiny silver stretch marks on the jut of Harry’s hips, the dark trail of hair, the dip of his belly button.

“Please, can’t stand it,” Harry begged.

Draco pushed Harry’s legs wide, tasted the soft skin of his inner thigh, and felt every hair of his legs.

“Stop this and bloody—oh.”

He shut Harry up by swallowing him whole. Boxed in by Harry’s thick thighs, Draco feasted his ears on the high-pitched whines, relished the bitter taste and feel of Harry’s desire for him and him alone heavy in his mouth. Harry gripped Draco’s scalp, messed up his hair, then Draco pulled off to get his wand.

“Silencio. I want to watch you being loud. That all right?” he purred.

Harry nodded vigorously so Draco returned to his licking and sucking, gaze fixed on Harry’s heaving chest, hands roaming his taut stomach. Harry threw back his head in a picture of a noiseless groan.

It wasn’t long until Harry pulled Draco up to sit beside him, sighed into a deep kiss, and guided Draco’s hand back to his cock.

He watched Harry’s face as he stroked him up and down, cock wet with spit and precum.

Hands cradling his face, Harry stared at him in wonder. His panting breath was hot on Draco’s face. Seconds later, Draco watched Harry give a breathless cry, then his face contorted in pleasure as he came over Draco’s hand. Holding him closely, Harry buried his face into Draco’s neck and thrust helplessly a few more times, shivering against Draco’s skin.

Their kiss was long and lazy, Harry’s lips curving into a smile. Then they rested their foreheads together, and Harry mouthed something incomprehensible against Draco’s mouth.

Heart clenching in awe, Draco nodded and let his eyes drift shut.

****

A few nights later, Draco was just putting on his nightshirt when there was a tapping at the window.

Blue hissed at the sight of a black-banded owl who hopped in with a letter, and the owl fell asleep in the time it took Draco to read the note.

2nd June 2013

Draco,

I’ve got some bad news. Can we meet at the Visitors’ Tearoom at the hospital at half 5?

Love,

Hermione

PS Percy will file the paperwork tomorrow and we should hear within 2 weeks

For all of the next day, Draco mourned the lost art of letter writing. What was bad? It was obviously about Harry—they had nothing else whatsoever in common. His night shift started at eleven that night, so the timing wasn’t exactly convenient. Draco spent a lot of the day clearing out his belongings and organising his rooms.

When they finally met, Draco was running late after his colleague accosted him in the corridor about a tricky case.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I don’t have long,” she said, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug. “I need to see the children before Ron puts them to bed.”

“What’s happened?”

She leant across the table and said, voice low, “It’s about your malpractice case.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “What of it?”

Her face was pinched, her shoulders curled. He suddenly thought that she looked exhausted. “Has anyone taken you to court before?”

“Of course not!”

“Don’t you think it’s a bit odd,” Hermione said, peering at him as though nervous of his reaction, “that someone burnt down your office and then you’re being taken to court? And then there’s all this business about Harry being made a Ward of Court…”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s all very… unlikely, don’t you think?”

“I suppose…” Draco said. “Harry’s notes for court went missing and I couldn’t recreate them properly.”

Hermione was unsurprised. “How much do you trust Theodore Nott?”

He leant back in his chair. “Why do you ask?” Draco asked slowly, weighing every word.

“I felt the timing was a bit suspicious, so I thought it was worth poking around,” Hermione said, rummaging in her handbag and getting out some parchment. “Look!”

Hermione passed him the obituary page of the Daily Prophet.

“I knew I recognised her, Madam Campbell worked at the Ministry as Comptroller of the Serious Patents Office down on Level Five, not far from the Department of International Magical Cooperation. I decided to finish off some reports in the Intellectual Property Library—no one ever uses it, it’s a fantastic space—and… well… There’s no easy way to say this, but… I-sort-of-pretended-that-I-knew-her-well-and-met-with-her-son. I knew it was wrong, but I had this gut feeling and I was right—”

“Can you try to focus on the crux of the matter?”

Hermione grimaced, twiddling her hair around her finger. “Don’t judge me. But I’d had this funny feeling, so said I’d help the family by looking over the paperwork, you know, because of my training. And, well… Nott was a co-signatory. Turns out he’s a distant cousin. He told the family they would get a pay-out, and everyone in America is doing it—suing hospitals.”

“This is madness,” he said. “Everyone has gone mad.”

She chewed her lip. “I’m really sorry.”

He looked at his hands folded in his lap, tried to sort out his swirling thoughts—

“But, Draco, there’s something I don’t understand. Isn’t he your friend?”

“He is,” Draco replied, still not looking at her. “Was.”

All in Good Time

“Mother?” Draco called.

“Yes, my darling?”

Draco pushed through the wisteria vines that cascaded purple flowers. He found his mother wearing her gardening robes and a frown.

“I don’t think Harry’s appeal will be successful,” he said.

She stopped pruning the Flutterby bush and just stared at it. They didn’t speak for a while.

“What do you want to do?” she asked.

“St Mungo’s is no longer the most appropriate place for him.”

Mother took a deep breath, then busied herself bundling cuttings into a wicker crate. “Where will you go?” she asked.

“I was thinking perhaps Brittany.”

She nodded once and pursed her lips. “You could do with practising your French.”

“Mother… Now is not the time.”

“And will you have much warning before you leave?”

“I don’t know.”

Pulling off her gardening gloves, Mother sighed. “I’ll have your things packed. So that you can depart with a moment’s notice.”

“You’re taking this awfully well.”

Mother pulled him down and kissed him on the cheek. “I wouldn’t have got this far in life without thinking about all the different paths ahead of me,” she said. “Family comes first. What about Scorpius?”

“I’ll bring him home today and talk to him about it.”

She smiled and linked arms with Draco. “Good.”

As it was a Saturday, Draco didn’t feel guilty in summoning Scorpius for the weekend. He’d invented a family funeral and paced beside the fireplace.

Scorpius finally spun out onto the hearth.

“What on earth are you wearing?” Draco asked.

“Father!” Scorpius leapt into his arms and hugged him tightly. Draco squeezed him back just as soundly, and brushed off most of the ash.

Scorpius pulled away and grinned. “It’s an anorak. Isn’t it marvellous?”

“I don’t understand,” Draco replied, tugging at the bright blue and turquoise cloth. “It’s so horrible.”

“All the Muggles wear them!” Scorpius said. “What’s going on? Professor Nilsen said cousin Nero had died, but I don’t have a cousin called Nero!”

Draco shook his head slowly. “Get changed into something appropriate for the stables. We’re going for a ride.”

“Love you too!”

Draco kissed him on the head and pushed him towards the staircase.

****

“What’s all this about, then?” Scorpius asked. “Just wanted to see me today?”

Draco used the Placement Charm to saddle their horses. He only let Scorpius ride the gelding, Peggy.

“How would you like to visit Brittany this summer?” Draco asked, staring at Giles.

Scorpius peered at him, eyes narrowed. “Why?” he asked slowly.

“They want to lock up Harry Potter. I am considering rescuing him.”

Scorpius swung his leg over the saddle. “Because he’s your boyfriend,” he stated, trotting out of the stable.

Draco got up on Giles and caught up with him. “He is not my boyfriend!”

“Yeah, right!” Scorpius scoffed. “You’d steal a patient to France just for anybody, would you?”

“Absolutely not. I’ve always taught you that actions have consequences, and I’ve weighed up the pros and cons.”

“And you love him.”

Draco clenched his jaw. “That is immaterial to the matter at hand.”

“My own father, having a midlife crisis—how exciting!”

“Certainly not. Don’t speak to me with such cheek.”

“Sorry!” he called. “I say, mind that branch.”

Draco ducked under the tree and scowled at his son’s back.

“How long have you been in love with Al’s father?” Scorpius blurted.

“What sort of question is that?”

“Well, if you love him, I suppose you should do it,” Scorpius reasoned. “Will you get arrested? That’ll be troublesome.”

“I am not getting arrested.”

“Oh, because you’ll be in France.” Scorpius tapped his temple and winked. “Splendid idea, Father. So when can Al and I visit?”

****

It took a long time for Draco to fall asleep. He dwelled on Theo, all their recent conversations playing through his mind on a loop. He searched for any sign that he’d offended him. Or done anything at all to deserve such a betrayal.

He still hadn’t told anyone.

He wanted to keep this humiliation to himself, that he’d trusted someone who hurt him where it ruined him most: his reputation as a Healer.

Though he was tired, he noticed Scorpius was quiet at breakfast the next morning.

“Are you all right?” Draco asked after Mother had left for St Mungo’s.

Scorpius traced shapes in the porridge with his spoon. “I spoke to Mama about you running away with Harry Potter. She said she thought it would be fine,” Scorpius told him.

“What?” Draco clinked his teacup onto the saucer. “Your mother can’t possibly give her permission—she’s a portrait.”

“It’s good enough. Anyway, aren’t you going to ask my permission? It’s weirdest for me, after all.” He folded his arms and leant on the table. “Al is my best friend.”

“Elbows off the table.”

Scorpius went back to playing with his food.

