Archive of Our Own

‘Foul!’ the commentator called, her voice ringing out across the stadium. ‘Penalty to Puddlemere United for cobbing against Turner.’

Harry looked down from where he was circling high above the pitch, watching as his teammate sped towards the goalposts, the Quaffle tucked tightly under her arm. She veered, pulling the Ballycastle Bats’ Keeper towards the left-hand goalposts, then turned sharply, throwing the Quaffle with such speed that the Keeper had no time to adjust.

‘Goal!’ the commentator shouted, and the stadium roared their approval. They were playing at home, and the stands were a sea of navy blue and gold scarves, jerseys, and flags.

As the action resumed after the penalty, Harry went back to flying slowly around the pitch, scanning the sky for the Snitch. The sky was gunmetal grey, threatening rain, the wind was whipping in his hair, and he loved it. He’d never expected to end up a Quidditch player—he never expected to live past school, really—but now he couldn’t imagine doing anything else. Despite the difficulties that came with a career in the public eye, it was all worth it for how free he felt soaring high above the ground, the thrill of competition beating through his veins.

The match raged below him, fast and furious and more than a little dirty. They’d had multiple fouls called on both sides already. It was the first match of the new season, and everyone was a bit on edge. Nerves warred with excitement, leaving everyone skittish and jumpy and resulting in one of the tightest, most exciting games Harry had played in a long time. Puddlemere were aiming to win the League this season, and Oliver had endlessly drilled into them the importance of getting a good start, of establishing dominance early on, and they were feeling the pressure.

Harry had been searching for the Snitch for well over two hours now without even a sighting. Judging by the frustrated expression on the face of Thorebourne, the opposing Seeker, she was having no luck either. The Chasers below them were trading goals, taking it in turns to edge ahead on points before the other team pulled them back to level. The crowd was loving it, the shouting and singing only getting louder as the points racked up but no clear leader emerged. Harry, however, was tense. The only way this ended was if the Snitch was caught, and it needed to be by him.

As Turner scored yet another goal, Harry turned around to face the opposite end of the pitch. He felt a droplet of rain land on his nose, and as he looked up into the clouds, he saw it. The Snitch was hovering not too far away from him, tiny wings fluttering rapidly, just slightly higher up in the sky than he was. Harry’s heart kicked up a gear as he bent low over his broom and pushed forwards, the wind stinging his face as he picked up speed. He only had a few seconds before his opponent would notice his movement, and he needed to make the most of them.

The match below him faded into irrelevance as the Snitch twitched its wings and took off away from Harry. Harry bent even further forward, his thighs straining from the stretch, his broom trembling under his fingers as he pushed it to ever greater speeds. The Snitch was dancing through the air, darting this way and that, letting Harry get tantalisingly close before speeding off again. The chase, these moments where victory was so close that Harry could almost taste it, was Harry’s favourite part of Quidditch. He loved it when his focus narrowed to nothing but the distance between the Snitch and his outstretched fingertips, exhilaration flooding his body.

Thorebourne had noticed Harry’s acceleration and was quickly gaining on Harry, the nose of her broom inching into Harry’s peripheral vision. Harry was pushing his broom, and his body, as far as they could go, but he was slowly losing the advantage of his headstart. Thorebourne was a relative unknown, having only joined the Bats the previous season, but she was fast and agile, and Harry was beginning to realise that he’d underestimated her. He dragged his focus back to the Snitch, trying to ignore Thorebourne’s broom as it got ever closer. Losing the Snitch now, when the score was so close and the outcome of the game rested on his shoulders, would be agonising. He was determined he wouldn’t be responsible for Puddlemere losing the opening game of the season.

The Snitch was flying upwards now, drawing them higher and higher above the pitch. It was cold this high up, a fine wet mist clinging in the air, and Harry’s hands stiffened as he clenched his broom handle tightly, his knuckles pink and aching. He hoped desperately that the Snitch would change course, stop climbing higher. If his hands got much colder, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to even reach out to grab it. Thorebourne was almost neck and neck with Harry now, and he turned his head slightly to see her flash him a wicked smile. Her face was alive with the adrenaline that Harry could feel coursing through his own veins, and it only spurred Harry on more. He didn’t want to lose this.

Suddenly, the Snitch changed course, shooting back down towards the ground. It took Harry a second too long to process the change of direction, and he swore loudly when he realised that Thorebourne had managed to change direction faster than he had, and was now in front of him. Still cursing his slow reactions, Harry ducked low and charged, the wind whipping at his cheeks making the exposed skin burn as he quickly picked up speed. Despite the heights they’d reached, the ground was rapidly getting closer, the fans transforming from an indistinguishable blur of colour into individual people. This was a risky tactic. If Harry left it one second too late, he’d hit the ground at breakneck speed, and if the Snitch changed direction yet again, the risk would be for nothing anyway, as he would be too slow turning around.

As they got closer and closer to the Snitch, Harry regained the advantage, edging ahead of Thorebourne slightly. It wasn’t by much, but it could be enough to change the course of the match. That knowledge gave him enough of a rush to make him push that little bit harder, knowing his goal was within reach. The Snitch thankfully levelled off before they could get dangerously close to the grassy pitch below, and Harry continued to pursue it, weaving through the Chasers who were still furiously trying to score goals. Clearly they were just as aware as Harry of how tightly balanced this game was.

Harry was laser-focused now; nothing but the Snitch mattered. Even Thorebourne faded into irrelevance as Harry twisted and turned in his endless pursuit of the tiny golden ball. He barely noticed they were climbing again, or how close they flew to the Bats’ goalposts, the roar of the crowd muted beneath the sound of his own frantic heartbeat. He was so intent on the Snitch that he didn’t notice the Bludger flying towards him.

When the Bludger first made impact, he didn’t understand what had happened. One moment he was stretching out a hand to reach for the Snitch, and the next minute he was gasping for breath, pain blooming in his side where the Bludger had connected with its target. With one hand off his broom and no time to prepare, he couldn’t brace against the impact, and for a moment time slowed as he wobbled on his broom, clenching his thighs as he tried desperately to maintain his balance. But the neverending chase for the Snitch had sapped his strength, and his muscles were no match for gravity. For one sickening moment, Harry was aware that he was falling, his stomach turning over from the sudden change in direction, and then everything went black.

Bright lights pierced Harry’s eyelids as he came to, making his already aching head throb. He could hear the murmur of voices and the rhythmic beeping of a Monitoring Charm, and knew that he must be at St Mungo’s. He’d woken up here several times before due to accidents in matches. His team, the League, and especially the fans, loved him for how much he put his body on the line during matches, and usually it paid off, resulting in daring catches that were endlessly discussed in Seeker Weekly. He could only get so lucky, however, and sometimes his risky flying ended not with the Snitch and resounding victory, but with broken bones and a body covered in bruises.

He heard someone, a Healer, he assumed, move closer to his bed, the sound of their footsteps loud in the otherwise quiet room. The last thing Harry wanted to do was open his eyes, past experience making him well aware that the lights would make his head hurt even more than it already did, but he also wanted to get out of here as soon as possible. He knew that the longer he pretended not to be awake, the longer they’d keep him. His head screamed in agony as he tentatively opened one eye, squinting against the lights. The shock of the sudden brightness prevented him from seeing anything in the room, glowing spots of colour blooming before his eyes instead.

‘Good, you’re awake,’ a strangely familiar voice said.

Harry couldn’t quite place it, but he thought that it must be one of the Healers who had treated him on one of his previous visits. He’d been here often enough that he’d been treated by most of the regular Healers on this ward before. He blinked rapidly, trying to dispel the dots floating in his vision, and slowly the room coalesced into something recognisable, although he didn’t dare move his head to look around, unwilling to risk more pain.

‘How are you feeling?’ came the voice again, its tone brisk and businesslike.

‘Dunno,’ Harry mumbled, his mouth dry from the match and passing out. He thought for a moment, cataloguing his aches and pains, mentally checking in with each part of his body, from his sore head down to his feet. He was injured, that was for sure—his chest and side were burning with a gradually increasing pain, and his leg felt funny and swollen. ‘Bit sore, my leg…’ he started to say, but his words trailed off as he finally turned to look at his Healer.

Draco Malfoy was standing next to his bed, lime-green robes buttoned up to his throat and a chart and quill in his hands as he peered down at Harry. A mediwitch stood next to him, but Harry barely noticed anything about her beyond her bright pink hair, far too distracted by Malfoy.

‘No,’ Harry said, shaking his head and setting off a wave of pain. ‘Nope, not you.’

‘Yes, Potter, me,’ Malfoy said, his eyes cold as he looked down at Harry.

As Harry looked up at Malfoy—his cheekbones as razor-sharp as they had been at school, his hair still just as blond, although less severely slicked back—Harry was reminded of the public outcry that had accompanied his appointment at St Mungo’s several years ago. For weeks the Prophet had run headlines screaming about his unsuitability for such a role, and at the time Harry had vehemently agreed—why in Merlin’s name would anyone think appointing an ex-Death Eater was a good idea? After a while, though, the headlines had died down and the wizarding world seemed to accept the idea of Malfoy as a Healer. They’d even accepted his sexuality, barely mentioning it beyond the odd throwaway line in articles that were far more concerned with his ex-Death Eater status. Harry had been very jealous of that at the time, when his own bisexuality was still being picked over by the press endlessly. One of Harry’s teammates had been treated by Malfoy not long after he had joined St Mungo’s and had sworn that Malfoy was responsible for getting her back on her broom so quickly. That didn’t mean Harry was happy to be treated by him though. He had a lot more history with Malfoy than most, after all.

‘No fucking way,’ Harry said hotly as Malfoy continued to watch him silently. Harry shifted and tried to push himself up to a seated position so that he could swing his legs out of the bed. Even if it was possible that Malfoy had changed since the war, there was no way Harry was going to lie there and let Malfoy treat him. But then pain screamed through his hip and he collapsed back onto the pillows with a yelp.

‘I wouldn’t do that again if I were you,’ Malfoy said cooly, looking down at the chart he was holding. ‘You’ve broken multiple bones, including your hip, several ribs, and your left arm.’

‘Shit,’ Harry swore, closing his eyes again. The longer he was awake the more intense the pain was becoming. It was as though he’d been numb, and now his nerves were slowly coming back to life.

‘You’ll need an intensive course of Skele-Gro. According to your notes you’ve taken it before?’ Malfoy was talking like there was no history between them, his tone polite and professional, even slightly disinterested.

‘Yeah,’ Harry confirmed after a moment. He didn’t want to tell Malfoy anything, but he was also desperate to get out of the hospital and withholding information that was clearly in his chart would only make him look petty. ‘At Hogwarts, when Lockhart Vanished my arm bones, and then a few times since after Quidditch injuries.’

‘In that case I’m sure you’re aware of how painful it can be, and how long it takes.’ Malfoy paused until Harry nodded. ‘As you’ve broken so many bones, it will take several days to repair them all.’

‘Days?’ Harry couldn’t stay here for days. He hated being in hospital, and he had training to get back to. Even more than that, he definitely couldn’t spend days here being treated by Malfoy. While Malfoy appeared to have no problem acting as though Harry was any other patient, there was no way Harry could pretend that Malfoy was just another Healer, that there was no history of bloody hatred between them.

‘Yes.’

‘I want another Healer,’ Harry said determinedly. A flush of embarrassment raced through him when Malfoy just looked at him dispassionately, one eyebrow slightly raised.

‘There isn’t anyone else, Potter. Your case is complicated; repairing this many badly damaged bones is a challenge, and, unfortunately, you are considered a V.I.P. who requires the best care. In this case, the best care means someone with experience treating these kinds of injuries, and so here I am.’

‘But—but—’ Harry was struggling to think over the throbbing pain in his hip. ‘You hate me. We hate each other. Why should I trust you to treat me?’

Malfoy’s professional blankness slipped slightly at Harry’s words, his eyes flashing. ‘You should trust me because I take my job seriously,’ he snapped. ‘I took an oath to treat anyone who needs help, which, unfortunately, includes you. I will treat you and do it well, whatever my personal feelings towards you. Besides, no one will get you back on a broom as quickly as I will, believe me.’

Weirdly, seeing Malfoy angry made Harry feel slightly better. He felt more on solid ground with a Malfoy who clearly disliked him, rather than the blank professional act he’d been putting on. But still, Harry was wary.

‘I still don’t trust you,’ he said, narrowing his eyes.

‘I don’t need you to trust me, I just need you to take this.’ Malfoy held out a beaker full of a slightly smoking potion.

Harry briefly considered refusing, or at least asking for another Healer to check what Malfoy was giving him, but then Malfoy sighed.

‘I haven’t poisoned it, Potter. I assure you that I don’t hate you enough to ruin my career with such an obvious murder attempt,’ Malfoy said, before adding, when Harry still didn’t take the potion, ‘but by all means, if you want to spend weeks in here rather than on the pitch, feel free to refuse to take it.’

Harry hated to admit it, but Malfoy made a good point—the quicker he got this over with the quicker he could be free of Malfoy and back on his broom. He sighed, reaching out with his good arm for the beaker, wincing at the pain that flared in his ribs at his movement. The potion tasted disgusting, and Harry had to fight to stop himself immediately spitting it out. His eyes watered as his throat burned, but he swallowed down the whole beaker and sank back into the pillows, grimacing at the taste that lingered on his tongue.

‘Good,’ Malfoy said, Vanishing the beaker with a wave of his wand. ‘Your next dose will be tomorrow.’ And with that, he turned on his heel and left, closing the door to Harry’s room behind him.

Harry’s head was aching, his body so sore that even the weight of the sheet over him hurt, and his mind was reeling from seeing Malfoy again after so many years. He’d been telling the truth when he told Malfoy he didn’t trust him—how could he, after what Malfoy had done while they were at school? But Malfoy had seemed to know what he was talking about, and Harry was in no position to refuse help, especially from someone who was reportedly skilled at working with Quidditch players. He knew he could have pushed further—if he complained enough St Mungo’s would surely let him have a different Healer—but he hated using his fame in that way, and besides, he simply didn’t have the energy. His conversation with Malfoy had sapped him of any strength he'd had when he woke up, and the events of the day were catching up with him. A bone-deep weariness was overtaking him, and as the first prickles of the Skele-Gro started working their way through his system, he closed his eyes and drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

Harry dozed on and off for several hours, time losing meaning as he drifted in a semi-conscious haze. He was aware of people coming in and out of his room to check on him but was too tired to talk, even when Malfoy returned. There was somebody else with him, a young woman who looked as though she was recently out of Hogwarts. Malfoy talked quietly to her as he cast diagnostic spells on Harry, the sound of her quill as she wrote down whatever Malfoy said nearly louder than their voices. Most of the words Malfoy used didn’t make sense to Harry, either too technical or lost in Harry’s fogged brain, but even when his eyes slid shut again, powerless against the sleep that was trying to pull him under, Harry could hear the kindness in Malfoy’s tone as he explained Harry’s treatment to the woman. It was markedly different to the coldness that had been present in Malfoy’s voice when he spoke to Harry, and in his potion and sleep haze, Harry found himself curious about how a callous, cruel boy could turn into a man who spoke like that while willingly treating a man he was supposed to hate.

