Work Text:
i.
The assignment had seemed straightforward enough at first—find and bring in a wanted jewel thief currently on the run. The case had indeed made the headlines of a few local papers, but was not yet high-profile enough to warrant an entire team of Aurors on the investigation. In fact, one of their best alone would suffice, Robbards had decided—which is how Harry finds himself stranded in the mountains.
Technically speaking, the village is located by a craggy coastline, where cliffs loom on the periphery and the ocean is just beyond sight. It’s remote and densely populated, settled in an off-grid area where the closest town is a half hour drive away. Upon his arrival, however, Harry immediately senses something off about the place. There is clearly some sort of ward set up around the borders, one meant to keep magic from being used within.
It isn’t actively dangerous as far as he can tell, but the nature of the ward presents a whole new set of problems. After asking around, he learns that the man fitting his description vanished a few days prior, leaving an empty room at the inn where he’d stayed recently. The plan was to return to London for the day and write up a report before continuing the search, but things had not quite gone accordingly.
As soon as Harry turns on the ignition, the car makes an awful sputtering noise. When he begrudgingly steps out to check on the engine, he finds one of the wires under the hood snapped clean in half and blackened, sizzling at the edges. An hour later, Harry is forced to concede to the futility of his fumbling attempts at fixing whatever had gone wrong. The next problem, it turns out, is that the only auto repair shop in the village is already closed, and won’t open for business until noon the following day.
On any other occasion he would be content to book a room for the night and delay his return to London, but Teddy’s birthday party is at ten o’clock sharp the next day. Harry will be bloody well damned before he misses his godson’s birthday. The only option, then, is to call for help. It takes an excruciating twenty minutes to find a café where the signal is just barely there; Harry settles himself at a table by the window after ordering the first thing he sees on the menu.
His battery is running dangerously low. He curses himself for not charging the device more frequently; in his defense, though, it’s not like many of his friends use a Muggle cellphone. In fact, Harry can name on one hand the people in his contact list. Ron is his first call—to no avail. His heart sinks with the beep of the familiar voice message: Is it recording? What do I press, oh, hold on— a scuffling noise in the background. Hey, it’s Ron. Ronald Weasley, ah, you probably know my name already, don’t you? Well, leave me a message. I’ll get back to you soon, cheers.
Hermione won’t answer, either; he knows she keeps her cellphone switched off during work hours, and she’s been staying overtime at the Ministry lately, working on a new legislation proposal. Luna is a long shot to begin with, since she’s been traveling a lot—Harry isn’t sure if she’s even in the country at the moment, but he dials anyway, with dwindling hope. By the time the coffee arrives, he has resigned himself to calling the last person whose number is saved in his phone.
While waiting for the other person to pick up, he takes a sip of the coffee—and promptly spits it out. The taste is an odd mixture of acidic and bitter, clinging to the back of his throat and sending him into a coughing fit. Unfortunately, this is when the call connects.
There is a long silence on the other end.
“I’m assuming this is a butt-dial,” Draco says, when the coughing has subsided. Harry takes a deep breath. “It is not,” he says, as calmly as he can, “a butt-dial.” There is another pause.
“Pansy told me,” he says, as if he can read Harry’s thoughts. “She’s been learning Muggle slang, Merlin knows why.” He sniffs, “Never thought there would come a day I’d be glad to know the difference between a butt-dial and a booty call.”
Harry snorts. He can’t help it—not when Draco sounds so serious, his tone completely at odds with the absurdity of the remark.
“Listen,” he says, well aware of the amusement coloring his own voice. “I’m in a bit of a bind, you see. And the thing is, I may need your help.”
“It’s a long story, but I’m stranded somewhere by the coast. I can’t Apparate, and my car isn’t starting. I can’t get it fixed immediately, either, but I’ve got to get back to London tonight—”
“Teddy.” Draco doesn’t sound surprised in the slightest.
“Yeah,” Harry runs a hand through his hair. “I’d say see you tomorrow, but I kind of need a ride right now. I get it if you’re busy, but…”
“Are you alright?”
“Huh?”
“I mean,” Draco hesitates. “You said you couldn’t Apparate. I know you’re calling me and all, so…” His voice trails off.
Harry blinks a few times, suddenly thrown. “Er, yes. I’m fine, absolutely. I can explain in detail later, but it’s not that big a deal anyway.”
“If you’re coming, that is,” he adds hastily, after a second.
“Text me the location,” Draco says.