“You seem to be under the incorrect presumption that I need your permission.” Draco piled some fruit salad onto Scorpius’s plate. “If we must leave the country, will you talk to Albus about it? And explain that once he’s discussed things with Mrs Potter, he can take a Portkey and visit for a part of the summer.”

“Will you take us to Concarneau?”

“Does Albus get a say in this?”

“You’ll buy us crêpes and ice cream?”

“Fine. Yes.”

“We’ll be wanting to go to Muggle Quimper, too.”

He ruffled Scorpius’s hair. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“Yes!” Scorpius punched the air. “Cool! My father—an outlaw.”

****

“You look done in,” Harry said.

The afternoon was cloudy yet hot, and the muggy air hung over them like a shroud.

Through a jaw-cracking yawn, Draco said, “Just a bit tired.” He wound his hand around the frame of the wrought-iron bench and rested his head on it. “Long week.”

Harry borrowed his wand and aimed a Cushioning Charm on the rear of the bench and snuggled into his side, his head on Draco’s shoulder. He was so warm, so comfortable. Answering a wave of unconquerable lassitude, Draco leant on Harry’s head.

With Harry’s fingers grazing the back of Draco’s neck, he felt his eyes drift shut.

Draco must have dozed off, for Harry was rocking him awake, pressing his lips to his cheek, murmuring, “Hey, hey, it’s okay.”

He gasped, heart racing a mile a minute. Draco could never recall his nightmares. He felt so secure in Harry’s arms and let his head loll onto Harry’s shoulder. “Sorry, I—”

“It’s okay,” Harry murmured, kissing the top of his head. He rubbed his arms. “Better?”

His heart rate slowed to normal. “Yeah,” he whispered.

They were so close that Draco could count his eyelashes.

Draco allowed himself to touch Harry as he had never done before. Hand curling around his jaw, caressing his chin, close enough to feel Harry’s breath on his cheek—he examined him not as a Healer, but as a lover. “It’s my birthday today,” Draco murmured, tracing Harry’s black eyebrow.

He swore. “What’s the date?”

“The fifth of June.”

“Are you thirty-two?”

Draco shook his head and smiled wryly. “Try again.”

“Thirty-three…” He pursed his lips in thought. “I like being with an older man.”

“I’m merely eight weeks older than you.”

“What would you like for your birthday?” Harry asked.

“Kiss me.”

Harry obliged.

“Again,” he ordered.

Draco sighed with a smile, then met Harry’s wicked gaze. Harry clambered into his lap and skimmed his teeth underneath Draco’s ear.

“How old are you?” Draco asked, before dragging his tongue from Harry’s collarbone to behind the ear.

“Thirty-two!”

“How old do you remember being?”

“Twenty-four,” he replied with a grimace. “That good enough?”

“Prove it.”

“You looked so sexy at the Memorial Ball,” Harry declared. “Grey robes with silvery blue thingies—”

Draco shut him up with a kiss, but when Harry groaned, he broke off to state, “We can’t be loud. But this time I want to hear your delicious noises.”

Harry whimpered, an intriguing sound that he’d dwell on further tonight, but for now Draco didn’t care, he wanted him too much. “Please,” Harry said.

“Be specific. Tell me what you want.”

“You’re always taking care of me. Let me return the favour.”

Draco chewed his lip. “It’s probably a bad idea.”

Kneeling between Draco’s legs, Harry ran his hands underneath Draco’s robes, and said, “Yeah…”

Harry pressed his lips to the inside of Draco’s knee, then gave him a questioning look.

Draco nodded, still dopy from his nap.

“These are hot,” Harry said, thumbing the sock garters, “I’m keeping these on.”

He allowed Harry to tug off his robes, and then he was in Draco’s lap again, erection pushing into Draco’s stomach through thin jogging bottoms.

“God you’re so fit,” Harry said, sitting back and staring at Draco’s chest.

He kissed Draco again and ran his hands over Draco’s biceps, pecs and stomach. Then he returned to his spot on the ground, nuzzled his nose into Draco’s crotch, and Draco buried his fingers in Harry’s hair and stared at him as though all his dreams were coming true.

Harry stared at him as he lazily stroked Draco’s cock through his pants, and he was so hard a damp patch formed.

“Stop teasing me,” Draco growled.

Grinning, Harry tugged down Draco’s underwear. “Just enjoying the moment.”

Draco gasped as Harry ran the tip of his nose down the length of Draco’s cock. “Get on with it, then.”

“I…” Harry began with a frown. “I’ve probably done this before, but I don’t remember. So tell me if I’m doing anything wrong…”

As if in a dream, Draco nodded.

Harry’s eyes were wide. Something was wrong. “Sorry… I don’t know that you’ll fit—but I’ll give it a go.”

“Oh Merlin,” Draco murmured, watching as Harry took him into his mouth.

Draco’s head hit the back of the bench with a thud.

“I… uh… yeah, you’re doing it right,” he said with a gasp. His entire world narrowed to that mouth.

Harry was spurred on, arms wrapped around Draco’s thighs, then he took a moment to tease the head with his hot tongue.

“Fuck—” Draco gasped.

Burying his hands in Harry’s hair, Draco tried to hold on to his sanity, remember his own name, give warning for when he was going to come.

The sight before him was a hundred fantasies rolled into one: Harry on his knees, humming around his cock, piercing eyes boring into his, hands running up his thighs.

Draco stroked the back of Harry’s neck to say without words how precious he was to him.

Harry wrapped his hand around Draco’s cock, then popped off to clear his throat and swallow. “Is it—okay?”

“Yeah,” Draco said, nodding vigorously. “Yeah.” He sounded more sane than he felt.

“Happy birthday, then.”

Harry returned to caressing and sucking with more fervour, and Draco knew he truly wasn’t going to last long.

Muggle sirens whined past. There was the distant sound of music passing in a car.

“You feel—incredible,” Draco gasped. He does, he does, he does. “I’m going to—”

Harry’s eyes sparkled, and he ran his fingertips over the insides of Draco’s thighs. It was all too much.

He barely noticed the butterfly wandering by or the balmy breeze on his face, and as his legs shook, Harry held him. He didn’t slow—if anything, he sped up. Draco jerked his hips, once, twice, and cried out with his eyes squeezed shut. He was barely cognisant of Harry choking a little, but he swallowed and licked the cum that dripped out of the corner of his mouth.

Draco’s eyes were wide and his body boneless.

He sat there uselessly, and let Harry pull up his underwear.

Harry lay in his lap, and Draco found himself stroking his hair. “That was… very good,” he said, when he was able to speak. He curled forwards to kiss Harry, to taste himself on Harry’s tongue. Harry kissed him back with fervour, fingers winding into Draco’s hair, and soon Harry was straddling him again.

“What do you want, Harry? Tell me what you want.”

“Touch me. Any time this century.”

“Where?”

“My legs. My back. My dick. Everywhere.”

Draco raised an eyebrow and grasped Harry’s arse to pull him in closer.

Harry gasped into his mouth as Draco pushed his hand into his trousers and underwear to wrap his fingers around Harry’s cock. Warm, heavy, deliciously hard.

“It’s hard to be quiet when you’re so good at this. I think I can be, just…” Harry captured him in a lingering kiss, “… just as long as you’re kissing me.”

Harry moaned into his mouth, but broke off to say, “When will you fuck me?”

Potter was so bloody aggravating. He yelped when Draco bit him on the earlobe in punishment. “All in good time,” Draco grated out.

“Oh, shit,” he whispered. “Hard to be quiet—”

“Do try.”

Harry’s mouth went slack against Draco’s, powerless to concentrate on kissing, and they just breathed together as Draco stroked him.

“I need you inside me.”

Why couldn’t he shut up?

Draco shoved him away. “Disrobe.”

He predicted a sarky ‘I’m not wearing robes’ remark, but Harry stripped in record speed. When he pushed Harry onto the bench, knelt and breathed on his balls, Harry said, “Sometimes I forget how fucking evil you are.” Harry’s eyes went wide. “Shit, I mean—”

“Yes, thank you, I am able to discern social cues and nuance. Not to mention your intelligence falls by about eighty per cent when you’re hard.”

Draco tasted the tip, and then a few inches. “Oh, don’t stop, please don’t stop,” Harry babbled.

He pulled off to hiss, “Quieten down,” before renewing his efforts. He pulled Harry’s hips towards him, circled Harry’s entrance with a finger and sank in, Harry watching with desperate eyes and a bitten lip.

As he licked and sucked him in time with his thrusting finger, Harry was garbling out all sorts of nonsense. “It’s so right, so good, I love this, I love you, oh, oh, don’t stop please—”

Draco admired Harry’s taut abdomen, shaking legs, and swallowed all Harry gave him.

Later, Harry curled up on his lap, Draco almost drunk with the feel of skin on skin.

The Auror Office

“Our options are to wait and do nothing, Harry’s wand gets snapped—sorry, mate—and Harry lives in St Mungo’s indefinitely,” Ronald said. It was late, and again they were huddled around a table in Sanctum the week before the appeal. “Or, hope the appeal works out, Harry gets better, we move on with our lives. Or… pretty simple, really. We break into the Ministry, get Harry’s wand before they do. Then…”

“Then I’ll go live in a tent or something,” Harry finished.

Nobody returned his smile.

“I think we’re all agreed we can’t wait for the appeal,” George said.

