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Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy had never imagined he’d find himself standing on the edge of a Quidditch pitch - much less as the official travelling healer for Puddlemere United during the World Cup season.

Yet, here he was.

The smell of freshly cut grass mingled with the faint metallic tang of Quaffles and Bludgers, the roar of an expectant crowd thrumming in the background. Draco adjusted his sharp, tailored robes and resisted the urge to smooth down his immaculate hair for the fifth time in as many minutes.

Sports medicine was his domain, his passion, and frankly, his pride. He had carved a reputation as the best, not only in diagnosis and treatment but in the subtleties of physiotherapy, ensuring injured athletes didn’t just recover, but came back better, faster, stronger. His clinic in London was a sanctuary of healing and exacting professionalism, a place he rarely left except under exceptional circumstances.

Which, apparently, included an offer to become Puddlemere United’s travelling healer.

The pay had been more than tempting- it was obscene. And with the sheer volume of injuries the team seemed to rack up during matches and practice, the need was undeniable. Yet, Draco had been reluctant to leave his clinic, his carefully calibrated routine, and the quiet control of his work behind.

But the contract had won out.

Now, as he took his first tentative steps onto the pitch, Draco resigned himself to what he assumed would be weeks of watching sweaty, burly men chase balls through the air- and then, inevitably, trail back to him, clutching limbs and whining like overgrown children.

At least the pay was good, he thought, making his way into the imposing building.

Draco perched on the edge of an uncomfortably stiff leather chair, hands folded neatly in his lap, feeling the fabric of his white healer’s coat taut against his wrists. He pressed his lips together, unwilling to make any comment at all about Gerald Udderson, who, for all his size and broadness, had a remarkably gentle way of speaking. It was the sort of voice that contradicted his appearance so thoroughly that it left Draco slightly disarmed.

Gerald was a mountain of a man: broad-shouldered, with a jawline that could have been carved from granite and a chest so wide it looked like it could take on a team of bludgers without breaking a sweat. Yet his tone was soft, almost conspiratorial.

“Doctor Malfoy, honestly, having you on board is more than we could’ve hoped for,” Gerald said, smiling warmly. “The lads will be back any minute. After practice. Best you get to know everyone, make yourself familiar.”

Draco nodded, his smile measured, the corners of his mouth tight. He smoothed the front of his coat with a fingertip, trying to quell the faint flutter in his stomach that had nothing to do with nerves.

Because really, how often did you get to watch a team of burly, sweaty men tear about on broomsticks, and not just try to avoid the flying balls but actually treat them when they inevitably broke their bones or tore their muscles? He was going to have to keep a professional distance. Absolutely professional.

The door swung open with a bang, and in thundered eleven men, voices overlapping in a cacophony of greetings, laughter, and casual insults. Draco’s nose wrinkled involuntarily at the hit of sweat and unwashed hair.

He set his jaw, giving a polite smile as players introduced themselves- some with firm handshakes, others with clumsy pats on the back. Most were decent enough, cordial if a bit boisterous. A few clearly hadn’t read the memo on professionalism, offering half-grins and blurting out, “Oi, Doc, that coat of yours looks real official, yeah? Fancy as.”

Draco’s eye twitched. Brilliant.

As the last player stepped out, Draco counted heads- ten. Gerald looked around, his brows knitting together briefly, then brightened suddenly.

“Ah, that’ll be our seeker,” he said, nodding towards the door. “Always late, that one. But a good lad. You two went to school together, didn’t you?”

Draco groaned silently. Of all the ways to make a grand first impression on the job, a Hogwarts reunion wasn’t exactly at the top of his list. He forced his face into something that passed for a pleasant smile.

Before he could muster a reply, the door burst open again, and in came Harry Potter, hair tousled and wild as ever, cheeks flushed from running, eyes bright and sparkling with that infuriating, almost smug sort of enthusiasm.

Merlin’s beard.

Draco’s cheeks betrayed him, colouring an inconvenient shade of rose. Potter had shot up nearly half a foot since graduation, now just taller than Draco. His shoulders were broad, but not bulky- lean and taut like a perfect athlete, just the shape and build a Seeker should be.

His eyes roved over Draco with a look that was impossibly pleased, as if Harry had been waiting for this moment, this reunion, for years.

“Malf- uh, Doctor Malfoy,” Harry said, grinning, the nickname catching slightly in his throat. He extended a large, rough hand, sun-kissed from outdoor practice. “Good to see you again.”

Draco blinked, gathering himself. “Likewise… Potter.” He took the offered hand and gave a firm, deliberate shake, though he fought the urge to linger- Harry’s grip was warm and confident, fingers just a shade tighter than necessary, sending a spark of something unfamiliar up Draco’s arm.

Gerald clapped Harry on the back with a booming laugh, breaking the moment. Draco dropped Harry’s hand quickly, clearing his throat.

“This one will need your services the most, I’d say, Draco,” Gerald said with a wink. “He’s a walking medical malady.”

Harry shrugged, flashing that cocky grin. “Don’t hear you complaining when I get the snitch.”

Draco resisted the sharp impulse to roll his eyes. Clearly, some things never changed.

Gerald laughed heartily. “You’ve got me there, mate." He turned to Draco, his expression cheerful. "We’re heading out for drinks now, would you like to join?”

Draco forced another polite smile and shook his head. “I should be getting back to prepare for tomorrow.” It was the first day of the championship, England V Ireland, hosted in Dublin.

He nodded. "Ah, that's right. Lots to do?"

"Somewhat. I just need to sort some details with the local office."

Harry’s eyes lingered on Draco a moment longer than felt comfortable, a knowing gleam there.

He turned on his heel and strode out of the office, forcing his mind away from the faint quickening of his pulse, the way Harry’s eyes had held him just a second too long, and the unmistakable warmth of that hand in his own.

Professional, he reminded himself firmly. Professional.

But before he could reach the door, Harry cocked his head, eyes gleaming with that infuriating mix of mischief and warmth.

“We’ll miss you there, Doctor,” he said, his voice dropping just low enough to make Draco’s skin prick.

Draco felt the faintest heat rise to his cheeks, a pink blooming that he refused to acknowledge. “Maybe next time,” he muttered, voice a shade too quick, too clipped.

Harry’s grin widened, but he said nothing more, and Draco could only nod awkwardly as he hurried out of the office, the weight of Harry’s gaze still heavy on his back.

His heart thumped loudly enough that he was certain Gerald Udderson could hear it from across the hall.

Shit, Draco thought, I should not have taken this sodding contract.

The clinic room was a modest affair, hastily set up in one corner of the visitor training grounds in Dublin. Draco had spent the morning arranging his equipment with precision: rolls of bandages neatly stacked, potions and ointments lined in tidy rows, and the exam table scrubbed spotless. The faint hum of the bustling city outside the building was a stark contrast to the calm order he sought inside these four walls.

He wasn’t used to Dublin’s slower rhythm after the constant buzz of London. Here, everything felt a little quieter, a little less frantic. Yet, it was good to be away from the chaos of his clinic for a while- though he’d never admit it aloud.

Just as he adjusted the height of his chair, faint thudding and voices drifted down the hallway. The team, no doubt, preparing for their morning run and stretches. Draco’s nose wrinkled at the distant sound of shouting- a mixture of banter and typical locker-room bravado.

Then, an unmistakable voice, a voice Draco could never confuse, called out hurriedly, “I’ll meet you outside, just need to sort something quick first!”

Before he could register what was happening, the door slammed open and slammed shut again. Harry Potter came sliding into the room, hair a tousled mess and chest heaving from whatever mad dash he’d just performed.

Is this boy ever not running somewhere? Draco thought, blinking in surprise.

“Can I help you?” Draco asked, trying to keep his voice steady while wondering just how long this would last.

Harry grinned, dropping himself into the chair opposite Draco’s desk as if they were about to have an important meeting. He immediately started fiddling with items on Draco’s desk- a pen here, a clipboard there. "You already are."

Draco pursed his lips, trying to conceal his irritation. He liked his things just so, thank you very much, especially not messed about by Harry Potter’s very large, very clumsy hands. Merlin. "Meaning?"

Harry shrugged lazily. “Meaning… I really don’t want to run twelve laps today. So I’m hiding out here until Gerald realises I'm not on the pitch.” He leaned back, breathing a little harder now, clearly worn out. “And… I thought I’d come say hi. It’s been a while.”

Draco nodded slowly. Saying they hadn’t gotten along well at school was the understatement of the century. They’d spent six years hexing each other back and forth like it was a sport, before things mellowed in their seventh year into mutual insults and bickering- a truce forged more out of their interlinking friendship groups than kindness.

Harry had slid effortlessly into the new dynamic of saving Draco an extra tart at dinner, walking him to classes, and subtle shared smirks. Draco, however, had been thoroughly confused by it all, avoiding Potter like the plague until graduation, when he’d practically run back to London.

Harry’s eyes then locked onto the bobblehead of Draco’s owl, Morgana, perched precariously on the edge of the desk. He poked it with a curious finger until it toppled over. Draco swiftly slapped Harry’s hand away as he moved to pick it up.

“Enough,” Draco snapped, clearing his throat. Politeness, he reminded himself. He refused to be fired because he couldn’t get along with the seeker.

Harry raised his hands in mock surrender. “Is it some kind of collectable?”

“No.”

“From a movie?”

“No.”

“So, are you going to tell me, or should I run through the whole alphabet to guess?”

Irritation flared up in Draco’s chest. “It’s none of your business, Potter. You should get back to training.”

Harry groaned, staring up at the ceiling, eyes scrunching shut. Draco noticed for the first time the dark circles under his eyes, the subtle slump of exhaustion in his shoulders.

“I’m exhausted. Barely slept all night. The last thing I want to do is run laps, as if that’s going to make me fly faster.”

Draco rolled his eyes but felt a flicker of sympathy. He knew what sleepless nights felt like, long nights twisting and turning, thoughts running wild. With a sigh, he rummaged through his personal box and finally pulled out a small tin of chamomile tea.

“Chalaming tea,” Harry read aloud, squinting at the label.

Draco looked horrified. “Do you need a stronger prescription? It says chamomile.”

Harry laughed, the sound catching in his throat. “No, I’m just tired, honestly.”

“Hence the tea,” Draco said, pointing at the tin. “A cup of this an hour before bed, no sugar, and you’ll be out like a light.”

Harry’s face brightened as if Draco had just handed him liquid gold. He examined the box closely. “This is… Muggle, isn’t it?”

“Indeed.”

“Huh.”

Draco chose to ignore the way Harry was staring at him, clearly impressed by the simplicity of the remedy. “Get back to your training, Potter,” he said, tone firm but not unkind. “I’m not in the habit of hiding professional seekers in my office, and I don’t intend to start now.”

Harry raised an eyebrow but stood up, his movement slow and deliberate.

“No?” His tone was awfully suggestive, and Draco felt the faintest heat creep up his neck.

“Goodbye,” Draco said pointedly, waving him toward the door.

As Harry left, Draco sat back down, heart thumping a little faster than it should. Merlin, what had he gotten himself into?

Chapter Text

Draco sat on the sidelines, emergency patch kit beside him, watching the practice unfold under the sweltering Irish sun. He wasn’t wearing his usual white coat or Healer’s robes, because, frankly, it was so bloody hot he might’ve melted on the spot. How the players were still upright, let alone flying around at top speed, he had no idea. Though he supposed they got a bit of a breeze up there.

He’d been mid-way through drafting a bulking diet plan for one of the Beaters when someone tapped him on the shoulder.

He turned. A woman, early twenties, bright smile, stood there, dressed in a modified Puddlemere polo. She looked like staff.

“Who are you here for?” she asked.

Draco blinked. “All… of them?” What sort of question was that?

She giggled like he’d said something charming. “Well, secretly, aren’t we all?”

He glanced around. A few more women and two men sat nearby, all in various bits of Puddlemere kit. Right. Staff. That made sense. “Right,” he said stiffly, and turned back around.

But the woman wasn’t put off. “Hmm. Keep your secrets,” she said cheerfully. “This is my first official season seeing it all from backstage. I have to say, it’s much less glamorous than I expected.”

She was looking at him expectantly.

“Yes, mine too,” he said finally. “Though I played in school. I remember it being less gruelling than this.”

Her face lit up. “Oh really!” She gave him an assessing look. “Beauxbatons?”

“Hogwarts.”

“Ah. Chaser?”

“Seeker.”

“Blimey, you must’ve been good.”

Draco preened internally. He had been better than good, thank you very much. But he only shrugged, affecting nonchalance. “Most of us were. Obviously that one.” He nodded towards Harry, who was currently zipping across the pitch like a comet.

Her eyes sparkled. “Oh, of course! You do look around the same age.” She paused, then her expression shifted to something sly. “I see. So he’s the one… You know. You’re here for?”

A few heads subtly turned toward them.

Draco frowned. “I- what?” These Puddlemere staff were very strange. And awfully nosy. Still, he decided it was easiest to just go with it. “Sure,” he said lightly.

They gasped.

“I mean,” he added quickly, “the captain said he’d need it most, so...”

“Oh my!” said one of the older women nearby, fanning herself with some papers. “So it was arranged, then?”

The man beside her snorted. “Mare, who says ‘arranged,’ you old bat?” She smacked his arm, but he ignored it, turning to face Draco. “So it was set up, then?”

“Yes? Gerald reached out a few weeks ago and made a very persuasive offer.”

That got some whistles and laughter. The woman from earlier leaned in conspiratorially. “I’m pretty attached to mine, but I can’t blame you. Tempting, isn’t he?”

Draco had absolutely no idea what she meant. He decided it was safer not to ask. “Draco Malfoy, by the way,” he said instead, offering a hand.

She laughed. “I know, silly! I’m Jackie.”

They turned back to the pitch as practice wound down. The players drifted toward the stands, grabbing bottles and towels, some exchanging hugs with the people seated around him. Gerald lifted Jackie right off the ground. Draco stared. Was that normal custom in Ireland?

Harry made his way over, water bottle in one hand, snack bar in the other. He peered over Draco’s shoulder at his notes.

“Hey.”

“Hello,” Draco replied stiffly, resisting the urge to stare at... anything. Harry was flushed, damp with sweat, hair a windblown mess. His chest rose and fell in slow, even breaths, brushing Draco’s back. He smelled… good. For someone who desperately needed a shower. His practice shorts were indecent- thin as cling film and tight around the thighs. Draco wrenched his gaze away.

Only to find Harry watching him, amused.

He cleared his throat. “Did you need something?”

Harry shook his head. “Just checking in. Saw you chatting to the others.”

“They’re… nice,” Draco said. Jackie caught his eye and winked. Then made a gesture so obscene he choked on air. Was she trying to get fired?

Harry laughed. “Yeah, I know they’re a lot. But they’re great for morale. Honestly, it’s nice to have people cheering us on- even at practice.”

“I suppose,” Draco allowed. “They seem very good at their jobs.” If their job was to confuse Draco and accost the players, sure.

Harry tilted his head, puzzled, but before he could speak, the older woman- Mare- approached with a broad smile. “Harry! I haven’t seen you in months!” She gave him a quick hug. “Feels like I’ve missed so much.”

She looked pointedly between Harry and Draco.

“Er, yeah, sorry, Mary. I was off with my shoulder injury, and then I went back to Surrey to visit my mates.”

“Oh yes, Ron and Hermione, wasn’t it? Give them my best.”

“’Course.”

“Well,” she said brightly, clapping her hands, “I’ll leave you lovebirds to it.”

Draco choked. “Love- what?”

Harry turned to him, cheeks a little pink, but an unmistakable smirk pulling at his lips. He raised an eyebrow. “Something I should know about?”

“What? No!” Draco flailed. “I’ve no idea where she got that from! So bloody unprofessional!”

Harry’s grin widened. “Unprofessional?” He blinked, then laughed. “Oh. Oh, Merlin.” He started giggling. “Who did you think you were sitting with, Malfoy?”

Draco blinked. “Puddlemere staff.”

Harry doubled over, wheezing. “Ah- shit, that hurts,” he said between laughs, one hand on his stomach, the other flailing. Draco caught him instinctively, grabbing a bicep that felt like it’d been carved from marble.

Harry leaned into him, still laughing, and draped an arm over Draco’s shoulder for balance. Then Harry he in closer, his mouth nearly brushing the shell of Draco’s ear, and spoke in a low, conspiratorial murmur, the kind that sent sparks down Draco’s spine. “They’re the SOs, Malfoy.”

“The… what?”

“Significant others.”

"No." Draco went still. “…They’re in uniform.”

“Merch,” Harry murmured, grinning.

“Merchandise,” Draco echoed faintly. He finally turned to look at Harry, and immediately regretted it. From this close, he could see the green of his eyes, the scatter of freckles from being in the sun, the smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Oh, for the love of-” He dropped his head into his hands, groaning. “The woman, Jackie, kept asking who I was here for.”

Harry’s eyes sparkled. “And what did you say?”

Draco sighed, long and withering. “All of them.”

That set Harry off again, leaning on Draco like a drunk, laughing so hard he nearly took them both down.

“It’s not funny,” Draco snapped, swatting him off. “How was I supposed to know?”

Harry grinned at him, utterly unrepentant. "Well, the lack of them doing anything staff-like? The intense interest in who you were ‘here for’? The fact that half of them are wearing shirts with their partners' bloody names on the back?"

Draco scowled. “Excuse me for assuming professionalism. She had a clipboard.”

“That was the sign-up sheet for drinks, Malfoy.”

“Oh, marvellous,” Draco muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And I mentioned that I played in school with, you know, you." Draco waved a hand, as if that would explain it. "And...I guess they extrapolated that to mean I was here with you."