After hanging up, Harry realizes belatedly that he hadn’t gotten the chance to thank Draco.
“So,” Draco flicks him a sideways glance. “Any leads on the thief?”
The drive back to London is three hours long, according to the GPS system. Harry had offered to take turns driving, but Draco had declined rather bluntly. “I don’t like other people driving my car,” he’d said loftily, by way of explanation. Harry had fought the urge to roll his eyes, if only because Draco was doing him quite the favor already.
“Of course,” he answers. “The wards he placed were good, I’ll give him that—but not infallible. I’ve got him under a tracking spell now. He’s heading north, should be in Suffolk soon. It’ll only be a matter of time before we catch him. Give me some credit, at least.”
Draco makes a noncommittal noise. “Sure,” he says. “As expected of Auror Potter, I suppose.” He falls silent for a moment. “I’ll bet anything you haven’t picked out an outfit for tomorrow.”
Harry raises his eyebrows. “What’s that got to do with anything—wait, I have.”
“I have, too,” he insists when Draco doesn’t reply this time.
“I’ll wear a button-down. And a new pair of jeans.” He scowls at the disbelieving look on Draco’s face. “What? It’s not like it’s a formal event, is it? Ted is ten, he won't care what anyone wears to the party! And there’s nothing wrong with Muggle jeans—”
“I’m surprised you weren’t planning on wearing sweatpants, that’s all.”
“Take that back,” Harry demands. “I wouldn’t. Besides, what are you wearing, then?”
Draco shakes his head, but there’s the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t bother me while I’m driving,” he says. “I’ll wake you up when we get there.”
“It’s freezing in here,” Harry retorts, just to be contradictory. “Could you please turn the heater on.”
Draco reaches towards the console, only to switch the radio to a jazz station. “Turn it on yourself.”
Just before nodding off despite his best efforts, he remembers. “Thanks,” he mumbles. “For picking me up. Didn’t want to miss Ted’s party… I got him the Comb-a-Chameleon he wanted.”
By the time Draco answers, Harry is half-asleep already, but he hears him anyway.
“He’s a good kid. He’d be gutted if his Uncle Harry didn’t show up. Couldn’t very well have that on my conscience, could I.”
Harry drifts off to the faint pitter-patter of a light rain hitting the windows, enveloped in drowsy warmth and an inexplicable feeling of security.
ii.
The next time he sees Draco is at the annual Ministry work party.
It’s not the socializing Harry minds per se, but rather the scale of the event and the mind-numbing tedium of making small talk with uppity government officials. He’s clutching his champagne flute with more force than necessary, face stretched into an appropriate smile while listening to what he’s almost certain is the beginning of another rant on either tax regulation or office politics.
Hermione catches his eye from across the room and sends him a sympathetic look, clearly too far away to help. He contemplates excusing himself to use the restroom, but the night is young and such a painfully transparent pretext is doubtful to work twice. Harry nods as his conversation partner gesticulates wildly.
On most Friday nights, he’s used to getting drinks at the pub with his friends and a few others from the department, but the annual gala is an entirely different story. Even a decade after the war, there appears to be no shortage of people after the chance to rub shoulders with Harry Potter. Navigating such conversations is not unlike stepping onto a minefield, Harry thinks. He has never quite perfected the art of mingling.
Right at that moment, there is a light tap on his shoulder.
When Harry turns around, he finds himself face to face with none other than Draco—dressed in a crisp shirt and an expensive-looking plum coloured suit. He’s holding a wine glass, which he raises slightly in acknowledgement.
“Potter,” he greets. “Sorry to interrupt, but I think you’re wanted by the refreshments table, Robbards mentioned that he’d like a quick word.”
He just barely manages to hold back a grin— “Yes, of course. Apologies, Madame Hopkirk. We’ll be sure to continue this conversation another time. Please enjoy the party.”
Draco lets out a small huff as soon as they’re out of earshot, shooting Harry a bemused look. “That was painful to watch,” he comments rather dryly.
Harry shakes his head. “If I had to listen to the same bloody speech about how progressive tax rates are really just an elaborate scam one more time, I think I would’ve just about lost it.” He scratches the back of his neck absent-mindedly. “So thanks for that, I guess.”
They linger by the refreshments table for a while, neither of them speaking as conversation ebbs and flows all around them. He feels relaxed for the first time that night, sipping away at champagne with Draco in amiable silence.
iii.