Several of them nodded.

Hermione stopped chewing her fingernails to say, “It’ll be too late. They could snap his wand straight afterwards.”

Draco tightened his arm around Harry’s waist. “They’re not going to snap your wand.”

“We won’t let them,” Luna said.

“Hear hear!” Neville agreed.

“Let’s focus on step one: breaking into the Ministry,” Ginevra said, gripping her Butterbeer. “Where is his wand exactly?” she asked Sally-Anne.

“We can’t just waltz into the Ministry and steal wands,” Pansy said. She made a fair point.

“Not with that attitude,” George said.

“Level Two,” Sal replied. “Fifth corridor on the right, at the end of the Auror Office. Evidence Storage Room B. Tap the statue of Edward the Sixth and say ‘Regnat’. Wear a disguise, have an alibi, easy peasy.”

Pansy pointed at Sal with her thumb. “I’m glad we invited this woman.”

“Thank you!” Sal said brightly.

“You’re dangerous. And I like it,” Ginevra said, gesturing at her with her beer.

Sal fiddled with her earring. “This is just so weird. Harry was my boss for years.”

“So. Who should go?” Neville asked.

“We can’t all go traipsing in,” Hermione said.

“I’ll go,” Ginevra said. “This whole thing is my fault, anyway.”

Draco nodded. Quite right.

“It’s not your bloody fault,” Ronald said. “How were you to know?”

“You didn’t mean for this to happen,” Harry added.

“I’ll come, too. Though I don’t think any of this is my fault,” Luna said, stirring her cocktail with a tiny umbrella.

“Of course none of this is your fault,” Hermione said. “You were abroad.”

“Less chit-chat, more scheming, please,” Draco said.

“I can get you in,” Sal said. “But I’m not committing any crimes.”

“Hate to break this to you,” Draco drawled, “but it sounds pretty illegal to me.”

“It’s Obstruction of Justice,” Hermione said with a nod.

“Ah well… It’s a victimless crime,” Sal said, waving her hand. “But I can’t implicate myself. It’s my job, for crying out loud.”

“I’ll go,” Draco said.

Everyone looked at him.

“What, do I not qualify? Ought I be sorted into Gryffindor before I join your ragtag gang?” He tightened his arm around Harry’s waist, and said, “Because I hate to break it to you, but it’s rather too late.”

“He’s right,” Pansy said. “Draco is part of your silly little gang. He’s even got the coin.”

“It’s wonderful to have you, Draco,” Luna said.

“We can make you a coin too if you like, Pansy,” Neville offered.

“No thanks.”

“Anyway,” Harry said. “I think I ought to come.”

“No!” eight people said in unison.

“You don’t have a wand, sir,” Sal said. “Which is the whole point of this operation.”

“I’m not going. I’ll stake out St Mungo’s and make sure nobody murders you,” Pansy said to Harry.

“Er, thanks,” Harry replied.

“I’ll go,” Hermione said. “Ron can stay home with the children. I work there, so it makes sense.”

“Sally-Anne should try to distract her colleagues,” Luna said. “Hermione, Neville and I can keep a lookout and be ready to start a diversion, whilst Draco and Ginny storm the Auror Headquarters. George and Ron will be our alibi if everything goes wrong. Should we ride Thestrals?”

“No,” Hermione said.

“Not this time,” Harry added.

“Thestrals?” Draco asked.

“A long story.” Ronald winked.

Hermione reached across to touch Harry’s hand. “We’ll sort this out.”

Draco caught the gaze of Ronald who nodded slightly.

“We go tonight,” Draco announced.

“What about your job?” Pansy asked Draco.

He shifted in his seat. No one knew he’d quit. “That’s the least of our concerns.”

“Right!” Ginevra leapt to her feet. “I’m going to need a volunteer to help me demonstrate the Bat Bogey Hex.”

Everyone groaned.

“Or we can practise on everyone in turn, your choice. I’m not having Draco as my sidekick unless he can hex people properly.”

****

They went back to St Mungo’s, Harry wrapped in the Invisibility Cloak. Pansy was already in one of the rickety chairs in the deserted waiting room, browsing ancient copies of Witch Weekly. If anyone asked, she was waiting for her friend to give birth.

Once in Ward 59, Harry sat on his bed, looked at him with sad eyes, and said, “I wish I could go with you.” He ran a hand through Draco’s hair. “I feel so helpless stuck here.”

Draco pushed his tongue into Harry’s mouth and kissed him in case this was the last time they met.

“We’re going to get your wand, we’re not kidnapping anybody! No doubt I’ll be back in twenty-five minutes.”

Harry grinned at him. “Good,” he murmured. “I’ll be waiting.”

****

Draco swept out of the hospital with a nod to Pansy, went home to change his robes, and Apparated to Neville’s flat in Milton Keynes. He hated Milton Keynes.

Ginevra was unpacking her handbag on the dining room table. “Oh good, there you are. I’ve brought a bomb, just in case—”

“A bomb?”

“Yep. Pay attention. And Decoy Detonators, a Portable Swamp, some Darkness Powder…”

Draco said nothing and placed Harry’s Invisibility Cloak on the table.

“Ooh. Excellent,” she said with a grin.

Neville and Luna came in with a plate of pink wafers and a cafetière.

“Lovely, could really do with a coffee,” Ginevra said. “Here!” She threw a Shield Cloak at Draco.

Even though she wasn’t on duty, Sal was already in the Auror Office and planned to muck around with the rotas to send someone home as she’d turned up for their shift.

Hermione arrived, and had used a series of complicated switching spells to give herself sleek blonde hair which she’d clipped up in a chignon. She wore plain robes and huge spectacles that obscured half her face.

“I don’t want to go in disguise,” Ginevra protested. “I’m proud to go in and fight the establishment!”

“If you get yourself arrested, what will become of Albus? And your poor boyfriend?”

Ginevra scowled at him. “I understand your point but you don’t have to be such a dick about it.”

Luna pulled out a wig from her backpack. “Cool!” Ginevra said, and Luna settled a brown bob over her ginger hair.

“We must tie up the red,” Luna said, tucking the long hair up into the wig. “That’s how the Muggles wear them.”

“God, I love Muggles,” Ginevra said.

Draco looked to Neville for some pure-blood solidarity, but he shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

Getting up to Level Two was remarkably easy. Hermione and co had incapacitated the two watchwizards the minute before Draco arrived under the Invisibility Cloak.

He had never been to the Auror Office. The mess was awful.

Sal sat at one of the booths filing her nails.

“Hurry up,” she muttered. “Sleeping Potion should wear off soon.”

Three wizards and a witch sat around a conference table, heads lolling to the side in sleep.

Draco thought that if he ever wished to storm a Ministry department, he ought to first gain the confidence of an insider.

He watched Ginevra, who adjusted her wig. She winked at where she thought Draco was standing and strode on ahead. He followed at a more sedate pace, wand in hand, looking around as he went.

She tapped every statue with her wand whilst muttering, “Regnat!”

“Edward the Sixth, you dolt,” Draco said. “Not Mary the First!”

She gave him the middle finger, then opened the correct statue by pure luck. They jumped as the statue sprang to life, bowed and shuffled to one side, revealing a narrow door.

She shouldered through the door and breathed, “Bloody hell.”

Slack-jawed, they stared at the room. It looked as though they’d walked into some kind of warehouse. High, bewitched windows shone shafts of light on aisles upon aisles of cast-iron shelving. There was a great window to Draco’s left, and he noticed a dozen dead bluebottles on the sill.

There was no need to light their wands even though it was nearly eleven at night.

Before she could go haring off like a mad horse, he grabbed her elbow. “Try Summoning it.”

She grimaced. “You’re so sensible—I don’t know what Harry sees in you.” She raised her wand and said, “Here goes nothing, then. Accio Harry’s wand!”

Something whooshed towards her from a high shelf not teen feet away. “Yes!” she hissed. She sprinted out to meet it halfway, leapt in the air and grabbed it as though it were a Quaffle.

Draco saw her face fall when she caught it.

“Uh… I think we have a problem,” Ginevra said. She turned around to face the door. “Take off the bloody cloak when I’m speaking to you.”

Draco removed it and approached her. Her freckles stood out in relief against her pale face, and she held out Harry’s wand.

Two pieces, both about five or six inches. They were held together by a flame-red feather.

Draco could hear his heartbeat, feel the blood whooshing.

He met Ginevra’s gaze.

“What—? How—?”

Her eyes swam with tears.

Suddenly this place seemed more sinister than before. He was conscious of their echoing voices in the cavernous room.

“Is this definitely…” he began.

“His wand was holly. I recognise it—it’s definitely his,” she said, voice thick.

He took the pieces off her. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I’m going to start a fire to cover our tracks.”

She bit her lip and nodded miserably.

Draco aimed his wand at the high shelving where the wand came from. “This is for Harry. Incendio!”

Before donning the Invisibility Cloak, he said, “You go home—I’m going to Harry.”

Draco was relieved to be out of there and see the statue shuffle back to its position.

“Professor!” Ginevra exclaimed.

Draco whirled around.

A portrait of an ancient witch pursed her lips as Professor Dumbledore muttered something in her ear.