Harry awoke to the familiar, and welcome, sound of Ron and Hermione bickering, their voices low in an attempt not to disturb him. The bright lights had been turned down to a dim glow, and it no longer hurt his eyes to have them open. He looked around the room, taking in the sterile white walls and floor that he hated every time he came to St Mungo’s, the lone floral painting on the opposite wall that only served to highlight how bare the rest of the room was, and the two uncomfortable-looking armchairs that held his best friends.

‘Hey,’ Harry said, his voice scratchy from sleep.

‘Harry!’ Hermione cried, rushing over his side. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Alright, mate?’ Ron said after Harry had assured Hermione that he was fine. ‘Brilliant match, that final chase was epic.’ Ron was seemingly oblivious to the disapproving look Hermione shot his way.

‘Would have been better if I’d caught the Snitch,’ Harry said.

‘Nah, it’ll still go down in history as one of the best chases,’ Ron reassured him. ‘The commentators were going crazy, couldn’t stop talking about you, even after Thorebourne actually caught the Snitch.’

Harry grimaced—he hated the way his war fame still clung to him like a jinx he couldn’t shake off, and he particularly disliked it when people focused on him rather than the match. He was aware of grumbles among the players in the League about his fame, complaints that it took attention away from them and the game, but he had no idea what they expected him to do about it. If he had his way he’d fade into anonymity, but he knew that the Prophet would never let that happen, certainly not while he played professionally.

‘How long will it take you for you to recover?’ Hermione asked, going to pick up the chart that Malfoy had left at the end of his bed, her lips pursing as she read it.

‘Not sure,’ Harry said. ‘A few weeks, maybe? Think I’ll have to do some rehab before I can fly properly again, particularly on my hip.’ Harry hated the idea of taking so much time out, but early in his career he’d rushed back after an injury, and had ended up sitting out half the season as a result. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again, not when they had a chance at winning the League this year.

‘You’ve got to get better quick, mate, the match against the Harpies is coming up soon and I can’t wait to see you and Ginny thrash each other.’ Ron had been talking non-stop about the Puddlemere vs Harpies match ever since the schedule had been released. He’d even roped the whole Weasley family into betting on whether Harry or Ginny’s team would win—apart from Molly, that was, who was refusing on principle, saying she couldn’t bear to pick between them. Harry had no idea who would win—Ginny was a phenomenal player, and her team was brilliant. He was mostly just dreading the headlines that would accompany the match. Despite the many years that had passed since they’d amicably broken up after a brief attempt at dating again after the war, the press didn’t seem to have got the message. He could already predict the headlines and comments during the match about their relationship, none of which would be favourable to Ginny, despite her having done nothing wrong.

‘You just want Harry to play because you’ve bet on Puddlemere,’ Hermione said without looking up from the chart.

Ron grumbled something that Harry couldn’t quite make out, and then tugged the chart out of Hermione’s hands.

‘What’re you reading this for?’ Ron said. ‘You’re a genius, but I think fixing broken bones might be beyond even you.’

Harry bit back a smile as Hermione shot a frustrated but fond look at Ron. Their bickering occasionally drove him mad, but at times like these, when he was stuck in a strange sterile hospital room, listening to them felt comforting, like a little bit of home. Harry was pulled out of his thoughts suddenly by Ron swearing loudly.

‘Malfoy’s your Healer?’ he nearly shouted, rounding on Harry as though it was Harry’s fault.

‘Um, yeah.’

‘And you’re okay with that?’ When Harry didn’t immediately respond, Ron turned to Hermione. ‘Hermione, can you believe they’re letting Malfoy look after Harry?’

‘Well,’ Hermione hesitated, ‘I have heard that he’s very good at what he does. I imagine that’s why he was put in charge of Harry’s care. He’s done some excellent research in the field of potions, too.’

Harry nodded when Hermione looked over at him. ‘He did say he was the best with these kinds of injuries. And he treated Turner when she had that fall a few seasons ago.’

‘But he’s a git!’ Ron said, still incensed, his ears turning a deep pink.

Harry had thought the exact same thing when he’d realised that Malfoy was going to be his Healer, and he still wasn’t entirely convinced, but then he remembered how emphatic Malfoy had been about treating and healing anyone, no matter his personal feelings, not to mention the kindness in his voice when he’d been talking to the Trainee Healer. There was something about this older Malfoy that intrigued him. He wasn’t going to say that to Ron, though, so Harry fell back on his other reason for not demanding another Healer.

‘Yeah, he was,’ Harry agreed, ‘but he says he can get me flying sooner than anyone else and Oliver’ll kill me if I’m out for too long.’

Ron didn’t look convinced at all, and he still looked like he was about to storm out to the mediwizard station and kick up a fuss until Harry was assigned a different Healer. Desperate to avoid a scene that would inevitably lead to headlines about the Saviour and his unreasonable demands, Harry changed the subject.

‘Did you bring me some stuff?’ he asked, nodding his head at the small bag sat on the floor next to the armchairs.

‘Yes!’ Hermione jumped on the new subject, looking as relieved as Harry felt to have moved on from Malfoy and Ron’s suspicion. ‘We weren’t sure how long you’d be here for so we’ve brought you a selection.’

Hermione began pulling clothes out of the bag, far more than should have logically fitted inside. She piled jumpers and soft t-shirts and jogging bottoms on Harry’s bed, and stacked toiletries and books on the table next to him. ‘I didn’t know what books you wanted, so I just picked up the ones from your bedside table, and Ron said to bring the latest Seeker Weekly too.’

‘Well you’d rather read that than the books Hermione suggested,’ Ron interjected. ‘She wanted to bring you a biography of Uric the Oddball, but I told her you wouldn’t want to read about some boring old wizard.’ Harry shot Ron a grateful smile as Hermione continued unpacking the bag.

‘I hope you don’t mind that we let ourselves into Grimmauld Place, Harry,’ Hermione said as she set a tin of biscuits on the side. ‘From Molly,’ she added at Harry’s confused look.

‘Mum was listening to the match and had absolute kittens when she heard you fall, she’s been firecalling us non-stop asking how you are,’ Ron explained. ‘She wanted to come and visit but Dad persuaded her to wait.’

Harry chuckled weakly, and told Ron to thank Arthur for him. He loved Molly, but he didn’t think he was up to her level of well-meaning attention and care right now.

‘I put some owl treats out for Aurora, but can pop back ‘round in a few days if you’re still here,’ Hermione said, and Harry felt a surge of love for her and Ron for taking such good care of him even after all these years. He didn’t know where he’d be without them.

‘Cheers, Hermione, for all of this,’ Harry said. ‘And you, too, Ron.’

‘No problem, mate, got to get you better quickly. I’ve got a bet on Puddlemere to win the League, too, and they aren’t going to do that without you there,’ Ron said, clapping Harry on the shoulder and making him wince as his slowly mending bones protested.

‘Be careful, Ron!’ Hermione admonished. ‘We’ll leave you to rest now, if you’ve got everything you need?’ Harry nodded. ‘Let us know if you need anything else at all, and we’ll come and see you again soon.’

‘Thanks,’ Harry said.

‘And keep an eye on that ferrety bastard!’ Ron added over his shoulder as he and Hermione left, leaving Harry laughing even as it made his ribs ache.

Harry jolted awake, ripped from deep sleep by a spasm of agony. Sparks of pain were shooting up his left arm and his hip was aching deep down in the bone, the kind of ache that made it hard to remember what his hip had felt like before. The room was dark, a narrow sliver of moonlight spilling through a gap in the curtains and stretching across the thin white material of Harry’s bedding. Harry could just about hear the bustle of the hospital outside his door, but in his room it was quiet, with nothing to distract him from the pain spreading through his body. He wanted to curl in on himself, as though if he made himself as small as possible he might be able to hide from it, but even attempting to move his hip made him groan.

Normally when Harry woke up in the middle of the night he paced, wearing tracks into the carpets on Grimmauld Place’s stairs, walking off the lingering traces of nightmares or panic until he was exhausted enough to fall asleep again. He itched with the urge to get up and move but his injuries kept him confined to his bed. He picked up one of the books Hermione had left on his bedside table in an attempt to distract himself from the sensation of his bones slowly, agonisingly stitching back together, but he couldn’t focus, and tossed it aside in frustration after only a few minutes. The silence of his hospital room was too loud, too reminiscent of the first years after the war, when he’d been all alone in Grimmauld Place, struggling to adjust to sleepless nights without the noises of the boys' dorm or the Burrow. His heart started to race as a panic he hadn’t felt in a long time began to creep through his veins.

Just as Harry was starting to contemplate getting out of bed even though it would be agony, the door opened. He was so relieved to not be alone that he couldn’t even be angry when Malfoy strode into the room, waving his wand at the lights and causing them to emit a faint glow.

‘What’s wrong?’ Malfoy said, picking up Harry’s chart. ‘Your Monitoring Charm went off, suggesting an increased heart rate.’

‘Oh, I—uh—’ Harry hesitated, not wanting to admit to Malfoy that he’d been panicking. ‘Just hurts, I guess,’ he said finally, which was at least true.

‘Yes, the first night always is the worst,’ Malfoy said, noting something down on Harry’s chart before putting it back. ‘It should ease soon.’ He paused and looked at Harry intently. ‘Dreamless Sleep is available if you wish.’

‘Uh—no, I’m fine thanks,’ Harry said quickly. He’d taken his fair share of Dreamless Sleep after the war, and though it had got him through some extremely difficult nights, he didn’t love the way it made him feel, and he was cautious about coming to rely on it. He’d rather struggle through a few painful nights than feel that numbness and disconnection from the world again.

‘All right. If you change your mind, just alert me or one of the mediwizards.’ Malfoy turned to leave the room, and Harry was seized with a sudden sense of panic at the thought of being left on his own once again.

‘Wait,’ he called, and when Malfoy stopped walking to the door, Harry scrambled to think of something to ask him. ‘Um, what happened with the match?’ Ron had already told him, of course, but it was all Harry’s panicked brain could think of to ask about.

‘It may surprise you to hear, but some of us have more important things to think about than the results of your Quidditch matches, Potter,’ Malfoy said, the switch from consummate professional to sarcasm so quick as to be jarring. But then Malfoy sighed and added, ‘I heard some of the mediwizards talking about it just after you were admitted. Apparently the wizarding world has been on tenterhooks waiting to hear if you’re all right,’ Malfoy said, and Harry didn’t miss the way he rolled his eyes as he spoke. ‘They said that Thorebourne caught the Snitch while you were falling.’

‘Wood’s going to be furious that I fell off again,’ Harry said, mostly to himself. Oliver had been so determined to have a good start to the season, and he wouldn’t be impressed with them starting with a loss and their Seeker in hospital. Harry was already bracing himself for the bollocking he was sure to get next time he saw Oliver. He just hoped that Oliver wasn’t quite as upset as he’d been when Harry had fallen off his broom and missed the Snitch when the Dementors had come to their match at Hogwarts.

Malfoy didn’t say anything for a moment, and Harry thought he was going to try and leave again. But then Malfoy spoke, taking another few steps further into the room and away from the open door.

‘He did always seem rather… intense about winning, when he played at Hogwarts.’

‘He was,’ Harry agreed. ‘He once told me to catch the Snitch or die trying, and he’s not really calmed down much since then.’

‘Maybe you shouldn’t have taken that advice so literally,’ Malfoy said, a hint of a smile flashing across his face. It was nothing like the sneer that used to appear on Malfoy’s face so often at Hogwarts, and Harry was taken aback at how different it made him look. Combined with his slightly rumpled hair and his lime-green robes, Malfoy looked so very different from the prim and proper boy he’d been at school. He seemed tired, Harry thought, the bags under his eyes more pronounced than they had been earlier, the shadows in the dark room exaggerating them even more.

‘Well I didn’t die this time at least,’ Harry joked weakly, a strange need to see that smile again taking over him.

‘No, you just broke most of the bones in your body instead.’ Malfoy’s veneer of professionalism had vanished almost entirely, as though the dim light and the stillness of the night let him slip out of it and back into himself.

‘Could be worse,’ Harry said with a shrug, wincing as pain lanced up his arm and through his shoulder. Malfoy’s forehead furrowed as he watched Harry, but to Harry’s relief he didn’t say anything or try to press him to take Dreamless Sleep again.

A knock on the door interrupted them before either of them could say anything else, and the mediwitch who had been there when Harry first woke up after his accident poked her head around the door.

‘Healer Malfoy? The patient in room six needs your attention.’

‘Of course, Esther. I’ll be there at once.’

Esther disappeared at Malfoy’s words, leaving them alone once again.

‘I have to go, Potter. Alert us if the pain gets significantly worse. I’ll be back in the morning for your next dose.’ Professional, distant Malfoy was back, and before Harry could do anything more than nod, he was gone, the door closing behind him, leaving Harry alone in the semi-darkness again. The panic didn’t return, though, replaced instead by thoughts of Malfoy and the small glimpse Harry had got of his smile.

True to his word, Malfoy returned the next morning, his robes once again pristine, not a single wrinkle to be spotted, his hair far less messy than it had been the night before. Harry had only just woken up, despite it being nearly ten o’clock, and he felt more than a little worse for wear. It had taken him ages to fall asleep after Malfoy had left, the pain from his gradually mending bones only increasing and his mind whirring as he dwelt on the half-conversation he’d had with Malfoy. He knew very little about what Malfoy had got up to in the years after the war, and he found himself wishing he’d paid more attention. It was a strange feeling, knowing so much and yet so little about Malfoy at the same time.

After several hours, Harry had finally drifted off into an uneasy sleep. He’d woken several times after that, pulled out of sleep either by the pain coursing through his body, or by disturbing dreams of the war. He hadn’t had nightmares about the war in several years, but something about the combination of pain and the return of Malfoy into his life seemed to have triggered them. Eventually, as the sun had already started to rise and shine weakly through the hospital blinds, Harry had fallen asleep properly, and had woken with a start hours later. He’d barely had time to reorientate himself to his surroundings when there was a knock on the door, swiftly followed by Malfoy entering the room.

There was another person with him, a young woman, the word Trainee stitched above the crossed wand and bone embroidered on her robes, marking her out as a Trainee Healer. Harry had a vague feeling she was the one he’d heard Malfoy talking to that first day, when he’d been half asleep. As Harry struggled to prop himself up slightly higher on his pillows, Malfoy gestured at her, and she took a step closer to the bed. She glanced quickly at Malfoy, and at his nod, she turned to Harry.

‘Good morning, Mr—Mr Potter,’ she said, her voice shaking slightly. ‘I’m Grace Barnett, a Trainee Healer here at St Mungo’s. Healer Malfoy is in charge of my training. He’s asked me to help him with your case.’

Her voice gradually got stronger as she spoke, and when Harry nodded in response, any last traces of nerves on her face vanished, replaced by a tentative smile. Harry couldn’t resist glancing over at Malfoy, who was watching Grace closely, a look that could almost be described as pride on his face.

‘How is your pain?’ Grace was asking, and Harry turned back to focus on her. ‘Manageable?’

‘Uh, yeah, I suppose,’ Harry said. ‘Bit hard to sleep, sometimes.’

Grace nodded and made a note on his chart. As she wrote, Malfoy stepped closer to Harry’s bed, his eyes roving over Harry’s face before he turned his attention to Grace.