“I just can’t believe it,” Harry moans. “I mean, why did it have to be now, of all times? I can’t celebrate Christmas this year. I’ll just order some food and have a movie marathon. That doesn’t sound half bad, does it? Anyway, it’s not like we all don’t know that Christmas is really just a commercialized excuse to stuff our faces and hang up gaudy decorations—”
He pauses to take a breath and hears a long-suffering sigh on the other end of the line.
“To think that you once called me dramatic,” Draco says slowly, “when I said my day was ruined because I couldn’t get my usual brand of tea at the store that day.”
“I got dumped,” Harry hisses. “How is this the same thing at all—I’m not overreacting! I have every right to be upset, don’t I? We dated for three months. And she dumped me right before the holidays.”
“So come over, then,” Draco says.
There’s a significant pause.
“For dinner, I mean. I’ve been wanting to try out this new recipe; you can help and tell me if it’s any good. I’ll even listen to your whingeing while we’re busy. If nothing, this ought to be more entertaining than moping around in your flat all day, don’t you think?”
“Unbelievable.”
He does not allow himself to dwell on the fact that Draco had been his first call this time. They’re friends by now, Harry can admit as much to himself. It certainly hadn’t happened overnight, this subtle yet undeniable shift between them, but somewhere along the line Harry had realized something was different.
In the past, a nod and a stiff greeting was pretty much the extent of their interactions at the Ministry. Outside of work, the only time they saw each other was on pub nights, and even then, they never seemed to end up at the same table.
Draco was unfailingly polite to all of their coworkers, if not somewhat reserved. He could keep up with all kinds of exchanges with ease, flitting between topics and somehow always finding the right thing to say. Harry had noticed Hermione deep in conversation with Draco on more than one occasion. When prompted, she had simply commented on Draco’s expertise in an obscure area of law she was interested in and suggested to Harry that he try getting to know him better himself.
As with most things, Hermione was right, not that she needed any further confirmation in this case.
“Fine,” he says. “I hope you’ve got enough wine for us to get absolutely plastered.”
Draco’s flat is smaller than he’d expected—he’s been here a few times, with Ron and Hermione, and on one notable occasion, Pansy. They’d been invited for brunch, which appeared to be a semi-regular gathering for the Slytherins: Zabini, Greengrass, Nott, and of course, Pansy.
The food had been excellent; Harry had to admit, after a few times, that the company wasn’t half bad either. He still has no idea how Draco learned to cook, but he does know a thing or two about him. For one, Harry knows that Draco has a cat by the name of Bartleby. For another, he knows that Draco has a gigantic bookshelf in the living room, lined with hardback titles, arranged alphabetically.
When he nudges the door open, he finds himself accosted by Bartleby, who sniffs his trainers before weaving around his ankles with a low purr. In spite of himself, Harry has to smile. “Hey,” he says, raising his voice so he can be heard through the foyer. “Did you miss me?”
Draco glances up from where he’s chopping something in the kitchen.
“Well, wash up and come in,” he says impatiently.
The kitchen island is covered with an assortment of crockery and fresh produce, everything arranged meticulously in distinct piles. Harry plucks up the wine glass sitting by the tomatoes and peers across the workstation.
“Parsley?”
Draco shakes his head; there’s a slight quirk to his lips. “Close,” he says, “but not quite.”
Harry wracks his brain. “Thyme?”
“Basil.”
He snorts. “That was going to be my next guess.”
Draco just hands him a cheese grater and points at a block of Parmesan.
They make a ridiculous amount of food: a glistening garlic butter chicken crusted with herbs, fresh baked pita bread, roasted zucchini and squash, a creamy tomato soup served with croutons, and a glorious honey ricotta cheesecake with toasted almonds.
He can hardly believe the amount of food they manage to put away together, or the fact that he belatedly realizes the evening has passed in what feels like the blink of an eye. They are seated at opposite sides of the round dining table, listening to the background chatter of the radio when Harry decides to ask.
“How did you learn to cook?”
Draco doesn’t answer right away, but he seems to consider the question. “My mother sometimes cooked at the Manor,” he finally says.
“When I was younger,” he hesitates, “mealtimes were often the only time I saw both of my parents. It was the only thing we did together, as a family. I don’t have too many fond memories of the Manor, but the kitchen was always a safe place.” He lowers his gaze, face inscrutable.
“Living alone can be lonely sometimes,” he says.
Harry is startled to find that he desperately wants to do something, anything, to see Draco smile like he had earlier, when he’d been recounting an anecdote about Pansy.