“Good evening, Mrs Potter,” Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling. He adjusted his sparkling pointy hat. “An unusual night for a stroll, isn’t it?”

Draco could’ve sworn Dumbledore’s gaze flickered to where he was standing under the cloak.

Although they’d graduated more than a decade ago, she stood up straighter and stuck out her chin. “Yes, sir. It is.”

“Perhaps best to be heading home, now. As lovely as it would be to catch up and reminisce, no doubt there will be better opportunities in the future.”

“Right you are. Goodnight, sir!”

They raced back up the corridor and slowed to a walk through the Auror Office. Sal stood by the tea machine, and was putting her hair back up in a bun, humming Jerusalem.

She winked at Ginevra as they walked past, but Sal’s jaw dropped when Draco muttered into her ear, “They snapped his wand. We started a fire. Sorry to give you some extra work.”

They were a couple of corridors away from the lift when a man yelled, “Oi!” but Draco stunned him under the Invisibility Cloak before Ginevra even had a chance to turn around.

“Nice one,” she said.

A disguised Hermione was reading a ginormous scroll that reached almost to the floor, and she walked into the lift without looking up.

The lift clattered and clanged back up to the Atrium.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Ginevra said.

“What happened?” Hermione shrieked.

“They snapped his wand. Before the appeal,” Draco said.

“What?”

“They snapped it before the appeal,” Draco repeated. “Before. Before the appeal.”

Hermione looked horror-struck. “I don’t believe it!”

“There is something horribly wrong with the justice system in this country,” Draco said.

“I don’t understand,” Hermione said. “How can it be snapped? Already?”

“We’ll have to start an uprising,” Ginevra said. “A coup of some sort.”

“You know nothing of coups,” Draco sneered.

“Level Eight, The Atrium,” the cool voice rang out.

“I’ll think of something,” he said, before they parted ways.

****

No matter how hard he tried, Draco never had any agency over his future. There were no friends to be found in the midst of war, and he witnessed everything his family believed in crumble before his eyes. Draco couldn’t keep his parents safe, and love hadn’t saved his wife.

But he could be brave. For Harry.

“It didn’t go well,” Draco murmured in Pansy’s ear, still under the cloak. She jumped but didn’t look up from her magazine. “Two watchwizards need their memories adjusted and are lying behind the booth.”

“Sit down,” Pansy mumbled out of the corner of her mouth.

She waited a few seconds before continuing.

“I led Daphne up to the Visitors’ Tearoom at wandpoint. We had a delightful chat about what she was doing, lurking around the hospital at night. She’s Stunned next to the vending machine. I’ll go up and Obliviate her for you in an hour. You’re welcome.” Pansy stopped speaking as one of the Night Assistants walked through the double doors to the waiting room.

She turned a page of her magazine.

“Don’t implicate yourself by bothering with heartfelt goodbyes,” she muttered. “We will meet again.”

Draco squeezed her on the shoulder and found Daphne just as Pansy had described: slumped next to the floor, but with the beginnings of a black eye.

“Episkey! Rennervate!”

Daphne blinked in confusion at the wand pointed between her eyes.

“Why are you here?” Draco asked.

“I—what? Oh…” Daphne felt the back of her head and winced.

“I won’t repeat myself.”

“I’m just visiting—”

“Visiting whom?”

Her lip curled and he pressed his wand into her forehead.

“I don’t have to tell you anything,” she said. “Unhand me or I’ll press charges!”

“Did you know that I’ve quit my job?” he asked. He pressed into her mind with Legilimency. She did know, but how? “Answer me or I’ll cut out your tongue.”

“You became a Healer for Astoria! And now, now—you’ve lost your mind, you’re throwing everything away! I’m trying to help you, Draco. You can’t quit!”

“I really can’t see how my career choices involve you.”

“You couldn’t save my sister,” she hissed. “And you can’t save him.”

“You cursed Anne to set my office on fire,” Draco breathed. Before she could answer, he said, “You know what? I don’t care.”

“The appeal will fail! Why don’t you let the law run its course, why even try?”

Draco stood, shaking his head in disbelief, his wand still pointing at her. He did not have time for this.

“Because I am Draco Malfoy. And I do not abide by the rules!” he snarled. “Stupefy!”

****

On the roof, the night was still.

He felt his fingers trembling slightly and made an effort to control them, though he was completely alone. Most of the lights were off in the shops and tiny Muggle flats opposite, and the road was quiet below. Draco gripped the railing and watched a double-decker bus trundle down the street.

He had failed Harry.

The railing was chilly against his fingers and he squeezed his eyes shut. He had not felt this trapped in a long time.

This hospital was a prison.

Daphne’s betrayal was almost nothing compared to Theo’s. Of course Daphne didn’t care about Draco; he had simply been too foolish to see it.

Theo, however, was a different matter. He had never challenged his own presumption that Theo wanted what Draco wanted. Now he saw that he could only rely on himself. A band of Gryffindors and Lovegood could not turn back time, get back Harry’s memories or change the law. It was pointless.

And Harry had depended on him. Against all odds, he cared for Draco and thought Draco could actually help him. The images of his office on fire, Ginevra’s white face as she held out Potter’s snapped wand, and his unacknowledged resignation letter forced their way into his mind’s eye, and for a moment Draco could barely breathe.

He thought of Harry’s smiling face.

But Harry had overestimated him. He had failed: they had no wand and the Ministry would be catching up with them at any moment.

Like rain on a cold window, these thoughts pattered against the solid surface of the incontrovertible truth, which was that they had lost. This must end. I must go.

Their sons seemed a long way away, in a far-off country; there would be no time for goodbyes and explanations would have to wait. Draco checked his pocket watch—he’d been up here for half an hour.

He pulled on the Invisibility Cloak because it smelt of Harry, and felt ghostly clanking down the spiral steps, not bothering to quieten his footfall.

The hospital seemed empty. He already felt like an unwelcome visitor.

Knocking on the door, he slipped into Ward 59.

Harry was sitting cross-legged in bed, staring at the door.

His face broke into a grin when Draco took off the Invisibility Cloak. “I’m so glad to see you.” Then he frowned. “What’s wrong?”

Draco approached Harry, who made to stand, but Draco stopped him with a hand to his chest. Unable to speak, he knelt on the floor and put his head in Harry’s lap.

Harry curled forwards to kiss his head and stroke his hair behind his ear.

They stayed like that for a while, Draco’s arms wrapped around Harry’s calf and back.

Harry was warm. Harry was solid. Harry was real and not going anywhere.

“So… I suppose things didn’t work out,” Harry said at long last. “Is anyone hurt?”

“No,” Draco whispered. “To both.”

He took a deep breath. “Exactly three weeks ago I handed in my resignation. Soon I will no longer be your Healer.”

Harry’s hand stilled.

“You have choices,” Draco continued. “I have made mine. I can’t work here another day and I’m going. You can come with me, lie low, fight your legal battles abroad. Or you can work with a new Healer. I know I’m… it’s not much of a choice—”

“It’s a no brainer, really.”

“You say the weirdest things,” Draco said. He sighed and sat beside Harry on the bed. “You can stay here under the care of Healer Pierre Moreau, who starts soon as my replacement. He is a highly qualified Senior Mind Healer. You can hope that Percy Weasley can revoke your imprisonment.”

Harry pulled a face and opened his mouth to speak, but Draco continued, “I’m going to France. You may come with me and stay as long as it takes for the Ministry to see reason. They have no jurisdiction there, and we can stay in a safe house.”

“I’ll follow you.”

When he decided to take Harry with him, his heart stopped and then thrummed like a bird sensing release. Draco buried his face in Harry’s neck and just breathed in his smell for a while. Slowly, he got up. “Pack your things. I’m going to be about an hour.”

Harry pushed his lips together in a thin line. Then, he cupped Draco’s chin in one hand, stared at him and said, “You’ll come back to me.”

He was fed up with pretending to be selfless and wanted Harry for himself.

“I’m an unlikely hero, I’ll admit, but who else will act the Gryffindor fool? I’ll have to fulfil that role until you are back to your insufferable old self.”

Harry smiled weakly.

Draco swigged a potion and passed it to Harry.

“Have a sip. It’s Invigoration Draught,” Draco said, his mind refreshed. “I’ll lock the door and set an Anti-Intruder Jinx. Stay alert.”

Harry nodded and said, “I’ll see you soon.”

“You will,” Draco promised.

The Saddlery

Draco went home and woke up Mother.

He knelt beside her and breathed, “I’m leaving,” careful not to disturb his father.

Mother rubbed her eyes groggily. “What?”

“I’m going. Tonight.”

She nodded and planted a long kiss on his hair. “Your trunk is in my dressing room. Don’t tell me which safe house.”

Draco nodded. That way was safer.

“Take Blue with you. And Digby. Send him with a letter as soon as you arrive safely. If I do not receive word from you in two days, I shall raise the alarm.”

He kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you, Mother. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, my love. For heaven’s sake, be careful.”

Draco went to where his father was snoring and kissed him on the forehead. “Goodbye,” he murmured to him.

He found the trunk and shrank it to the size of a snuffbox. Blue was in her usual spot on the rocking chair in the West Parlour. Draco fed his useless lump of fur a Sleeping Draught and placed her in her crate, before cajoling Digby down from his perch in the owlery.