‘If Mr Potter is struggling to sleep due to the pain, what would you suggest, Trainee Healer Barnett?’ Malfoy prompted softly.

‘Dreamless Sleep?’ Grace answered, glancing up at Malfoy to check his response, her cheeks pinking as Malfoy smiled at her.

‘Indeed, excellent answer,’ Malfoy said. ‘For anyone else that would be exactly what we’d offer to help them drift off despite the pain from the Skele-Gro.’

Harry couldn’t look away as Malfoy taught his trainee. It was so strange to see him like this, kind and caring, so unlike the teacher that Harry had assumed Malfoy would naturally imitate. Tiny lines had appeared next to his eyes when he smiled at Grace, and Harry found himself staring at them, tracing the lines with his gaze. It was weird to even admit it to himself, and Harry wondered if it was just the pain talking, but he couldn’t stop himself thinking how attractive Malfoy had turned out to be. His new, kind demeanour, and the fact that he was clearly good at his job didn’t help either. Harry had always had a weakness for competence.

Harry realised with a jolt that Malfoy and Grace had fallen silent and were looking intently at him.

‘Um, sorry, what did you say?’ Harry asked, praying they hadn’t noticed him cataloguing Malfoy’s face.

‘I was explaining to Trainee Healer Barnett that you turned down Dreamless Sleep last night,’ Malfoy said, his brow furrowing as he looked down at Harry intently. Harry was certain the pain really was making him loopy when he suddenly thought how pretty Malfoy’s eyes were. ‘Are you sure you still don’t want any?’

‘Uh, yeah, I’m fine,’ Harry said, shaking his head in an attempt to dispel his, quite frankly, disturbing thoughts about Malfoy, regretting it immediately as his head began to ache.

‘As you wish,’ Malfoy said, before turning to Grace. ‘So as you can see from the chart, Mr Potter here has broken multiple bones, quite seriously, and as such requires an intensive course of Skele-Gro. As noted here’—Malfoy pointed at something on the chart—‘Mr Potter has already received one dose and is due another now.’

Harry had been so distracted by Malfoy in teaching mode that he’d entirely forgotten why he was here, and his stomach sank at the reminder he’d have to take more Skele-Gro and deal with the pain that was sure to follow. But if he didn’t, he wouldn’t be able to fly again any time soon, and he distracted himself with thoughts of Quidditch as he choked down another smoking beaker. By the time Harry had finished spluttering and had downed half a pint of water in a futile attempt to take away the taste of the Skele-Gro, Malfoy and Grace were by the door, clearly ready to leave.

‘If you need anything, don’t hesitate to let us know,’ Malfoy said, before gesturing to Grace to go through the door, adding, ‘after you.’

Grace disappeared through the door, but before Malfoy could follow, Harry called out to him. Malfoy’s name was out of his mouth before Harry had really thought through what he was doing, and he hurried to think of something to say.

‘Uh, I was just wondering when you think I’ll be able to fly again?’

‘It’s hard to say for sure,’ Malfoy said slowly, his expression suggesting he was choosing his words carefully. ‘So much depends on the individual patient’s genetics, bone strength, baseline fitness… their cooperation with treatment and rehab.’ Malfoy looked pointedly at Harry as he finished speaking.

Harry had been here before with Healers and was used to them trying to avoid putting a timeline on his recovery for fear of disappointing him, on the off chance he didn’t recover as quickly as expected. But this was Malfoy, so Harry couldn’t resist pushing.

‘Surely you must have a vague idea, at least?’ Harry said, raising an eyebrow in an attempt to goad Malfoy into dropping his professional façade and give Harry more information. The latest dose of Skele-Gro was beginning to take effect, his battered nerves starting to awaken with pain once again, and he hoped Malfoy would rise to the challenge and not leave him alone with nothing but his aching body for company.

Malfoy looked at Harry for a long moment, then sighed and came closer, pausing briefly before sinking into one of the armchairs next to Harry’s bed.

‘I had a similar case, several years ago,’ he began. ‘Quidditch injury, a fall from very high up—higher than your fall—more broken bones than I’ve ever seen on one person before. You probably remember it—I think you were playing by then.’

Harry nodded, tucking away the fact that Malfoy seemed to be aware of the details of his career to be examined later. Even though Malfoy hadn’t named names, Harry knew exactly who he was talking about. McFadden’s fall was legendary in the sport, both for how terrible it had been—he still held the record for highest ever fall, by quite some margin—and for how quickly he’d recovered. Harry hadn’t realised that Malfoy had been the Healer responsible for that impressive recovery.

‘It was one of my earliest cases as Healer-in-Charge. I think they thought I’d fail, and that any bad press that might have been directed towards the hospital could be directed my way instead. The press would have been more than happy at any suggestion that I wasn’t capable of doing my job.’ A shadow crossed Malfoy’s face, his lips twisting into a sarcastic smile that was more akin to a grimace. ‘But I didn’t fail, and the patient recovered far quicker than anyone had anticipated.’ The grimace was gone, and in its place was a small smile that spoke to Harry of Malfoy’s pleasure at confounding expectations, and no small amount of pride in the results of his work, too.

‘How come he recovered so fast?’ Harry prompted. ‘What did you do?’

‘Nothing revolutionary, believe me,’ Malfoy said. ‘Any of my colleagues could have done the same, but I had one advantage that they didn’t. Due to my, ah, lowly status within the hospital at the time, I had a significantly smaller caseload, and so was able to dedicate far more of my time to my patient. He followed the same course of Skele-Gro that you’re taking now, although he required several more days than you will, due to the quantity of bones to be repaired. Any Healer would have followed that regimen of potions.’

Malfoy lit up when talking about his work, Harry noticed. Gone was the closed-off, professional blankness that he’d affected at times when talking to Harry. Instead his eyes were bright, locked onto Harry’s as though to be sure he was listening and following along, and those smile lines around his eyes and mouth were back. A quiet sort of confidence, so different from the arrogance of his teenage years, emanated from him, and Harry was left in no doubt of Malfoy’s love for his work. It turned out that Malfoy talked with his hands, too, when he was passionate about something, and Harry couldn’t decide whether he wanted to watch Malfoy’s face or his hands more as he spoke.

‘So what did you do then? With all that extra time you had with your patient?’

‘Physical therapy. Nothing extravagant, and his team had a physiotherapist lined up for when he was discharged from hospital, but we did a bit of extra work before he left St Mungo’s to help him recover his mobility and strength faster. Got him up and about a bit sooner than usually happens with Skele-Gro patients, walking around the hospital, that kind of thing.’

‘And that helped him get better faster? Got him back to flying quicker than you expected?’ Harry was intrigued—he’d worked with physios at the club, but had never received any physio support while still in the hospital before. He’d never given it much thought, mostly because he was always in a rush to get out of the hospital as soon as possible, often defying Healer’s orders and leaving earlier than he should, but what Malfoy was saying made sense. Besides, anything that would get him back on a broom quicker was surely worth trying.

‘It was part of it, although I would never claim full credit,’ Malfoy said. ‘But I have certainly encouraged my colleagues to include some form of physical therapy with their patients, when suitable. They haven’t been very keen to act on my suggestion, however,’ Malfoy added with a wry smile.

‘Did you do it with Turner, too?’

‘I can’t discuss an individual’s treatments, but you’d be welcome to ask her if you want.’ Malfoy paused. ‘I’m aware that you may wish to get a second opinion before you take my advice.’

Harry hadn’t even considered not taking Malfoy’s advice, which he supposed was a bit strange. Even a day before he’d have hesitated to trust a word Malfoy said, but something about the way Malfoy spoke about his work, not to mention the good things Turner had said about her time as Malfoy’s patient, had Harry reevaluating his opinion of Malfoy.

‘I need to get flying again,’ Harry said finally, skirting around Malfoy’s last point. ‘I can’t miss the whole season, so whatever it takes, I’m up for it. When can we get started?’

Malfoy looked slightly taken aback by Harry’s agreement, his eyes widening a fraction and his eyebrows raising, but he quickly got his face back under control.

‘Right,’ he said, nodding to himself and standing up. ‘You’ll have to take a few more doses of Skele-Gro before your bones will have healed enough, but as soon as possible we’ll get you up and moving about. I must go and finish my rounds now, but I’ll be back to check on you again later.’

‘Okay,’ Harry said, raising his good hand in a strange half wave as Malfoy left, immediately dropping his head back onto his pillow when the door shut in despair at himself.

Harry picked up the copy of Seeker Weekly that Ron and Hermione had brought him and settled himself more comfortably in bed in preparation for a long and painful day, but he didn’t immediately open the magazine. Instead, he looked over at the chair Malfoy had sat in and replayed their conversation over and over in his head. With every conversation, Malfoy only intrigued him more, and Harry was glad that Malfoy had suggested the physical therapy, partly because it would help his recovery, but also because it meant he’d have to see Malfoy even more.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of pain as the Skele-Gro continued to work its magic. Harry’s wrist was already feeling significantly better, and the pain in his ribs had reduced to a dull ache, a marked improvement from the shooting agony that had accompanied his every movement after the accident. He could still feel the Skele-Gro working on his hip though, and the ebbing and flowing pain made it hard for him to concentrate on anything. His frustration at being confined to a hospital bed was increasing with every hour that passed, and he latched onto the hope that soon Malfoy would deem him well enough to start moving around. He couldn’t spend much longer like this. He hated being still, being trapped, unable to do anything useful, and the need to move burned under his skin, almost more powerful than the burn of the Skele-Gro.

Brief respite came in the form of dinner being delivered. Harry set to eating his fish pie with gusto, so grateful for something to break up the monotony of staring at the plain walls that he didn’t even care that the sauce was so thin it was essentially water and that the fish was chewy enough to make his jaw ache. As soon as the food was gone though, the boredom came roaring back with a vengeance, a pit of dread forming in Harry’s stomach at the prospect of the long, silent night that stretched ahead of him.

For a while, Harry kept the anxiety at bay by practicing Quidditch plays in his mind. Before the season started Oliver had made them spend several long, tiring days ensconced in one of the training rooms at the club while he talked them through every single play he wanted them to use over the season. The room, which they usually used for stretching and lifting dumbbells, had been transformed, all the mats Vanished and replaced with rows of chairs. At first glance, they looked comfortable, but by the end of the third day Harry’s body had been protesting so much time spent sitting down not moving. Harry knew Oliver was just trying to look out for them all and set them up for success, though, so he’d only made one jokey comment when Oliver had handed them each a folder full of wriggling diagrams and mock scenarios for each play. He’d glanced at it a few times since then, flipping through to find the ones which were relevant to him, and he occupied himself for a while trying to remember them all now. He had nothing else to do, after all, and it was as close as he was going to get to actually training for the next few weeks at least. He made a mental note to ask Ron to bring him the folder next time he came in to visit if it looked like Harry was going to be here for much longer.

When even that got dull, Harry got desperate and reached for another one of the books Hermione had brought him. He felt a tiny pang of guilt as he picked up a book on the progression of werewolf rights and flipped it open to see a note in Hermione’s neat writing that reminded him that she had given it to him for his birthday and he hadn’t so much as opened it since unwrapping it. But now he was trapped in a hospital room with nothing else to do, and he was determined to at least read some of it.

Harry had managed to make it through eleven pages when the door to his room opened and Malfoy entered. Another wave of guilt rushed through him at the relief he felt at being interrupted, even as he immediately closed the book. The guilt twisting his insides mutated into something different, however, when he looked at Malfoy properly. For the first time he wasn’t in his Healer’s robes and was instead wearing a simple dark blue shirt and smart grey trousers. Malfoy had somehow managed to pull off the rather unpleasant colour of his Healer's uniform, far better than some of the other Healers Harry had been treated by before, but now, clad in well-fitting, clearly expensive Muggle clothing… it was almost more than Harry could process.

‘I thought I’d come and check up on you before I left for the night,’ Malfoy said when Harry didn’t speak, answering Harry’s unspoken question about his change of attire. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Hurts a bit, but my wrist feels better,’ Harry said, flexing his wrist slightly as he spoke, reassuring himself that it did indeed feel better.

‘That’s good, very good,’ Malfoy said, nodding to himself. ‘I’ll need to give it a proper examination but we should be able to start exercising it tomorrow.’

‘Really? Already?’ Harry was surprised. Malfoy had said he was good, and that he’d get Harry back moving as soon as possible, but this was even faster than Harry had expected.

‘Mm,’ Malfoy hummed, coming closer and peering down at Harry’s wrist as he cast a diagnostic spell. ‘Your hip will have to wait a few more days, but I see no reason to delay starting work on your wrist.’

‘Great,’ Harry said, smiling up at Malfoy to confirm that his words were genuine. He was never quite sure if he was able to convey enthusiastic agreement without sounding painfully sarcastic instead. But Malfoy seemed to get the message, as he smiled back at Harry. His eyes darted down to Harry’s mouth briefly, and Harry’s stomach twisted again.

They were silent for a moment, the only noise in the room the faint sounds of the bustling hospital beyond the door. Harry waited for Malfoy to say he had to go—he was on his way home after all, after what was surely a long and busy day—but Malfoy didn’t move. His gaze darted around the room, returning back to Harry’s face again and again, before settling on the book Harry had put aside when Malfoy came in.

‘Is it any good?’ Malfoy asked, inclining his head towards the book. It was the first non-medical conversation Malfoy had started without prompting from Harry.

‘It’s all right,’ Harry said, feeling a strange need to defend Hermione’s choice of book. ‘Bit academic, maybe.’

Malfoy picked up the book and turned it over slowly, his forehead creasing slightly as he read the back.

‘It does look a little dry,’ he said wryly. ‘I think I’ve had my fill of serious academic books, between my training and the courses I still have to take every so often.’

‘Did you do your training here?’ Harry asked tentatively. There was so much he didn’t know about Malfoy, so much he wanted to know, but he was worried that asking would push him away. That he’d shut down and become cold again. The past was a tricky subject with them, after all.

‘No. They wouldn’t have had me. I did my N.E.W.T.s on my own, that first year after…’ Malfoy trailed off, then shook his head minutely and continued, ‘And then I did my Healer training in France.’

‘And you didn’t want to stay in France?’

‘I didn’t mind France—life was easier there in a lot of ways—but Mother needed me, so I came home. It was a bit of a battle convincing St Mungo’s to take me, but I’m glad they did.’

Harry nodded, folding a tiny patch of his bedding in on itself, over and over again, as he listened to Malfoy.

‘How come you decided to become a Healer?’ Harry asked. It was the question that had kept returning to him again and again ever since he got to the hospital. Harry would never have guessed that the boy he’d known at school would grow up to be a Healer, and his curiosity was piqued.

Malfoy opened and then shut his mouth, as though unsure what to say. Harry remained silent, unwilling to fill the quiet and put Malfoy off answering. As if to give himself extra time, Malfoy reached for one of the armchairs and dragged it over to Harry’s bedside, the feet of the chair squealing horribly against the lino floor.

‘I’d always liked Potions,’ Malfoy began once he’d settled himself in the chair. ‘So it was never in doubt that I’d take the N.E.W.T. I was studying at home, of course, and well, I didn’t have much to do that year. I couldn’t really go out, certainly not in the wizarding world and I was still uncertain of the Muggle world at that point, so I spent most of the year reading. I found a selection of books on Healing in our library, and they were fascinating.’