“Thanks for the food,” he says. If he were a little braver, Harry thinks he might have reached across the table to rest his hand on Draco’s—as it is, their fingers graze for a second as he picks up an empty plate.
“I’ll take care of the dishes,” he offers instead. “You did most of the cooking anyway.”
Draco seems to snap out of the reverie, as he sniffs and crumples up his napkin. “So you do have some self-awareness.”
If he sounds almost fond, Harry pretends not to notice his heart traitorously missing a beat.
The fireplace crackles as Draco sets two mugs down on the coffee table.
They’re settled comfortably on the couch, debating over whether a Christmas movie marathon or a video game tournament is in order. Draco had brought up the subject of the breakup only once earlier, he’d bluntly asked if Harry wanted to discuss it—there had been no judgement in the question, no hints of teasing whatsoever.
What Harry couldn’t explain was the fact that despite feeling like shite only hours ago, by the time he’d gotten off the phone with Draco he was already feeling lighter, somehow. It was almost as if he’d been holding his breath without realizing it.
He thinks of how easy it had been to dial a number he now knows by heart, and how Draco had made space for him at the table like Harry could belong if he stayed. He is warmed by the best home cooked meal he’s had in a long time, the toasty heat radiating from the fireplace, and more than the concoction of spiced rum and butterscotch schnapps simmering on the stove.
He has a sneaking suspicion of what it might mean.
“Thanks,” he tells Draco, “for saving the day. Christmas this year hasn't been so bad after all.”
His only answer is a slight nudge—Draco is holding out a game console, gaze fixated on the screen ahead where their characters stand side by side.
“Ready to get decimated, Potter?”
He does get decimated, which leads to a second match, of course, and a third, and Harry is almost certain Draco must be cheating, but he can’t quite keep the scowl on his face. They race each other while jumping over hurdles and swerving around obstacles, shoulders bumping every so often as they jostle for the lead. It’s the most fun he’s had in ages.
By the end of the night, Harry wonders belatedly if he would have enjoyed going on the date he’d originally planned, but the answer comes with surprising clarity.
iv.
All things considered, it could have been a lot worse.
At least that’s what Harry is trying to tell himself when he gets stuck in the lift during a blackout at the Ministry. He hadn’t planned on staying so late, but the staggering amount of paperwork piling up on his desk had to be dealt with before the fast approaching deadline, and by the time he finally emerged from his work, the office had been empty, a Post-it on his door reminding him to lock up before leaving.
He’d been looking forward to getting home and heating up some leftover curry, resolved to spend the night watching mindless TV in bed. His wrist is cramped from scribbling away at papers for hours on end, and his back had protested when he got up from his desk chair. So getting stuck in the lift is really the last thing Harry needs at the moment, and yet here he is.
The electricity had been working fine up until the lift reached the fifth floor, where he is currently stuck. He’s already punched all the buttons several times in frustration, tried Alohomora thrice, even aimed a few Severing Charms at the doors in hopes of blasting them open by force. Harry has to admit, the lift is pretty well-secured.
After calling Robbards to report his predicament and request for operator aid, there is nothing to do but wait. The lift is large enough to hold up to twelve people, but in the dark the space seems much smaller to Harry.
Sitting in the corner with his back to the wall, hugging his knees to his chest, a horribly familiar feeling starts to creep up the base of his spine. He grips his phone hard enough for his knuckles to turn white, illuminated by the eerie blue glow from the screen. Harry stares long and hard at the glaring brightness, mind numbingly blank. He has never understood how silence can be deafening until his ears are filled with the unnaturally loud and erratic sound of his own breathing.
The walls appear to shift closer together, as if conspiring against him. He tries to focus on anything other than breathing, but his vision is starting to swim in front of him, blurring in and out of focus. Panic settles low in the back of his throat, a bottomless pit threatening to pull him under at any time. The thought of calling for help again evaporates when Harry imagines a cold, stark hospital bed and masked strangers looking down at him with pity as they strap him to a gurney.
He doesn’t remember dialing a different number until a voice breaks through the fog, startling him with its closeness.
“Potter.”
He sounds calm, relaxed even, like it isn’t out of the blue for Harry to be calling him on a Monday night. Maybe it isn’t. Harry has an odd, overwhelming sense of déjà vu.
He tries to speak, but nothing comes out when he opens his mouth. The darkness feels even more oppressive when his only source of light isn’t directly in front of him.
Draco clears his throat.