Draco’s beloved horses were sleeping, and he took a minute to drink in the sight of them one last time.

It was not, after all, so easy to leave. Every second he breathed in the smell of Wiltshire, felt the English air on his face where his son once played, was so precious. To think that people had years and years, time to waste with their wives and children, so much time it dragged, and he was clinging to each second. He toyed with the thought that perhaps he could forget about helping Harry and start afresh somewhere else, but he knew in his heart that he couldn’t do it.

He was too much of a coward to walk away. Too much of an idiot in love.

The game was over, maybe he could find Harry a new wand, perhaps find a shop in Place Cachée…

A new wand. A picture flashed in his mind of Harry burying a wand beside Dumbledore’s white marble tomb.

It had to be…

Draco’s trunk sat beside the great front door, animals inside and asleep, shrunk and weightless. He stuffed it into his robes, put on his travelling cloak, and swept down the driveway one final time. It might be months, even years before he could come back.

Wand gripped in his hand, Draco concentrated on the image of the great gates of Hogwarts, a frightful reverse of that moment when Snape Disapparated them to Malfoy Manor at the end of sixth year.

The bands of Apparition squeezed his ribs, for a moment he couldn’t breathe, and then he landed in the Highlands with a loud crack.

It was colder in the North.

Lights twinkled at the distant castle, and he took comfort in being not even a mile from his sleeping son.

He took a deep breath and placed a palm on the locked gates, and looked at the boars atop the columns. “I am Draco Malfoy. I mean no harm to the students, staff or magical creatures that you shelter. I do not intend to enter the castle.” He sounded a lot braver than he felt.

One of the boars bared its teeth.

Draco squeezed his eyes shut. Then he stared up at them, hand clutching the gate, and the words flowed easily:

“I reaffirm my vow to keep pure my life and my art. Into whatsoever grounds I go, I enter to serve the sick and comfort the dying. I renounce all wilful wrong-doing and harm towards witch or wizard, sentient creature or beast. May I gain for ever reputation among all men for my life and for my art and remembered with affection thereafter. Yet should I violate my oath and forswear myself, may the opposite befall me. Please. Please help me.”

The wind howled around his ears, but he didn’t tear his eyes away from the boars. After a minute, they went back to sleep, and for a moment nothing happened. Then the gates swung open with a creak.

He let out a relieved breath at the recognition of his oath. “Thank you. Thank you.”

Draco donned the Invisibility Cloak again and headed to the far side of the lake. Hagrid’s hut was dark and the Quidditch stands stood eerily empty against the night sky. He was glad to be putting distance between himself and the Forbidden Forest.

Soon, the only sounds were the lapping of the lake, the water battered by the wind.

Dumbledore’s tomb glowed white by the moonlight, and it was as though the last fifteen years hadn’t happened.

It had to be the Elder Wand. It just had to be. What had Harry said at the Battle of Hogwarts? ‘The true master of the Elder Wand was Draco Malfoy.’

He didn’t think for a second about wand mastery. All thoughts were on Harry and how they must leave tonight.

When at last Draco found it, he thought perhaps there had been some mistake. The wand was about fifteen inches of elder wood and looked unassuming. He picked it up then immediately dropped it in alarm when sparks shot out the end like a waterfall of silver stars.

Heart racing, he pocketed it. He replaced the disturbed earth, and traced Dumbledore’s name on the headstone.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he told the stone. “It’s for Harry. I…” Draco chuckled to himself. “I think I’m in love with him, and it’s an emergency. I’m sure you’d understand.”

He felt his own wand, which seemed warm and familiar like his mother holding his hand, and he thought back to when Harry returned it to him before his trial at the Ministry.

Draco took one last moment to look at the castle before he swept back down the long drive.

****

Harry was alert and sitting on the bed, kept awake by the Invigoration Draught.

Draco opened his arms, and Harry leapt up without a second’s hesitation. They clung to each other, and Harry buried his face into Draco’s neck and made a happy sound.

“Hello, Angel,” Harry said.

Draco smoothed down a lock of hair that had escaped from Harry’s bun. “You need a haircut.”

He chuckled. “You’re so full of shit. Yours was just as long.”

“You remember?” he choked.

“Yeah.” Harry kissed Draco’s face. “I do. You look more like my Draco. If I had one.”

“Would you like a Draco?”

Draco held his breath as he watched the play of emotions across Harry’s face.

“Yes.”

“Well. You’re in luck.”

They embraced again. Draco knew he loved him when he held Harry close to his chest.

“What are we going to do?” Harry asked.

“We got there and found your wand already snapped.”

“I guessed as much.” Harry shrugged. “Oh well, worse things happen at sea.”

Draco looked at him quizzically. “They snapped your wand. Before your appeal.”

He grimaced. “I’m not an Auror any more. And though I’d kill for my wand in my hand… I’ve been living like a Muggle for so long, now. My freedom’s more important.”

Draco pulled the pieces of the holly wand from his pocket and placed them in Harry’s hands.

Harry looked winded.

Then, Draco carefully watched his face as he withdrew the Deathstick and passed it to him, handle first.

“Fucking hell,” he breathed.

“I’ve got in a bit deep and lost my mind, I’m afraid.” Draco’s voice came out rather fondly. “You’re welcome.”

“Where did you get this?”

“I saw you bury it. In one of your memories.”

Harry held it above his head and brought it whooshing down before him. A jet of silver and purple stars shot out the end.

“How very Slytherin of you,” Harry said, grinning.

“I am a Healer. I am noble and self-sacrificing. Besides,” he said with a roguish grin, “I know what’s best for you. And I’m not going to let bureaucracy get in my way.”

Harry laid the pieces upon his bedside table, touched it with the very tip of the Elder Wand, and said, “Reparo.”

As the wand resealed, red sparks flew out of its end. Harry’s face was radiant when he picked it up, and he transfigured the chair into a chicken, which squawked for a second, and then switched it back again. He fished out an apple core from the wastepaper basket and said, “Duro!” It turned to stone, and Harry put it in his pocket.

Draco leant against the wall and crossed his feet at the ankles. “You’re a funny man.”

“Expecto Patronum!”

Draco pressed back into the wall in shock as a silver stag burst forth from the tip of Harry’s wand, pranced in a circle around Harry, and faded to a silvery mist. He cast it as easily as a Levitation Charm.

“Well,” Harry announced, with a manic yet triumphant look in his eyes, “let’s break out.” He bounced on the balls of his feet, and with a whip of his wand made his bed. “I won’t miss this place. Shall we go to a bar?”

“A bar? We’re going to France.”

“France?”

“France. When we get there, we’ll need to do some damage control, have you write a letter to the Prophet. You are to pen in your own hand that you’re appalled at the way the Ministry has treated you, you’re on the road to recovery, and have employed me as your personal Healer.”

“Not my esteemed lover, then?”

“We are trying to save my reputation, Potter. And prevent you from being captured and put into hospital again.”

“Can they do that abroad?” Harry asked.

“No. Not the French authorities. Any country will be pleased to have you.” Draco swept his wand in an arc to lower the flames of the candles. “You are still very famous. Regardless, you’ll be in my safe house so no one will come knocking on the door.”

“What about my job?”

“Your sick pay must have run out a while ago. We’re too rich to work, but no doubt I will find something for you to do, however,” Draco said with a smirk.

“And the boys?”

“You think you can be a good parent, locked up in hospital?” Draco asked. “It matters not, I spoke to Scorpius who was more concerned about the food—he is such a thirteen-year-old—and he’ll have told Albus by now. Mother can bring them to visit by Portkey. It’s France, not the Moon.”

Harry nodded. “Do you even speak French?”

“Oui, monsieur.”

“Do you think it matters that I don’t speak the language?”

“The locals won’t care that you’re an unfortunate monolingual.”

“You make everything sound like an insult,” Harry said with a laugh. He quietened and his brow furrowed. “You’re… sure you want to do this? Leave your country… for me?”

“I know where I belong. Now put on your cloak and follow me.”

Harry kissed him on the cheek and interlaced their fingers.

Draco looked at Harry’s lips, put Harry’s matchbox-sized trunk in his pocket, and tilted Harry’s head back.

Every breath, every hour had come to this. He nosed from behind Harry’s ear down soft brown skin to the external jugular vein, sucked the skin into his mouth and bit down, hard. Harry groaned.

“In case you forget, tomorrow,” Draco murmured. “Where you belong—by my side.”

Harry captured his lips in a bruising kiss, body flush against his. With Harry in his arms, the sting of Theo and Daphne faded, and it took a tremendous strength of mind to pull away.

“So… what now?” Harry asked, hand cupping Draco’s cheek.

“So. We leave for Bretagne.”

****

The North of France was balmy at this time of year. He didn’t have his Harry for long; once he was asleep, it would be until at least noon until Harry remembered the past thirteen years.

The Portkey landed them some nine hundred yards away from the ruin, close to where the Anti-Apparition Jinx began. Everything was pitch black—they hadn’t heard of streetlights in France.

“Lumos,” Draco said, and Harry lit his wand as well.

Draco looked up and down the dirt road, then put his wand in his palm. “Point me!” It spun off to the right. “It’s this way,” he said, leading them left.