Harry didn’t take his eyes off Malfoy as he spoke and kept his mouth shut, even when Malfoy referenced the way he was viewed after the war. Harry was well aware of how quickly the wizarding press had turned on the Death Eaters, even though much of the papers and wider society had been falling into line behind Voldemort only months earlier. It wasn’t like Harry’d had a problem with it at the time—the Death Eaters had deserved all they got, he’d thought, and it was only later that he began to wonder if more could have been done to help rehabilitate them. Judging by how much the man sat in front of him had clearly changed, Harry thought maybe it would have been possible.

‘And, ah.’ Malfoy hesitated. ‘Well, I had been wondering about Healing since sixth year, really. Since Severus healed me after—’ Malfoy broke off, his eyes wide and shining in the dim light as he looked at Harry. He looked almost surprised, like he hadn’t expected to say that much.

Harry gulped and nodded, confirming that he knew what Malfoy was referring to. Even thinking about it had a sick feeling curdling in his stomach, but he forced himself to swallow down the guilt and speak.

‘I’m sorry,’ Harry said, so quietly it was nearly a whisper. ‘For doing it, and for taking so long to apologise. I had no idea what the spell did but that doesn’t mean I should have used it. I—’

Malfoy cut Harry off with a wave of his hand. ‘Water under the bridge, Potter. Not like I didn’t deserve it.’ And then, when Harry opened his mouth, Malfoy hurriedly kept talking, moving the subject back to his reasons for going into Healing. ‘The main reason, though, I suppose, was that I wanted to do something good. I’d spent so much of my life surrounded by monsters, unable or unwilling to do anything other than what they asked of me, and it sickened me to think of what I’d been involved in. To think about the things I’d done, or nearly done.’

Malfoy’s face had grown even paler than normal, his face twisting at whatever he was thinking about.

‘I knew nothing I did would make up for what I’d done. I’ll have to carry that with me for the rest of my life,’ he said, slowly and clearly, his eyes locked on Harry’s. ‘But I had to try. I had to try and be better than—than my parents, than the boy they brought me up to be. This felt like one way I could do that.’

Harry nodded again, not looking away from Malfoy even though the intensity in his gaze was doing strange things to Harry’s insides. He’d suspected that Malfoy had changed, quite dramatically, in the years since the war, but it was quite another thing to have it confirmed, to hear Malfoy condemn himself so roundly.

‘Well, I’m glad you did become a Healer,’ Harry said eventually. ‘Even if that’s just me being selfish because you’re going to get me flying sooner,’ he added with a grin.

Malfoy chuckled quietly, and the underlying tension that had settled across the room while they talked broke. Harry half-expected Malfoy to leave then, to decide that they’d talked enough, that there was no need to risk bringing up more difficult moments from their past. Instead, Malfoy simply shifted in his seat, crossing one long leg over the other.

‘So why did you decide to become a Quidditch player?’ Malfoy asked. ‘Despite the accusations I used to throw your way I’d have thought you’d have had more than enough of fame?’

‘I had,’ Harry agreed. ‘I hated the fame—I still do. But, well, I just didn’t really know what else to do, and ever since I went to watch the World Cup before fourth year I liked the idea of flying professionally.’

That first year after the war, Harry had been almost paralysed with grief and a deep weariness, and only external pressures and the ever-present support of Ron, Hermione, and the Weasleys had kept him going through funerals and award presentations and countless other events he was roped into as the Saviour of the Wizarding World. He’d been unable to even contemplate the idea of returning to Hogwarts to finish his education, and once the wider wizarding world had had their fill and finally left him in peace, he’d lost all drive to do anything other than sleep and wander aimlessly around Grimmauld Place.

‘I debated joining the Aurors—Kingsley offered me a spot straight after the war, and said the offer stood for whenever I was ready, but I couldn’t face the thought of more fighting. Hermione kept encouraging me to apply for different things, or set up a foundation or something, but nothing felt right.’

Malfoy was watching Harry closely, nodding and making quiet noises to show he was still listening. It was the most Harry had talked, or even really thought, about the period immediately after the war in a long time. He preferred to leave those memories locked away, buried deep away from view. But there was something about Malfoy, maybe his own openness when talking about his decision to become a Healer, that made Harry feel like he could talk about it.

‘I think I spent about a year and a half, maybe even longer, I’m not sure, doing not very much at all. I half-tried to sort out Grimmauld Place, but there was so much to do it was overwhelming. I spent a lot of time walking around London, or Apparating out to the countryside and just walking for hours through fields. I think I just needed to switch my brain off completely, you know?’ Malfoy nodded when Harry paused.

‘Then one night Ron dragged me out to the pub to have a drink with some people from school, and Oliver was there. He’d already been with Puddlemere for a while by then, although he wasn’t Captain yet. He told me that their Seeker was planning on retiring—it wasn’t common knowledge at that point—and said that if I fancied it, he’d put a word in with the team and get me a tryout.’

‘So you decided to go for it?’ Malfoy asked.

‘Not straight away. I had the same thought you did, at first, that playing Quidditch would put me back into the limelight again, when the press had only just stopped following me everywhere. But the idea wouldn’t go away once Oliver had put it into my head. I spoke to Ron and Hermione, and Ginny—she was already signed to the Harpies by then—and they all encouraged me to go for it, so I did.’

‘And you enjoy it?’

‘I love it,’ Harry said, simply. ‘It was everything I needed back then, and the press attention was bearable because of how good it felt to fly again, to have nothing to worry about other than where the Snitch was. I still love it now.’

Harry hadn’t talked to anyone like this in so long, and he felt like he’d bared his soul to Malfoy, even though they’d only talked about their careers. But he and Ron and Hermione had fallen into such a pattern over the years, talking in shorthand, making assumptions after years of knowing each other, that it was a refreshing, if slightly scary, change, to have to explain himself to someone again. The fact that it was Malfoy, someone who’d always been at his throat, who’d never hesitated to question him or make fun of his choices, only added another layer. But this Malfoy was different, he reminded himself.

‘You’re a good player, from what I hear,’ Malfoy said, and Harry wondered where Malfoy had heard that. Had he been following Harry’s career?

‘Cheers. I try my best, anyway,’ Harry said, before stifling a yawn.

‘I should let you rest,’ Malfoy said, glancing down at the watch on his wrist. ‘It’s late.’

But he didn’t get up immediately, even as his fingers curled around the edges of the armchair in preparation for pushing himself up. Harry was strangely unhappy at the thought of Malfoy leaving, but then a huge yawn escaped from him, pain lancing through his ribs at the force of it, and he knew that he probably should sleep.

‘I’ll come back in the morning,’ Malfoy said, finally getting up from his armchair, although Harry thought he detected some reluctance in the slow movement. ‘We can start the exercises for your wrist.’

‘Sounds great,’ Harry said, a small but rather loud part of himself already looking forward to it.

‘Sleep well, Potter,’ Malfoy replied quietly, a look in his eyes that Harry couldn’t quite decipher.

‘You too, Malfoy.’

That night, Harry had the best night’s sleep that he’d had the whole time he’d been in hospital, the Skele-Gro a low burn under his skin rather than a raging inferno, and he woke feeling refreshed and almost like he was getting back to normal. The pain in his wrist was nearly entirely gone, and even the watery porridge he was served for breakfast couldn’t dent his good mood.

Malfoy appeared not long after ten thirty, once again clad in his Healer’s robes. He set down another beaker of Skele-Gro, and then pulled a chair up to Harry’s bed, just as he had the night before.

‘Shall we have a look at your wrist then?’ Malfoy asked, holding out a hand for Harry’s wrist.

‘It feels a lot better,’ Harry said, placing his wrist in Malfoy’s outstretched hand. Malfoy’s palm was cool against Harry’s skin, and Harry felt the hairs on his arm stand on end, his skin prickling with awareness. Malfoy hummed as he turned Harry’s hand over, his fingers gentle as they examined Harry’s newly healed bones. Harry couldn’t look away from Malfoy’s elegant hands on his arm.

‘It looks good,’ Malfoy said finally. ‘I think we can start the strengthening exercises.’

‘Great.’ Harry was relieved to hear he was healing well, and excited to begin the process of returning to full strength so that he could fly again.

‘Right then,’ Malfoy said, shifting even closer to Harry, his eyes and voice alight with what Harry thought was excitement. ‘Let’s try this first. Copy me.’

Malfoy laid his arm flat on Harry’s bed, his fingers nearly brushing against Harry’s thigh before he curled them into a loose fist. He bent his hand towards his inner wrist, held it there briefly, then returned his hand to its original position.

‘All right,’ Malfoy said, ‘now you try. Don’t overstretch, or try too hard, and if it hurts, stop immediately. We don’t want to push too hard today.’

Harry copied Malfoy’s movement, the small stretch more intense than he’d expected after several days of not moving his wrist.

‘How does that feel?’ Malfoy was watching Harry intently, his eyes flicking between Harry’s arm and his face.

‘Fine,’ Harry said, repeating the movement. ‘Bit stiff, maybe.’

‘It will be for a few days, but the exercises should help. If you keep doing them for the next few days you should start to feel an improvement.’

Harry nodded. He’d worked with a physio before—after other, more minor, injuries—and remembered them telling him similar things. He’d not been the best at following their instructions in the past, always too keen to get back on his broom and start practicing wild moves to spend days or weeks doing seemingly useless exercises. But he remembered what he’d heard about Turner and McFadden, and what Malfoy himself had said, and he was determined to do as he was told this time.

Malfoy spent the next half an hour demonstrating different movements to Harry, getting him to move his hand from side to side, and turn his palm up to the sky, and clench his fingers into a fist. Harry could hardly take his eyes off Malfoy’s hands as they worked, unable to look away from the elegant way he moved, his motions effortless. Harry found himself wondering if Malfoy’s hands would be like that when doing other things, and a shiver of unexpected lust ran through him at the thought.

The movements were simple enough but quickly got tiring for Harry’s injured arm, and his technique started slipping as he half-heartedly copied Malfoy.

‘No, wait, like this,’ Malfoy interrupted, as Harry slowly touched each finger to his thumb, one by one. ‘Can I?’ Malfoy paused, his hand hovering inches from Harry’s.

‘Uh, yeah, sure,’ Harry said, doing his best to ignore the way his heart rate kicked up a notch when Malfoy’s fingers touched his, gently guiding Harry through the movements. The ghost of Malfoy’s touch lingered even once he’d pulled his hand away.

After another ten minutes or so, Malfoy called proceedings to a halt, much to Harry’s relief. His wrist was more than a little achy now.

‘I think that’ll do for today,’ Malfoy said. ‘You did well though—keep it up and you’ll be fighting fit in no time.’ The smile he shot at Harry was so open and joyful that it made Harry’s heart clench.

‘How often should I do them?’ Harry asked, massaging his sore arm with his other hand in a vain attempt to relieve his muscles.

‘Start with three times a day, if you can. Listen to your body though, don’t push too hard, that’ll only set you back.’ Malfoy stood up and picked up the Skele-Gro beaker, passing it to Harry. ‘Don’t forget to take this, too,’ he added.

‘And when can we start the rest?’ Harry said once he’d taken the Skele-Gro. The taste never got better, and it still set his eyes watering.

‘We’ll see how you are in the morning, but potentially tomorrow we can start getting you up and about.’ Malfoy seemed almost as happy about this as Harry felt.

‘Looking forward to it,’ Harry said, thrilling at Malfoy’s answering smile. He was being honest—despite the complicated past they shared, Malfoy’s visits to his room had fast become Harry’s favourite part of the day. He tried to tell himself that it was only because being stuck in hospital was so boring that any company would be worth looking forward to, but he knew that wasn’t quite the truth.

Harry was distracted for the rest of the afternoon by thoughts of Malfoy, and Malfoy’s hands, and when he might next get to see him, talk to him. Learning about Malfoy’s decision to become a Healer had only made Harry more curious about him. He found himself idly wondering what Malfoy did when he wasn’t at work—where did he hang out? Did he still see his friends from school or had he made new ones? Was he seeing anyone? That last question popped into Harry’s head without warning, and his stomach turned over. He couldn’t get rid of the image of those hands on someone else’s skin, and a hot anger he hadn’t felt in a long time burned in his chest.

Malfoy didn’t come back to see Harry again that night, but he was with Harry in his dreams anyway, his face alight with the same excitement as when he’d been talking about his ideas for Harry’s treatment. Harry dreamed of Malfoy’s hands on his arm again, at first massaging Harry’s wrist, then drifting higher, over Harry’s collarbone and then down Harry’s chest. His fingertips ghosted across Harry’s skin, a trail of goosebumps erupting in their wake. Harry’s stomach muscles twitched as Malfoy ran his hands over them, desire building in his gut as Malfoy’s fingers nudged the waistband of his boxers. Malfoy’s hand was just about to slip under the material to where Harry wanted it most, when a sudden spasm of pain ripped through him, pulling him unceremoniously out of sleep.

The room was dark, Harry’s rapid breathing loud in the silence of the night. He could only have been asleep for a few hours, but he felt like he’d spent an eternity lost in his dreams of Malfoy’s hands. Arousal prickled under his skin, and even the pain in his hip from where he must have shifted while asleep faded to something more manageable thanks to the altogether more pleasant sensation running through him. It was a totally unexpected feeling to have in relation to Draco Malfoy and yet, in his half-asleep state, Harry couldn’t bring himself to be angry about it. Maybe a few days ago he would have had more of a problem with it, but after several days of talking to Malfoy, of seeing how carefully he took care of his patients, this latest development left Harry more intrigued than horrified.

‘Fuck!’ Harry swore loudly as he used his arms to push himself off his hospital bed and onto his feet. His legs were wobbly from lack of use, and his hip protested as he put weight through it for the first time since his accident.

‘Sore?’ Malfoy enquired, rather redundantly in Harry’s opinion.

‘Yep,’ Harry said through gritted teeth, although the pain was already receding as the initial shock faded.

‘The ache and muscle weakness is to be expected,’ Malfoy said, ‘but that will decrease as you start to move around more and more. Do you think you can walk? Try a few steps, see how that feels.’

Harry steeled himself and did as Malfoy said, taking one shaky step away from his bed. Picking up his bad leg was fine, but as he put it back down again he wobbled precipitously, his arms shooting out to find something to hold on to. He’d been aiming for the edge of his bed, but instead his hand clasped around soft fabric.

‘Steady,’ Malfoy said, his voice closer than it had been moments ago, sending shivers up Harry’s spine. His arm was wrapped around Harry’s back and under his arm, propping him up, and Harry was still tightly clutching the sleeve of Malfoy’s robe. He held on for a moment longer, fingers wrapped around the swell of Malfoy’s bicep, then forced himself to let go.

‘All right?’ Malfoy asked, his expression concerned.

‘Yeah, think so,’ Harry said. ‘Just a bit wobbly.’

‘Do you think you can make it to the chairs?’ Malfoy nodded at the armchairs a few paces away.

Harry nodded determinedly and took another step forward, Malfoy’s arm still supporting him, his body warm where it pressed along Harry’s side. It took a lot longer than it usually would, and far more concentration than Harry was used to expending on walking a few steps, but eventually they made it to the armchairs, Malfoy leaving his arm around Harry the whole way. Harry sank into the armchair with a loud groan, partly at the twinge in his hip as he sat down, but partly at the blissful relief of being sat in a proper chair rather than lying in bed.