Harry nodded slowly, a grin stretching across his face. He looked irritatingly pleased for someone who’d just been accidentally roped into a fake relationship with his ex–school rival.

“I don't know what you're smiling about,” Draco muttered, horrified. “But I’m fixing this. Immediately.”

But before he could get more than two steps, Harry’s hand curled around his forearm, fingers warm and firm against the cotton of his shirt.  “Let it go for now,” Harry said quietly.

Draco gaped at him. “Let it-? Let it?” He looked down pointedly at where Harry’s hand was still wrapped around his sleeve like it belonged there. “Potter, they think we’re together.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “They’ll find out soon enough anyway, won’t they? Jackie definitely will. Gerald’s been going on about you non-stop to anyone who’ll listen. It’s only a matter of time before his girlfriend puts two and two together.”

Draco opened his mouth, a protest lined up and ready, but he faltered. Harry was standing awfully close to him, looking far too relaxed, and his hand was still warm where it rested against Draco’s skin, grounding and solid and maddeningly calm.

Draco exhaled through his nose. “Fine. Just- just this once.”

Harry’s grin widened, for reasons he didn't have the mental capacity to dissect.

Chapter Text

It was well past four when Draco found himself padding softly across the damp grass of the pitch. The sky above was still the navy grey of pre-dawn, and the air held a chill that clung to his skin despite his coat. The stadium was empty, eerily so, the stands vast and silent without the roar of the crowd. He rather liked it this way, quiet, suspended.

He’d been up for over an hour already. Sleep had refused to come, jittering excitement keeping him stubbornly awake. He’d triple-checked the medkits, re-sorted the braces and salves, and reviewed the safety protocols for the fifth time. Everything was ready. The players were sorted. His part was, at least for the next few hours, done.

Draco meandered across the pitch, eyes sweeping the dark outlines of the stands, the hoops standing like skeletal sentries at either end. He was halfway along the sidelines when he noticed a lone figure hunched on one of the benches.

Draco narrowed his eyes. Surely not.

He approached slowly, the dew-damp grass muffling his footsteps. “Potter?”

Harry startled like he’d been caught sneaking biscuits. He looked up, bleary-eyed but unmistakably awake, his hair a wild mess even by his usual tragic standards.

“Oh. Malfoy.” He sat up straighter, the tension in his shoulders easing a little. He looked vaguely surprised to see Draco but not displeased. He shifted along the bench and patted the spot beside him with a gloved hand. 

Draco hesitated, then sighed and sat down with a dramatic flare of his coat, as if to make it known he wasn’t encouraging this. “It’s not even five,” he said, eyeing Harry disapprovingly.

Harry huffed out a laugh and pointed to the battered watch strapped to his wrist. “I can tell the time, believe it or not.”

“Potter,” Draco said sharply. “Is the tea not working?”

“It is. Mostly.” Harry gave a shrug, slouching into himself. “But this is just habit. I get restless before a match. Can’t stay in bed.”

Draco’s gaze flicked to the broom propped beside the bench. His brow rose, unimpressed. “You’re going to fly now? This early?”

“Was thinking about it,” Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“What if you get hurt?” Draco asked, tone clipped.

Harry tilted his head, mouth curling. “Worried about me?” he teased, bumping his shoulder lightly against Draco’s.

Draco sniffed. “Don’t distract me with your stupidity. It’s early, and the match starts in three hours.”

Harry grinned at him, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “You could join me, you know.”

Draco blinked. “Join you?”

Harry gestured vaguely at the pitch, his breath misting in the cold air. “Up there. Flying. Just for a bit.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on,” Harry said, nudging him again. “You’re already up. You clearly can’t sleep either. And if you’re so concerned about me falling to my death, wouldn’t it be more responsible to be there to supervise?”

Draco turned his head to glare at him, fully intending to say something scathing and final. But Harry was watching him with that ridiculous glint in his eye, the one that was half dare, half invitation, and Draco found himself hesitating.

He was up.

And he had missed it- flying. Not the competitions or the scrums of school matches. Just the freedom of it. The quiet before dawn. The sharp, bracing wind in his lungs.

He scowled, more at himself than anything. “Fine,” he muttered, pushing to his feet.

Harry blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

But Draco had already begun shrugging off his coat, ignoring the way Harry’s gaze dragged over his back, curious and a little surprised. He left the coat neatly folded on the bench and reached for the nearest spare broom, fingers brushing over the worn handle like he was reacquainting himself with an old language.

“I swear,” he said, casting Harry a dry look, “if you make me regret this-”

“You won’t,” Harry said, standing too, practically beaming now.

“Don’t grin like that. It’s unseemly.”

But Harry was already mounting his broom, a flush high on his cheeks and something warm in his expression Draco couldn’t quite name. “Last one to the hoops is a flobberworm!” he called, pushing off with a sudden gust.

Draco narrowed his eyes, lips twitching despite himself. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. And then he kicked off.

The air was still cold, crisp enough to sting Draco’s fingers despite his gloves, but he barely noticed now. They were flying in loops through the hoops, weaving around the goalposts, the wind sharp in their hair, the sky above them bleeding slowly into gold.

Draco kept pace easily, his movements instinctual, body remembering what his mind hadn’t let him miss. Every second in the air, he felt lighter. Looser. The anxiety that had gripped him since before sunrise was dissolving into the breeze. His hair whipped around his face, and his cheeks stung with cold, but he was grinning- truly grinning.

God, he’d missed this.

He could keep up with Potter- of course he could- but it was obvious Harry wasn’t pushing himself. Draco recognised the way he held his body, the slight restraint in his turns, the way he pulled up just a breath earlier than he should have. It was a little insulting. He wasn’t that out of shape.

But he let it go. If it meant Harry wasn’t zipping around like a manic Snitch and exhausting himself before the match, Draco could tolerate being coddled a bit.

After about twenty minutes, they slowed to a hover side by side, floating high above the pitch as the sky shifted around them. Below, the world still slept, but above, it felt like they were the only two people alive. The sunrise washed everything in pink and orange and molten gold. The stands looked smaller from up here. Everything did.

Draco sat upright on his broom, legs relaxed, eyes on the horizon, drinking it all in. He’d forgotten what peace felt like.

Unfortunately, peace wasn’t on the menu for long. Not with Potter around.

While Draco was perfectly content soaking in the morning light, Harry was darting lazy circles around him, dipping and rising and whizzing by with the energy of an overexcited Crup. His joy was almost infectious in its intensity.

“Potter,” Draco called, not looking. “You’re like a hummingbird on fire.”

Harry only laughed, whooping as he rolled upside down and back again. He made a low pass by Draco’s broom, close enough to ruffle his robes.

Draco sighed. “Honestly, must you-”

But then Harry swooped, pulling up above him and flipping his broom completely, so he was hanging upside down by his knees, suspended directly in front of Draco, a few feet away. Draco startled hard, yelping despite himself, arms flying out as if he could catch him.

“Merlin’s arse, are you trying to fall to your death?” Draco snapped.

Harry laughed again, completely at ease, his grin wide and wild. “Relax, Malfoy,” he said, his voice upside-down and smug. “I've done this loads. In fact-”

“Do not finish that sentence. You're going to give me a coronary.”

But Harry didn’t move. He simply hung there, legs locked tight around the broom handle, his face much too close. His hair, no longer flattened by gravity, tumbled freely around his face in an inky cloud, catching the wind like smoke. The rising sun lit his features in a halo of amber and gold. His eyes were bright, reflecting the sky. His smile was the kind that made Draco's stomach do unpleasant things.

Draco tried to scowl. It failed.

He grinned back despite himself.

It felt different, somehow. Up here. Easier.

And then he noticed it- Harry’s glasses, slowly slipping off his face from the reversed angle, the arms no longer gripping his ears. Any moment now, they’d drop right off his nose and plummet. “Hold still,” Draco said, more serious now.

“What?” Harry blinked at him, confused.

Draco leaned forward without explaining, raised one gloved hand, and pushed the glasses gently back up Harry’s nose. His fingers brushed warm skin, and Harry’s cheekbones flushed, either from the cold or from proximity. Draco’s thumb grazed his temple, and Harry went slightly cross-eyed trying to track the movement.

Draco’s fingers lingered, just long enough to murmur a soft "Adhereo." A quick sticking charm. Nothing special. But his voice had gone a little low. 

Harry blinked, startled. “Was- was that wandless?”

“Yes.” Draco sat back like nothing had happened. “It’s very basic, though.”

Harry righted himself slowly, flipping back up with a little grunt of effort, then hovered beside Draco again, eyes wide.

“Basic- Malfoy, that’s amazing. How long have you been able to do that?”

Draco cleared his throat, looking out at the horizon rather than directly at him. “A while. It’s sort of a pre-requisite to being a good Healer.”

“Oh. Right. Of course.” Harry nodded, still breathless, still flushed. He looked down at his own hands as if they might do something clever too. “Wicked.”

“Indeed.”

The match had started slow.

Neither Seeker had so much as glimpsed the Snitch in the first twenty minutes, but the Chasers were tearing around the pitch like they had a personal vendetta against gravity. Puddlemere scored early, an absurd corkscrew formation that seemed to momentarily daze the Irish Keeper, and the stands broke into a mixture of cheers and disappointed grunts.

Draco sat in the staff section, a steaming thermos of peppermint tea in hand and his medical bag beside him, trying not to look like he was actually enjoying himself.

He was, though. A bit.

The adrenaline of pre-match prep had worn off, leaving a lingering buzz under his skin. It felt good, watching the game from the sidelines instead of a gallery, close enough to feel the air shift when the players zoomed past.

Harry was flying like a professional now. Focused, streamlined, no nonsense. It was… oddly mature. He wasn’t darting about recklessly or grandstanding, he was pacing himself. Reading the game. Waiting.

It was impressive. And maybe a little attractive, but Draco would sooner swallow a Quaffle whole than admit that.

He looked over as someone slipped into the seat beside him. Jackie, cheeks flushed from the cold, hair windswept, and looking genuinely mortified.

“I cannot apologise enough,” she said at once, tugging her coat more tightly around her. “I had no idea you were the Healer. I thought you were- Merlin, I don’t even know- a boyfriend- someone’s someone. I didn’t mean to make things awkward yesterday.”

Draco blinked. “It’s fine,” he said smoothly. “Honestly. I didn’t realise I wasn’t sitting with staff.” he admitted with a small smile.

“Well. Now we both know.” She grimaced. “I’ve told the others too, so no more confusion. But, well, watch out for Mare. She’s still convinced there’s something going on between you and Harry.”

Draco made a short, strangled noise. “Not in a million years.”

Jackie gave him an odd sort of look, half amused, half something else, but let it go. She refocused on the game, tucking her gloved hands under her thighs. From this angle, Draco could see the lettering on the back of her Puddlemere coat: Udderson.

They watched the rest of the match in mostly companionable silence. Gasps, groans, and the occasional muttered swear punctuated the quiet between them. The Irish Beaters were ruthless, but Puddlemere’s Keeper was holding his own, deflecting shot after shot with grim determination.

Then came the hit.

It was a brutal moment- so fast Draco barely saw it happen.

The Bludger slammed into Gerald's shoulder just as he twisted to intercept a pass. There was a sickening pop that carried across the pitch, and Gerald cried out, teeth bared in pain. He managed to toss the Quaffle before listing sharply to one side, flying unsteadily towards the edge of the pitch.

“Shit,” Jackie said, already on her feet.

Draco was moving before she finished the thought, his wand already drawn, med bag swinging from his shoulder. The reserve Chaser was up in the air without missing a beat, but all Draco could see was the set of Gerald’s mouth, white-knuckled, gritted, and trying too hard to look fine.

“Don’t say it,” Draco said, intercepting him as he landed heavily on the grass.

“I’m fine,” Gerald said hoarsely, his right arm hanging useless at his side.

“You’re not,” Jackie snapped, rushing up behind them. “Don’t even try it.”

Draco conjured a stabilising charm and gestured for Gerald to sit. A diagnostic spell confirmed what he already suspected: dislocation, no fracture. “I’m going to reset it manually,” he said calmly, kneeling beside him. “Wand magic this close to the joint can backfire, and bones don’t like sudden interference.”

Jackie hovered beside them, arms folded but visibly shaken. Draco cast her a brief look and softened his voice.

“It’ll take a moment. Deep breaths.”

She nodded mutely. With careful pressure, Draco rotated Gerald’s arm and eased the joint back into place. There was another pop- quieter, but no less grim- and Gerald let out a hiss, eyes fluttering shut.

“Better?” Draco asked.

Gerald grunted. “Loads.”

Draco conjured a sling, charmed it for magical support, and wrapped it swiftly and securely. “You’re benched,” he said firmly, before Gerald could so much as blink toward his broom.

“Doc-”

“No.”

Jackie sniffled, furious. “Try getting back on that pitch and I’ll break your other shoulder myself,” she warned, voice tight. “I mean it, Gerald.”

He laughed weakly. “You’re terrifying, love.”

She elbowed him lightly. “And you’re thick as troll droppings.”

Draco fought a smile. She really was growing on him. Fierce, foul-mouthed, loyal to a fault.

He stood, brushing grass from his trousers, and watched as Jackie sat beside Gerald and held his uninjured hand. Above them, the game surged on- bludgers flying, goals scored, cheers rising.

And somewhere up there, Harry was still circling patiently, eyes out for the Snitch. Draco dusted his hands, turned back toward the pitch, and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long, of course.

Harry, stupid, grinning, maddeningly effortless Harry, was still arguably the best Seeker in the country. Maybe the world. The match had barely tipped past the one-hour mark when a flash of gold darted above the north goalpost. Harry dove with sharp precision, slicing through the air like he was born to do it, and closed his fist around the Snitch with the kind of practiced finality that made the whole thing look almost easy.

The stadium erupted.

Cheers, whoops, shrieks of disbelief. Puddlemere colours burst across the sky in glittering blue and gold, streaming from enchanted banners, erupting from hats and scarves, filling the air with jubilation.

Draco let out a surprised laugh, clapping along with the others. It was impossible not to. Harry hovered midair, arm held high, the Snitch gleaming between his fingers. He was flushed with exertion, hair plastered to his forehead, breathing hard, but his eyes were bright, and his grin was shameless.

Smug bastard.

Draco shook his head, still smiling.

Harry nodded to a few of his teammates before angling his broom downwards, dipping low and fast towards the sidelines. He didn’t stop to talk to anyone else- just veered past reporters and support staff, straight to the makeshift pitch-side infirmary.

“Is he-?”

“Absolutely fine,” Draco interrupted, already anticipating the question. He gestured to where Gerald was now seated, his arm in a sling, Jackie still hovering protectively at his side. “Minor dislocation. He’s to stay off a broom for the next two days. Then he’ll be fine, provided he listens to me.”

Harry exhaled, visibly relieved. “Good. Thank you.” He placed a hand on Draco’s arm, a light, fleeting squeeze of gratitude. “We’ll make sure he does.”

Draco hummed, distracted by the warmth of that hand through the fabric of his sleeve. He peeled off his gloves slowly, suddenly conscious of his heartbeat in his ears. “You played well, by the way,” he said at last, tone casual. “Congratulations.”

Harry’s face lit up instantly. “Yeah?”

Draco arched a brow. “You knew that already.” He motioned vaguely toward the thunderous celebration still echoing around them- the chanting of names, the glittering of spells in the sky, the tidal wave of support for Puddlemere.

“You don’t need to hear it from me.”

“I like to,” Harry said, voice quiet. Earnest. His hand dropped at last, and Draco’s arm felt inexplicably cold in its absence. “From you, especially.”

Their eyes met.

Draco opened his mouth to reply, though he hadn’t the faintest idea what he meant to say, but the moment broke as Harry was swept up by his teammates, Gerald now on his feet, cheering through the ache. The team converged around him, dragging him off for press, celebration, whatever it was they did next.

And Draco just stood there, watching the space where Harry had been a second ago.

He swallowed thickly.

What was that?

Chapter Text

English Channel

The train rattled gently beneath Draco’s feet as he leaned back in his seat, the familiar lurch and hum of motion weaving a lull into the dimly lit compartment. Outside the window, the Irish countryside passed in dark green and ink-blue blurs, punctuated only by the flickering lights of the occasional farmhouse or sleeping village. The match had ended hours ago, but the low hum of excitement from Ireland’s win still lingered. His fingers tapped absentmindedly against his thigh as he finished organising the vials in his medikit, already mentally cataloguing the injuries and ailments to expect in France tomorrow.

He had just settled into the relative silence- book open on his lap, coat draped neatly beside him- when a sharp knock sounded against the cabin door.

Before he could speak, it flew open with a breathless, “Draco! Thank Merlin, you’re here!”

Ciaran O’Daly stood in the doorway, flushed and panting. One of Puddlemere’s more chaotic Chasers.

Draco blinked. “What happened? Did someone get hurt?”

“Not exactly,” Ciaran gasped. “But… Merlin, you have to see it for yourself.”

Which, of course, never boded well.

Still, Draco was on his feet immediately, medkit slung over his shoulder with a practised motion. He followed the Chaser through the narrow corridor, ducking as they passed a hanging light fixture and sliding open the door to the next carriage-

And promptly recoiled.

The stench hit him first. Acidic, sour, and unmistakably human. Vomit was everywhere- across the floor, splattered on the seats, trailing down a nearby window. It was, in a word, apocalyptic.