“Hello? I swear to Merlin, Potter, if this is some sort of prank—” He trails off, sounding confused when there’s still no response from Harry’s end. There’s a faint, plaintive meow in the background, then the connection crackles for a second before Draco speaks again.
“You silly thing,” he says, the smile audible in his voice. Draco sighs, “Can you believe it, Potter? Bartleby got tangled up in the Christmas lights again. I hung them up around the doorframe, but he keeps batting at the thing and getting one of his front paws stuck.” He hums. “Not much of an escape artist, are you?”
Harry feels like laughing, which comes out as a garbled sort of choking noise.
“Alright,” Draco says, quieter this time. “Do you need me to keep talking?”
His breath comes out a little quicker. He forces himself to speak.
“Yeah.” Under any other circumstance, Harry would have been embarrassed by the roughness of his voice, but at present he can’t find it in himself to care as much as he probably ought to. Draco’s voice is steady when he picks up the one-sided conversation again.
“I’m assuming you’re not in any immediate danger,” he says. Harry makes a noise of assent before adding, after a pause, “The lift broke down; there’s been a blackout.”
“You have your wand, yeah? Have you used Lumos?”
He is momentarily dumbstruck. Draco seems to take his lapse of silence as answer enough, and he continues. “While you’re waiting for help, you might try lying down, or putting your head on your knees. Close your eyes.”
Harry shuffles his feet until he is curled up on the floor instead of huddled against the wall.
Draco keeps talking, and the sound of his voice gradually fills up the silence. He mentions a book he’s been reading lately, a novel about a woman traveling with a group of survivors in a post-apocalyptic world. Harry listens with rapt attention.
Only when he’s home hours later, exhausted and more than ready to crash, does he vaguely remember Draco saying goodnight before hanging up, words mumbled as if he was already half-asleep. They had stayed on the line until the operators arrived, by unspoken agreement.
Harry drifts off to the thought of calling Draco again tomorrow.
v.
Draco calls him on a Tuesday afternoon, just as he is about to leave the office. As soon as the call connects, Harry knows that something is very, very wrong.
He can hear indistinct shouting in the background; he has to strain to pick up what Draco is saying as there is another loud crash.
“Hello? What’s happening, what’s with all the noise—“ Harry clears his throat. “I thought you were on a stakeout?”
“Fuck,” Draco breathes, and he sounds like he’s trying to be forcibly calm. “Yeah, we were on a stakeout. We need backup of at least five. It’s—“ He’s cut off by the sound of glass shattering, followed by a colorful string of expletives.
“I’m going to be there in a minute, alright? Just hold on—I’ll track your location. Malfoy? You still there?” Harry is already halfway out the door, heading in the direction of Robbards’ office, trying to keep the edge out of his voice.
“No, I—“ The line goes silent abruptly.
Whatever Draco was about to say hangs in the air, and Harry’s blood goes cold. He stops in front of the lift for a split second, where a small crowd is gathered waiting, pivots around, and starts running in the opposite direction towards the emergency staircase.
The situation is bad, that much is apparent from the urgency of Draco’s call. So clearly the stakeout mission had gone south, but what Harry isn’t prepared for is witnessing a motionless body slumped over a large chunk of caved-in ceiling, the ground covered in debris.
When the Apparition is over, the first thing he sees is a bright flash of green light. Someone is hurling rapid-fire curses across the room, each one blasting a crater in the wall and sending a shower of dust rising from the wreckage. Harry recognizes Dolohov’s nasally voice with a jolt; instinctively, he ducks as a Cruciatus Curse flies by, missing him by a hair’s breadth.
Draco, he thinks, his ears still ringing.
Dolohov cackles. “Potter! How delightful of you to join us. How lovely it is—“
“You blather too much,” Draco hisses, firing a Stupefy Spell without missing a beat. Dolohov, grinning, swerves at the last second so that only the cuffs of his sleeves are singed.
“Oh, Draco,” he sing-songs, “We’ll have even more fun together with Potter here, don’t you think?”
Harry spares a quick glance at Draco—one side of his robes are torn, and there’s a nasty gash running down his forearm. He’s bleeding steadily, but other than the way he’s clenching his jaw, he gives no other outward indication of being affected by the injury.
Their eyes meet briefly; something unspoken passes between them in that moment. Draco inclines his head ever so slightly, gaze darting back to Dolohov while moving closer. The curses hurtling in their direction are relentless, but Harry feels a strange sense of calm next to Draco.