Malfoy settled himself in the chair next to Harry, and they both sat in silence for a moment, Harry panting slightly from the exertion. The curtains were open to the night, the moon hanging in the cloudless sky, more stars visible than usual. Malfoy had come to see Harry in the morning as always, bringing him his Skele-Gro dose, but he’d been pulled away to deal with an emergency before he could assess the progress of Harry’s hip, throwing a promise to come back later over his shoulder as he dashed out of the door. It had been well after dinner by the time he returned, and Malfoy had said they could wait until the following day to try walking, but Harry hadn’t wanted to wait any longer than he had to.

‘Was everything okay with that patient you had to go and help?’ Harry said, adjusting himself so that he was facing Malfoy. He looked tired, Harry thought, drained.

‘Eventually.’ Malfoy sighed, rubbing his palm over his face and then up into his hair, ruffling it so that it fell more softly around his face. ‘It took a few hours to get him stabilised, but we got there in the end.’

‘It must be difficult, your job,’ Harry ventured. Malfoy clearly worked hard, and from everything Harry had seen over the past few days, he gave a lot of himself to the job. Perhaps to his own disadvantage, to judge by how tired he sometimes looked.

‘It can be. But then some days are so rewarding that it makes all the tiring days and late nights and no social life worth it.’ Malfoy’s face was earnest, leaving Harry in no doubt that he meant what he said. ‘It feels good,’ Malfoy continued, ‘to be able to do something good. It’s about the only thing that lets me sleep at night.’

‘You’re doing a lot of good, here,’ Harry said when Malfoy fell silent, refusing to meet Harry’s eyes. ‘More than I am, anyway, pissing about on a broom.’

‘It doesn’t feel like enough, most days,’ Malfoy replied. He looked down at his lap, twisting his fingers together. ‘I—I don’t know how to make up for what I did, what I was part of.’

This was tricky ground for them, and Harry took a moment to choose his words, not wanting to say anything that would cause Malfoy to clam up just when he was opening up to Harry.

‘At least you’re trying,’ Harry said eventually. ‘That’s more than most did.’ The majority of the Death Eaters had never repented, sure that their views were right, and had either wound up in Azkaban or had voluntarily left the country when it was clear that there was no place for them in British wizarding society any longer.

‘True.’ Malfoy looked thoughtfully over at Harry, his fingers still twisting round and round each other, drawing Harry’s eye and reminding him of his dreams. ‘The others all banded together, after the war—the ones that escaped Azkaban, at least—talking about how unfair it was, how they would rise up again. They had no interest in changing, in reconsidering their views, even as society lined up to condemn them and spit at them in the streets.’

‘But you did?’

‘Yes,’ Malfoy said simply, looking intently at Harry, as if daring Harry to challenge him. ‘I’d been realising for a while how abhorrent the Death Eaters’ views were, and the war ending gave me my chance to escape. I moved out of the Manor as soon as I could, so I didn’t have to be constantly surrounded by reminders of the horrific things that had happened there, that I had been a witness to, and started again.’

‘Where did you go?’ Harry was desperately curious. He wanted to know everything that had led Malfoy to become the man sat in front of him, such a contrast from the boy he’d been.

‘To Muggle London. I rented a tiny flat—we didn’t have much left after the reparations, and I couldn’t leave Mother with nothing—and lived there for a year, after I finished studying for my N.E.W.T.s.’

‘Muggle London?’ Harry couldn’t disguise the surprise in his voice. Going to live among Muggles seemed a rather drastic move for someone who had just fought in a war on the side of Voldemort.

‘I know, Pansy couldn’t believe it either.’ Malfoy laughed. ‘But I wasn’t exactly welcome in wizarding society at that time, and besides, I was curious about Muggles. After spending so much of my life hearing my father spew hate about them, I wanted to see for myself what they were like.’

‘And did you?’ Harry’s hip and ribs were beginning to ache again, his body unused to being seated like this, but nothing could compel him to end his conversation with Malfoy now.

‘Eventually, yes. I know it might sound silly to you, but I was nervous, at first, to mingle in Muggle society. I had no idea how to act, what to say, how not to give myself away. And there was a part of me that wondered if my father hadn’t been right about us having something to fear from them—he’d told me about the weapons they use, how destructive they can be, how they wouldn’t hesitate to use them against us. I know now that that was all nonsense, of course,’ Malfoy said, when Harry opened his mouth to rebut the idea. ‘But you can understand how I would be wary, having grown up hearing that.’

‘I suppose,’ Harry conceded. ‘But you got over it?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Malfoy looked almost affronted at the idea that he might still be harbouring a fear of Muggles. ‘As I became more comfortable in the Muggle world I began to interact with them more and more, even made some friends. Everything my father had told me about Muggles was a lie, and I won’t pretend that wasn’t hard to come to terms with, even though deep down I’d known it for a while.’

‘It’s hard, when everything you thought you knew turns out to be a lie,’ Harry murmured, thinking back to a shack on an island during a storm, letters that wouldn’t stop coming, car crashes that never happened.

‘Indeed.’

Silence fell between them, Malfoy turning to look out at the night beyond the window, Harry continuing to watch him. This Malfoy was so different in so many ways, and Harry almost ached with the desire to know more, to keep talking until he knew every facet of Malfoy, everything he thought, how he lived his life, what he did when he wasn’t working. Malfoy’s hand was resting on the arm of his chair, so close to where Harry’s hand also rested, and Harry’s fingers itched to reach out and touch Malfoy, to see if he felt like he had in his dream.

But then Malfoy looked away from the window, glancing down at his watch. ‘Merlin, it’s late, and I have early rounds tomorrow,’ he said, reminding Harry that he was only here because this was his job. ‘Do you need help getting back to bed?’

Harry thought he probably should try on his own—he couldn’t rely on having someone to help him once he got home—but he couldn’t resist having Malfoy’s arm wrapped around him once again. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said as he shakily pushed himself to his feet, and he thrilled as Malfoy immediately steadied him with a sure hand on his arm.

Once Harry was safely deposited back in bed, Malfoy let go of his arm but didn’t immediately leave.

‘Want to try going for a walk tomorrow?’ Malfoy asked.

‘Yeah,’ Harry said emphatically. Of course he wanted to, both because wanted to get better, and because it meant more time with Malfoy.

‘All right then, I’ll see you in the morning,’ Malfoy said, but he didn’t move away from Harry’s bedside, and Harry had the craziest thought that maybe Malfoy wanted to stay. But then Malfoy stepped back, and with a quick smile turned and walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him, leaving Harry alone.

Harry’s hip was aching and he couldn’t get properly comfortable in bed, but as he drifted off to sleep he remembered the way Malfoy had talked to him, and smiled at him, and he fell asleep with a warm kernel of something a little bit like hope in his heart.

‘Fuck, it’s good to be out of that room,’ Harry said. The low rumble of Malfoy’s resulting laugh travelled through his side where they were walking close together as Malfoy helped him along the corridor.

They were walking almost painfully slowly, Healers and mediwizards dashing past them as Harry steadily put one foot in front of the other. Malfoy hovered close to his side, one hand light on Harry’s lower back, ready to step in if Harry wobbled. They’d only made it a few metres from Harry’s room, and every step made his hip ache slightly more, but it was so good to be out in the world again that Harry couldn’t bear the idea of turning back. He’d had enough of staring at the same four walls all day long, and he had never been so grateful to see the thronging corridors of St Mungo’s. Even the curious glances that passersby were shooting his way couldn’t put a damper on his mood.

‘I think that might be the longest I’ve sat still in years,’ Harry added as they continued to shuffle down the corridor.

‘I suppose you’re used to training all the time?’ Malfoy said, glancing over at Harry with a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes.

‘Yeah, Oliver keeps us busy.’ Harry laughed. If Oliver had his way they’d never do anything but train. ‘Even when I’m not training though, I’m running around a lot, with Teddy, and Rose.’

‘Rose?’

‘Hermione and Ron’s daughter—she’s very energetic, never lets me sit down when I babysit.’

‘I take it you still see them a lot, then?’

‘Not as much as I used to,’ Harry said. ‘After the war we spent a lot of time together—I didn’t like being alone, back then. Obviously now we’re busier, with jobs, and they’ve got Rose, but I still see them and the rest of the Weasleys a lot.’

‘That’s nice,’ Malfoy said, causing Harry to turn his head to look at him. He seemed genuine, which somehow shocked Harry, even though everything he’d learned about this new Malfoy should have prepared him for that.

‘What about you? What do you do, when you’re not here?’

‘Well, I am mostly here,’ Malfoy said, laughing, his eyes crinkling and his face lighting up in a way that made Harry’s stomach twist. ‘And I have to do a lot of training, and studying to keep up. With the little time I have left, I read a lot. I try to travel when I can. I see my mother, my friends.’

‘You like to travel?’

‘I love it,’ Malfoy said, his eyes alight. ‘I don’t get much time off from St Mungo’s, but I try and go back to France as often as I can, or visit new countries. Until recently I hadn’t looked much beyond Britain and France, but it’s nice to explore, discover new things.’

‘You’re a constant surprise,’ Harry muttered to himself under his breath, but the grin that flashed across Malfoy’s face suggested he hadn’t been quiet enough.

‘And your mum?’ Harry said after a moment. ‘Is she okay?’ Harry hadn’t forgotten what Narcissa did for him, and on multiple occasions over the years he’d sat down to write to her, always shying away from sending the letter at the last minute.

Malfoy’s face clouded over, his easy smile vanishing as his lips turned down at the corners. ‘She’s not well. She hasn’t been since my father was sent to Azkaban.’

‘Oh.’ Harry didn’t quite know what to say. He might be grateful to Narcissa for helping him, but he couldn’t pretend that he didn’t think Lucius had got exactly what he deserved. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said finally, awkwardly patting Malfoy’s arm where it was hovering near Harry’s. He would have immediately regretted his clumsy gesture, were it not for the way Malfoy’s eyes shot down to where they were touching.

When Malfoy looked back up, his cheeks were tinged with pink. ‘It’s all right,’ he sighed. ‘We manage. I visit a lot. Even with all his many faults, she really did love my father. It shouldn’t come as too much of a surprise that a love like that can break you.’

‘Is that what you think love is like?’ Harry blurted out. To him, love was everything, the most powerful force in the world. Malfoy’s tone suggested he felt very differently.

‘I don’t know, Potter,’ Malfoy said, looking away. For a moment they lapsed into silence and just walked together, the noise of the hospital filling the gap in their conversation.

‘No,’ Malfoy said finally, just when Harry thought he’d officially gone too far and pushed too hard. ‘No, I don’t think love is like that, at least not all the time. For a long time I thought it was—hard not to, growing up watching my parents, seeing the way my mother consistently made terrible choices because of her love for my father. That love was poisonous, and their love for me wasn’t much better, really, when you consider all the things I did because of it. It made me think that love would only bring harm, in the end.’

‘And now?’ Harry asked tentatively. He was almost nervous—for some reason it was suddenly extremely important to him that Malfoy’s view on love hadn’t remained so pessimistic.

Malfoy’s pace slowed down even further as he looked intently at Harry, his expression thoughtful. ‘Now I’m not so sure. I’ve not had much luck in love myself, but there’s a part of me that has hope that one day I’ll get to experience a better kind of love.’

They’d slowed to a complete halt, and Harry’s heart skipped a beat as Malfoy quietly confessed his hopes. Malfoy was looking directly at him, not shying away from the intimacy of their conversation, and for a moment Harry was sure that everything he was feeling was showing on his face.

‘That’s—that’s good,’ Harry murmured, afraid that speaking too loudly might break this quiet bubble of intimacy that had formed around them. He opened his mouth to speak again, but the sound of a Monitoring Charm going off in the room next to them made him jump and broke the moment. Malfoy looked away and gestured for Harry to keep walking.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, Harry watching the patients and Healers go by, marvelling once again at all the weird and unexpected maladies the patients suffered from. Over the years he’d grown used to the wizarding world, and generally nothing shocked him anymore, but there were still occasions where he was struck by just how different it was to the Muggle world he’d grown up in.

Malfoy broke the silence first, to Harry’s surprise. ‘How’s your leg feeling?’ he asked, as they passed a patient barking like a dog every time she opened her mouth.

‘A bit stiff and achy, but not too bad,’ Harry replied.

‘You’ll be back to flying soon, I think,’ Malfoy said. ‘Your progress has been very impressive.’

‘Thank Merlin,’ Harry said. ‘This must be the longest I’ve gone without flying in years.’

‘And you miss it?’

‘More than anything,’ Harry said, honestly. He looked up at Malfoy curiously. ‘Do you still play?’

‘Not often. I don’t really have the time,’ he said, before adding with a slight glint in his eye, ‘and we don’t all have a pro team or a giant adopted family constantly on hand to play with either.’

‘What about your friends? Wouldn’t they play Quidditch with you?’ Harry asked. Malfoy hadn’t talked much about his friends, or specific boyfriends, and Harry was desperately curious. There hadn’t been much in the papers about Malfoy for the first few years after the war, which Harry now knew was due to him being in France, but not long after Malfoy had got the job at St Mungo’s there had been a year or so where public interest in him had been high, and photos of him had regularly appeared in the papers. Some of them had just been Malfoy leaving St Mungo’s, but others had featured Parkinson and Zabini too, or occasionally unidentified men who were clearly on intimate terms with Malfoy judging by the way they touched each other. But as Malfoy slowly proved himself to be capable at his job and not secretly plotting anything, public interest waned, and the photos stopped. Harry had no idea who he spent time with anymore, but he wanted to know. He wanted to know everything about Malfoy, and that scared him more than a little.

‘Pansy would never be caught dead on a broom, and Blaise isn’t a big fan either,’ Malfoy laughed, his eyes crinkling with mirth, making Harry’s stomach flip over. ‘I remember trying to teach them to fly one summer during the holidays, and Merlin they were awful. Blaise is terrified of heights, not that he’ll ever admit that to anyone.’

‘Well if you can’t fly with them, we’ll have to go some time. Have a rematch, finally figure out who the best Seeker really is.’ The words were out of Harry’s mouth before he could stop them, before he could remind himself that Malfoy was just his Healer, and was only spending time with him because it was his job. Harry might be finding himself with some slightly uncomfortable new feelings for Malfoy, but that didn’t mean Malfoy reciprocated them in any way.

‘Merlin, no, I’m not willingly signing myself up for that kind of humiliation,’ Malfoy said, his eyes bright as he looked at Harry. Standing as close as they were, the few inches Malfoy had on Harry were more obvious, and the light, fresh smell of Malfoy’s cologne blocked out the chemical clean smell of the hospital. ‘You’d fly rings around me.’

‘You always gave me a run for my money at school,’ Harry said. ‘You might now, too.’ The idea that had come to him so suddenly was now lodged in his mind, and he wanted nothing more than to play Quidditch against Malfoy again. He wanted to watch him move gracefully through the sky in that way that had always captivated Harry, long before he knew the words to explain that kind of fascination.

They’d stopped walking as they got more involved in their conversation; Harry was glad to be able to concentrate just on Malfoy rather than on the increasing throbbing in his hip. The wall he was now leaning against provided some much needed support as he took the weight off his sore leg, but Malfoy was still standing close by, just in case.