Connor, one of the newer reserve players, sat hunched over on the bench, pale as parchment and absolutely drenched in humiliation. Beside him crouched Harry Potter, of all people, gently rubbing circles on the poor boy’s back and murmuring something low and soothing. Draco barely registered the words, too distracted by the sheer scale of destruction and the heroic effort it took not to gag.

He swallowed, coughed lightly through his nose, and got to work.

Within five minutes, Draco had Connor sipping an anti-nausea draught and looking moderately less like a ghost. Cleaning charms swept through the carriage with clinical efficiency. Draco’s sleeves were rolled up, his wand flicking with practiced grace. The moment the carriage looked human again, he stepped back with a sigh, finally allowing his shoulders to relax.

Connor gave him a weak but grateful smile. “Thank you, really. I’m… so sorry about all that.”

Draco waved it off with an elegant flick of his wrist. “It’s what I’m here for.”

Harry nodded. "Try not to get quite so plastered before a travel day, mate. It's the first thing I learned."

Gerald snorted quietly from beside Connor, and Draco turned his gaze on him, eyebrow raised. "He's still learning that."

“So?” Harry huffed. “It’s still good advice.”

Draco shook his head and made his way toward the door. Harry followed.

As they stepped into the corridor, Draco glanced sideways, questioning. “Your cabin was back there.”

“I know,” Harry said, far too casually. “And I’m not going back in there if I can help it. I’ve seen things. Things I can’t unsee.”

Draco chuckled in spite of himself. “Traumatised, are you?”

“You weren’t the one inches away from the splash zone, Malfoy.”

“Fair.” He pushed open the door to his own cabin and held it open. Harry stepped inside without hesitation and dropped into the seat opposite with an audible groan.

“You look like you were just tackled by a troll,” Draco observed, setting his medkit aside.

“I feel like it,” Harry mumbled, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. “Up since four, barely any sleep, one match, drinks, one human explosion… I’m not convinced I still have bones.”

He tried resting his head against the window, shifting to find a good angle, but the glass trembled with the movement of the train, sending soft vibrations up through his skull. “Ugh,” Harry muttered, scrunching his eyes closed. “How is this more uncomfortable than a broomstick?”

Draco glanced up from the book on his lap, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. “You could lie down,” he suggested dryly. “The bench is long enough, even though you’re no longer five foot six.”

Harry’s eyes popped open. “I was never five six,” he said, scandalised, then paused. He looked contemplative. “Well, maybe when I was fourteen.”

Draco snickered. “I’m not convinced. I remember you being rather pocket-sized.”

“You’re one to talk,” Harry muttered, stretching his legs out. “And besides, I’d rather not wreck my shoulder by sleeping completely flat. I knew I forgot something. I always bring a pillow.”

Draco hummed, smug. “You’ll have to wait till we arrive, then. Tragic.”

Harry groaned dramatically and shifted again, trying to fold his jacket into a lumpy cushion. After a minute of squirming and adjusting, he froze mid-movement. His eyes brightened, mischief blooming across his face like the sun breaking through a storm cloud.

Draco didn’t like that look. “What,” He said warily.

“I have a stellar idea,” Harry said, entirely too proud of himself. “Can I rest my head on your lap?”

Draco stared. “Excuse me?”

Harry blinked, perfectly serious. “Can I lie down? Just, head in your-.”

Draco made a choked, undignified sound. “Okay- Merlin.” He fanned himself with a lazy flick of his hand, as though suddenly hot. “I heard you.”

Harry’s grin widened. “So that’s a yes?”

"Absolutely not." Draco narrowed his eyes, torn between horror and embarrassment. “This is highly inappropriate.”

“Come on, Malfoy,” Harry said, shifting so he was sitting upright again, his tone wheedling, boyish. “I won us the match today. Don’t I get a prize?”

Draco’s eyes widened, his face going pink. “This is a prize for you?” he demanded. “Lying down in my-” He cut himself off with a sharp exhale, looking like he might combust from the inside out. Well, Harry did look exhausted. “Fine,” he hissed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just this once.”

Harry’s face lit up like he’d been gifted the entire World Cup.

“Don’t make that face,” Draco snapped, already regretting every life decision that had brought him to this moment.

But it was too late. Harry kicked off his shoes, crossed the small space between them, and with the easy grace of someone completely without shame, stretched out along the bench beside Draco. His legs bent slightly to fit, and then he dropped his head across Draco’s thighs.

Draco tensed immediately. Every muscle in his body screamed, Abort mission. But Harry just gave a pleased little hum, nuzzling into the soft fabric of Draco’s trousers like a bloody overgrown crup.

He looked… content. Blissfully so. His eyes fluttered closed, lashes dark against the slight circles under his eyes. His glasses sat askew, and his hair was a mess, still damp from the post-match showers, drying into wild curls.

And Draco was trying so hard not to feel endeared. Or flustered. Or catastrophically aware of the way Harry’s head was pillowed directly over his thighs.

“This is nice,” Harry mumbled sleepily, shifting just slightly, which absolutely did not help Draco’s mental state. “You’re surprisingly comfy, you know.”

“I’m not a mattress, Potter.”

Harry cracked one eye open and grinned. “I beg to differ.”

Draco rolled his eyes, fixing his gaze determinedly on the opposite wall, as though sheer willpower would keep his pulse from accelerating. “You have approximately twenty minutes before I throw you on the floor.”

“You won’t,” Harry murmured. “You’re far too kind.”

Draco scoffed. “That's a first.”

But despite his protests, Draco didn’t move. Didn’t shove him off. And certainly didn’t run his fingers through Harry’s hair the way his traitorous hand very much wanted to.

Instead, he allowed himself to study Harry’s face, the relaxed brow, the soft curve of his lips, the way his nose scrunched slightly when the train rocked too hard. He looked younger like this: less the famed Seeker, more… boy who snuck into someone’s lap just because he could.

He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

Harry shifted again, and a hand came to rest lightly on his knee. Draco’s breath hitched.

“I’m serious, you know,” Harry murmured after a long silence. “About this being nice. You’re not half as cold as you pretend to be.”

Draco stared down at him, brows raised. “Is this some kind of sleep-deprived confession?”

“Maybe,” Harry said, eyes still closed. “Don’t tell anyone.”

Draco tried- really tried- not to smile.

After a few minutes, Harry’s breathing evened out, his features going slack with sleep. The weight of him was solid and warm, grounding.

And Draco… well, he let himself rest his hand gently in Harry’s curls.

Just once. Just for a moment.

Only to make sure he didn’t slide off the bench - for medical safety.

Obviously.

Draco felt the shift before he heard it.

A gentle, warm stir against his stomach, followed by a low, breathy sigh, as Harry stirred.

His arms, which had been curved loosely around Harry for the past two hours, hovered like he’d been caught mid-crime. His book was wedged comfortably on Harry’s chest and angled so Draco could read it without craning his neck. Harry shifted again, nestling closer for one sleepy second before finally blinking awake.

His eyes opened, bright green and unfocused behind wonky glasses, lashes mussed, cheek creased where it had pressed into Draco’s trousers. His hair was a mess. More of a mess than usual, somehow, flattened in some places and sticking up wildly in others.

He looked soft. Sleep-warm and rumpled and completely unaware of the hand he'd just wrapped around Draco’s spine and wrung tight. Harry blinked at him. “Malfoy?”

Draco practically flinched. He yanked his arms back as if Harry’s chest had scalded him, snapping his book shut. Harry slowly sat up, rubbing his eyes. As he stretched, his shirt rode up and Draco caught sight of toned muscle and an old scar that curved just above his waistband, and his entire face went hot.

He turned his gaze to the window with the speed of a man avoiding death. “Did you sleep well?” he asked, stiffly. “It certainly sounded like it.”

Harry groaned and ran a hand through his hair. “Ah, shit. Did I snore?”

Draco sniffed, still resolutely not looking. “Like a warthog being hexed mid-snort.”

Harry winced. “Brilliant. Ron’s tried to smother me with a pillow before. He's sick of it.”

“For once,” Draco said with theatrical suffering, “I agree with him.”

That earned him a sheepish smile. Harry’s eyes were still half-lidded, blinking slowly in the lazy afternoon light slanting through the window. “Thanks for not waking me up,” he said. “I really needed that.”

Draco nodded, short and tight, because if he opened his mouth, something treasonous might fall out like I liked it or do it again sometime, if you fancy. Best to say nothing at all and hold on to his dignity.

Harry gestured to the book still in Draco’s lap. “Have you been reading that this whole time?”

Another nod.

“What’s it about?”

“You wouldn’t like it.”

Harry shrugged. “Tell me anyway.”

Draco hesitated. He glanced at the cover, then back at Harry, whose expression was equal parts curious and stubborn.

Typical.

“It’s a gothic horror,” he said, clearing his throat. “Sort of. Set in a remote Scottish village where all the livestock vanish one by one. Then the children start talking about a man in the woods with no face. Eventually, it turns out he’s not a man at all, and the village was built atop a buried monastery that was cursed in the fifteenth century when-”

He trailed off. Harry was still watching him.

"Uh- when the monks tried to summon something. Anyway, livestock start going missing. Then people. And then they come back. Only wrong. With joints that bend backwards and too many teeth.”

Draco looked away, suddenly aware of how much he’d been rambling. He flipped a page idly. “It’s... you know. Light reading.”

He expected Harry to be staring blankly at the wall or picking lint off his jumper in desperate boredom. Instead, he found him completely rapt- brows drawn, nose wrinkled faintly in concentration.

“You’re oddly attentive,” Draco said, curious. “Are you a secret horror fan?”

Harry blinked out of it and sat back. “Absolutely not. I am now afraid of approximately sixteen more things and won't be closing my eyes for longer than a few seconds.”

Draco snorted. “Good.”

“But,” Harry added, eyes flicking to him, “I'd like to know more about the things you like.”

Draco’s heart missed a step. Tripped, rather. Smashed face-first into the ground and flailed about trying to recover. “That’s-” he started, then coughed lightly. “Good.”

“Good.” Harry echoed, nudging Draco’s shoulder playfully with his own. "Great, even."

Draco rolled his eyes, heat crawling up his neck. “Shut up.” He set the book aside with careful precision, partly to hide the tremble in his fingers. “Return the favour, then.”

Harry’s brows shot up into his hair. His ears went pink almost immediately. “You… you want to rest your head on my lap?”

“What?” Draco hissed. “No! I meant—the story. Merlin.” He smacked Harry’s arm.

“Oh.” He ducked away, grinning as he rubbed the spot. “That makes more sense.” He tilted his head, teasing. “Didn’t peg you as the cuddly type, after all.”

“I’m not,” Draco muttered, “and you’re insufferable.”

Harry snorted. “Okay, listen close.”

And with the straightest face in the known world, Harry launched into a tale of a teenage boy who got bitten by a radioactive spider and proceeded to swing around a city on webs, fighting crime in spandex.

“He can stick to walls,” Harry said seriously, “and also sense danger. Like a spider. Sort of. Also, he’s a photographer.”

“Of course he is,” Draco muttered. “Is that the only place the webs come out of?”

Harry paused. Looked at him. Waggled his eyebrows.

Draco did shove him off the bench this time, and Harry landed on the floor with a loud thump and a louder laugh, grinning up at him from the carpeted cabin floor like it was the funniest thing that had ever happened.

His cheeks were pink, his smile wide and lopsided, and Draco could not stop smiling back.

Chapter Text

Draco had just folded his second pressed shirt into the drawer when the knock came.

He paused, hand still smoothing the collar flat, and stared at the door as if it might retract the sound. He wasn’t expecting room service, and he certainly hadn’t ordered a wine and cheese tray to justify human interaction this early in the morning. And yet-

The knock came again. “Draco?” Harry’s voice, muffled but distinct, floated through the wood. “I know you’re in there. I saw you check in. I waved.”

Draco sighed deeply, then ignored it in favour of unpacking his shoes. "I saw."

“Great!” Harry replied, as if that settled it. Then, more softly: “Are you coming out?”

“I was about to.”

There was a pause. “Can I come with you?”

Draco stopped what he was doing entirely. “To what, exactly?”

“Wherever you’re going,” Harry said cheerfully, as if it were obvious.

Draco turned, slowly, crossing the room in long strides and pulling open the door with a look of supreme resignation. Harry stood there, grinning. Slightly damp curls stuck to his forehead, and his polo was wrinkled to hell.

Draco blinked. “You realise we’re staying in a five-star hotel, not a hostel, yes?”

Harry looked down at himself, then shrugged. “It's comfy.”

Draco stared at him a moment longer, then rubbed at his temple. “I’m going shopping.”

“Oh, good. I love shopping.” Harry lied.

“I wasn’t inviting you,” Draco said flatly.

Harry tilted his head, eyes glinting. “But you also didn’t say no.”

Draco exhaled through his nose, the long-suffering kind of breath he usually reserved for dealings with the Ministry or truly incompetent tailors. “Fine,” he muttered, already regretting it. “But stay out of the way. And don’t talk about-” Draco paused, considering.

“...About?” Harry asked, as they started down the corridor.

“Anything,” Draco said.

Harry, of course, did not stop talking. He trailed beside Draco like an enthusiastic retriever, hands stuffed into his pockets, asking about everything from the charm-proofing wards in the hotel to whether Draco thought they’d serve treacle tart at the formal banquet in Bulgaria.

By the time they reached the lobby, Draco was considering staging a sudden, dramatic illness and escaping. “Doctor!”

The shriek made him flinch. Mary, in all her pastel glory, came bustling across the marble floor in a cloud of floral perfume and sunlit excitement. “I knew it! I knew that was you. Look, Jackie, look who it is!”

Draco was forcibly enveloped in a hug, complete with several enthusiastic pats on the back. He tolerated it only because Mary had been decent to him, and also because Harry was beside him, watching the scene with undisguised amusement.

Jackie approached more sedately, but her look was sharp. Too sharp. “Afternoon,” she said. Her gaze slid between Draco and Harry, then settled on Draco. There was a glint there that Draco didn’t like at all- wry, knowing, and just this side of teasing. “Shopping date?”

Draco stiffened. “Not a date.” Harry, who had said absolutely nothing thus far, made a sound suspiciously like a snort.

Mary beamed. “Well, isn’t it nice? Seeing young people out and about. Honestly, Mr Malfoy, when we first met, I wasn’t sure you liked anyone. But now look at you, letting people follow you around!”

Draco felt a flush creep up his neck. “I’m not letting anyone follow me around. I’m merely- he’s...”

“He's helping me find a suit,” Harry said smoothly. “There's a formal event coming up in Bulgaria. If we make it that far, of course. I need guidance.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll be brilliant at that,” Mary said fondly, patting Draco’s arm like he was her favourite nephew. “You’ve got such good taste.”

Jackie was still looking at him, one eyebrow arched. “Excellent taste,” she said, as if it meant something. As if she knew something.

Draco turned before she could add more. “We should go,” he said, brisk and clipped. “Shops don’t stay open all day.”

He could feel Harry’s smile burning behind him as they walked to the exit, feel Jackie’s stare settle between his shoulder blades like a weight. 

Outside, the sun caught the line of Harry’s jaw, casting a glow that made him look brighter, somehow. Lighter. Draco glanced at him, annoyed at the way his chest felt tight.

Harry looked back. “So, where to first?”

Draco didn’t answer right away. He studied the shops across the street, his own reflection faint in the glass of the window beside them. Harry’s too, standing close enough that their outlines almost touched.

He cleared his throat. “To find you a suit, apparently.”

Harry stared down at a cravat as if it were a wild animal. “So… this is a neck napkin,” he said finally, holding it up between two fingers like it might bite him.

Draco didn’t bother to look up from the display of cufflinks. “It’s a cravat, Potter.”

“Right, yes,” Harry said. “But also, fancy neck napkin. Tell me that’s not what this is.”

Draco let out a slow exhale. “If you say one more thing, I will leave you here and you can attempt to barter with the staff using the loose change in your pocket and your boyish charm.”

Harry’s mouth snapped shut. Blessed silence. For three seconds. Then, tentatively, “Are these buttons or portals to another dimension? Because for that price-”

Draco turned his head slowly, deliberately. “Gone. I’ll be gone. You’ll look up and I’ll be a myth you once heard about in the wind.”

Harry held both hands up in surrender, lips pursed. To his credit, he was quiet after that. Draco wandered toward the tailoring section, running his fingers over fabrics, tugging gently on lapels, muttering measurements under his breath- and Harry, oddly enough, followed.

Not just followed. Listened.

Draco, halfway through pointing out the difference between single and double-breasted jackets, glanced at Harry and found him watching with a furrowed brow and a faint frown of concentration.

He was… genuinely paying attention.

“Wait,” Harry said, brow wrinkling. “So you’d pair a neck-um, cravat with a morning coat, not a regular lounge suit?”

Draco blinked. “Yes.”

Harry nodded solemnly. “Mental. And what’s this bit for?” he pointed to a small red strip of fabric.

“That’s a pocket square.”

“I thought it was a tiny flag.”

“It’s a square of silk.”

“I mean, if you happened to be in a face off against a bull-”

“Potter.”

Harry grinned but said nothing more. He just kept watching as Draco explained the etiquette of accessories, how cufflinks could be heirlooms, how tie pins had gone out of fashion and were now sneaking back in.

Draco paused, one hand hovering over a tray of tie pins shaped like serpents, the other in his pocket. His expression was guarded, though his voice came out deceptively light. “Why are you really here? Listening to me prattle on about formalwear like you’re not halfway to dying of boredom.”