And then everything happens too fast for him to process.
All he knows is that one second his wand is raised halfway, and they’re standing shoulder to shoulder; the next thing he sees is Draco’s crumpled form on the floor a few feet away. There is a brief moment where time seems to have frozen to a standstill, in which Harry feels as if he’s been doused in ice water. He’s cold all over, and then he sees red. Dolohov deflects the first curse Harry fires in his direction, but the next one hits him square in the abdomen.
The blood gushing from his wound barely registers before Harry is firing again, and again, advancing towards Dolohov while dodging bright flashes whizzing by. One grazes his cheek, eliciting a stinging sensation and a trickle of warmth that he ignores. His mind is terrifyingly blank.
Dolohov sneers as he aims a Blasting Curse at Harry, “I’ll send you to meet your maker soon, Potter,” he taunts, “and then you’ll see your parents again, and your precious fallen comrades—”
The sentence dies on his lips. With a roar, Harry lunges forward to grab the man by his collar, catching him in the knees with a powerful Stinging Hex and an Impediment Jinx. There is a glimmer of surprise on Dolohov’s face for a second, and then Harry has him pinned against the wall, arms twisted behind him with a satisfying pop.
“I’ll send you to Azkaban,” he says tonelessly, watching as Dolohov’s features contort in pain. “You won’t be seeing the light of day anymore.” He casts a Body-Binding Spell for good measure before releasing Dolohov with a shove. A nasty bruise is already forming over half of his swollen face.
Harry drops to his knees beside Draco, fumbling to unbutton his cloak and push away the blood-soaked fabric.
“Hey,” he says. “Don’t pass out on me. You’ve got to stay awake, okay?” Draco grips his wrist, eyelids fluttering as he coughs. “Williamson,” he says, voice hoarse. He gestures towards the motionless form with a trembling hand, struggling to sit up. Harry pushes him back down firmly. “He was knocked out cold earlier, before you got here. Dolohov got him with an Imperius—” he breaks off to take a shuddering breath.
“I’ve got it,” Harry says, praying that his voice doesn’t betray him when he finally manages to peel away Draco’s tattered shirt. His lower rib cage is a mess; Harry tries a Bandaging Charm to staunch the blood, but the white fabric is stained in an instant. “I’ll get both of you to St. Mungo’s,” he promises, even as a voice in his head whispers that they’re running out of time already, and there’s no way he can Side-Along either of them in this condition. He knows he should check on Williamson as well, and he will, in a minute, but he can’t bring himself to let go of Draco’s hand.
Harry closes his eyes for a second as he scrambles to come up with something, anything at this point; he has no idea where the nearest Muggle hospital is, but chances are they won’t be able to operate on Draco if Healing Charms aren’t having an effect. St. Mungo’s is the only option, then, and Harry can only think of one way to get there.
“Potter,” Draco says, and his eyes are unfocused, “the last Stinging Hex—that was pretty impressive. The smug tosser didn’t even see what was coming.” He gives Harry’s hand a faint squeeze, and something in him breaks.
“Come on,” he says, “stay with me. Keep talking, okay? I like it when you compliment me.”
Draco laughs hoarsely, but it turns into another cough. “Don’t get used to it,” he murmurs. Harry flinches when he feels Draco’s hand go limp in his, and his grip loosens. He tries lightly slapping Draco’s cheeks; he repeats his name until the wounded sound which comes out of his own mouth is unrecognizable.
A dozen thoughts are clamoring inside his head as Harry desperately casts another Healing Charm, knowing it won’t stop the blood but unable to stay still. He leans down to touch a trembling finger to Draco’s lips, and the almost imperceptible exhale he finds there is enough for him to gather himself for a moment.
Harry is well acquainted with the sinking feeling of fear, but what’s relatively new is the extent of helplessness threatening to immobilize him at any given second. The only thing keeping him afloat is the prospect of getting Draco to a Healer in time—Harry knows exactly what he’s going to do when he wakes up. The word if is pushed firmly out of his mind, despite the niggling doubt lurking somewhere.
The waiting room is mostly empty, so Harry paces back and forth until a nurse comes out with a clipboard in hand. He crosses the room in a heartbeat, unable to keep from wringing his hands in the process.
“How is he?”
She glances down at her clipboard, expression inscrutable behind the surgical mask. “We were able to operate on him,” she says. “There were a few minor complications, but he should make a full recovery in a few weeks time. He’s in the intensive care ward for now, but—”
“Can I see him?” Harry interrupts, throat dry.