They went down the road hand in hand. The only noises were the wind rushing through the trees and a hooting bird.

Draco stopped in his tracks. “Hold on.”

He expanded his luggage, rummaged around for Digby’s cage, and let him out. “Apologies, old man. Fly on ahead—you know where to go.” Digby clutched his talons on Draco’s shoulder. “Watch it! These are very nice robes.”

Digby took off into the night sky, thick with foreign stars, and Harry said, “You can’t see the stars in London.”

Draco replaced the trunk and Harry tangled their fingers. The heavens was the only witness to their kiss. “We mustn’t linger,” Draco breathed. He cleared his throat, and they carried on up the road. “You can write to your son when we get there. You’ll forget who he is in the morning, and if you do it right away, he’ll get your owl before the Prophet arrives.”

“When will I remember you?”

“I’ll get you back by lunchtime, if I’m lucky.”

They shortly arrived at a ruined chapel, and the beams of light from their wands washed over the creeping ivy. The roof had caved in probably a century ago, and they stepped over the crumbling stones by the entrance. He held his wand aloft, seeking… And there it was.

He held out a finger to Harry and said, “A small cut, please.”

Harry frowned. “Could we use mine instead…?”

“No. You are not a Malfoy.”

“Nox. Incisus,” he whispered, and he was so gentle there was just a bead of blood.

“Impressive,” Draco said.

“Thanks!”

Draco wiped his finger on the brick with a tiny M cut into the stone.

For a while, nothing happened.

The brick shimmered under the wandlight. Draco grabbed Harry’s elbow. “Ready?”

“Er. I suppose.”

Draco reached out a finger and pressed the stone.

He sounded more confident than he felt. Though he’d memorised these instructions, he had never before seen them in action.

Again, there was another jerk to his navel, and it felt as though they were being yanked by a fish hook. This time, however, it only took a second for them to arrive.

As soon as their feet touched the ground, he let go of Harry and cast, “Cave Inimicum!” He moved his wand in an arc. “Repello Muggletum! Salvio Hexia! Protego Totalum! Interventus Signum!”

Harry copied him, adding to the protective enchantments with spells of his own.

When they were done, Draco found the first torch that was sunk into the ground and rapped it with his wand.

It flared into flame, and each torch sequentially burst into light, illuminating the way to the safe house.

“Welcome to La Petite Sellerie,” Draco said.

Harry’s grin was lit by the flickering torches and he interlaced their fingers.

“It’s a bit small.” Draco trudged forwards, longing for a soft bed. “But it’s safe.”

Heaven

Draco gripped Harry’s hand as they walked up the approach. Losing his job and country should have felt like a pyrrhic victory, but Harry was so great a prize the cost paled into insignificance.

“Never use the front door, whatever you do,” Draco told him. “It’s cursed.”

“Good to know.”

Passing through the coach gate, they entered a courtyard. “The stables, which are empty, of course,” Draco said, nodding to a great door opposite. “And this…” He turned to the heavy oaken door, and tugged away the red ivy that crept towards the handle, “is the door you must use.”

He ignored the keyhole and placed his wand on an inlaid golden scarab. “Nox. The password is ‘pure-blood’.”

Harry snorted.

The door groaned open. Wall-mounted candles flickered along the low-ceilinged hall of weathered oak and lime-rendered walls.

The first door led upstairs. Draco closed it and cast, “Colloportus!” He marked a glowing X on the door. “It’s cursed in a variety of unpleasant ways.”

The next door opened into an oak-panelled reading room. A deer head hung on the wall, its antlers covered in cobwebs. An abandoned pack of Self-Shuffling cards arranged itself on a gaming table next to a tarnished ashtray.

Harry removed a gigantic cobweb draped over the crystal chandelier with a wave of his wand. “Why is the upstairs cursed?”

“Should intruders arrive in the night to kill us in our beds, they will go upstairs in search of us. I locked it as it isn’t safe for you to be waking up and wandering around before you’re better.”

They discovered a bathroom and a bedchamber, and finally a large parlour with a kitchen through an archway. The walls were white lime plaster, and the ceiling had swirling friezes in the shape of runes and painted floral frescoes.

Draco unlocked his trunk and woke up his cat.

“Is this Blue?” Harry asked.

“Hello my darling,” he said, kissing Blue on the head.

She yawned and went back to sleep, tucking her face under her paw. Typical.

“That’s a great cat,” Harry said.

“Yeah, well… I only accept the best.” Draco met Harry’s eyes and his breath caught in his chest.

Draco cleared his throat and he pulled out a portrait from his trunk. “Ah,” he said. “My mother has packed my late wife, I’m sure this won’t be awkward at all. Hello, Astoria.”

“You made it, then,” she said. She looked between the two of them. “Hello, Harry.”

“Good evening.”

“Where would you like to hang?” Draco asked.

“Somewhere useful, please.”

He put Astoria in the hallway and unpacked tins of mackerel for Blue, oven gloves, a sack of potatoes, lavatory paper, gardening gloves, a pouch of Bezoars, lavender bags for their robes, sheet music, elderflower cordial and Chocolate Frogs.

Meanwhile, Harry relished using magic again and banished everything to its proper room, and cleaned the kitchen cupboards.

“You should get rid of the other wand,” Draco suggested. “Don’t wander far.”

Harry nodded. “That’s wise.”

An unbeatable wand was suicide. “It’s called self-preservation, Potter,” he announced, opening Harry’s trunk. “Look it up.”

Digby tapped at the window and when Harry returned, Draco tasked him with writing to Mother, Albus and the Daily Prophet.

It seemed the other trunk was full of books, Cleansweeps, hideous clothes, tea bags, jam, a box of tissues, quills, a toothbrush, a sudoku book, Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes paraphernalia and fake Muggle ID.

“Why the hell do you have fake identification?” Draco asked, squinting at the card. “You were Head Auror.”

“No bloody clue. You’ve got to admit though—if I was going to have an amicably failed marriage to anyone, Ginny is a fantastic choice.” He pulled out a cubed object and hissed, “Oh yes.”

“What is it?”

Harry grinned. “A Chocolate Orange.”

“Sounds nasty.” He plucked it from Harry’s hand to peer at it with a wrinkled nose. “What’s an artificial ingredient?”

“Hard to explain,” Harry said. “Have we got any Muggle money?”

“They take normal Galleons in Plouesnant, a wizarding village in Brittany. Though if you want to go shopping, we could buy French Pounds.” Draco lifted out a huge bundle of fabric. He said, “Golly! Curtains. I think she sewed these herself,” and banished them to the hall.

“Euros.”

“What?”

“Euros,” Harry repeated. “For the shops.”

“Speak plainly,” Draco said, handing Harry a stack of pillowcases.

“French Muggle money—Euros.”

“Fine, whatever,” Draco dismissed. “French Euros.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Harry said, helping him heave a feather duvet out of the trunk, “but I love your mother.”

Draco gave him a crooked smile. “I love her too. Care to explain these?” He raised his eyebrows and held up Spellbound in Sultanpur and Life Amongst Muggles: from Penzance to John O’Groats.

“Oh, good. She said she’d lend me that one,” he said, grabbing the romance novel.

“This one’s for you.” Draco plonked down a vial.

“What is it?”

“Tooth-Whitening Potion.”

“I thought your mum liked me!”

“It means she cares.”

Harry hopped up onto the kitchen side and watched Draco pour potions down the sink. “What are you doing?”

“Disposing of things we won’t need,” Draco replied.

“What are they?”

Draco looked sharply up at him, then frowned at the liquid circling the drain. “It is no coincidence that there’s nothing stronger than Butterbeer in the house. My cigarettes are nought per cent nicotine.” He stoppered the flasks, leant on his hands and surveyed Harry. “For now, you are my only vice.”

Harry grasped his shoulder. “Good.”

“How do you feel? Are you tired, any double vision?”

“Buzzing. That Invigoration Draught’s strong stuff. Say something to me in French,” he demanded.

“J’ai beaucoup de chance de pouvoir regarder un homme beau et charmant.”

“What did it mean? Sounded very sexy.”

“It means you’re behaving like a tit, go and find the kettle and tidy it away.”

“I don’t believe you.” Harry summoned the kettle anyway and directed it to the hob. “It was too many words.”

“Would I lie to you?”

Harry turned back to him, face serious. “No. Not about anything important.” He caught Draco’s wrist and tugged him closer. Draco’s eyes fell shut as Harry’s thumbs rubbed his temples. “Let’s finish unpacking tomorrow. You look done in.” Harry hooked his calf around Draco’s thigh and reeled him in.

Draco’s forehead fell to rest against Harry’s chest as fingers raked across his scalp, and massaged the back of his neck.

Then Harry clung to him, body sagging, and Draco held him just as tightly in pure relief, smiling into his arms.

They had made it. They were free. They could be together—Harry and Draco, two men, no paperwork or locks or Hogwarts houses separating them.

“My hero,” Harry breathed.

All of a sudden, Draco flushed and shuffled his feet. They were completely alone, away from ghosts, visitors, colleagues. No crises, deadlines, meetings. No Ministry hearings. And it was all he could do to believe this wasn’t a dream.

Harry leant down and kissed him.