Harry shrugged, too casually. “I don’t mind. I like learning new things. And I really do need a suit. If we beat France, we’re off to Bulgaria next, and there’s some sort of ball. Diplomats, sponsors, all very official. I’d rather not show up looking like I’ve mugged someone in the back alley of Madam Malkin’s.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Don’t you have people for this? Assistants, stylists..." he gave a pointed glare to the top of Harry's head. "Hairdressers."

Harry nodded. “Sure. But I think you know more than they do, honestly. And besides, this is more fun. It’s sort of like school.”

“You hated school,” Draco said flatly.

Harry looked sheepish. “It’s like the bits of school I actually like, then," he corrected.

That earned a quiet snort. Draco straightened the line of a mannequin’s suit. “So, lunch?”

Harry’s head snapped up. His mouth fell open, theatrically aghast. “I was more than decent at Defence, Malfoy, don’t pretend I wasn’t. Besides, lunch was famously good at Hogwarts. Especially in Seventh year.”

Draco narrowed his eyes as he sifted through a row of shirts in various soft blues and charcoals. “I don’t remember them changing the menu.”

“Not the food,” Harry said, his voice dipping into something quieter. “I had good company.”

Then he turned and wandered off towards the jackets, leaving the words hanging behind him like smoke in the air. Draco stood, frozen, and his fingers had stilled against the cotton of a pale blue shirt. His heartbeat tapped frantically in his chest.

Then, loudly- too loudly- he said, “What is that supposed to mean?!”

A few heads turned. Draco’s eyes widened in horror. He cleared his throat sharply, adjusted his cuffs with aggressive precision, and marched after Harry, his face tinged pink.

Harry grinned. “You know what it means.”

Draco gave a dismissive huff, arms crossed. “Had a secret affinity for the Slytherin lot, did you?”

Harry nodded solemnly. “Sure. There’s just...” His eyes flicked up to meet Draco’s. “Something about them. Wouldn’t you say?”

Draco wasn’t entirely sure what they were talking about anymore, or if it was still safe ground. He decided not to find out. Instead, he grabbed the full suit set he'd been building as they'd been walking and shoved it unceremoniously into Harry’s arms.

He stumbled a step back under the weight, peering at Draco over the stack of fine fabric, looking like an especially handsome laundry basket.

Draco smiled, despite himself. “Try that on while I enquire about some cufflinks I’m looking for,” he instructed, his tone brisk enough to hide the warm curl in his stomach. Harry nodded, already stepping into the changing room, brushing past a wide-eyed staff member who had clearly just remembered where she’d seen him before, likely on the back of a Chocolate Frog card, or splashed across the front page of the Prophet.

Draco, pretending not to notice the poor girl’s flustered state, returned to the front of the shop and asked about their spring range- specifically, the cufflinks engraved with the Tudor rose. They were understated and elegant, pure silver with a clean gleam and exquisite detailing. He’d been meaning to get them for his father, who would surely feign disinterest before hiding them in his private collection of favoured gifts.

He was leaning in to inspect the shine under the display light when Harry’s voice rang out behind him. “Malfoy!”

Draco held up a hand without turning. “One moment,” he called over his shoulder, forcing himself to focus on the hinge of the cufflink he was evaluating. Then came a loud, dramatic huff.

Impatient toddler.

Draco turned slightly to apologise to the shop assistant, only to find her a little pink in the cheeks, eyes fixed over his shoulder in a dazed kind of awe. He turned, and promptly forgot how to breathe.

Harry was standing in front of the changing rooms, now dressed in the deep blue and steel-grey suit Draco had thrust at him earlier. It fit like magic-hugging his shoulders, tapering perfectly at the waist, the trousers skimming down those ridiculous thighs in a way that was absolutely unfair. He looked- Merlin, he looked good. Better than good, and yet somehow, still painfully Harry, with his shirt collar slightly askew and his hair sticking up in odd ways.

He held up a tie, midnight blue, now crushed and thoroughly mistreated, looking sheepish.

Draco rolled his eyes. Of course.

He crossed the room in quick, decisive steps, taking the tie from Harry with a sigh and ushering him back into the changing room. If he was doing it to shield Harry from the eyes currently tracking his every move, that was no one’s business but his own.

Harry didn’t protest, just smiled at him gratefully and flopped onto the cushioned bench inside, limbs sprawling like he’d just come off the pitch.

Draco pulled the curtain shut behind them, sighing again, more from habit than actual frustration.

“This,” Harry groaned, “is a bloody mission. I could put on full suits instead of running laps, and I’d sweat more.”

Draco wrinkled his nose. “Must you bring up bodily fluids?”

Harry grinned, smug. “I must.”

Draco rolled his eyes and stepped between Harry’s parted knees with slow precision, the space in the changing room shrinking to something near unbearable. Without a word, Draco flipped the tie around the back of his neck, draping it across the upturned collar.

He reached up to raise the collar roll, and the gentle tug of the fabric encouraged Harry’s chin up, obedient, almost thoughtless. His head tilted back ever so slightly to make room for Draco’s hands. That was all.

Draco exhaled through his nose and reached for the tie again, tugging one end gently to even the length. His fingers brushed the hollow of Harry’s throat. The skin was warm- of course it was warm- and the contact sent a whisper of heat through Draco’s chest.

The knot began to take shape under his fingertips, but the motion was slow, like he couldn’t quite will his hands to move at the pace they ought to. The silky fabric slid across Harry’s chest, back and forth, each tug and pull accompanied by the faintest shift in breath from below.

Harry’s knees pressed slightly inward, unintentionally bracketing Draco. They weren't touching, but they were close enough that Draco could feel the warmth radiating off of them. He adjusted the tie again, lifting it gently to work the knot closer to Harry’s throat. Draco's knuckles brushed the underside of his jaw, and he sucked in a breath.

Draco’s fingers faltered, and he looked down again, properly this time. Harry was still watching him, eyes half-lidded, lashes thick and dark.

With steady hands, he reached forward and smoothed the tie down Harry’s chest, pressing the line flat with his palm. He adjusted the knot one final time, tugging gently until it sat snug against Harry’s throat. Close enough to feel the faint rhythm of his pulse.

Draco’s composure was fraying at the edges, held together by nothing but sheer will and an upbringing that did not allow for public displays of...whatever this was. He’d just finished tightening the knot- perfectly, of course, because he was a Malfoy and if there was one thing he could do in this life, it was to be put together in a crisis-when Harry’s eyes finally dropped from his.

They landed on the tie. He nodded approvingly. “Looks much better now that you did it.”

Draco hummed, a little noise that didn’t even try to be modest. He pulled his hand back from Harry’s chest with deliberate slowness, straightening. “As most things do.”

Harry’s lips curled, almost fond. “So, what do you think?”

Draco could think of several things, actually. None of them were even vaguely appropriate for a public setting, and even less so when the object of said thoughts was watching him like that, wide-eyed in a suit that made his eyes too green and trousers that fit like sin.

He cleared his throat and stepped back with unnecessary force. “Good. It suits you.”

Harry blinked, then narrowed his eyes. “Was that a pun?”

Draco groaned. “God no. Not intentionally.” He rubbed at his forehead like it might scrub the shame off. “A week away from home and I’m punning. Brilliant.”

“I think it is,” Harry said quietly, smiling,

Draco didn’t answer that- he let his gaze drop instead, scanning the outfit with the scrutiny it deserved. A small frown tugged at his lips. “The belt,” he said finally. “It doesn’t match. We need silver with this.”

Harry glanced down, then looked up again, lips parting like something had just occurred to him. “Like yours?” he asked.

Draco blinked. “Hm?”

Harry raised a hand and tapped one finger against the silver buckle on Draco’s belt. It was a light touch, barely anything at all, but it sent a rush of something low and warm through Draco’s stomach.

He tipped back on instinct, caught off guard, only to realise a second too late that his foot had caught on the edge of the bench. He teetered, panic flaring bright- oh, God, not here, not like this-

But then Harry’s hand was at his hip, his fingers catching the belt loop just in time. He tugged, sharp and certain, and pulled Draco back in. His other hand settled against the outside of Draco’s thigh.

If he wasn’t seconds from combusting, he might have scolded Harry for yanking at a loop with such reckless force. What came out instead was some sort of pathetic wheeze.

Not a sound Draco Malfoy made. 

Harry tilted his head, concern flickering across his face- but there was something else in his eyes, too. Something sharper, something knowing. As though he’d spotted that tiny break in Draco’s armour and recognised it for exactly what it was.

It made Draco feel naked.

He stepped back at once, jerking out of Harry’s space and cleared his throat. “I’m going to close my purchase,” he said.

Harry stood quickly, one hand halfway outstretched, like he thought Draco might bolt. “Wait-”

“Ask one of the staff for a silver belt,” Draco cut in, already turning away, eyes fixed firmly on nothing in particular. He felt like he was operating on a delay, as if the rational part of his brain had been peeled away and melted at the hands of Harry bloody Potter.

And nothing had even happened.

Draco’s hands clenched at his sides. They were grown men. Adults. With control, and dignity, and- whatever the hell this was, it wasn’t anything he should have let himself feel.

He needed distance, that much he knew. He needed space to think, to breathe, to stop wanting the impossible.

He didn’t look back. 

Chapter Text

Draco didn’t know if anyone had ever tried to avoid Harry Potter before, but he was unhappy to report it was impossible. So impossible, in fact, that he ought to report it to the Department of Mysteries.

It had started as a reasonable plan. Well, his version of reasonable, which was reclusive, overcorrected, laced with professional detachment and a deep distrust of his own restraint.

After the debacle that was the suit shopping trip, Draco had drawn a hard line. He would not allow himself to spend more unnecessary time with Harry. He would not allow his clinical respect for the athlete’s physiology to mutate into full-blown interest. And he would certainly not allow the image of Harry Potter in that bloody suit to linger in his brain.

“Oh, there you are,” came a familiar voice, bright and cheerful and immediately unwelcome.

Draco looked up from his empty clipboard. He was tucked in the laundry tent, of all places, sitting on a battered crate of practice kit he’d claimed under the pretext of reviewing ankle taping protocols. It smelled faintly of eucalyptus and old socks. Entirely inhospitable. Or so he’d thought.

Potter stood in the entrance, sunlight catching in his hair, looking insufferably at home, actually, like he belonged in every doorway Draco didn’t want him in.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Harry said, stepping into the tent.

Draco sighed. Loudly. “Is that so?”

“Yep,” Harry said. “ I tried the pitch earlier. You weren’t there.”

“No, because I have work to do, unlike you,” he said pointedly.

“Work, is it?” Harry looked around the tent, taking in the cluttered bins of towels and the rickety folding table Draco had stacked with paperwork as a barrier. “Looks very… professional.”

Draco straightened. “Some of us take our jobs seriously.”

"Sure," Harry grinned, unaffected. “I wanted to thank you. For the suit.”

Draco blinked. “What?”

“The suit,” Harry repeated, edging closer still. “You were right. It’s brilliant. I even found a silver belt like you said.”

Draco’s mouth went dry.

And there it was, his own treacherous imagination, galloping ahead at full tilt. Harry with that belt, the silver buckle catching the light. Tan skin and-

He shut the image down like a warded vault. He wasn’t thirteen. He was a grown man. A healer, for Merlin’s sake. “I see,” he said carefully, staring very intently at a pile of folded socks. “Glad to hear it.”

Harry tilted his head. “Want to see it?”

Draco’s body betrayed him instantly. Heat surged through his stomach like spilt ink, and his trousers went uncomfortably tight in an alarming span of time. He managed to lift his gaze, stiff and slow, only to find Harry watching him with a look that was far too knowing.

Draco schooled his expression into something bland and professional. “Perhaps another time,” he said briskly. “As you can see, I’m very busy.”

Harry gave him a look. Draco was currently doing absolutely nothing. He didn’t even have a quill in hand to go with his empty clipboard. Still, he sat up straighter. “I have patients to prepare for. Physios to coordinate. A full match’s worth of possible traumas to predict and prevent.”

Harry’s grin softened into something gentler. “Right. Wouldn’t want to keep the physios waiting.”

“Exactly,” Draco said crisply.

There was a pause. Then,

“What do you think our chances are against France?” Harry asked, taking a step closer to him, shuffling around some old bits of kit left on the floor. “Be honest.”

Draco gave him a flat look, entirely unimpressed. He reached for a folder, flicking it open to give his hands something to do. “France is good, yes. But not that good. You know you’ve got them.”

Harry didn’t argue. He just smiled again, that slow, warm smile that made something squirm in Draco’s chest. “Thought so,” he said. “But I like hearing it from you.” Draco looked up sharply, but Harry just shrugged. “It gives me more assurance, somehow.”

Draco went red. Instantly. He idly picked at the folder, and he cleared his throat. “Of course, Potter. I’m a doctor. Everything sounds official coming from me.”

Harry laughed, full-bellied and bright. His hair moved with the motion, catching a bit of breeze, tousled and messy in a way that Draco tried very hard not to find attractive. “That’s not why,” he said slyly.

He let his eyes drift downward, slowly, leisurely, over Draco’s white coat, across the buttons, the slim lines, the lapels, and back up to his face. It was a look that could only be described as deliberate. 

Draco stood very still, as Harry's smile broadened. "Although it certainly helps." He finished, his green eyes firmly on Draco.

And- well. He did not fidget under the gaze of others. He certainly did not do so around smug, pretty-boy Seekers with golden skin and the most irritatingly open expression Draco had ever seen. Still, he felt it. That same exposed feeling he got in the shop changing room. Like Harry had stripped something from him without laying a finger on his skin.

There was a beat of silence between them. The smell of eucalyptus hung between the racks. Outside, someone shouted something in French. Draco released his death grip on the clipboard and tucked it under his arm. “If that’s all,” he said, voice tightly composed, “I really do need to return to work.”

Harry held up his hands in surrender. “Right. I’ll go.” He turned, just slowly enough to let Draco see the curve of his smirk, and disappeared through the tent flap, sunlight trailing in behind him.

Draco sat back down on the crate. He stared at the space Harry had just vacated, heart pounding far more than he liked. “Well,” he muttered to no one in particular. “That went terribly.”

And then he adjusted his coat and tried very hard not to think about silver belts.

The match had already begun by the time Draco arrived at the medical tent, slightly out of breath and mildly annoyed with himself. One of the reserves had needed assistance- something about an old injury flaring up, and Draco, curse his ever-dedicated soul, had stopped to mix a fast-acting muscle relaxant.

By the time he finally stepped into the tent, the game was in full swing, the echoing cheers of the crowd washing in from outside. 

As expected, Puddlemere was in fine form. Their Chasers were coordinated and fast, weaving seamlessly through France’s defences, which, Draco noted clinically, lacked both aggression and cohesion. Their Beaters were hardly a threat. If it weren’t for the usual wildcard of the Snitch, Draco would have called it already.

Harry hadn’t caught sight of the Snitch yet, but he was circling high and fast, avoiding the French Chasers with a kind of nimble ease that looked instinctive, not practiced. Of course. Potter probably flew in his sleep.

Draco watched as he pulled into a sharp spiral, then righted himself in a smooth arc. His robes flared behind him, and from the vantage of the healer’s tent, his figure moved like something out of a bloody painting.

Then something changed.

France’s Seeker, a spry, overeager young man with questionable spatial awareness, suddenly dipped forward, hard and fast. He’d seen it. Draco could tell from the way his posture shifted. A direct line, that sharp tilt of the chin.

Harry responded instantly. One blur following another.

A stray Bludger tore past, grazing Harry’s side, and Draco’s hand tensed on the edge of his seat. But Harry recovered immediately, trailing the French Seeker with uncanny precision. Then he’d spotted it too- the Snitch was likely somewhere near the lower eastern quadrant.

The French Seeker made a bold move, lunging forward with a dramatic thrust of his broom-and completely misjudged his momentum.

He clipped the lower edge of the stadium stands. The bristles snagged. Then he was sailing forward, off the broom entirely, and plummeting.

The screams were instant. Draco stood before he realised he had.

But Harry, of course it was Harry, was already diving after him, abandoning the Snitch entirely.

It wasn’t a graceful dive. It was a determined one, fuelled by sheer instinct and unyielding idiocy. His form was tucked, precise, and he reached the other Seeker in seconds, grasping his arm in mid-air, yanking them both upright in a show of strength that had Draco’s stomach in knots.

They landed shakily, but intact.

Draco exhaled sharply, only then realising he’d been holding his breath. “Idiot,” he muttered under his breath. “Stupid, heroic, saviour complex idiot.”

The French Seeker, now pink-faced and sheepish, thanked Harry as he mounted his broom again. The crowd erupted in applause, and the match resumed.

Four minutes later, Harry caught the Snitch in a neat, spectacular move that had half the stadium on its feet.

Draco let himself cheer loudly this time.

Jackie appeared not long after, ducking into the tent with her usual brisk energy, unbothered by the noise or the sweat of post-match bustle. She reached into the kit shelf, rummaging. “Do you have that last dose of Gerard’s shoulder cream?”

Draco passed it to her wordlessly, still watching the pitch through the mesh tent wall.

“Good match,” she said, tapping the jar. “Bit dicey with the near fall, though.”

Draco nodded, still half-watching the pitch crew pack up. “I’m just glad no one got hurt.”

Jackie gave him a look, amused. “That was a very good thing Harry did. Risked the match to save someone else.”

Draco glanced over, already busying himself with packing the splint kit. “He tends to do that.”

She smiled. “He’s got a good soul.”

Draco stopped. Just for a moment. His hand froze over the gauze roll. He looked down, cleared his throat, and said, quietly, “Yes. He does.”

Jackie didn’t say anything to that. Just gave him a knowing look, and then nodded as if to herself.