The nurse hesitates, “He’s not conscious yet. We can’t allow more than two visitors at a time, and even so, the new policy is that only blood relatives and spouses are allowed at this time…” she trails off, unsure. “Have you contacted his family yet, Mr. Potter?”
“Yes,” he answers impatiently. “I sent his mother an Owl, she’s out of the country at the moment. His friends are coming, too, in the morning. But if you’ll just let me see him—”
She sighs. “You’ll have to sign the visitor log book, then. I’ll grab a form for you to fill out in a minute.” The nurse flips a page on her clipboard and looks up at Harry expectantly. “Well...what should I put down for ‘relation to patient,’ Mr. Potter?” She seems vaguely embarrassed.
Harry opens his mouth to say friend, then closes it again, rendered speechless for a second.
They are not partners, even though they work in the same department. They haven’t been each other’s worst enemy in a long time, except deep down he knows that they were never that in the first place, either.
He wonders if friend is supposed to feel like the right word for someone who picks you up in the middle of nowhere at an ungodly hour, or someone whose presence makes it a little easier to breathe in a crowded room. Or maybe a friend is supposed to describe someone who cooks you a hot meal when you are heartbroken and wordlessly offers you a second helping; someone who picks up the phone no matter how late it is and stays on the line without needing to be asked.
Harry takes a deep breath. “He’s important to me,” he finally settles on saying. The nurse is visibly taken aback, but she recovers soon.
When she starts walking out of the room, she turns around to gesture for Harry to come along. “In that case,” she says resolutely, “follow me, Mr. Potter.”
Draco doesn’t wake up for hours on end. While he’s waiting, Pansy strides into the room in a flurry of motion, heels clacking loudly on the floor as she brushes past Harry to hover over Draco’s bed.
“Oh,” she says in a small voice, and immediately goes to tug the sheets a little higher around Draco, trying to fluff his pillow at the same time. The gesture brings a lump to his throat for some reason.
They don’t speak until she’s apparently satisfied with the state of the bedsheets; Pansy fusses over Draco’s hair for a while before dropping down into the rickety chair next to Harry’s. He decides to break the silence first.
“So,” he says, “guess you talked your way in here as well?”
She shoots him a withering look, “Please, all I had to do was wave my business card around in front of the receptionist. My law firm is quite successful these days, you know. I said they’d have a court case on their hands if they continued to insist on being so block-headed, abiding by some rubbish policy or other.”
Harry doesn’t bother hiding his admiration. “Impressive,” he says, “and yes, I’ve heard from Luna. She said the business is going well. Or, rather, she said that the Blibbering Humdingers took up residence in the office, and you’ve been helping a lot of clients with their Wrackspurts.”
He is somewhat surprised to see Pansy flush slightly.
“She’s got the gist of it, anyway,” she mutters, sounding almost fond.
He chances a sideways look at her, pausing before he speaks again, “You’re not going to ask what happened?” He doesn’t quite know how to ask if she’s going to question why he’s there.
“I grilled the nurse sufficiently,” she answers shortly, giving him an unimpressed look.
They lapse into momentary silence.
Harry gives in after a brief internal debate, sheepish when he says, “I’m going to ask him when he wakes up.”
“Ask him if he remembers what happened?” Pansy’s eyes are wide, and if Harry didn’t know any better, he could have sworn there was genuine confusion in the question.
He makes a face. “Not pulling any punches, I see.”
Pansy’s grin is downright gleeful.
“I’m going to ask Draco out, okay?” He throws his hands up in frustration. “Like, on a date. Where we talk about our feelings and stuff.”
Pansy snickers, “Feelings and stuff,” she echoes. “Very eloquent, Potter. Please do go on.”
He buries his face in his hands.
As it turns out, Harry doesn’t get the chance to talk to Draco alone until much later.
He comes to a while after Narcissa has arrived, and she talks to him in a hushed tone, her expression controlled but eyes bright with tears. Although Draco seems tired, he smiles for his mother anyway, answering her questions one by one. He glances at Harry during one point in the conversation, but the moment is over far too quickly for him to read into it much.
Before she leaves, Narcissa stops in front of Harry, the corners of her mouth quivering. “Thank you,” she tells him, “for saving my son.” She waves her hand when he starts to protest, cutting him off firmly. “He’s told me everything,” she says. “I know you didn’t have to be there, Auror Potter. Draco says he called asking you for backup, and you showed up alone.”