Draco removed Harry’s spectacles, folded the arms, and placed them on the side. Harry brushed his thumb from Draco’s forehead, across his cheekbone, down to his pointy chin. Then he nuzzled Draco’s neck.

Their kisses were lingering, cautious.

Draco sucked in his lower lip and angled his face away, offering himself up, willing Harry to take the lead. I’m yours.

They didn’t need words as he stood stock-still, waiting for Harry’s fingertips to finish finding the contours of his neck, chin, lips. Draco let out an involuntary sigh and buried his hands in Harry’s hair when fingers were replaced with soft, searching lips.

Thoughts scattered away from the surface of his mind as Harry’s mouth marked his throat in praises, and signed the work with scrapes of his teeth. Draco could feel the now-familiar smile beneath his ear and strong hands stroking his sides.

And at once his lips found Harry’s and they were gasping, bodies afire.

“Take me to bed,” Harry panted.

Nodding, Draco handed him his spectacles, then he led Harry to the bedchamber.

Draco opened the floor-to-ceiling shutters and beamed light through the glass door whilst Harry put the room to rights. Hundreds of star-like buds of sunflowers that would bloom within the next month came into view.

“So we’re safe here?” Harry asked, wrapping his arms around Draco’s front and propping his chin on Draco’s shoulder. “I’ve never seen so many sunflowers.”

“Yes—very.” He closed the shutter and turned to face Harry.

“Like heaven…” Harry breathed against his lips. “Thank you for rescuing me.”

Harry peeled off Draco’s robes, as though he were unwrapping a present just for himself. He got to his knees to take off Draco’s shoes, eased off the sock garters and socks, and Draco stood in just his underwear.

Harry circled him, admiring the view, then placed a kiss between Draco’s shoulder blades. “Where your wings would be,” he murmured, and ran his hands over the planes of Draco’s back.

Draco trembled.

“Your skin is like white silk,” Harry whispered against his skin. He took Draco by the hand and pulled him onto the soft purple sheets.

By the light of the flickering candelabra, Harry’s dear face was soft. The muscles under his brown skin rippled as Harry lifted off his robes and threw them to the floor.

They reclined on the bed, chest-to-chest, and Draco laddered his fingers down Harry’s ribcage.

Harry shivered. “We love each other, don’t we?”

“Most of the time,” he drawled.

Draco cupped his jaw, and their kisses were sweet, shallow. He threw away Harry’s hair tie to better bury his fingers in the long black hair, and Harry rolled on top to kiss him thoroughly, loose strands tickling his neck and shoulders.

“Healer… there’s something wrong with my cock.” Harry straddled him. “And I need you to take a look.”

He looked utterly debauched: hair loose and free like a dark horse’s mane, lips kissed red. At that moment, Harry’s eyes reminded him of the midday sun straining through the leaves of the old oaks back in Wiltshire.

Never had Draco wanted him more.

He cupped the bulge in Harry’s underwear. “Is that so?”

Draco pushed Harry’s spectacles up to the top of his head, and green eyes speared him as their foreheads touched. Harry interlocked their fingers, and the promise was wordless. They wanted to be locked to each other. This was here to stay.

“It’s in my best interests to keep you satisfied.” Draco bent his neck so that his teeth grazed the crook of his neck. “And luckily for you, I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

“I want you to fuck me. Tonight. I want your cum inside me in the morning, I don’t want to forget.”

Draco swallowed. “As marvellous as that sounds, we haven’t any lubricant.”

Harry’s face fell, but then he got his wand and said with narrowed eyes, “Accio Lube!”

A tub zoomed through the doorway, and Harry caught it with a whoop.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Draco said as Harry divested them of their underwear, “but I love your ex-wife.”

Harry snickered and nosed his way down Draco’s chest, side and leg. Draco squirmed as Harry kissed the inside edge of his foot, and when he kissed his toe Draco laughed and said, “I’m not into that.”

His mirth drained away as Harry kissed his way up and said, “God I love your thighs.”

At the feel of the hot mouth at his hip and the tickle of his pubic hair as Harry pushed his nose across, Draco said, “Don’t go down on me—it’ll be over straight away.”

“You’re so hard for me,” he said, breath hot on Draco’s cock.

Draco tugged him up to embrace him again, and Harry was uninhibited, rutting against him. He lightly ran his hands over Harry’s shoulders and back, down to the elastic marks from his boxers.

“I know what you need,” Draco said against his lips, hand closing around Harry’s cock. He had no plans aside from learning how many times he could make Harry come before morning. “Let me give it to you.”

Harry bucked into his fist. “Please…”

“Shh. Be patient.”

Draco pushed Harry’s hair behind his ear, for it was falling into his face, and stroked Harry slowly.

Harry bit his lip and his eyes fell shut. “I don’t think you’re my first,” he said. “Cos I’m not scared, and just know it’ll be good. But I don’t remember anyone else.”

“You will,” Draco said, cupping his face, “you’ll get better. I’ll love you better.”

Harry grinned and rolled over, pulling Draco on top of him. “I know you will.” He pressed the tub of lubricant into Draco’s hand.

“I don’t usually top,” Draco informed him once he was knuckle-deep in Harry, “so it’ll be your turn next time.”

Harry had propped himself up on his elbows to watch, chest heaving. “I’d be delighted. You’ve the finest arse on the Continent.”

Draco laughed and pushed in another finger.

Impatient, Harry pulled him up and threw his spectacles on the bedside table. “Do it now. And don’t be gentle.”

They were forehead to forehead. Draco nodded. He frotted against him several times until Harry said, “Stop teasing.”

Draco bit his lip and felt the breath whoosh out of Harry as the head slipped in.

It was as though his entire body was on fire, blood roaring like lava through his veins. Harry arched into his touch with a jolt, and their chests met. Soon Draco was completely inside him, lip bitten in self-restraint.

He panted into Harry’s neck for a moment. “God, Harry.”

Legs wrapped around him, anchoring them together, and he felt Harry’s gentle hands draw his face up for a deep kiss. Draco let out an involuntary groan as Harry rocked up into him.

They rocked together, their hoarse cries echoing throughout the bedchamber.

Draco could lose himself in this entanglement, wished he could get lost forever in this wildness and never grow weary. He craved for Harry to come apart beat by beat, pulse by pulse, because of what his body alone could do to him. It could never be enough to reveal through touch just how much he burned for him, how he wanted nothing but to stride forth in life with Harry Potter by his side. Draco had only the eloquence of his body.

Harry pushed him so he was on top.

“I don’t think I can finish like this,” he breathed, “but I want to watch you, watch your face properly when you come in me, God you feel so amazing…”

Draco captured his lips in a bruising kiss, not caring that strands of Harry’s hair were in his mouth, then lay back and watched Harry ride him, his own face twisted in pleasure.

It was all he could do to concentrate on a bead of sweat rolling down Harry’s chest and admire the way his skin shone in the candlelight. He tasted the salt, then thought he’d go mad with the smell of Harry’s scent.

“I want to hear you,” Harry commanded. “You can be yourself around me.”

Draco whimpered.

Panting, Harry took Draco’s hand and placed it on his hip, left a kiss on Draco’s jaw. Then he scratched Draco’s scalp, ground his hips harder and let out a pleased sigh.

He saw Harry’s thighs shake with the effort of staying in position, his spine curving and his neck arching, crying out his approval with every movement.

Harry groaned and said his name like a curse.

Harry’s hands roamed over his shoulders and chest, and he licked Draco’s neck. He was everywhere. Draco lifted Harry back up, then slammed in again. He was flying, spinning, unsure of where Harry started and he ended. Waves of pleasure rolled over him.

At that moment, looking into Harry’s eyes as he came, he had never felt less alone. Harry’s fingers dug into his shoulders, holding him when the world ceased to exist.

Quivering, Draco clung to him for dear life, panting blindly into the crook of his neck as Harry wrung every drop out of him. Hot sighed murmurs puffed against his skin.

He felt something unravel inside of him when Harry pulled off.

But Draco caught his thighs, urged him upwards, and Harry beamed when he caught on, straddling his shoulders. Draco stared into Harry’s eyes as he licked down his shaft and then swallowed him whole. He kept his head still to let Harry move at his own pace. It was slow, shallow, Harry’s arm wrapped around one post of the bed, the other hand buried in Draco’s hair.

It wasn’t long until Harry came, shoulders curving forwards, his eyes squeezed shut, Draco’s name on his lips.

And Harry could only whimper as Draco lowered him to the bed and pressed his mouth to his scar, murmuring quietly, dropping chaste kisses onto his mouth and the bridge of his nose. He swept the hair off Harry’s face.

Harry wrapped his arms around him and said, “I love you so much, you’re everything I want.”

They laid there by the light of the flickering candles, sharing each other’s breath, nose to nose.

Draco reached out a finger to trace his scar, straight nose, perfect lips. “I love you too.”

Draco pressed a kiss to his cheek, then summoned some Sleekeazy’s and a brush to tease out the tangles in his hair. It’d tickle him in the night if it was loose. Perhaps Draco would sneeze and wake him up, and he’d have one of his meltdowns.

Besides, it would take Potter an eternity in the shower tomorrow to sort it out. Then there wouldn’t be any water left in France, so truly, doing his hair was a public service.