And then, because the universe hated him-

“Thanks, Doctor,” came a familiar voice, breathless and warm.

Draco didn’t even have to look up. He could feel him there, standing in the entrance of the tent like some bloody painting brought to life. When he did glance up, he found Harry exactly as expected, sweaty, grinning, and entirely infuriating. Blue and yellow paint had been smudged across his cheekbones- some overzealous fan’s handiwork, no doubt- and his hair was windblown and damp at the edges.

“Here we go,” Jackie muttered under her breath, grinning, and slipped away with her cream, leaving Draco to his fate.

Harry stepped further in- he didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, looking expectant, slightly tilted, head cocked.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Aren’t you going to say I did a good job?” Harry asked, serious as anything.

Draco blinked. “What?”

“You did last time.”

“That was-” Draco paused. Damn. That was a fair point. “Fine. You played well. You saved the rival Seeker. Hurrah. Would you like an award?”

Harry’s eyes lit with that maddening glint. “Depends. Is there a prize?”

Draco scoffed. “If you think you’re going to sleep in my lap again, Potter, you are sorely mistaken.”

Harry laughed, a genuine, gleeful sound. “That’s not what I meant.” He winced then, shaking out his right hand. “Actually, I came here for a reason. I think I pulled something when I caught that guy.” He peeled off his glove with a hiss. “The French have one hell of a grip.”

Draco’s amusement dropped instantly, concern taking its place. “Let me see.”

Harry held out his hand, palm up.

Draco looked around. “Damn. I just threw out my gloves.” He glanced down at the bin. Empty latex packets. “Those were my last pair.”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t mind if you don’t use them. I don’t exactly have a problem with it.”

Draco rolled his eyes, already drawing his wand. “As gracious as that is, it’s not about you, Potter. It’s to protect the healer. But it’s likely just a wrist sprain, so it’s fine.”

He took Harry’s hand carefully, turning it palm up again. “Mild sprain,” he nodded, running his wand in a precise line across the joint. “Hold still.”

A soft golden light passed from the wand tip to Harry’s wrist. The swelling eased. Draco followed it with a quick numbing charm, the magic washing cool and silvery across the skin. Harry exhaled in relief. “Bloody hell. That’s better. Thanks, Doctor."

Draco’s hands stilled.

There it was again. 

“Why do you do that?” he asked, not looking up.

Harry blinked. “Do what?”

“You call me Doctor,” Draco said, still oddly focused on Harry’s wrist. It was entirely healed now, but he hadn’t yet let go.

“Ah,” Harry said, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Do you mind it?”

Draco lifted his gaze slowly, trying to pin the expression on Harry’s face. “Not necessarily,” he said. Quite the opposite, if he was being honest with himself- which he rarely was, especially where Harry Potter was involved. “But you tend to do it more around other people.”

“Oh, right,” Harry scratched the back of his neck with his uninjured hand. "I don’t know. It just feels... polite? Better than ‘Malfoy’ in front of the team, anyway. Feels weird sometimes.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Since when have you ever been concerned about being polite to me?”

“Since you stopped being an arse all the time?” Harry offered, a bit too cheekily.

Draco sniffed. “It’s debatable who was the bigger arse, Potter.”

Harry smiled at that, ruefully. “Touché.”

There was a small pause.  “I don’t care much,” Draco said finally. “Our history’s public knowledge.”

Harry’s expression shifted, something quiet and thoughtful in it now. “Sure, but... it’s history, yeah?”

“I mean- yes,” Draco replied, suddenly aware of how close they still stood. His coat felt stifling. "It's all in the past."

“Good.” Harry’s smile turned a touch softer. “So... can I call you Draco?”

Draco blinked. That... was oddly disarming. “Can you-Merlin. It’s my name. Call me whatever you like,” he said, more flippant than he felt.

“Oh?” Harry said, brow arched mischievously.

“Potter,” Draco warned automatically.

Harry shook his head, clicking his tongue like a disapproving teacher. “Nope. Wrong answer.”

Draco squinted at him, confused, until he realised. He’d said it again. “Oh, for the love of god. Harry.”

It came out awkward, clipped. But it was still... his name. Harry went very still, and a bit of colour rose in his cheeks. His pupils darkened slightly, and his mouth parted, like Draco had cast a spell on him. “See?” he said, voice a little rougher. “Better.”

Draco cleared his throat and looked away. “If you say so.”

“Thanks again,” Harry said suddenly, flexing his wrist, a little smile tugging at his lips. 

Draco inclined his head, distractedly re-packing the supplies. But then Harry’s expression brightened- as if he'd just remembered something.

“Oh, right,” he said. “I meant to ask. I’m all out of that chamomile tea. The one you gave me. Any chance you’ve got more?”

Draco straightened slowly, frowning. “No. I'm afraid only brought the one box.”

His eyes widened. “You gave me your only box?”

Draco shifted, suddenly feeling like he was being interrogated over a highly incriminating act of kindness. “Er. Yes?” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “You clearly needed it.”

Harry ignored the jab entirely. Of course he did. He just kept looking at him, far too pleased. “Your only box,” Harry repeated, his grin spreading, bright and ridiculous. “That you bought. For yourself.”

Draco gave a theatrical sigh, tipping his head up. “I’m a doctor,” he said, as levelly as he could. “As you so helpfully keep pointing out, Pot-Harry.” The name still felt foreign on his tongue. Soft, somehow.  “I’ll do what I can to make my patients feel better,” Draco added crisply, hoping it would shut down the conversation.

But Harry only hummed, tilting his head, gaze steady and too knowing. “You sure are dedicated,”  He lingered for a second. Just a beat. "I should get back. See you, Draco." Then turned and strode out of the tent.

Draco exhaled slowly once he was gone, as though someone had finally taken a weight off his chest. His hand still tingled slightly from the warmth of Harry’s skin, and he rubbed his fingers together without thinking.

Ridiculous.

He turned back to his kit with a muttered curse, because the thing about avoiding Harry Potter was-

It didn’t bloody work.

Chapter Text

Draco had learned many things since taking up the post of travelling healer for Puddlemere United, not least of which was that professional Quidditch players were, without exception, walking injury magnets with an astonishing lack of survival instinct.

He had also learned that international Quidditch events were somehow equal parts spectacle, chaos, and fashion parade. And tonight’s Ball was no exception.

He was currently standing in the middle of the reception hall in Sofia, having been ambushed by no fewer than five separate groups of vaguely important-sounding witches and wizards, all of whom wanted to discuss Bulgarian mid-season conditioning spells, the weather in Wiltshire, and- somehow- his hair.

He had been trying to slip away for the last twenty minutes.

Unfortunately, it was proving difficult to escape when every time he so much as turned his head, someone else was beaming at him like he’d grown wings and started speaking in tongues.

Healers from other teams seemed particularly fascinated. A little too fascinated, frankly. He’d been cornered by three of them- all of whom had at least a decade on him, and all of whom were thrilled to talk about things like sport-enhanced gastrointestinal distress, and which potion mix worked best for thigh chafing.

He was just finishing a vaguely polite conversation about pre-match foot salves when someone far too tall and broad for Draco’s comfort stepped into his path. A man. Square-jawed, square-shouldered, and entirely too self-assured.

“Ivan,” he said smoothly, offering Draco a crooked smile. “One of the Beaters.”

Draco knew who he was. Ivan had been mentioned during the pre-tournament notes. Ruthless on the pitch, charming off it- or so the Puddlemere gossip suggested.

“Draco Malfoy,” Draco returned, holding out a hand. “Healer.”

Ivan took the hand and held it a second longer than strictly necessary, letting his eyes drag slowly over Draco’s face. “You are… very attractive,” he said, accent thick but confident. He clearly wasn't fussed with pleasantries. “Striking. The English have good taste in their medical staff.”

Draco blinked. Then, slowly, smiled. It was a polite smile, tight and practiced. “Thank you,” he said evenly.

“You dance?” Ivan asked.

“Only if held at gunpoint,” Draco replied. “I had enough of that growing up.”

Ivan laughed. It was deep, not unpleasant, but far too self-assured. “You are funny too. I like this.”

Draco’s polite smile didn’t shift, though his patience was beginning to wear thin. It wasn’t that Ivan was rude, he was flattering, if anything. But there was something too forward, too expectant. Draco could spot his intentions a mile off, and while part of him acknowledged that Ivan was objectively attractive… something didn’t click. 

He was about to excuse himself when Ivan reached out, catching him by the forearm. The grip wasn’t painful- not intentionally. It was simply too firm, the grip of a man used to strength, not subtlety. But he tugged, just a bit, and Draco’s balance tipped enough to make him stumble forward.

He caught himself, lips pressed in irritation. “Easy,” he muttered, pulling his arm free.

Ivan raised both hands in mock surrender. “My apologies.”

Draco didn’t respond immediately. His fingers lingered where Ivan had gripped him, and for some inexplicable reason, his mind offered up an uninvited comparison - Harry’s hands. Warm, careful, annoyingly gentle. The way he steadied people with purpose, not possession. 

Draco exhaled sharply. No. “I’ve urgent business to attend to, but it was nice meeting you,” he said stiffly, straightening his sleeve. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Ivan looked disappointed this time, but nodded, stepping aside. Draco walked away without another word, cutting a line through the crowd towards the drinks table. He needed distance. Something chilled in his hand. Something distracting.

He reached the long marble counter and picked up a champagne flute, pressing the cool glass to his temple.

Before he could even take a sip, a flicker of blue slid into view beside him. He'd recognise that suit anywhere- he helped choose it after all.

“Enjoying yourself?” Harry asked, reaching for a glass without looking at him. His voice was light, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Draco cleared his throat. “I suppose,” he said coolly. “You?”

“Bored out of my mind,” Harry confessed with a shrug.

Draco huffed a laugh. “Say it a little louder, why don’t you? Maybe insult the hosts while you’re at it.”

Harry tilted his head as if considering it. "Hm, you're right," He said, stepping closer. 

And Draco did not move.

They were shoulder to chest now, Harry angled inwards, the space between them no longer a respectable one. His breath was warm at Draco’s ear when he spoke again, softer this time.“Don’t want people listening in.”

Draco’s spine went straight. He stared ahead. His pulse thudded in his throat.

He needed to step back. Needed to reclaim the space between them, needed to act like a sane adult instead of standing here breathing in the scent of Potter’s aftershave and wondering how someone so bloody irritating had managed to create a permanent stutter in his chest.

He chanced a glance up to see that Harry was watching him. Intently. His eyes were a shade too bright in the low lighting. 

There was a thrum behind Draco’s ribs. A strange, swooping flutter that hadn’t quite resolved itself into panic or something else. He swallowed tightly. “People are watching, Potter.”

Harry tilted his head slightly, a faint line appearing between his brows. “I thought we agreed on Harry.”

Draco gave him a look- flat, warning, desperate- and tried to will away the flush crawling up his neck. “Doesn’t change the fact that people may get the wrong idea,” he said stiffly.

Harry’s eyes searched his face for a beat. “Is it?”

“…Is it what?”

“The wrong idea.”

That stopped Draco immediately.

His breath caught like it had tripped on a stair. His heart was already going too fast, beating a rhythm of pure alarm in his chest. And now his thoughts spun out in a hundred directions at once-  none of them helpful. Most pressing among them: what would it feel like to kiss Harry Potter in this ridiculous ballroom with its ridiculous champagne and all these ridiculous staring people?

He blinked hard.

“I don't- I mean-” The words stumbled out of his mouth in a graceless tangle, each one worse than the last. He could feel the heat climbing up the back of his neck, crawling over his ears. Merlin. He never fumbled like this. Not in front of anyone. Not even during his intern year when he’d accidentally hexed a Mediwitch’s robes off in front of the entire ward.

Harry just watched, quiet, unreadable now, like he was trying very hard not to hope.

Draco looked away abruptly, setting his champagne flute down with more force than necessary. “I’m going to get some air,” he said, too briskly.

Harry blinked, startled, the little crease between his brows returning. “Alright,” he said, voice careful. “D’you want comp-?”

“No,” Draco cut in, a little too fast. “No, thank you.” He turned on his heel and walked, quickly and with as much composure as he could scrape together, towards the tall glass doors leading out to the balcony.

He reached the threshold of the ballroom’s side door and paused, something pulling at him, sharp as a fishhook in the chest.

Draco looked back.

Across the room, Harry stood near the drinks table, glass in hand. He wasn’t talking to anyone. Just standing there, eyes fixed on Draco- watching him over the rim of his glass, unreadable, lips set in a thin line.

He kept walking.

The moment the cool night air hit his face, Draco let himself breathe. The music was muffled out here, the swell of voices behind the doors now a dull hum, and for a brief second, Draco let himself rest his hands on the stone balustrade and close his eyes.

This was fine. He had made his choice- the right choice. He was a professional. He didn’t entertain flirtations with clients, and he didn’t lose his composure over broad-shouldered Seekers with infuriating charm and surprisingly gentle eyes.

He was fine.

Chapter Text

As awkward as it was, Draco's glad he left the ball when he did. No hangover, no regretful conversations with Potter, and a good night's sleep. It was certainly needed- the day before the match against Bulgaria, and tensions were at an all-time high. 

Draco adjusted the diagnostic charm once more, the faint green glow hovering over Kit Adam's back. It pulsed in a jagged pattern across his lower spine, worse than before. "You’ve really done a number on it this time," Draco muttered under his breath, mostly to himself.

Kit winced from his seat on the edge of the padded examination bench. "Hurts like hell. Been hurting like hell for a while, actually."

"Yes, I imagine flying at top speeds with no warm-up might do that," Draco said dryly, wand tip trailing slowly down the man's spine.

"Didn’t want to miss training. Or look weak."

Draco snorted. "Congratulations. You now look injured and slightly stupid."

Kit gave a hoarse laugh. But Draco didn’t miss the slight tremor in his shoulders, the tension beneath skin. "Are you cold?" he asked absently, adjusting a warming rune on the wall. "It is a bit drafty in here."

Kit shook his head, stiff. "No. I’m-I’m fine."

Draco paused. Then looked up properly.

Ah.

Kit wasn’t cold. He was afraid. Draco set his wand aside and straightened. "Listen," he said, voice low, "this will heal. You’ve strained it badly, and it’s going to be painful for a week or so, but it’s not permanent. You will recover."

Kit didn’t move.

"You will need to sit this match out," Draco added carefully. "But it’s one game. One game, not your career."

Kit finally turned his head, jaw clenched. His voice cracked a little. "It’s not just a game. It’s the Cup. It’s- everything. If I sit this out, I might not get another shot. I’ve worked my whole life for this. I can’t just- what if I miss it and I’m done? What if they forget me?"

Draco exhaled slowly. His expression softened. "I know what it’s like," he said quietly. "To think everything rides on one performance. One moment. And I know what it’s like to think you’ll only ever be as good as your last win."

Kit looked away.

"But your well-being comes first to everyone on this team," Draco continued. "Gerald isn’t going to fire you. He’ll be furious, yes, but not because you can’t play. He’ll be furious because you didn’t tell him earlier. Because he thinks you don’t trust him."

Kit blinked. His mouth trembled slightly.

"And as for the people back home," Draco shrugged. "Don’t listen to anyone whose shoes you wouldn’t want to be in. People who want to see you fail aren’t the ones whose opinions you should give a toss about."

For a long moment, there was silence. Then Kit scrubbed a hand down his face, his eyes glassy. "Ah, jeez. Thanks, Draco. Didn’t know you did the whole… emotions thing."

Draco gave a crooked smile. "Only for paying customers."

Kit huffed out a laugh. "Anyone ever tell you you could’ve been a mind healer?"

"Not anyone sane." They finished the rest of the treatment in companionable quiet. Kit seemed lighter, less hunched. Less alone.

There was a knock on the door just as Draco was setting the salve jar aside. "Gerald’s calling you," came Harry’s voice.

Draco turned, and Harry was standing in the doorway, hand braced on the frame. He looked between them with interest.

Kit gathered his things, but paused before leaving. He turned back, brows slightly furrowed. "Thanks again, Draco. For my back, but also..." his cheeks coloured faintly, and he gestured vaguely. "Just… yeah."

Draco cleared his throat. "No problem-"

He was cut off by Kit stepping forward and giving him a one-armed hug. A brief, awkward squeeze, full of earnestness. Draco allowed it, blinking in mild surprise.

Kit pulled back, nodded at Harry, and left with a quiet, "See you at lunch."

Harry, who had apparently turned to stone, stared after him with his mouth slightly open.

Draco turned to him, one brow arched. "Yes?"

Harry seemed to relax a little, the corners of his mouth twitching as he shrugged. "Nothing." He jerked a thumb toward the door Kit had just gone through. "He seemed nervous."

Draco nodded once. "He is. It’s understandable."

Harry hummed thoughtfully. "Gerald’s going to go easy on him. He’ll be fine."

"Good."

There was a beat of silence, and then Harry said, like he’d been sitting on it the entire time, "Didn’t know you were a hugger."

Draco groaned quietly, muttering, "Oh, Merlin." He pushed a vial into the storage cabinet with a little more force than necessary. "If you used your eyes, Harry, you’d have seen I didn’t hug him back. I just didn’t hex him for it. He was having a shit day," Draco said flatly.

Harry hummed again, far too casually. "So if I’m having a shit day-"

"Don’t," Draco warned, spinning back to face him. "Even go there."

Harry let out a soft laugh. “You act so emotionally unavailable.”

Draco sighed, long-suffering. “It’s practically a requirement of the job.” He paused, then added, “And what do you mean by ‘act’?”