‘Well only one of us joined a pro Quidditch team after school, while the other one of us ran themselves ragged working all the hours in the day, leaving no time for exercise, let alone flying, so I think I have a pretty good idea who would win,’ Malfoy said with a wry smile.

‘You look in shape enough to me,’ Harry said without thinking, looking up and down Malfoy’s body. Malfoy’s Healer’s robes were open, revealing the smart shirt and trousers he wore underneath, but even when the robes were done up fully they couldn’t quite disguise the long, lean lines of Malfoy’s body. He wasn’t overly muscled, and not as broad as Harry, but his body still made Harry’s mouth water.

A jolt of desire rushed through Harry when he looked back up from his leisurely perusal of Malfoy’s body to see him looking at Harry intently, his eyes dark with heat. It was a look Harry had never expected to see Malfoy direct at him, and for a moment he wondered if this was another one of his dreams. He’d been having dreams featuring Malfoy with increasing frequency, and they never failed to leave him hard and full of need when he woke up. But this was definitely real life—the noise and movement of the hospital around them, not to mention the ache in his leg, reminded him of that. And yet, Malfoy didn’t look away, even as the tension between them built and built.

The noise in the corridor suddenly kicked up a level, voices shouting and shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor. A flood of mediwizards and Healers barrelled down the corridor towards them, but even that couldn’t break the tension that was taut between them. Instead, Malfoy simply stepped in closer, crowding Harry up against the wall, his hands coming up to bracket Harry’s body. Harry’s breath caught as Malfoy’s chest pressed up against his, moving them out of the way of the people rushing past.

Harry couldn’t focus on any of that though, not when he could feel the warmth coming off Malfoy’s body and feel his breath gusting across his face. Malfoy was staring down at Harry, and as Harry tilted his head up to look at him, he didn’t miss the way Malfoy’s gaze flicked down to Harry’s lips. They were so close, only inches apart, and Harry wanted nothing more than to close that gap between them, to feel Malfoy’s soft plump lips against his. He was out of his mind enough with need, lust pumping through his veins, that he decided to throw caution to the wind. Ignoring the small part of his brain that said maybe kissing his Healer and ex-enemy in the corridors of St Mungo’s where anyone could see was a bad idea, Harry’s gaze dropped to Malfoy’s lips, and he leaned in to kiss him.

Pain shot through Harry’s hip as he moved, and the gasp he let out seemed to shock them both out of the trance they’d been in. Malfoy took a step back, concern creasing his face as Harry slumped back against the wall.

‘Are you all right?’ Malfoy asked, looking down at where Harry was clutching his hip. His cheeks were still slightly pink, his voice low, but before Harry’s eyes he seemed to pull himself back together, calling on his Healer persona and retreating back into professional Malfoy.

‘Fine,’ Harry said, even though he wasn’t at all. His leg ached and his mind whirled as he tried to process what had just happened. He’d wanted to kiss Malfoy, desperately, and for a moment it had seemed like Malfoy wanted it too.

‘You should rest,’ Malfoy said, his lips pursed as he continued to look at Harry intently. ‘You shouldn’t push yourself too far, it’ll only impede your recovery in the long run.’

Harry nodded, knowing from the steely expression on Malfoy’s face that there was no point arguing, and if he was being honest, his leg really was aching, and a rest in bed sounded very tempting. He felt a pang of sadness, though, as they started walking very slowly back to his room and Malfoy kept his distance, his demeanor scrupulously professional. Harry was worried that whatever had been building between them had been broken.

He wasn’t sure it would ever come back.

Harry awoke with a shout, his heart racing. For a second, he had no idea where he was, aware of nothing but the fear rushing through his veins like ice. He’d not had a nightmare that bad in years, and the terror that had woken him clung to him even as the dark hospital room became clearer. His hands were shaking, sweat pouring down his face even as he shivered, and he pushed back the duvet that was tangled around his legs. He needed to move.

The door flew open just as he stood up and Malfoy rushed into the room, wand at the ready.

‘What’s wrong, Potter?’ he said, his heaving chest and panted words giving away the haste with which he’d come to Harry’s room. ‘Does something hurt?’

‘Um,’ Harry hesitated. With anyone else, he would lie. It would be so easy to say that his leg had hurt and woken him up, that he’d twisted wrong in his sleep or put pressure on one of his bruises. He definitely should want to lie to Malfoy. But something made him want to tell Malfoy the truth. Something made him think he could trust Malfoy with it. ‘I had a nightmare,’ Harry said finally, hating how vulnerable it made him feel to say that, however much he now trusted Malfoy.

‘Okay,’ Malfoy said, his face contemplative as he nodded. ‘Do you want to go for a walk?’

‘What?’ Harry hadn’t expected that. He’d thought that maybe Malfoy would suggest Dreamless Sleep again, or worse, try and talk to him about his nightmare.

Malfoy shrugged, the gesture casual yet still infuriatingly elegant and drawing Harry’s attention to the shirt Malfoy was wearing instead of his robes.

‘When I have nightmares I always find moving helps,’ Malfoy said simply. ‘We can go to the tearoom.’

Twenty minutes later, they were settled at a small table in one corner of the tearoom. It had taken Harry quite a while to navigate the stairs, his hip protesting at the unusual movement, and he gratefully accepted the cup of tea and slice of cake that Malfoy handed to him, in desperate need of nourishment after the effort. Nearly all the tables in the tearoom were unoccupied due to the late hour. Their only company was an older couple talking softly near the door, their hands joined over the table, and a young man sitting alone, an uneaten sandwich sat on a plate in front of him. He was facing them, and he looked exhausted, on the verge of falling asleep where he sat.

‘New father, I’d guess,’ Malfoy said, following Harry’s gaze.

‘You think?’

‘They always have the same look; complete and total exhaustion, but not sadness,’ Malfoy said, and Harry looked closer. He was right—the man was clearly shattered, but he didn’t look hollow with grief, unlike the older couple.

‘Impressive,’ Harry murmured, smiling at Malfoy, whose mouth twitched up at the corners in response.

‘That’s what I get for spending the vast majority of my waking hours here,’ he replied, before adding with a chuckle, ‘and a lot of the hours I should be sleeping, too.’

For a while, they sat quietly, talking occasionally, as Harry slowly ate his cake, the sugar chasing away the final tendrils of dread from his nightmare. Malfoy started talking to Harry about the hospital, about the things he’d seen here, the cases he’d treated. He got more and more animated as he talked, any tiredness from the late hour disappearing, his love of his profession shining through. Harry couldn’t think of a job he’d personally be less suited for—he definitely didn’t have a strong enough stomach for it, to judge by how he felt as he listened to Malfoy describe some of the more unusual and unpleasant ailments he’d had to cure. Quidditch was a much better fit for Harry, but Healing seemed perfect for Malfoy.

‘So,’ Malfoy said when he finished telling Harry stories from his job. He fixed Harry with an intent look. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘Talk about what?’ Harry had no idea what Malfoy was talking about. Tiredness was beginning to creep over him again as the adrenaline from earlier faded.

‘About your nightmare.’ When Harry didn’t immediately say anything, Malfoy continued, ‘I always found it helped, to talk about them. Made them feel less real, somehow.’

‘Did you have a lot of nightmares?’ Harry asked, aware that he was prying but unable to bring himself to care.

‘Yes,’ Malfoy said simply. ‘At Hogwarts, and after the war. I have fewer now, but for a while it was most nights.’

‘Shit.’

‘Eloquent as ever, Potter,’ Malfoy said with a low laugh, that, combined with the use of his surname, made something hot coil in Harry’s stomach. ‘But yes, it was shit. I don’t know what I would have done without Pansy when they were at their worst.’

‘And talking to her about them helped?’ Harry asked.

‘A bit. More than anything else, at least. We’d talk until the nightmare faded, and I felt like I could go to sleep again. She’s got the patience of a saint, that woman, not that she lets anyone else know that.’

‘Okay,’ Harry said slowly, thinking. At first, he’d talked about his nightmares, too. Ron and Hermione had sat with him through many nights, holding him as he shook and told them haltingly what he’d dreamed about. But then, as the nightmares had gradually reduced in frequency, he’d found ways to cope on his own. He’d pace, or listen to the wireless to try and distract himself, or simply get up, condemning himself to a day of yawning and weariness with the hope that at least he’d be too tired to have a nightmare the following night. He’d got used to coping that way, but maybe he could try talking again.

‘Okay,’ he repeated, taking a deep breath, the conversation feeling momentous for some reason. ‘I dreamed I was at the final battle at Hogwarts again.’

Malfoy’s face paled almost imperceptibly, but he nodded for Harry to continue. His hands were clasped tightly around his mug of tea, and Harry focused on his long fingers with their neat nails as he continued. It was far easier than looking at Malfoy’s face. He was afraid of what he might see in it.

‘Everyone was fighting around me, but this time—this time the Death Eaters were winning,’ Harry said hesitantly. ‘I was trying to help, but I couldn’t. I was injured—my hip and my ribs, and I had a broken arm. I couldn’t run, couldn’t properly cast spells, couldn’t stop people getting hurt.’ Harry couldn’t prevent the way his voice cracked on the final words. The dream had been horrible, and all the pain he felt at not being able to save his loved ones during the war had come roaring back.

‘I’m sorry, Harry, that sounds awful.’ Malfoy’s voice was soft, and one hand unfurled from its grip on his mug, coming to rest gently on top of Harry’s. The touch sent sparks down Harry’s arm, and he looked up, locking eyes with Malfoy. The startled look on Malfoy’s face suggested that he’d felt it too.

‘It was,’ Harry said. ‘I haven’t dreamt about the war in a while, but every time I do it’s like I’m right there again, like all the years in between never happened.’

‘I know,’ Malfoy said quietly, and Harry knew he did. Their history might make everything between them complicated, and talking about the war was walking across a minefield, but it did mean they shared an understanding that Harry had with very few others.

‘Thanks,’ Harry said, but he made no moves to take his hand out from under Malfoy’s. The weight of it was comforting, grounding him, and Malfoy’s skin was soft against his. Every tiny movement of Malfoy’s fingers set Harry’s nerves alight.

Harry lost track of how long they sat there, talking about nothing and everything. Even once Malfoy moved his hand away the sense of closeness that had built between them remained. Malfoy talked to Harry about the book he was reading, about Pansy’s latest disastrous attempt at trying to fit in in the Muggle world, about his recent trip to Ecuador. Harry was once again pleasantly surprised by how easy it was to talk to Malfoy.

Hours later, they walked back to Harry’s room, the hospital coming alive for the day around them. Even though Malfoy had been valiantly fighting off yawns for the last half hour or so, he insisted on accompanying Harry in case his leg gave in. By the time Malfoy left Harry, tucked up in bed, his body aching from the exertion of walking so far, all thoughts of Harry’s nightmare had faded into nothingness, replaced instead by the looping memory of Malfoy’s laugh as they’d talked.

Harry’s last few days in St Mungo’s flew past in a blur of exercises, gentle walks around the hospital, and final doses of Skele-Gro. His healed bones were growing stronger and stronger, the exercises hurting less each time he did them, and the anticipation of flying again was bubbling in his veins. He knew he still had a lot of rehab to do before he would be match fit, but soon he would be able to at least try getting on a broom again.

Malfoy popped in and out of Harry’s room as his work allowed. He accompanied Harry on some of his walks, his laughter echoing around the corridors of St Mungo’s as they talked. Harry wondered if Malfoy laughing like that was an uncommon sight—he’d noticed almost shocked expressions on some of the other Healers’ faces as they’d walked past them. The more time Harry spent with Malfoy, and the more he learned about him, the more he wanted. At times, it almost seemed like Malfoy felt the same. Harry was past the point of needing someone to hold onto when he walked, and yet neither of them moved apart. Malfoy was a constant presence at Harry’s side, the smell of his cologne surrounding them, his arm warm against Harry’s as they walked laps around the hospital, their fingers brushing from time to time and sending sparks of pleasure up Harry’s arm. Harry’s nerves were on edge constantly, bombarded continually with awareness of Malfoy. Each night when he collapsed into bed, Harry was exhausted from the ever present anticipation and excitement that churned in his gut, yet at the same time, he couldn’t wait for the morning when he’d get to see Malfoy again.

Ron and Hermione visited several times, on one occasion accompanied by Molly and Arthur. Molly brought a quite frankly excessive amount of food with her, but after so long eating hospital meals, Harry could barely restrain himself from devouring it all at once. At first, Molly fussed, plumping his pillows and fretting over his injuries, but thankfully Harry soon managed to convince her that he really was fine. After that they fell into easy conversation, time flying as Harry was filled in on all the latest stories from the extended Weasley family. The team had been training so intensely in the lead up to the first match that it had been several weeks since Harry had managed to make it to Sunday lunch at the Burrow, and it was only now, as Molly talked excitedly about all her grandchildren that he realised quite how much he missed them all.

One afternoon, Harry was surprised to see Oliver Wood’s face pop around his door. They passed a very entertaining few hours together discussing the matches that had been played while Harry was recuperating, and Oliver regaled Harry with stories from training. Harry laughed so much his newly healed ribs ached at Oliver’s rather dramatic reenactment of the team’s failed attempts at one of his new plays. It left him with a bone deep longing to be back with his team and to get back to training.

Oliver was rather less horrified at Malfoy being Harry’s Healer than Ron had been—apparently Oliver was well aware of Malfoy’s brilliance at healing Quidditch injuries, and the news only got him more excited about his plans for Harry’s return to the pitch. Oliver and the team physio had come up with a plan of exercises to try and get Harry back to his best in time for the final matches of the season, and Oliver wanted to see if Malfoy had any other ideas to add to his plan. By the time Oliver left, Harry’s mind was spinning with details of plays, and match plans, and tactics. It felt more like he’d been at one of Oliver’s team meetings than having a visit from a friend, but Harry appreciated the thought nonetheless.

Oliver’s visit brought the real world creeping back into the bubble Harry had found forming around him during his hospital stay. The following day, Oliver returned, this time accompanied by several of Harry’s teammates. His stay in hospital was the longest he’d gone without seeing them since he’d joined the team, and he’d missed laughing and joking around with them. Harry had avoided reading the papers during his stay in hospital, not wanting to relive his fall any more than he had to, but he knew he’d have to face the real world again soon. Harry was aware that his injuries were nearly completely healed, bar the rehab work, and he knew that he had no reason to stay in the hospital for much longer.

Harry woke up on his final day in St Mungo’s with a heavy heart. The day before, when Esther had given him his final dose of Skele-Gro, and Malfoy had confirmed that he would be free to go the next day, Harry’s heart had sunk. Usually, he was desperate to get out of the hospital. He should be excited to start training again, get back to his real life. But that real life didn’t include Malfoy, and he wasn’t ready to say goodbye.

As Harry was starting to pack up his things, Esther knocked on his door. When she’d first introduced herself to him, she’d reminded him forcibly of Mrs Weasley, apart from her shock of bright pink hair, which was so Tonks-like it sent a sudden pang of sadness through Harry. Along with Grace and Malfoy, Esther had taken on the bulk of his care, and she seemed to have developed quite a soft spot for him, always gently chastising him when she thought he was overextending himself with his recovery. He’d miss her, although not quite as much as he’d miss Malfoy.