“What time of day are you happiest?” Draco asked.

Harry leant into the touch like one of Father’s Persians. “I think in the mid-afternoon. Clear as day, I can remember training with the Tunisian Aurors, Moldova beating China, Al whining all Easter about how he couldn’t come when I was undercover at Prince William’s wedding, and this certain-but-foggy-on-the-details knowledge that I love you. Not remembering exactly how it came about, and not yet remembering any of the bullshit about being locked in a hospital with crap food, putting Ginny through the divorce on her own, losing my wand and my bloody job—”

“You’ll live. Stop whinging,” Draco said. “Recover too quickly and they’ll put you back as Head Auror and you’ll run along and get yourself blown up again. And I quit my job, so I won’t be able to sort you out.”

His hair was ridiculously long, so Draco swept it up and kissed the top of his wriggling spine, just because he could. He smirked into Harry’s skin. Draco tied his hair up in a bun before he could get too distracted by the unfairly perfect back and end up making love to him again.

Harry blew out the candelabra and pulled Draco’s head onto his chest and held him close, stroking his hair. Draco listened to the thrum of his heartbeat and the deep timbre of his voice when he said, sleep-slurred, “You’re so perfect. So grateful that you’re mine.”

By the truth of darkness, Draco breathed, “You won’t remember me in the morning.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry murmured, his fingers soothing the back of Draco’s neck. “I put in my notebook that you’re my boyfriend. Hope that’s okay.”

Draco snorted, content with Harry’s possessive arm around him.

Yawning, he shifted to spoon Draco and pressed his forehead to the top of his spine. “Sleep,” Harry murmured against his skin.

“Mmm.”

“Oh—will you leave me a note tomorrow? Explaining things?”

“Of course.”

“I bet it’ll be really nice.”

“You’re still here, aren’t you?” Draco reached behind to squeeze Harry’s arse. “I have had no formal complaints lodged against me.”

He yelped when Harry nibbled his shoulder. “Give it time,” Harry said. “How long will you keep me around, anyway?”

Draco felt more hope than he had done in years, as though he’d removed a heavy cloak from around his shoulders.

“I’m sure that you’ll have the capacity to annoy me well into old age,” Draco said. He felt Harry’s lips curve into a smile against his skin. “Yeah, I think I can offer you about a century.”

He twisted to nibble on Harry’s lip, which was difficult to do whilst Harry was laughing.

“Go to sleep,” Draco ordered.

Draco stayed up late that night, listening to Harry’s breathing.

Before dawn, he was nudged awake by Harry’s cock poking his thigh. They were so hot the duvet had been kicked down to their feet. This time, they spooned as Harry made love to him, arm wrapped around Draco, teeth marking his neck. He felt Harry pulse inside him, then Harry slid down to lick the cum dripping out of him. Harry didn’t need to stroke him for very long. Then they fell asleep holding hands in their love-steeped bed.

THE END

Epilogue

Harry awoke in the unfamiliar room as abruptly and absolutely as if someone had yelled in his ear. He lay stock-still. His heart raced.

He found his wand under his pillow. “Homenum revelio.”

Someone was just outside.

He felt utterly spent. The bedroom was fragrant from a vase of lavender, and there was the unmistakable smell of sex.

What the fuck?

He put on his glasses, and found a note written in elegant script on the bedside table:

3rd August 2013

Harry,
I’m home today (it’s Saturday). Remember to read your notebook or to speak with Astoria in the hall before finding me.
I promise things will make more sense after lunchtime.
Know that I adore you,
D

He stared around at the vast room, purple sheets, the antique four-poster bed.

A sketch of Malfoy labelled ‘FRIEND’ fell out as he opened the notebook. He flicked through it, stunned.

Draco Malfoy was his boyfriend. He was apparently mates with Malfoy’s mum. They were in the North of France. He peered at a photograph of a boy who had leaves for hair (Teddy?) with their sons—staying at a hotel nearby.

He sank his toes into the navy-blue carpet, and discovered some underwear and jogging bottoms in the wardrobe.

Some parchment stuck to the wardrobe door read:

Wand? Cloak? Left a note to say where you’re going?

He tiptoed out into the hallway where a candelabra flickered into flame.

“Morning.”

Harry whirled around to see a painting of a lady leaning on her palm, her eyebrows raised in amusement.

“Astoria,” Harry said.

She nodded reassuringly.

“Have we met?”

Astoria gave him a what-do-you-think look.

“Am I in love with Draco Malfoy?”

Her expression did not change.

“Right,” he said, running his hand through his hair. It was weirdly long. “Shit. Okay.”

“Don’t panic,” she said. “Be courteous to him. He understands you don’t remember.”

“Okay…” Harry said. “Is it weird for you? Cos Malfoy was your husband?”

“A bit! Yeah. But I am a portrait, Harry. Just… take care of him, make sure he’s all right.”

He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he felt he could trust this woman. “I’ll er… see you, then.”

Though his stomach growled in hunger, he went back into the bedroom.

“Homenum revelio,” he muttered.

The person was still there. It had to be Malfoy.

With a deep breath, he gripped his wand and swung open the floor-to-ceiling shutters. He gawked at hundreds of sunflowers hanging their heads, some of which had been beheaded, and bees feasted on lavender. At his touch, the glass door creaked open.

A few feet away, Malfoy sat on a bench, wearing a dressing gown embroidered with sleeping dragons. He peered at Harry, grey eyes narrowed. Harry thought he looked more wary than worried, and if he was bothered by Harry’s wand pointing at him, he didn’t say anything. His hair flopped into his eyes and he had a cigarette in his mouth, a coffee on the arm of the seat, and held a copy of Living Rough: Housekeeping Without a House-Elf.

Harry approached the bench, conscious he was still topless, and neither of them spoke.

“Can I join you?” Harry asked, stomach fluttering. Something was very wrong with his brain.

Malfoy nodded and wordlessly lit another cigarette and passed it to him.

A fluffy grey cat took up an entire third of the bench, so Harry had to sit down just inches from Draco so as not to disturb it.

“Err…” Harry trailed off promptly at the realisation that they’d had sex last night. “It’s a nice day.”

Malfoy’s eyes crinkled at the corners and his lips twitched in an unsure smile. “I know.”

Harry was hyperaware of the meagre distance between them, and looked resolutely ahead, cigarette in hand. He didn’t even know he smoked.

“I remember writing a note… that if I was taken to hospital, I’d prefer you to be my Healer.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Malfoy swallow and draw a heavy drag of his cigarette.

“It’s good you recall that,” he said at long last.

Trying for humour, Harry gestured at the flowers. “When I wrote it, this isn’t exactly what I meant!”

Two spots of colour appeared high on his pale cheeks. At that moment, Harry came to the rapid conclusion that he had an enormous crush on Draco Malfoy and wanted to touch him.

“So…” Harry started, without a plan. “You’re my boyfriend.”

“Yes.”

“And we’re not enemies.”

“Not presently.”

“Would it…” Harry wished with all his might that he had a hole to jump into. Or a book he could read about kissing boys. “… Could I kiss you? Would that be all right?”

Draco smirked. Harry hated him approximately one per cent.

“I suppose that would be agreeable. Assuming you’re any good at it.”

“Tosser.” Nevertheless, he swivelled in his seat. With every ounce of courage he had, Harry plucked the cigarette from Draco’s lips and stubbed it out.

Draco’s eyes were grey and warm, and fluttered closed at the touch of Harry’s hand cupping his cheek.

He looked tired. Perhaps he didn’t get much sleep.

His lips were gentle against Harry’s; his mouth tasted of coffee and sweet smoke. Harry’s heart sang like a bird’s. Oh God.

They parted, and Draco draped his arm over Harry’s bare shoulders.

“What do you reckon? Am I any good?”

Draco smiled into Harry’s cheek. “Non-declarative memory, Harry.”

He decided he liked how Draco said ‘Harry’, as though it were honey on his lips.

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Harry curled his arm around Draco’s waist to pull him closer. “Do I like living here?”

“Yeah,” Draco said, brushing his lips to Harry’s forehead, “you do.”

Afterword

End Notes

This fic is part of HD Erised 2020; thank you so much for reading! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment below. ♥

The NHS and St Mungo’s.

The artefacts of Malfoy Manor .

Audio commentary with Rindle, Eafay70 and AvidBkWrm.

What did you think? I hope you liked it. Let me know if any of this resonated with you & thanks for reading!

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Table of Contents

- Preface
- Prologue
- Just a Man
- Hallowe’en
- Possibilities
- Frogmore Cottage, Kensington Palace
- Amateur Dramatics
- Potter’s Request
- When You’re Home, You Can Fly
- Cure Potter, Then Go to Paris
- A Peckish Patient
- The Dark Lord
- Malicious Communication
- Pansy’s Palliation
- Remedial Potions
- Solve et Coagula
- A Man and His Horse
- Non-Declarative Memory
- Mistletoe
- The Hall of Forgotten Things
- Dracosexuality
- Wilful Fire-Raising
- The Hearing
- Sanctum
- The Missing Sister
- All in Good Time
- The Auror Office
- The Saddlery
- Heaven
- Epilogue
- Afterword