Harry’s eyes traced the lines of Draco’s face like he was reading a book. “You know- your face.”

“My face?” Draco echoed, suspicion prickling at his skin as heat crept up his neck.

Harry nodded, amusement dancing in his eyes and tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It’s very expressive. Did you know that?”

“No,” Draco admitted reluctantly. He’d always thought he’d perfected the art of deadpan, but apparently not.

“So when you turned away from me yesterday, when you kept walking off,” Harry continued, his voice dropping a notch, “I thought that was it.”

“What are you even talking about?” Draco huffed, exasperated.

But Harry was unfazed. “Then, at the ball,” he went on, eyes sparkling with mischief, “you turned around. Very ‘90s rom-com, by the way. Well played.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but Harry’s grin only grew wider.

“Anyways, then I saw your face.”

Draco muttered flatly, “You have functional eyes, hallelujah.”

Harry chuckled. “Okay, fine. I read your face. You looked like you hated leaving.” He leaned in just a little closer. “You really can’t hide a single thought, you know. It’s very convenient for me.”

“Fine,” Draco scowled. “I’ll work on it.”

Harry tilted his head thoughtfully, then said gently, “Don’t.”

Draco blinked.

“Because then,” Harry murmured, stepping closer until their boots nearly touched, “when I do this-” He lifted his hand and brushed the backs of his fingers lightly against Draco’s cheek, slow and featherlight, “I wouldn’t get to see this face you make. Or how red your cheeks get.”

Draco couldn’t even think about what expression he might have- his mind had gone blessedly blank. Harry’s fingers were warm, soft, reverent in their touch, and Draco’s lips parted entirely without permission.

Harry tracked the movement, and his grin turned smug, disastrously so.

“Harry-” Draco began, warning.

“And I love it when you say my name,” Harry confessed, voice low and firm.

Draco’s mouth snapped shut. “Well- I won’t use it again,” he said stiffly.

“You will,” Harry said confidently, as if it were already decided. His fingers slid to Draco’s jaw, then down to his neck. His thumb pressed lightly beneath his ear, tilting his face up with maddening care.

Draco’s hands twitched awkwardly at his sides, caught between wanting to grab Harry or deck him. Probably both. “Is that an order?” he asked, trying for sharp but coming out breathless.

“Godric, no,” Harry laughed softly. His fingers toyed with a strand of hair at the nape of Draco’s neck- so calm, so fond it made Draco's chest ache. “It’s a request. Please,” he said, eyes wide and honest and unbearably close, “keep calling me Harry.”

Draco stared, his heart betraying him in his chest. Those green eyes were doing terrible things to him. They always had.

“All right,” he whispered.

The match had barely begun, and Puddlemere were already trailing.

Draco sat rigid at the edge of his chair, robes neatly folded back, every part of his kit primed and ready. 

Across the field, Bulgaria’s beaters moved like cannon fire. Fast, aggressive, and almost perfectly coordinated..

Puddlemere’s defence was skilled, but the sheer force of the opposing team had them rattled. Harry, still for once, floated high above, expression unreadable. But his eyes, sharp and fast, never stopped moving. He was watching everything, tracking the rhythm of the chaos below, trying to find a pattern in the mayhem.

The pitch was larger than any they’d played on before, and it showed in the way the team moved, just a second slower, a little less sure. They were out of sync, adjusting.

And then-
A sickening crack.

One of Bulgaria’s own beaters had gone too hard, sending the bludger veering unexpectedly. The other beater, caught off-guard, didn’t duck in time. The ball collided with the side of his neck at full speed. His head twisted at a nauseating angle, neck snapping sideways, and he dropped from his broom like a stone.

A collective gasp tore through the crowd.

Draco stood instantly, heart hammering. The Bulgarians nearest to the fall caught the player mid-air, guiding him down, limp and lolling, into the opposite medical tent.

The match paused. Concern spread like fire.

Draco remained frozen for a moment, eyes locked on the tent across the field. It was too far to see clearly, but even from here he could tell the damage was severe. He sat back down slowly, fists clenched.

Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. Still no whistle, no word. Spectators were growing restless, and something in Draco’s gut twisted.

Where the hell was their Healer?

He stood again. This time, he didn’t sit back down.

Slipping from the tent, he crossed the pitch perimeter and made his way around the edge, toward the opposite side. The wind whipped at his robes, snapping them behind him like a banner. As he neared the Bulgarian tent, he slowed, just enough to overhear.

“They said they’d be here by now, he should’ve been stabilised already-”

“We can’t move him like this-”

“What do we do? We’re not equipped-”

Draco stepped in.

“Where is your Healer?” he asked, eyes narrowed.

The Bulgarian staff turned toward him, some surprised, some wary, some visibly stressed. One young assistant looked like she might cry.

“Delayed. And one of them, our backup- doesn’t have clearance to cast autonomously.”

Draco didn’t hesitate. “Then I’ll do it.”

A familiar voice cut through. “Absolutely not.”

Draco turned to find Wilkes, Puddlemere’s corporate representative, standing stiffly at the tent’s edge. He was a small man, sour-faced and narrow eyed, and now practically vibrating with indignation.

“You are under contract with Puddlemere, Doctor Malfoy,” he said sharply. “You are not to treat opposition players without clearance. If we wished to extend your services, we would have specified it.”

Draco stared at him in disbelief. “You cannot be serious.”

Wilkes sneered. “Completely. If you proceed, you risk breach of contract and your employment with us will be under review.”

Draco let out a cold, incredulous laugh. “I am first and foremost a Healer,” he said. “My employment with your team is secondary to basic human decency. Step aside.”

Wilkes looked genuinely surprised. “They don’t even want your help,” he added, gesturing to the Bulgarian camp. “Proud people, you see. They’ll take offence.”

Draco turned to look at them. Some did look sceptical. One or two outright glared. But the majority looked terrified. Helpless. A few were holding their teammate’s limp hand, others wringing theirs. One man was whispering in Bulgarian, rapidly, probably praying.

Pride? Draco could work with pride.

He turned back to Wilkes, voice low and ice-sharp. “A man’s life is at risk. If you want to argue politics and paperwork while he dies, be my guest, but I’ll be filing my own report. And your name will be on it. For wilful neglect.”

Wilkes opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. No sound came out. Draco took that as a yes.

He swept past him without waiting for further protest and entered the tent.

It was more cluttered than Puddlemere’s- their supplies less centralised, shelves a mess of half-used vials and old equipment. Draco took it in quickly, hands already moving. He summoned a list to memory, barked instructions at one of the younger assistants, “Bring me stabilising draught, level five- two vials. And I need a cervical brace, now.”

To his relief, they moved. Whatever reservations they had, they weren’t foolish enough to block him.

The player was still unconscious. Pulse erratic. Magic was flaring sharply along his spine, his body attempting its own emergency triage.

Draco set to work, hands precise and calm. He muttered diagnostic spells as he went, lips moving fast, wand glowing in rhythmic pulses. He hovered his palm above the boy’s throat and jawline, checking reflexes. Then the collarbone. Then the sternum. His expression gave nothing away, but his mind was moving faster than lightning.

Roughly twenty minutes later, Draco stepped out of the Bulgarian tent, finally finished. The player, Boris, someone had told him, was stable, magically immobilised, and in better shape than Draco had dared hope. His pulse had evened out, the swelling along his spine had subsided, and he’d briefly opened his eyes before slipping back under.

The air outside had shifted in the time Draco had been gone. The tension had dissolved into triumph. Cheers echoed distantly, and up above, the sky was filled with floating banners in England’s colours. Puddlemere’s insignia flashed high over the pitch, catching the sunlight in smug golden bursts.

Apparently, the match was over.

Draco blinked up at the flags, dazed. They’d won.

He didn’t have long to take in the celebrations before a familiar and unwelcome voice cut through the post-match haze.

“There he is,” Wilkes snarled, storming towards him. He was now flanked by a trio of people in expensive suits - some mixture of lawyers, Draco presumed, and possibly one unfortunate PR representative. They all looked vaguely miserable.

Draco sighed.

Wilkes, evidently fuelled by the pause in play, launched into a fresh tirade. “You’ve overstepped, Doctor Malfoy. Do you even understand what it means to operate under a binding magical contract? Or are you one of those types who thinks paperwork is beneath him?”

Draco raised a brow.

“While you were off cosying up to the opposing team,” Wilkes spat, “one of our Beaters- Davies- had a flare-up in his leg, sharp pain mid-game, and our junior Healer had to manage it. Without supervision. Because you were gone.”

The legal team behind him looked scandalised in a faintly bored, upper management sort of way. Draco rolled his eyes, unimpressed.

“I apologise that I wasn’t there to administer the potion,” Draco said, voice perfectly even. “But Julie is not only capable, she is also hired to do exactly that- step in when I’m handling critical cases. And given that one of the Bulgarian players nearly broke his neck, I’d say my absence was justified.”

Wilkes turned an alarming shade of red. “That’s not your call to make-”

“And yet I made it,” Draco interrupted smoothly.

Wilkes surged forward a step, either to intimidate or shout directly in Draco’s face, but didn’t get the chance.

Because Harry appeared.

Still in his Seeker uniform, windswept and flushed with victory, he strode directly between them. The moment Harry stopped in front of Draco, Wilkes was forced to take a step back.

Draco blinked at the back of Harry’s head, surprised.

Harry’s voice was tight. “Give it a rest, Wilkes.” The man opened his mouth, but Harry didn’t give him a chance. “You’re out of line. Draco just saved a player from brain and spine damage, maybe worse. If you think even a single person on this team won't have his back, Gerald especially, you’re deluded.” He glanced sideways at the legal team. “You and your frauds in monkey suits can piss right off."

Draco let out a quiet snort that he covered with a cough. Harry, apparently, was in no mood for diplomacy.

Wilkes looked like he might actually combust. But between Harry’s presence and the watching eyes of half a dozen nearby journalists, he managed to hold it together- barely.

“This isn’t over,” he hissed at Draco. “You’ll be hearing from my office.”

Draco smiled, faint and cold. “Can’t wait.”

Wilkes turned with a swirl of his robes and stormed off, trailed by his defeated legal entourage.

Harry didn’t move for a moment, still staring after him, jaw tight. Then he turned back to Draco. “You alright?”

Draco blinked. “Yes. Though it’s tempting to feign emotional distress just to see what you’d do next.”

Harry gave him a flat look, but the edge of his mouth tugged upward. “I’d tell you to file a complaint with HR. Which is probably just Gerald in a hoodie.”

He huffed out a laugh. "Professional." He said. “So, you caught the Snitch, then? How did it go?”

Harry nodded, running a hand through his hair. “It was a close one, honestly. Niko saw it first, but their team was off after Boris went down. Like they'd had the wind taken out of them.” He shrugged, but his brow furrowed. “I don’t know if we would’ve made it if they’d stayed at full strength.”

He always tried to play the nonchalant athlete, but Draco had learned quickly that Harry cared- too much, sometimes. About the game. About the people. About doing it right.

Draco's expression softened. “No point going in circles over what might’ve happened. You won. And you played well,” he added, voice quiet but firm. “As always.” he added.

Harry blinked, surprised for a half-second, but then a slow, tired smile curved his lips. His eyes crinkled at the corners, warm and grateful. He stepped into the tent, loosening the flap so it fell shut behind him, muting the distant hum of the celebrating crowd. The air stilled. He moved closer to Draco, steps slow, but sure.

“Oh, right,” Draco said, remembering suddenly, straightening instinctively. “I ordered more of that chamomile tea. Six boxes. Should get you through the rest of the tournament.” He turned slightly, eyeing the exit. “I put it in our tent-”

But he didn’t get far. Harry’s hand closed gently around his arm, halting him mid-motion.

Draco froze.

Harry hummed low in his throat, stepping in and dropping his head against Draco’s shoulder. He let out a long sigh, the kind that seemed to deflate the tension from his bones, like he’d finally exhaled after holding it in too long. Draco’s heartbeat skyrocketed. Harry’s breath warmed the crook of his neck, and his hair tickled along Draco’s jaw, light and maddening.

“Thank you,” Harry murmured.

“For… the tea?” Draco asked, voice decidedly unsteady.

Harry smiled, the curve of his lips brushing skin. “Sure.”

Draco swallowed and shifted, inching a step back, not far, just enough to break the contact and clear the fog in his head. The sudden space between them let in a rush of cooler air, but it did nothing for the heat in his face.

Harry made a soft sound of protest, lifting his head reluctantly. His nose brushed along the column of Draco’s throat as he moved, and Draco shivered, catching his breath.

“Ah- Merlin, Harry,” he muttered, stepping back properly this time. “What are you doing?”

Harry’s grin was slow and entirely wicked. “Collecting my prize.”

Draco went scarlet. He grabbed the nearest thing within reach, an innocent roll of gauze, and hurled it at Harry’s head.

It bounced off harmlessly. Harry laughed, catching it on the rebound like he’d expected it. His grin never wavered. "I'll come back for the tea." He promised, walking away to rejoin the celebration.

Chapter Text

The knock came just as Draco was rinsing the last trace of mint from his mouth.

Ah, that would be Harry. He hadn't expected him to remember to come back, honestly. the festivities were still ongoing downstairs. Draco had considered joining, but the thought of drinking beer and talking about 'oh, what a close one that was' til the sun rises was rather unappealing.

Draco dabbed his mouth dry and ran a hand through his hair. Too late to change. And he wasn’t going to scramble to look presentable for Harry of all people. Absolutely not.

Still, he tugged the pyjama shirt straight before opening the door.

Harry was mid-smile, as if he’d been about to say something, probably a terrible joke, but the words died on his tongue. His eyes travelled downward, slowly, and Draco could see the exact moment they landed on the tiny embroidered ferret stitched onto the breast pocket of his pyjamas.

Theo’s idea of a birthday gift. The silk set was navy, disgustingly comfortable, and, as Theo had pointed out with infuriating logic, “a practical joke and luxury sleepwear. Two for one.” Draco had considered setting them on fire more than once.

"Hi," Harry’s grin turned wicked. “Cute pyjamas.”

“Piss off,” Draco snapped automatically, one hand already lifting the door to close it. Unfortunately, Harry was faster. He slipped a palm against the frame, stopping it with minimal effort.

“Can I come in?”

Draco hesitated for a beat, warring between the desire to slam the door anyway and the even more dangerous impulse to say yes, stay. He stepped back stiffly, allowing Harry to enter.

 He’d never been in Draco’s hotel room before, and yet he moved like he belonged here.

Unacceptable.

Draco shut the door a little too hard behind him.

Harry’s eyes swept the space, tidy, of course, but under his gaze, Draco suddenly saw dust on the windowsill, a book not quite aligned with the others on the shelf, a prescription sheet left askew on the desk. His stomach twisted absurdly.

Before he could say anything about the tea, the reason he was here, after all, Harry turned around, and Draco noticed he was holding something. Two somethings.

“I got you these,” Harry said, a little quickly, holding them out. He looked oddly sheepish.

Draco blinked. Books. Two of them, stacked neatly in his hands. He took them carefully, trying to mask his confusion with indifference. His fingers brushed Harry’s as he did, and he hoped to Merlin his ears weren’t going pink.

“The first one,” Harry began, rubbing the back of his neck, “is one of those creepy books you like. Horror, I mean. I saw it in Calais and thought of you.”

Draco froze. “You… thought of me?” he repeated, dumbly. His brain was not, apparently, functioning at any useful capacity.

Harry gave a half-laugh, half-cough. “Yeah. I mean, it sounded sort of similar to the one you told me about on the train. The blurb mentioned 'cursed wolves' and 'ancestral dread', so…”

Draco stared at the cover. The design was appropriately ghastly, the font jagged, the blurb promising gothic suspense and psychological trauma. His heart had quite simply ceased to exist in his chest.

“It looks good,” he said, breathlessly. He turned it over, skimming the back again. “Really good.” He looked up, eyes meeting Harry’s. “Thank you.”

Harry looked relieved. As if he’d been expecting Draco to scoff or set it on fire. “You’re welcome,” he said, shoulders loosening. “I’ll be looking forward to your review.”

Draco huffed a laugh, finally managing something close to composure. “I won’t hold back.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

Harry pointed to the second book. It was thinner, more colourful, and Draco couldn’t quite make out the title from the angle.

“This one’s a comic.”

“A… co-mik?” Draco repeated, squinting at the cover.

Harry smiled- that smile, the soft one, the one that always made Draco feel like he’d been seen and, inexplicably, not judged. “Comic. Like… the scenes are drawn out, and there’s text in little boxes. It’s basically visual storytelling. I used to read them all the time.”

Draco frowned, turning the second book over in his hands. The Amazing Spider-Man. His eyes widened in faint recognition.

“Oh, this is the web shooter bloke.”

Harry grinned. “Indeed, he is. This one’s new, but I’ve got a battered old copy in my room. Used to read it religiously.”

Draco eyed the illustration on the front: a lanky man in red and blue with enormous white eyes and far too many muscles to be realistic. Still, there was something… charming about it. Chaotic, bold, unabashedly ridiculous.

He hummed thoughtfully. “Looking at your grades, Harry, we could tell.”

Harry snorted, head tipping back with a laugh. Draco couldn’t help but watch him- really watch him, how easily he glowed when he was laughing. He didn't realise when he had starting caring so much about things like this.

Draco looked down at the books again. One soaked in shadows and psychological torment. The other bright and brash and silly. A pair of gifts, as mismatched and sincere as Harry himself.

He cleared his throat. “Well. I suppose you’ve earned your tea.”

“Oh, finally,” Harry said, eyes lighting up. “I thought you’d forgotten.”