‘Good morning, Mr Potter,’ she said cheerily.

‘Morning,’ Harry said, his own tone rather more maudlin. However glad he was to be done with disgusting potions and uncomfortable hospital beds, he couldn’t make himself feel cheerful today.

‘Healer Malfoy will be along in a moment,’ she said. ‘I just need to run a few quick tests, make sure you’re good to go.’

Harry nodded his consent, and she drew her wand, casting a series of spells over him, nodding slowly to herself at whatever they revealed to her. For a moment, Harry had the wild hope that they would show that he wasn’t properly healed, that he needed a few more doses of Skele-Gro before he was ready to be discharged. But, of course, that wasn’t to be, and with a pleased smile, Esther pronounced Harry fit as a fiddle.

‘Not happy about that?’ Esther said, catching Harry’s frown.

‘Oh, um, yeah I am, I suppose,’ Harry said, unconvincing even to his own ears. Clearly, it sounded equally untruthful to Esther, as she fixed him with an assessing look that made Harry feel like his soul was laid bare.

‘I’m sure you’ll be glad to fly again, at least? It can’t be often you’re stuck on the ground for this long.’

‘Definitely,’ Harry said, and this time he was being honest. ‘I’ve missed it, and the team. It’ll be good for me to get back up in the air.’

‘It’ll be good for Healer Malfoy, too, to have a break from so much overtime,’ Esther said. ‘He’s looking exhausted, poor man.’

‘Overtime?’ Harry thought about the bags under Malfoy’s eyes. They’d been growing more pronounced by the day, but Harry hadn’t paused to think about what might be causing them.

‘Did you think he lived here or something? He’s dedicated to his job, but not that dedicated,’ Esther said with a chuckle. ‘He’s been putting in rather a lot of overtime since you turned up, what with your nighttime walks and long conversations that mean he has to stay late to get the rest of his work done.’

Harry didn’t respond for a moment and turned back to his packing to hide from the shrewd glance Esther shot his way. He hadn’t thought much before now about what it meant for Malfoy’s job that he was spending so much time with Harry. He’d been too wrapped up in enjoying the building friendship between them that he hadn’t considered what it was costing Malfoy. But of course Malfoy had other patients whom he needed to spend time treating. And yet, that hadn’t stopped him spending hours with Harry, and that thought set hope blooming in his chest. Maybe Malfoy would be as sad about Harry leaving as he was.

‘I suppose he has been looking more tired recently,’ Harry said slowly, as he realised that Esther was still looking at him. ‘He should have said something,’ he added, as he felt a sudden pang of guilt that his late night chats had led to Malfoy exhausting himself.

‘Now, surely you of all people know him well enough to know he wouldn’t do that. And besides,’ Esther continued, looking intently at Harry, a twinkle in her eye, ‘he might be tired, but he’s happier than I’ve ever seen him.’

‘Really?’ Harry couldn’t help asking, totally powerless to stop the smile that was spreading across his face.

Esther didn’t get a chance to do anything more than smile back at Harry as at that moment the door swung open again, Malfoy striding through it. Now that they’d been pointed out, the dark circles under his eyes stood out dramatically to Harry, although his attention was almost immediately drawn away to the frown that Malfoy was sporting.

‘Right then,’ Malfoy said, more businesslike than he’d sounded in days. ‘Everything looking all right, Esther?’

‘Yes, everything’s in order, Harry’s ready to go home,’ she replied, looking curiously at Malfoy, and Harry was glad to see that he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed that something was off.

‘Excellent,’ Malfoy said flatly, avoiding Harry’s eyes and instead picking up his chart, flicking through it distractedly.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Esther said, patting Harry gently on the arm and leaning in to whisper, ‘And good luck with him, too.’ With one last smile and wink at Harry, she left them to an awkward silence.

‘And how is your hip feeling? Are you experiencing any pain or discomfort?’ Malfoy asked without looking up from Harry’s chart.

‘Uh, it’s fine,’ Harry said, confused. He had no idea what he’d done to make Malfoy go so suddenly cold, after everything that had happened between them in recent days.

‘Good,’ Malfoy said, finally putting Harry’s chart down. ‘In that case, I’m officially discharging you, and you’re welcome to go home whenever you’re ready. I’ll leave you to pack.’

But despite his words, Malfoy didn’t immediately move. Instead, he met Harry’s gaze for the first time since he’d walked into the room. Malfoy’s words and tone might have been indifferent, but his eyes told a different story. They almost burned with intensity as he looked at Harry, and that small flame of hope that Harry had been holding close to his chest burst into a blistering fire. Malfoy’s cheeks gradually turned pink as Harry watched and his breathing appeared to quicken, his chest rising and falling rapidly. The atmosphere thickened between them, and Malfoy’s eyes flicked down to Harry’s lips, lingering there for a long moment. Desire built in Harry’s gut, and he swayed towards Malfoy, taking a step closer.

The movement seemed to shock Malfoy out of his trance, and his eyes shot back up to meet Harry’s gaze, before darting away again. His cheeks flushed a deep red, and he took an automatic step backwards, away from Harry.

‘Well, good luck with the rest of your recovery,’ Malfoy said quickly in a tone that Harry suspected was supposed to be professional and detached but ended up sounding strangled. Then, before Harry could say anything, Malfoy turned to leave the room.

Without thinking, Harry shot out a hand, reaching for Malfoy. His hand landed on Malfoy’s arm and Malfoy instinctively turned back around, glancing down at Harry’s hand on his arm for a moment, before looking up at Harry’s face. Following the instinct that had told him to reach out, Harry stepped forward, closing the gap between them, and leaned up slightly, pressing his lips against Malfoy’s.

Malfoy froze, and for a second Harry thought he’d made a terrible mistake. But then Malfoy gasped, his mouth opening under Harry’s, and all at once they were kissing properly. Malfoy’s lips were hot and soft, and the way they moved against Harry’s was sinfully good. All of Harry’s earlier desire came rushing back, and he pressed himself up against the hard planes of Malfoy’s body, never pausing in the kiss as he reached up and tangled his hand in Malfoy’s hair. A bolt of lust shot through him as Malfoy wrapped an arm around Harry, his palm coming to rest just above the curve of Harry’s arse. He ached with how badly he wanted Malfoy, and yet at the same time he thought he could kiss like this for hours, learning the shape of Malfoy’s mouth and the way he responded to Harry’s movements.

All of Harry’s doubts about whether Malfoy felt the same way faded away as they kissed, clinging to each other like they would fall apart if they let go. Malfoy’s cock was hard against Harry’s, and Harry’s hips automatically began to push forwards, tiny little hitches that increased the simmering desire pulsing around his body. Malfoy responded in kind, pressing against Harry deliciously, his hand slipping down further until it cradled Harry’s arse. At that, Harry’s cock throbbed, almost painful with need, and he groaned into Malfoy’s mouth. Malfoy gasped, with what Harry assumed was pleasure, until Malfoy hurriedly pulled away, stepping back with a horrified look on his face.

‘We can’t do this, Harry,’ he said breathlessly, and it tore at Harry’s heart to hear his name used for the first time as Malfoy rejected him.

‘What?’ Harry’s brain struggled to catch up, still caught on the way Malfoy had felt pressed up against him. After finally getting to experience what he’d been craving, he couldn’t comprehend having it ripped away so suddenly.

‘I can’t do this,’ Malfoy repeated, his eyes wide with shock, one hand coming up to gently touch his swollen lips. ‘You’re my patient, this is wrong.’

‘I’m not your patient anymore!’ Harry said, desperately. ‘We can go on a date, get to know each other outside of here.’

‘I can’t,’ Malfoy said yet again, and he turned on his heel and fled before Harry could say anything more, extinguishing any flicker of hope that Harry had left.

It was strange, being back at home. Harry hadn’t been in the hospital that long, but time had blurred over the course of the long days and nights, and it felt like forever since he’d been at Grimmauld. As directed by the rehab plan that Oliver and the team physio had sent over, Harry spent his days doing gentle exercises, stretching, and strength training to build up his muscles again. He knew the exercises were essential if he wanted to get back to training soon, and yet Harry felt like he was just going through the motions, his heart not in it.

It all just reminded him too much of Malfoy. Every wrist exercise brought flashbacks to Malfoy demonstrating them to him, his long fingers sending sparks across Harry’s skin. Every walk around the block made Harry think of his long walks with Malfoy, losing hours to conversation and laughter. Harry had thought about Malfoy nearly constantly since he’d left the hospital. Heat bloomed in his gut every time he remembered their kiss, almost immediately followed by a sadness so intense that it left him feeling sick when he recalled the way Malfoy had rejected him afterwards. He’d really thought Malfoy wanted him, too, after the kiss, their conversations, and Esther’s comments about all the extra time Malfoy had spent with Harry. But clearly not, as Malfoy had practically run away from Harry, leaving him to finish packing and head home alone while fighting back an urge to cry.

Ron and Hermione had been incredibly supportive since Harry had left the hospital. They’d popped over several times, laden with casseroles and lasagnas that Molly had made for him. Harry hadn’t told them what had happened with Malfoy, but they’d clearly picked up on his mood, and although they didn’t pry beyond asking if he was okay, Harry knew his mood was partly responsible for them deciding to stay for dinner each time they came over. Ron was perhaps even more excited than Harry was about Harry nearly being ready to start training again. Right from the start of Harry’s career he’d been his number one supporter, and it warmed Harry’s heart to know that after so many years that was still the case, even if Ron’s various bets did play a part in his keenness.

His second week at home, Harry attended his first training session, although only as a spectator. Oliver wanted him to start feeling like part of the team again, and watching the others train, seeing what plays they were practicing and where they were having issues, was part of that. Harry’s appearance at the grounds had been greeted by a huge cheer and plenty of hugs from his teammates, and that combined with watching them fly had excitement building inside him at the thought of being up there with them again soon.

By the end of the week Harry was exhausted. He was spending several hours a day watching training sessions and the rest of the day was taken up by exercises and sessions with the team physio. He barely had time to himself during the day to think about anything but training, let alone spend hours missing Malfoy, and yet he couldn’t stop the thoughts that popped into his head every so often when he thought of something that he wanted to tell Malfoy, or when he successfully did a new exercise and wanted to show Malfoy how much he was progressing.

The worst time was at night, though. Each evening Harry fell into bed exhausted and desperate for sleep, but instead ended up lying in bed for hours, staring at his dark ceiling, consumed by thoughts of Malfoy. Their kiss played on repeat over and over in Harry’s mind until he practically burned with desire, every cell in his body vibrating with need. Even when he finally fell asleep it was no better. Malfoy featured in every dream, his body hot under Harry’s as they lost hours exploring one another. In Harry’s dreams, Malfoy was unbelievably responsive, his moans low in Harry’s ear as they moved together, pushing each other to higher and higher peaks of pleasure. Without fail, Harry awoke hard and aching, desperate to have Malfoy’s hands on him.

The first time Harry dreamed of Malfoy, he ignored his throbbing prick, dashing into a cold shower to try and chase away the images. But the second morning, Harry’s willpower gave out, and he slid a hand into his boxers, grasping his straining cock tightly, groaning at the pressure. He sank back into the scenario from his dream, picturing Malfoy on his knees in front of Harry. Harry set up a slow stroke as he imagined Malfoy teasingly licking up his shaft before swallowing him down, taking his time as he slowly took Harry apart with his skillful mouth. With a rush of bliss stronger than any Harry had experienced in a long time, he spilled over his hand and chest, leaving him breathless and shaking, his need for Malfoy somehow even stronger than before.

After several weeks of watching training sessions and diligently exercising, the team physio finally cleared Harry to rejoin the team for actual training. Harry woke up the day of his first training session with a stomach full of fluttering Snitches, excitement warring with nerves as he got ready for training. He couldn’t wait to fly again, but there was an undercurrent of worry that his body wouldn’t hold up and that he’d be set back further in his recovery. As soon as he kicked off, though, all of Harry’s worries melted away. It felt incredible to be up in the air, and his body reacted instinctively, shifting into the right position and moving as though one with his broom. With the words of his physio and Oliver echoing in his ears, Harry forced himself to take it as gently as he could, even as every fibre of his being wanted to let loose. By the time he landed after an hour or so of flying, Harry was glad he’d followed their advice—his muscles were aching, his hip tight, but the happiness flooding through Harry drowned out any pain he was in.

Harry practically floated home, the grin that had spread across his face as soon as he took to the air still firmly in place. Despite the lingering aches, his body felt better than he’d expected, and he was filled with hope that he would soon be match fit. High on adrenaline and excitement, Harry chucked his kit in the corner as soon as he got home and rushed to find a piece of parchment. He’d nearly written to Malfoy on multiple occasions since he left hospital, always changing his mind at the last minute, but today he was too happy and hopeful to listen to the little voice in his mind that pointed out all the reasons not to do this. He wanted Malfoy to know that his efforts in the hospital had paid off, that Harry was flying again. That Harry was still thinking about him.

The words flowed out of Harry as soon as he put quill to parchment, too fast for him to censor his thoughts or talk himself out of baring his heart.

Malfoy,

I had my first proper training session today. I can’t even describe how good it felt to fly properly again. Watching the team train for the past few weeks has been torture—all I’ve wanted is to be up there with them. My hip ached, but not as badly as I thought it might. I’ve done a lot of work with the physio since I left hospital, but it’s all thanks to you that it didn’t hurt more. I didn’t manage to say, before I left, but thank you.

I can’t stop thinking about you. About our kiss. Was it as good for you? Don’t answer that, I don’t want to know if it wasn’t.

I know you said we couldn’t do this. That I was your patient and it would be wrong. But I’m not your patient anymore—I haven’t been for weeks. I’m better. I’m back at work. So could we give this a chance? Just see each other once and see where it goes?

You once said you wanted a better kind of love. Maybe I’m losing my mind—it feels like it sometimes, when I can’t stop thinking about the feel of your lips on mine—but I can’t stop thinking that maybe we could have that, if you wanted.

Harry

As soon as he finished writing, and before he could talk himself out of it, Harry rolled up the parchment and attached it to his owl’s leg. Moments later, Aurora was flying off into the inky twilight, Harry’s last hope attached securely to her leg.

It was three agonising days before Malfoy wrote back. Harry rushed home from practice each day, pulse pounding as he looked around for a letter, only for his heart to sink when there was nothing. The third day, fed up with coming home to no letter, he decided to go straight to Ron and Hermione’s for dinner in the hopes of distracting himself. It worked, to an extent—he spent a few hours mostly thinking about things other than Malfoy as he talked with Ron and Hermione, Rose’s brief trip out of bed leaving them in gales of laughter at her antics. But as soon as he got home, the thoughts of Malfoy and Harry’s unanswered letter flooded back, even as he told himself that there would be no letter waiting for him. Malfoy had made his feelings clear, and now Harry needed to move on.

And yet. Something made Harry go to the kitchen before heading up to bed, and there, in the middle of the long wooden dining table that took up the centre of the room, was a letter. Harry’s heart kicked into overdrive and he nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to get to the letter. With shaking hands he opened it, and sank into a chair to read. A grin spread over his face as he read and reread the words written in Malfoy’s neat handwriting, hope blooming in his chest once again.

Harry

I’m so pleased to hear your injuries are doing well. I’m glad if I could play any part in your recovery.