He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “Just Harry is fine,” he says, “and uh, you really don’t have to thank me, Mrs. Malfoy. I should have brought more people with me, actually. Maybe then we would have gotten Dolohov sooner—” he swallows hard, the rankling thought voiced at last. “I wasn’t thinking properly when I got the call.”
Narcissa shakes her head. “You’re wrong about that. You did everything in your power to be there, and you brought Draco back. Dolohov is in custody now, isn’t he?” Her expression is fierce.
He nods, feeling at a loss for words. Before he says anything else, Narcissa steps forward and wraps him in a tight embrace. It’s brief, but Harry can feel the way she trembles against him. Her grip is steady, however, and she looks him directly in the eyes when she speaks again.
“Thank you, Harry.”
His name is spoken carefully, if in a somewhat stilted manner.
Right as she is about to turn the corner, Narcissa turns around to consider him for a moment. She says something he’s too far away to hear, but Harry is able to read her lips by some miracle.
Just Narcissa is fine, she’d said. He’s almost certain he’d caught a glimpse of a knowing smile.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask,” Draco says, blinking at him. Harry stops breathing for a moment.
“How did you manage to get both of us to St. Mungo’s in time by yourself?” Williamson is currently in the bed next to his, having undergone treatment as well.
He looks perturbed, brows creased as he pushes on. “There’s no way we Apparated, and you didn’t call anyone.”
“It’s not much of a story,” Harry says.
Draco stares at him impatiently.
“Alright, fine, so I borrowed a motorbike.”
There is a moment of silence. Draco opens his mouth, then closes it again.
“I’m sorry, you did what now?”
It’s his turn to be blindsided, “You know what a motorbike is?”
“It’s a Muggle contraption, isn’t it? Like a combination of a regular bike and a Muggle car. Anyway, that’s not the point. You stole one? No, wait, you know how to operate one of those things?”
“I borrowed it,” Harry says again. “It was parked nearby, and I just haven’t returned it yet.”
Draco looks disbelieving. “How did you get it to start without the keys?”
“I Summoned them,” he admits, silently impressed that Draco even thought to ask about such detail, “and I may or may not have a license. I was going to borrow a car, but I couldn’t find any outside, so…”
“You were going to nick a car.” Draco raises an eyebrow. “You’re full of surprises, Potter. At any rate, I suppose I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Forgive me if I’m just trying to take in the fact that we made it in one piece.”
The amusement in his eyes fades after a moment. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “It’s not the first time you’ve saved my life, but I don’t think I’ve said this before.” Draco looks away, curling his fists in the sheets. “After the trials, I must have written you at least twenty or so letters. Never sent any of them, though. It’s not an excuse, but I was still too much of a coward then.”
He’s not sure what to say to the unexpected admission at first. “I would have liked to read them,” he says finally. Neither of them speak for a while.
“Since we’re on the subject,” Harry takes a deep breath, “you know, it’s not the first time you’ve saved me, either.” He pauses to take in the startled look on Draco’s face.
“If you’re talking about—”
“No, not the Manor,” he says, feeling his pulse thundering in his ears.
“What I mean is, you’ve saved me in a lot of ways that didn’t involve a life-or-death situation. When you drove all the way out to nowhere so I could get to Ted’s birthday party the next day. When you made a Ministry work party that much more tolerable just by being there as well.”
The tips of his ears are burning, but Harry forces himself to keep talking.
“When you invited me over after I called to complain about the breakup. You were there. Not just that time, but—”
Draco looks at a loss. “Potter,” he says slowly, “I get what you’re saying, but—”
“No, wait,” Harry says. “I’m not done. The day I was stuck in the lift, I called you without even thinking about it. You knew I was having a panic attack, and you never hung up. Your voice was the only thing that made me feel like I wasn’t losing my mind.”
He reaches over without hesitation and picks up Draco’s hand, never breaking eye contact.
“Do you get what I’m saying now?” Harry whispers, almost afraid of the answer.
After an interminable pause, Draco squeezes his hand once, lightly.
“Yeah,” he says softly, “I’m pretty sure I caught your drift, Potter.”
“I think you’d better make yourself clear, though,” Draco lifts his shoulder in a half shrug, “just in case.”
Harry kisses him until he forgets, briefly, why they haven’t done this before. When they break apart, he rests his forehead against Draco’s. They take their time catching their breath, and this time he feels Draco smile into the kiss.