Draco only shook his head and crossed the room to the shelf near his bed, reaching beneath it to pull out a rather large rectangular tin. He set it down on the table with a slight thud, popped the lid, and turned it towards Harry with an exaggerated flourish.

Harry leaned in, peering into the box like it was a puzzle to be solved. His face twisted thoughtfully, and after a moment, he reached in and plucked out two.

Just two.

Draco blinked at the remaining four still nestled in the tin. He cocked his head, mildly affronted. “I did order myself an additional six, you know. No need to ration it.”

Harry shrugged one shoulder, casual. “I’ll grab the others when I need them.”

“Why wait until you’ve run out again?” Draco asked, brow furrowed. “They’re right here.”

Harry hesitated. Looked away. The tips of his ears had gone a faint pink. When he spoke, it was softer, quieter. “I just… want an excuse to see you again.”

Draco’s lips parted. He froze.

He hadn’t expected that. Not like this, not with such disarming honesty.

This man- Merlin, this man. How was anyone meant to survive him?

Draco swallowed, breath catching. For a mad moment, he wanted to lean in, just to see what it might feel like to kiss that crooked smile. But instead, he cleared his throat, forcibly steadying himself.

“You don’t need an excuse.”

Harry looked up at that, and his expression softened, like he’d been holding his breath and finally got permission to exhale. “No?”

Draco shook his head, trying not to sound like it mattered. 

That earned him a sheepish smile. “I-” Harry began, rubbing at the back of his neck again, “I sort of planned to fake some injuries. Or, like, get mildly bruised at training. Just enough to justify stopping by your office. Early on, at least."

Draco stared at him.

“Nothing serious,” Harry added quickly. “Just a muscle pull or something. Enough for you to tell me off and keep an eye on me.”

Draco pinched his mouth together, attempting to suppress a laugh. His chest felt warm in a way that had nothing to do with tea.

“But,” Harry continued, “I realised you had a lot on your plate, and I didn’t want to stress you out. Or make you feel like you had to worry about me.”

Draco made a small sound in his throat- too close to fond, too close to something dangerous- and set the box of tea down on the counter beside them. “I always worry about you,” he said quietly.

Then hesitated. He could feel Harry’s eyes on him, wide and intent, and quickly corrected, “I mean- about all of you.”

Harry nodded along, very seriously. His eyes were bright. “Sure.”

“The team,” Draco insisted.

“Of course.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Harry.”

“Draco,” he said back, grinning brightly and dipping his head.

And that smile- Draco couldn’t look directly at it. It felt like staring into sunlight.

He looked at the tin instead. Cleared his throat. 

Then, softly, Draco said, “Still. If you ever… do want to stop by. You don’t need bruises. Or excuses.” he cleared his throat, speaking pointedly. "In fact, I'd much prefer if you didn't."

He kept his gaze fixed on the tea, pretending not to notice how still Harry had gone beside him.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Harry said. His voice was warm. "Thanks for the tea." 

Draco nodded once. “Of course,” he said. “I’m glad it helped. It certainly worked wonders on me.”

Harry tilted his head. “On this trip?”

Draco hesitated. A long beat.

Their odd, back-and-forth rhythm could handle sarcasm and banter, but this- this teetered close to something raw. Emotions and other equally uncomfortable things he didn’t talk about.

He shook his head, aiming for casual. “Just generally,” he said, waving a hand. “It happens.”

But Harry didn’t drop it. He frowned slightly, like he was trying to see through the nonchalance. “For how long?”

Draco’s heart gave an uncomfortable thud. His spine went rigid. “I don’t know,” he said sharply. “It doesn’t matter.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them. Harry’s expression shifted, just a flicker, a slight downturn of the lips, but Draco felt it like a punch to the gut.

He softened instantly. “Sorry,” he added, voice quieter now. “It’s just- one of those things.”

Harry shook his head, gaze flicking down to the box of tea, then up again. “Don’t apologise. I’m being nosy.”

He shifted awkwardly, one foot scuffing the floor. Then, more tentatively, “Let me know if I can… you know. Help.”

Draco blinked. “With?”

“Anything.”

Draco’s throat felt tight. He wasn’t sure how to respond, how to let something like that in without fumbling it. But the sincerity on Harry’s face, uncomplicated and unguarded, was impossible to ignore.

So Draco smiled, nodded. “Okay,” he promised.

The next day began, as all sensible days should, with brushing his teeth and mentally preparing for the onslaught of idiocy. First on his list was Kit, who was, mercifully, early, already seated and sipping something suspiciously dark in a paper cup.

“It’s not coffee,” He said, immediately defensive.

Draco raised a brow.

“It’s... brown chicory tea,” Kit added weakly.

Draco sighed and gestured for him to lie down. “Have you been using the salve?”

“Every morning and night.”

“Stretching?”

“Yep.”

“And alcohol?”

Kit coughed, eyes darting away. “No,” he squeaked in a pitch not even remotely convincing.

Draco rolled his eyes, casting the diagnostic charm and watching the threads of light weave over Kit’s back. “Well,” he said, adjusting it slightly, “no signs of aggravation. That bruise over the lumbar has faded. I’ll give you a more intensive plan- nothing wild- and another round of salve.”

Kit sat up as Draco packed away his parchment and tools. “Thanks,” he said, as polite as ever, but there was a beat too long before he stood.

Draco didn’t even have to look up to know what that meant. Its the I have something to say that I think is unimportant but will actually massively affect my healing look.“Yes?”

Kit shifted, glanced at the floor, and sat back down. “There’s this one stretch. I’ve been doing all of them, like you said, but- this one actually really hurts.”

He tapped the back of his shoulder.

Draco hummed. “I see. And did it stop hurting when you stopped doing the stretch?”

“Er... I don't know. I kept doing it.”

“You kept doing the movement that caused pain?”

Kit flushed. “I didn’t want to not follow your instructions! I thought it was one of those pain is progress situations.”

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know what testosterone-fuelled Quidditch article told you that, but pain is rarely a goal.” He stood, motioning for Kit to follow. “Show me.”

Kit raised his arm in a broad sweep, and Draco stopped him halfway through, realsiing the issue.

“There,” he said, lowering it gently. “You're overextending. These aren’t Quidditch stretches- they’re about fluid movement, not power. Don’t force your range. Just ease your body back into mobility.”

Kit nodded, clearly absorbing it now. “Right. Got it. Thanks, Draco.” His face was oddly pink.

“You’re welcome.”

Kit gathered his things just as Gerald, Harry, and John Davies wandered in.

“Morning,” Kit mumbled, before rushing out. He gave Draco a quick wave at the door.

Draco nodded and gestured for Davies to take a seat. He flopped onto the chair. “These two insisted on walking me down. Like I’m about to keel over.”

Gerald thumped the back of his head. “You were limping yesterday, you idiot. Could barely walk straight.”

Harry snorted. “Though I’m guessing that had more to do with the vodka than your actual muscle.”

"Still," Davies scowled at them. “I don’t need parental bloody supervision.”

“Oh, but mummy and daddy worry,” Harry said, dabbing at imaginary tears.

“Exactly, poppet,” Gerald added, smirking. "you don't want to worry us, do you?"

Draco gave them a flat look. “If the parents are done bickering, the doctor would like to get to work.”

Gerald held up his hands. “Of course, Doc.” He paused, hand on the doorframe. “Oh, and thanks for talking to Kit. Poor lad came to me practically shaking.”

Draco nodded as he pulled out a few stabilising potions. “He’s doing much better now.”

Davies snorted. “I bet he is.” Gerald and Davies exchanged a look.

Harry looked between them, lost. At the similar look of confusion of Draco's face, Gerald faltered. "Oh, you- don't tell me you haven't noticed."

“What?” Draco asked. “He’s taking his medication, isn’t he?”

"Ah, well. It's not our place to tell-" Gerald started, before Davies cut him off.

“Kit’s got a bit of a crush on you.”

The scan prints slipped out of Draco’s hand. He stared.

Harry did a double take. “What?”

Gerald groaned and smacked Davies’ head again. Merlin, he'd have to check that out too. “You absolute gobshite.”

“What?” Davies said, grinning. “It’s funny. He came back from that match rambling about how you took on Wilkes like it was a duel and then vanished like some hero. He was pink in the face. It was fucking adorable.”

Draco's ears felt warm. “He’s just being friendly.”

Davies shrugged. “The look in his eyes wasn’t exactly friendly, if you-”

“Alright,” Harry snapped. His expression was pinched.

Everyone looked at him. He cleared his throat, face neutral but voice firmer than usual. “I mean, we should let Draco get to his appointment.” he gave Davies a look. "You're such a gossip."

Davies raised a brow. "Just 'cause you don't like what I'm saying-"

Gerald cleared his throat dramatically. “We’ll get out of your hair, Doctor." He gestured to Davies. "Feel free to let this one stew in pain for a bit." he suggested, steering a still frowning Harry out of his office.

It was only 11, and Draco was ready to drop dead.

Chapter Text

The Cairo sun was blistering.

Draco had never sweated this much in his life. This was sticky and damp and undignified. He was wearing the loosest linens he owned, flowing cream fabric that hung off him and still managed to cling in the worst possible places. His hair felt like a rag left out in the rain and dried by a particularly lazy breeze.

And still. Still. He was boiling.

He tilted his head to the side and let out a long, measured exhale through his nose. No good. The sweat kept beading at his hairline. He could feel a trickle running down the back of his neck like a personal insult.

A creak behind him. He didn’t need to look to know what it was- or who.

Because of course. Of course Harry had the audacity to step out of his bungalow like some sun-kissed Greek god. Skin bronzed and gleaming. Shirt flapping open like the cover of a cheap romance novel. Bright eyes, brighter grin, and not a trace of discomfort.

Merlin, kill him.

Draco ducked his head, turning sharply toward the medical tent before he did something deeply regrettable- like spontaneously combust or kiss Harry Potter in the Egyptian sun.

His wand flicked viciously as he entered the tent, conjuring shade with all the suppressed aggression of a man betrayed by the weather. Cooling charms followed, layered meticulously in every corner. The air shifted slightly, not cold, but tolerable. It would do.

He spotted the pile of litters stacked on the desk, thick parchment with deep blue wax seals. The topmost read Puddlemere Corporate in a font that was almost offensively self-important.

Draco resisted the urge to sneer. Barely.

The Wilkes matter was supposed to be over. His lawyer- a grim little wizard with permanent frown and the soul of a shark, had assured him that everything was being handled. “You saved a life,” the man had said, flatly. “And you documented it. Let them try.”

Still. The letters kept arriving. Corporate breathing down his neck, murmurs of protocol violations and misaligned optics.

As if Draco gave a damn about optics when someone was actively bleeding out on the pitch.

He exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose until colours flared in his vision. His jaw was aching. When had he clenched it?

He reached for his bag and tugged out the chamomile tea tin, the cool metal a comfort in his too-warm palm. He wasn’t anxious, not exactly,  just hot and cross and vaguely homicidal. The tea helped. It always helped.

Not like Potter, with his whole tortured insomnia routine. Draco, unlike some people, slept just fine.

…Most nights.

Well. Occasionally.

It wasn’t about sleep. The tea made things feel less sharp. Softened the edge of the day. Let his brain stop trying to rearrange itself into lists and contingencies.  It was grounding.

He poured hot water over the blend, watching the leaves unfurl slowly. Steam curled up, catching the light, and he let his shoulders fall a little. This was good. Rational. Adult.

He thought again of Harry stepping out into the courtyard like some Renaissance painting come to life, shirt sheer against his chest, the line of his collarbone visible, smug expression firmly in place.

Draco sipped his tea.

Merlin, how cheesy.

And then the tent flap rustled. “Gorgeous weather, isn’t it?” came Potter’s voice, entirely too cheerful for a man standing in the middle of hellfire.

Draco groaned. A long, heartfelt sound, as he bowed his head and caught it in his hands.

He heard Harry stop just inside the threshold, and when he finally dared to look up, the expression on his face was nearly comical- somewhere between bemused and horrified, like he’d just walked in on a national emergency and wasn’t entirely convinced he wasn’t responsible.

Draco imagined it must have been a bit of a shock, seeing him like this. Out of order. Disorganised. Visibly un-put-together. Hair a damp mess, face flushed, a tea tin clutched like a lifeline.

If he had more energy, he might’ve laughed. But nothing was funny in this heat.

Harry stepped closer, slow and wary, as if approaching a wild animal. “Alright, Draco?”

Draco grunted. An entirely improper, primal little sound that felt pulled from the depths of some ancient rage.

Harry coughed, clearly to hide a snicker. “Right,” he muttered. Then, rummaging in his duffel bag, he pulled out something bright blue and slightly ridiculous.

A child’s water bottle.

It had a plastic crocodile on the side.

Draco took it without hesitation and cracked it open like it held the elixir of life, nodding gratefully.

Water slid down his throat like salvation, and a few rebellious drops trickled past his lips and down his chin. He could feel it rolling down his neck, soaking into the collar of his already-clingy linen shirt, but couldn’t bring himself to give a single damn.

He was sweating through his clothes, his hair was a limp disgrace, and he’d genuinely considered lying down in the shade and dying. He was far past shame.

He paused, momentarily aware of how he must look- flushed, bedraggled, half-reclined on the edge of his desk, guzzling water like a man lost in the Sahara.

Then he shrugged inwardly. Sod it. If Potter had a problem with it, he could take it up with the sun.

Draco handed the bottle back only to find Harry staring at him. His eyes were soft, creased around the edges from where he was smiling softly. He looked unbearably fond. Draco blinked, throat still dry despite the water. “What?”

Harry’s smile widened, just a little. “You’ve got a little- hang on.”

He reached forward and, with thumb and forefinger, gently wiped a drop of water from the corner of Draco’s mouth.

Draco froze. His breath caught, sharp and undignified.

Harry was close enough now that Draco could smell the shampoo in his hair, could feel the heat radiating from his skin. His shirt was clinging in all the right places. The fabric was half see-through where it was damp with sweat, and for some reason, Draco’s brain chose this moment to zero in on a tiny freckle just below his collarbone.

Merlin save him.

“Better,” Harry murmured, retracting his hand. He set the bottle on the desk behind Draco, brushing past him as he did. Their arms touched. Draco didn’t move.

“You’ve gone very quiet,” Harry observed.

Draco let his head tip back slightly, eyes fluttering shut. He could still feel where Harry’s thumb had brushed his skin. It was ridiculous. His body had no business remembering something so small. "Have I?"

He heard Harry shift in front of him. "Are you okay? Really?"

“I’m fine. Just overheating. Loathing everyone. The usual.”

“Ah,” Harry said, nodding. “Classic Malfoy symptoms.”

Draco narrowed his eyes, but there was no venom in it.

Harry smiled, lazy and bright, and moved to stand next to Draco, leant against the edge of the desk. “You know, you could just take the day off.”

“Can’t.”

“You won’t,” Harry corrected.

Draco scowled, because it was true. "I have a job to do."

“You look exhausted, Draco,” Harry said, earnest now. He bumped their shoulders together, just a nudge. “Take a break.”

Draco exhaled slowly, evenly, as though keeping everything tightly in place. “Even if I wanted to,” he said quietly, “it’s not up to me.”

Harry frowned, brows pulling together. “Alright.” Then he brightened- far too suddenly. “But if I sort it for you… You’ll come?”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Come where?”

It felt eerily familiar, this kind of conversation. Like Calais. Like something slipping just out of his control.

Harry grinned. “I’ll take you out.”

That jolted Draco more effectively than the tea ever could. His head snapped up. “Out?”

Harry nodded, but there was a hint of nerves under it- like he was bluffing his way through it.

Draco hesitated. “As in, a-” He stopped, lips parting uselessly. Did he really want to be the one to say it aloud? All their flirting, all the teasing- it only worked because it wasn’t defined. No labels. No expectations. Just… charged, chaotic possibility.

But Draco hated confusion. And this, whatever it was, was rapidly moving past deniability.

He cleared his throat. “On a date?”

Harry shifted slightly, his foot scuffing the tent floor. Their arms brushed again, and this time he didn’t move away. He couldn’t seem to meet Draco’s gaze. His cheeks were flushed, and Draco suspected it wasn’t only the heat causing it.

“Yeah,” Harry said eventually. Quiet. Honest. “I mean, that’s sort of… what we’ve been doing, right?” He winced as soon as he said it, like he was hearing the boldness too late.

Draco’s face went warm. Possibly molten.

“Or- leading up to it,” Harry amended quickly, almost stumbling over the words now. “That is, if you want to. If it’s not too- whatever.”

Draco stared at him.

Of all the ways this ridiculous day could’ve gone, this wasn’t on the list. He was sweaty, mildly sunburned, and currently holding a tea tin like a shield against emotional intimacy. And Harry- sun-kissed and flushed and wildly earnest- wanted to go on a date with him.

And the worst part?

Draco wanted to say yes.

So badly it scared him.

But he didn’t say anything. Not yet. Just stared at Harry, heart thudding in his ears and mouth gone inexplicably dry.

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “Right. I’ll stop talking now.”

Draco finally, finally let out a breath. “I didn’t say no.”

Harry blinked. “You didn’t?”

“I didn’t.” Draco looked down at the tin in his hands. Then up again, more tentative this time. “I said I can’t… unless someone covers me.”

“I’ll sort it,” Harry promised, instantly. Like it was a given. Like the world would bend if he asked nicely enough.

Draco gave him a look. “You don’t even know what needs covering.”

“Don’t care,” Harry said. “I’ll find out.”