Of course it was good for me. Pushing you away was harder than I can even explain. But my job is too important to risk. I spent years building my reputation, getting people to trust me and see beyond the terrible things I did, and the idea of throwing that away made me panic.

But you’re right. You’re not my patient anymore. And it does sound crazy, and I don’t think anyone else will understand, but I think you’re right. I do want a love like that, and I think maybe I could find it, with you.

I’ll be in Regent’s Park on Saturday afternoon. I’ve missed our walks—come and meet me there for one. Maybe it’s a terrible idea, but what have we got to lose?

I hope to see you soon,
Draco

Six Months Later

Wind whipped through Harry’s hair as he flew at top speed along the pitch, weaving through the other players as he pursued the Snitch. The wind was cool against his warm cheeks—the summer had turned out to be one of the hottest in years, and he’d been sweating as he floated above the pitch, roasting in the sun as he looked for the Snitch. Three and a half hours into the match, he’d finally spotted it, and now the hunt was on.

The Magpies’ Seeker was hot on his tail, and the teams were only twenty points apart, so Harry had no room for error if Puddlemere were to win the League. The team had worked so hard all season to get to this point, and there was no way he was going to mess it up for them by fumbling this chase. The Snitch was several arm lengths away, speeding upwards, right through the middle of the Chasers who were still trying to score goals. Determined not to let it get away, Harry bent low over his broom, bracing in anticipation of a flare of pain in his hip that never came. It was his fourth match back from his injury, and he was relieved that just when it mattered most, his recovery seemed to be complete.

But Harry couldn’t dwell on that now, nor on the fact that the injury had been caused in a chase very similar to this. He had to beat Farrell and the Magpies, and he had to do it now. He dodged to the right to avoid one of the Magpies’ Chasers, the world turning upside down as he barrel-rolled, and then urged his broom forward as he righted himself. Farrell was still just behind him, and Harry knew he would take advantage of any moment of weakness or hesitation from Harry. Harry’s thighs ached from where he was gripping the broom so tightly, his whole body straining to go faster, but it was paying off, as he inched ever closer to the Snitch.

A sudden gust of wind was the chance Harry needed, the tailwind catching his broom and giving him a last little push to close the gap between him and the Snitch. He was close enough now to see the wings fluttering, and his heart thudded loudly in his chest as he lifted a hand off his broom and reached out. Memories of his fall flashed through his mind, but he couldn’t look around to make sure there were no Bludgers closing in on him. If he took his eyes off the Snitch now it could disappear, and he wasn’t risking that, even if it meant another Bludger collision.

Harry stretched out his arm, leaning as far forwards as he could on his broom without risking toppling over. His stomach leapt as his fingertips briefly touched the cold metal—this was it. Stretching his arm and hand as far as he could, Harry willed his broom forward and let out a roar as his fingers closed tightly around the Snitch. He flew upwards, the Snitch held tightly in his fist as he raised it above his head to loud cheers from the crowd. He could hardly believe it. Only the feeling of the fluttering wings under his palm could convince him that he’d really done it. He’d caught the Snitch, and they’d won the League.

Pulling to a stop, Harry looked down at the crowd in awe. An endless sea of Puddlemere flags waved back at him, his name ringing around the stadium as the crowd chanted. It was almost more than he could take in, and he shook his head in disbelief as he tried to commit the sight to memory. He’d known that they’d stood a good chance of winning the match, and at the start of the season he’d really believed Oliver when he’d said that this could be their year, but after his injury a tiny seed of doubt had been sown. Even though he’d played, and won, several matches since returning to the pitch, a small part of him had wondered if he’d be able to come through when it really mattered. But he had, and now he was part of a League-winning squad.

Harry began to descend, scanning the crowd for the face he most wanted to see, but before he could get close enough to distinguish individual people in the mass of navy blue jerseys, his team swarmed him. Oliver had tears pouring down his face, the words he shouted to Harry totally unintelligible through his sobs, but the fierce hug he pulled Harry into said everything anyway. The rest of the team surrounded them in a huge group hug, their shouts and cheers ringing in Harry’s ears, the ear-to-ear grins on their faces matching the one that Harry could feel on his own.

They floated down to the pitch as a group, still hugging and clapping each other on the back, giddy happiness on every face. Harry felt like he must surely be dreaming as the League President walked towards them with the trophy in his hands. Harry whooped and shouted with the rest of the team and the fans as Oliver, still crying, was handed the trophy, which he kissed and then raised high above his head. It was one of the best moments of Harry’s life, only made better when Oliver turned to him and passed him the trophy. It was heavy, solid metal, and hard to hold while still clinging tightly to the Snitch, but nonetheless Harry kissed it and stared at it for a moment, before passing it on to his teammate so that they could have a turn.

After they’d all taken their turn holding the trophy, and shared one more group hug, the team retreated to the locker room, excitedly talking about how they were going to celebrate, sweeping Harry along with them. The locker room was like an oasis of calm when they barged in, the door closing on the noise of the crowd outside, and they all stopped for a moment, looking around at each other, before Oliver whooped and the spell was broken. The Beaters, Adams and Robson, started talking loudly about the party they were throwing that night, extracting promises to show up from each member of the team. Oliver collapsed onto a bench in tears, the trophy hugged tightly to his chest. Harry thought it might be a few days, if not longer, before anyone managed to prise it away from him. He couldn’t begrudge him that though—Oliver had dedicated more hours and energy to the team than anyone else, and he deserved to savour every second of their victory.

As his teammates disappeared into the showers, nudging Oliver until he followed them with a reluctant look back at the trophy that he’d finally let go of, Harry sank down on the bench. He stretched his leg out in front of him, testing it, but when no pain came even after all the work he’d put it through today, he leant back against the wall, closing his eyes. Elation warred with exhaustion, as it always did after a win, and he was grateful for a moment of relative peace to try and begin to process it. The months of rehab after he’d left St Mungo’s had been worth it, however much he’d grumbled about it at the time. Every hour he’d spent stretching, every boring day he’d had to spend at home, every game he’d had to watch from the stands, had been worth it, as it let him be here for this moment.

Harry could hear his teammates spilling out of the showers, banging lockers and chatting loudly as they pulled on clothes, but he didn’t move, keeping his eyes closed. The team had been brilliant while he recovered. He’d come and watched nearly every practice, and they’d included him in every discussion of tactics so he never felt out of the loop, even when he couldn’t join them in the air. When he’d missed the Snitch in his first match back, they’d been almost unbearably supportive, reassuring him that it took time to get back into the groove after an injury, that he’d be winning matches before he knew it. He couldn’t have had a better team around him, he thought, as he promised to meet them at the party later when they left the locker room en masse.

Harry knew he should get up, get showered, go and join them, but he couldn’t move. The adrenaline of the match was rapidly fading, and awareness of how tired his body was encroaching. Later, he would go and celebrate with the team, drink and dance and revel in their achievement, but for now the peace of the empty locker room was a welcome reprieve.

Besides, however excited he was to celebrate with his teammates, there was someone else he wanted to celebrate with first. Someone who was responsible for him being able to play in the match in the first place. Someone he couldn’t have won without.

‘Shouldn’t you be off drinking, rather than napping?’ came an amused voice from the doorway to the locker room. The sound of the door closing gently was followed by quiet footsteps, and Harry opened his eyes to see Draco walking over to him.

‘Turns out flying for multiple hours is a bit tiring, actually,’ Harry said with a smile.

‘You wouldn’t have known, watching you fly,’ Draco said as he came to a stop in front of Harry. His gaze was admiring, and Harry was reminded of one of their dates, a month or two into their relationship, when they’d finally been able to fly together. It had been one of the best dates of his life, and as they’d laid in bed afterwards, sweaty and sated, Draco had confessed that he’d always been turned on by watching Harry fly.

‘Yeah?’ Harry said, his tone flirtatious as he pushed himself off the bench so that he was standing in front of Draco, nearly touching but not quite. ‘I suppose I better thank the Healer who helped me recover from my injury then.’

‘He sounds like a wonderful Healer,’ Draco replied, a glint in his eye that set heat building in Harry’s gut. ‘How do you plan to thank him?’

‘I have some ideas,’ Harry said with a wink, sliding to his knees.

‘Fuck,’ Draco gasped, his eyes wide and heated as he looked down at Harry.

‘Yeah?’

‘Fuck yes.’ Draco nodded, and Harry reached up to undo Draco’s flies, his fingers fumbling in his rush to get them undone.

As soon as Draco’s trousers were open, Harry slid a hand into the black silk boxers that Draco always wore, his cock hot against Harry’s palm as he pulled it out. Draco’s groan echoed loudly in the quiet locker room as Harry leaned in and licked a stripe up his cock before tonguing around the head in the way that never failed to make Draco fall apart. Over the past few months he’d learned all the ways to make Draco moan and beg and fall to pieces under his hands. It was a heady feeling, watching Draco’s poise slip away at Harry’s touch, and one Harry didn’t think he’d ever get tired of.

Draco’s hand tangled in Harry’s hair as Harry opened his mouth wide, taking Draco’s cock down as far as it would go before pulling off and repeating the action. Harry slipped one of his hands under Draco’s shirt, feeling the hot skin and muscle hidden there as he began to suck Draco’s cock in earnest. His other hand wrapped around the base of Draco’s cock, his mouth meeting it again and again as he did his best to drive Draco mad. Judging by the way Draco’s hand was rhythmically clenching in Harry’s hair, and the way his hips were moving to meet Harry’s mouth with tiny thrusts, it was working. Draco’s moans and pants filled the air, and Harry revelled in it.

‘Shit!’ Draco hissed suddenly, his hand coming to grip the base of his cock tightly, forcing Harry off him. ‘Was going to come,’ he explained at Harry’s curious look.

‘So?’ Harry said, flicking his tongue out to lick Draco’s cock again, grinning at the sharp intake of breath from above him.

‘I don’t want to come yet,’ Draco said, his tone stern but the effect ruined by his glassy eyes and pink cheeks. ‘And besides, it’s you we should be treating today, not me.’

Harry’s cock throbbed almost painfully in his trousers at Draco’s words and the heated expression on his face. Even after nearly five months of dating, he couldn’t get enough of Draco. He wanted him all the time, wanted to be around him all the time. The discovery of Draco’s flirty, dirty side, had only made it harder to resist him, and Draco had quickly learnt that nothing got Harry hotter than when he teased him like that.

‘What did you have in mind?’ Harry asked, one hand absentmindedly pressing down on his aching cock through his Quidditch trousers.

‘Come here and I’ll show you,’ Draco said, holding out a hand.

He led Harry over to the showers, their hands clasped tightly together, his thumb stroking idly over the back of Harry’s hand, even that simple touch going straight to Harry’s cock. At the entrance to the showers they paused, and Draco pulled Harry into a deep kiss, their mouths opening on a groan. Draco’s hand roamed over Harry’s body, the sensation even better than Harry had dreamed it would be all those months ago in the hospital. Slowly, Draco stripped Harry, pausing their kiss only for long enough to pull Harry’s top over his head, his mouth capturing Harry’s again as soon as he could. Harry felt drunk on it, lost in feeling, and he barely noticed Draco removing his own clothes before pulling him into the shower and turning it on.

Hot water fell all around them, cloaking them in a curtain of water, the noise drowning out the increasingly desperate sounds Harry was making as Draco continued to wreck him just with kisses. Harry had kissed his fair share of people over the years, but no one had ever kissed him like this; no one had made him feel so much through such a simple act. Draco’s hand wrapping around his throbbing cock made Harry cry out, already so close to the edge, and he nearly sobbed with relief when Draco sank to the floor and swallowed him down. It didn’t take long for Harry’s legs, already tired from the match, to start shaking as pleasure rushed through him, and Harry reached blindly for the cubicle wall, needing something to ground himself with as he lost himself in the feeling of Draco’s mouth on him.

‘Turn around,’ Draco murmured, pulling off Harry’s cock and dropping kisses on the sharp jut of Harry’s hipbone. Harry could hear the edge of lust in Draco’s voice, despite the sound of the water raining down on them. Powerless to resist, Harry did as Draco said, turning around and planting his hands on the cool wall. He groaned as Draco’s hands cupped his arse, then gasped as they pulled his cheeks apart and a tongue swept from his balls up his crease. The touch was gentle, teasing rather than forceful, but it still sent a powerful pang of need through Harry, and he shamelessly tilted his arse back in a wordless plea for more. He closed his eyes as Draco began to lick over and over Harry’s hole, his nerve endings alight with pleasure. It was all too much, the sensation of the water coursing over his skin and Draco’s wicked tongue combining to drive Harry higher and higher, and all too soon he was teetering on the edge.

‘Touch yourself, Harry,’ Draco urged, his voice tight with need. Harry opened his eyes and twisted slightly to see that Draco was stroking his own cock rapidly, even as he continued to lick Harry. The sight had Harry’s hand flying to his own cock, chasing the orgasm he could feel building. Knowing that Draco was so turned on by this that he was wanking himself only made Harry’s climax approach even faster.

A few strokes later, and Harry was done for. A burst of white hot pleasure rushed through him, lighting up his nerve endings, and he groaned loudly, spilling over his hand. He dropped his forehead to the wall as the aftershocks raced through him, the cool tile a stark contrast to his hot skin. He lifted his head and turned just in time to see Draco come, his release marking the tiled floor of the shower before being immediately washed away by the water. Draco in the throes of pleasure was one of the most incredible things Harry had ever seen, his hair plastered to his head by the shower, his eyes screwed tightly shut, his mouth open on a silent cry, his head tilted back exposing the acres of skin on his neck that Harry so loved to kiss and bite. It was enough to make Harry’s cock attempt to stir again, but instead he reached out a hand, helping Draco off the floor and into his arms.

They said very little as they washed off sweat from their exertions— and the grime of the pitch, too, in Harry’s case—pausing to share lingering kisses and gentle touches. Harry’s exhaustion was flooding back in full force, the adrenaline of the match and the all-consuming desire replaced by sleepy contentment. He couldn’t stop his eyes from sliding shut as Draco rubbed shower gel over his tired muscles. He was reluctant to leave the shower and the warmth of the water that still surrounded them, but at Draco’s urging he did so. They talked quietly as they dried off and dressed, Draco unable to resist asking how Harry’s hip was feeling, even though he hadn’t been his Healer for months now.

‘Ready to go and celebrate properly?’ Draco said once they were all dressed and ready to go.

‘I thought I’d had my celebration,’ Harry replied, to which Draco laughed.

‘You’re a League champion now, Harry. The celebrations are only just beginning.’

Excitement began to build in Harry’s stomach once again as he thought about the party that awaited them. His friends and family, not to mention his team, would be waiting, and Harry was sure it would be an epic celebration. Harry was just glad that Draco was here to celebrate with him—after all, it was only due to his skills that Harry was even here. Draco was as responsible for this victory as Harry and the team were.

Harry stole one last kiss from Draco, a kiss that spoke of promises of later, and then he picked up his kit bag, slinging it over one shoulder. He looked around the locker room, already looking forward to being back in a few weeks when they would start training for the new season. With a smile, Harry took the hand Draco held out to him, picking up the Snitch that had brought him victory with his other. Together, they walked out of the locker room, Draco’s hand tight in Harry’s, the wings of the Snitch in his other hand fluttering softly against his skin.