Draco tried not to smile. Failed. “Fine,” he muttered, just barely. “I'll come.”

Harry’s grin lit up the whole bloody tent. He didn't seem put off by Draco's mild response. Although, he did have a way of knowing exactly Draco was feeling.

“And maybe,” Draco added warningly, “you’ll learn not to ask people out when they’re melting.”

Harry laughed. “It worked, didn’t it?” His eyes flicked over Draco's face, and he pushed off the desk, and stood right opposite him. Draco was still leaning against the edge of the desk, half-lost in his own fluster, but the moment Harry stepped in, his legs parted automatically to make space. As if they had a mind of their own. As if Harry belonged there.

He watched as Harry licked his lips, slow and distracted. "Can I- ah," Harry began, voice rough with want. His gaze flicked helplessly to Draco’s mouth, eyes dark and a little dazed. There was hunger there, yes, but also something gentler. Something that made Draco feel like his ribs were too tight for his heart.

Draco swallowed. His spine straightened instinctively, like bracing for impact, and then- without really thinking- his hands found their way to Harry’s chest. They roved upwards, smoothing over the fabric of his shirt, barely aware of anything except the shape beneath his palms.

Harry’s hand slid around to his back, warm and steady, pulling him closer.

He ducked his head at the same time Draco lifted his chin. Their lips brushed for barely a second. A beautiful, blazing, bloody unforgettable second.

Then-

The tent flap blew open with a dramatic whoosh of desert wind, and in stumbled the entire Quidditch team, shouting and jostling and laughing as if they hadn’t just shattered the moment like a dropped vial of potion.

Draco’s heart dropped like a stone into his stomach and harry groaned, still far too close, still touching him, and yet miles away now.

In a panic, Draco shoved him back. Reflexive, apologetic. "Sorry," he mouthed, horror blooming across his face as Harry lost balance, stumbled over Draco’s shoes and,

Thunk.

Landed flat on the floor of the tent.

Connor stepped over him casually. “Alright, Harry?”

“Brilliant,” Harry grunted, flat on his back and blinking at the ceiling. He was grinning like a fool. “Absolutely thriving.”

Draco turned away, face on fire, already pretending to be busy with the bloody tea tins.

Chapter Text

Draco ran a hand through his damp hair as he padded back into his hotel room, a faint trail of steam following him from the bathroom. Despite the infernal heat of Cairo pressing in through every wall, there was a distinct lightness in his step. His linen shirt clung slightly to his back, but he hardly noticed.

A date. Merlin.

He could hardly believe he’d said the word out loud. It made him feel a bit unhinged, to be honest. Or perhaps sun-mad. Either way, there was something giddy in his chest that he refused to examine too closely.

They had been circling each other, hadn’t they? Casual and not. Friends, maybe, with a particular fondness for toeing the line of what might count as flirting. But it had always felt like something would interrupt it eventually- the World Cup, a match, the real world. He’d nearly convinced himself it would all just fizzle out into polite nods and missed opportunities.

But of course, Harry Bloody Potter had to go and do something about it.

A knock startled him out of his spiralling thoughts. He swiped a hand over his hair once more, still damp, still stubborn, and opened the door to find Julie on the other side, clipboard in hand.

“Doctor Malfoy,” she greeted, eyes scanning the page before looking up. “Just wanted to let you know you’ve been released from your duties for the rest of the day.”

Draco blinked. “What?”

“You’re on call,” she clarified, as if that would make more sense. “But otherwise, you’re cleared. The team’s doing prep together. We’ll manage.”

Draco stared at her for a full three seconds. “You’re serious.”

She gave a small, amused smile. “Very.”

Something bubbled in his chest- disbelief, certainly, but also something perilously close to glee. He caught the corners of his mouth twitching traitorously upwards.

“Merlin,” he murmured, not quite to her. “He actually did it.”

Julie raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Recovering quickly, Draco stepped aside and gestured her in. “Wait here a moment. If you’re all handling prep, I’ve got some files and post-its with updated recovery notes for Kit and Gerald. And you’ll want to keep an eye on Davies- he’s pretending the bruise on his calf doesn’t exist.”

Julie accepted the stack with a sharp nod, flipping through the top few pages. “Got it. Anything else?”

Draco hesitated, then sighed. “If anything so much as wobbles on the pitch, call me.”

Julie gave him a look. “Yes, Doctor.” She turned to go, but paused halfway through the doorway, frowning slightly. Then, after a beat, she looked over her shoulder and asked, “Are you and Harry… friends?”

Draco blinked. “Excuse me?”

Julie shrugged. “It’s just- I’ve worked with this team for years. He's lovely, but- I've never seen him move mountains for staff like this.” Draco opened his mouth, but she continued, “He personally argued with both management and the coaching team. Got some of the other on the team to back him up as well.”

Julie tilted her head, watching him. “Just wondering. What exactly did you say to him that made our Seeker leap through multiple bureaucratic flaming hoops to buy you a day off?”

Draco, to his utter humiliation, could feel the flush rising up his neck. “I- nothing,” he said quickly. “He’s just- like that.”

“Mm-hmm.” Julie raised a brow. “I mean, I’ve seen him argue for better uniforms and longer nap breaks. But this? This was impressive.”

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please stop talking.”

Julie grinned now, eyes dancing. “He said, and I quote, ‘If you want your players alive and your Healer conscious, give him the bloody day. He’s magic, not immortal.’”

Draco let out a faint groan and leaned against the doorframe. “I’m going to kill him.”

Upon seeing him just minutes later, however, Draco did not in fact kill him.

He looked painfully attractive in his crisp white shirt, with the sleeves pushed up, collar slightly undone, the fabric thin enough to hint at the tan beneath it. Paired with light trousers and windswept hair, he looked like a bloody postcard. Draco narrowed his eyes at him on principle.

Harry straightened when Draco approached, eyes raking over him with something infuriatingly pleased. “You look good,” Harry said easily, as if complimenting Draco’s wardrobe was the most natural thing in the world.

Draco felt his ears warm. “Thank you,” he said, perhaps a little too earnestly. “You do too.”

Which was putting it mildly. Harry looked delectable, but Draco had the self-respect not to admit that aloud. Or even in his internal monologue, if he could help it.

They began walking down the corridor together, footsteps quiet on the tile. It was strangely comfortable, the silence between them, broken only by the distant hum of staff and the occasional clink of cutlery from the breakfast buffet.

They passed the Healers' office- Draco’s sanctum- when the door flew open and Kit stepped out, nearly colliding into them.

“Oh!” he said, blinking. “Doctor Malfoy, hi. I was just about to- wait, why was my physio changed?”

Draco opened his mouth.

“Are you alright?” Kit blurted out before he could answer. “The others mentioned you had a rest day, but you seemed fine earlier. Are you ill? Oh, I knew there was something going around. It's all this bloody travel from hot to cold and back to boiling!”

Draco blinked as Kit hovered around him like a worried hummingbird, eyes wide, hands gesturing wildly. He tried to speak, but Kit barrelled on.

“If there’s anything, absolutely anything, I can do, please tell me. Should I get water? Or- have you eaten? I can nick something from the kitchen. Wait- do you like fruit? I could get you fruit. Or-”

Draco stood there, mouth open, utterly unable to get a word in.

Beside him, Harry had gone very still.

Oh.

Draco cleared his throat, trying not to let his amusement show. “I’m fine,” he said, gently but firmly. “Just taking a few hours off. That’s all.”

Kit’s shoulders slumped with relief. “Oh, thank Merlin.”

Draco offered a small, reassuring smile. “Julie, that’s the Healer you’ll be seeing this afternoon, has your file. I’ve updated her on your back. You’re all set.”

Kit nodded, a bit dazed. “Right. Of course. Yes. That makes sense.” He blinked at Harry, then back to Draco. “Er. Well. Hope you get some rest, then. You deserve it. See you, Harry.”

Draco nodded politely. “Thank you.”

Kit lingered for a beat longer, clearly tempted to say more, but Harry shifted slightly beside Draco, and that seemed to snap Kit out of it. He gave a slightly awkward wave and disappeared back inside the office.

As soon as the door shut behind him, Harry turned to Draco with a carefully neutral expression. “He’s very… attentive.”

Draco groaned. “Don’t start.”

Harry’s mouth twitched. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“You already are.”

Harry shrugged. “I just- well, I didn’t realise Davies was being serious that day. About the whole… crush thing.”

Draco winced. “Can we not call it a crush? We’re grown men, not second-years passing notes in Charms.”

“Fine,” Harry said, clearly enjoying himself now. “I didn’t realise Kit had romantic inclinations toward you. Better?”

Draco gave him a long, flat stare. “No.”

Harry’s mouth twitched. “Sorry. I just- I didn’t even know Kit was gay. Until now.”

He paused, then winced again.

“Oh no,” he muttered. “God. Have I been as obvious as him?”

Draco snorted before he could stop himself. “In your own way.”

Harry looked appalled. “I have?”

Draco, already regretting everything about this conversation, looked up at the ceiling. “Harry, trying to understand you has been the least of my worries. Between work, and players falling apart, and-” he cut himself off sharply. “And my own feelings, I've been a little busy.”

The word escaped before he could stop it. Horrifying. Treacherous.

He froze.

So did Harry.

There was a sharp little silence, the kind that makes your ribs feel too tight for your lungs.

Harry blinked. “Your own…?”

Draco turned on his heel and started walking, brisk and mutinous. “So, what do you have planned for us today?” he said over his shoulder, in what might have passed for a casual tone if he hadn’t practically barked it.

There was a beat, then footsteps behind him- Harry jogging to catch up.

“No,” Harry said slowly, drawing out the word like it was a revelation. “You definitely said feelings. Which you have. For me.”

Draco didn’t turn, but he could hear the grin growing in Harry’s voice.

“You’ve got feelings,” Harry went on, positively gleeful now. “That you admitted Out Loud.”

Draco whipped around, face flaming. “Well, I agreed to go on a date with you, didn’t I?” he snapped. “I don’t make a habit of dating people I loathe, you arsehole.”

Harry, far from being offended, looked absolutely delighted. Smug.  He caught up properly this time, falling into step beside Draco and reached out and intertwined their fingers. Just like that.

Draco’s fingers twitched, but didn’t pull away.

“If it wasn’t already painfully obvious,” Harry murmured, his voice suddenly lower, steadier, “I’ve got feelings for you too. Loads of them.”

He tugged gently at Draco’s hand, drawing him to a stop.

“So many,” he said, mock-serious now, “that you’ve been living rent-free in my head ever since I saw you in Gerald’s office that's first day, looking all professional and furious.”

He was smiling, yes, but not teasing anymore. His eyes were warm, raw with something real.

Draco stared at him. “Well… good,” he said stiffly. “So we’re even.”

Harry blinked, then tilted his head, amused. “Even?”

“You know.” Draco waved his free hand vaguely. “Feelings-wise.”

Harry made a strangled sound. Then promptly burst out laughing.

He bent forward, wheezing like Draco had just confessed to moonlighting as a stand-up comic. “Oh my God- you’re ridiculous.”

Draco scowled, yanking his hand back with what dignity he could muster. “Well, this has been mortifying.”

Harry grinned at him, eyes bright, utterly besotted. “You are so… you.”

Draco didn’t have a clue what to do with that, so he huffed, turned sharply, and marched toward the lobby.

His face was absolutely on fire. His heart had not got the memo that they were supposed to be playing it cool.

Draco couldn’t quite believe the place existed- let alone that Harry of all people had found it, booked it on such short notice, and then looked utterly at ease leading him through its arched, lantern-lit doorway like it was no big deal.

The café was quiet, tucked away at the far end of a Muggle market square. The windows were wide open, the breeze soft and fragrant with spice, and the décor was some blend of local tradition and airy modernity: carved wood, scatter cushions, soft gold light. There was even a proper Egyptian tea-tasting menu, which Draco was certain took at least a week to reserve.

He said none of this aloud. Of course he didn’t. Instead, he let his shoulder brush Harry’s on the way in. He leaned closer than strictly necessary as they approached the host. He tilted his chin when Harry looked over, just enough for him to catch the warmth in Draco’s eyes.

The answering grin on Harry’s face said he understood perfectly.

They were seated at a small table for two, tucked in a shaded courtyard, half-covered in vines and flowering plants. The first course arrived shortly after: a little plate of roasted almonds and dried apricots, paired with an amber-hued tea that smelled sharp and herbal.

Draco sipped, nodded, then made a soft noise of approval. “This one’s actually very good.”

Harry raised his cup in lazy agreement. “Tastes like something you’d drink in a haunted monastery.”

Draco huffed a laugh. “Surprisingly accurate.”

They lapsed into an easy rhythm. Small dishes and small cups arrived in neat succession: honeyed dates and chamomile, saffron biscuits with hibiscus tea, slices of fig bread alongside a mint blend strong enough to wake the dead.

Between pours, they talked- about school, somehow, though they never quite meant to. It began with a passing joke about Transfiguration- one of McGonagall’s stricter essays- and ended with Draco recounting how he’d once lied about a nosebleed just to skip Divination.

“You? Skipping class?” Harry smirked. “I’m shocked.”

“It was a complete waste of time,” Draco sniffed. “And I had no desire to hear about Saturn’s return from a woman who mistook sinus congestion for a life-threatening omen.”

Harry snorted into his cup. “To be fair, the Gryffindor table did spend a full week cursed with food poisoning that year.”

“Yes, but that was Finnigan’s fault. He tried to make flaming curry.”

As they spoke, their feet kept bumping under the table. Light touches at first, the soles of their shoes brushing together, shifting away again. But it happened once, then twice, and then again. A quiet, accidental-not-accidental rhythm. Draco didn’t pull away. He didn’t comment.

And then Harry’s foot curved round his ankle.

Draco stumbled over his words. “I was going to say- ah- that the chamomile here’s fresher than anything we get back home, but obviously, it’s-”

He cut himself off. The knowing look on Harry’s face was far too smug. "Something the matter?" He asked, voice bright with suppressed laughter.

“No,” Draco said crisply, raising his teacup in a gesture that was meant to be dismissive but probably looked more like hiding.

They kept drinking.

After the next course - a pistachio pastry with a hot, smoky tea Draco didn’t recognise-  he noticed Harry only took the smallest sip before setting his cup down again.

Draco frowned.

Another course. Another sip. Again, Harry’s cup was barely touched.

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Alright,” he said slowly. “Which one have you actually liked?”

Harry shrugged. “They’re all nice, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“I mean, they’re fine.”

“Fine?” Draco repeated, scandalised. “That one was hand-blended from mountain herbs. It’s got a hint of citrus, and you’re telling me it’s fine?”

Harry gave a sheepish smile, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, confession time.” He leaned in, conspiratorial. “I don’t actually… like tea.”

Draco blinked.

Then, slowly, very slowly, set his cup down. “You don’t like tea.”

Harry winced. “It tastes like...hot leaf juice.”

Draco stared at him, aghast. “It is hot leaf juice.”

“Right. So I’m not wrong.”

Draco let out a long, despairing breath. “And yet you- you brought me here.”

“Well, yeah,” Harry said. “You like tea.”

Draco’s mouth opened, then closed again. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Am I to assume you’ve just been snorting the chamomile leaves I’ve given you, then?”

Harry grinned. “I wouldn’t,” he said, mock offended. “That’s different. It helps me sleep.”

Draco hummed, accepting the response. “You always had trouble with that.”

He didn’t mean to sound thoughtful, but the memories surfaced easily: Harry wandering the corridors after hours, hollow-eyed and silent, or passed out over an open book mid-afternoon, mouth slightly open, ink smudged across his hand.

“I’m a light sleeper,” Harry said, casual. But Draco heard the weight behind it and didn’t push.

Harry looked back at him. “I’m surprised you remember so much from Hogwarts.”

Draco frowned. “It was only a few years ago.”

“I know, but you seemed… eager to leave. Once the time came. Like you never wanted to look back.”

There was a faint smile on his face, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Draco looked away. “I was being dramatic,” he admitted, brushing a finger along the rim of his teacup. “School was… confusing. The people, the expectations, planning for the future. It was a lot.”

Harry nodded like he understood exactly.

“But you found your way.”

“…Eventually,” Draco said. “I, um, ” He hesitated. Harry looked at him, open, patient, as always. So Draco pushed through. “I worked with my father for a bit. Real estate. Contracts, properties, pretending to care about square footage. I lost contact with nearly everyone from school. It was… that bloody awful.”

He gave a short, humourless laugh. Harry didn’t laugh with him. His expression had gone pinched, gentle.

“But Pansy reached out about six months later- you know how she is. Meddlesome cow. She’d just started at St Mungo’s, working as an Archivist, and insisted I meet a few of the Healers.”

His mouth twitched, fond despite himself. “Dragged me to a party. No one told me it was a recruitment event. Within an hour I’d insulted two senior staff and corrected someone’s potions dosage.”

Harry grinned. “Of course you did.”

“And the bastard still offered me an apprenticeship,” Draco muttered.

“You must’ve impressed him.”

Draco gave him a look. “I think he just found me entertaining. Or he liked the suit.”

Harry smiled softly. “I would’ve hired you for the suit.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but something in his chest twisted, warm and aching. “I didn’t expect to care about it,” he said, quieter now. “Healing. I thought I’d just go through the motions and be competent enough to get by. But it… clicked. Eventually. Not just the work- the actual people. The… usefulness of it.”

He shrugged, suddenly self-conscious.

Harry was still watching him, and his eyes were warm in that way that made Draco feel transparent. “It suits you,” he said simply.

Draco hummed, half-dismissive, half-pleased. “Being a Seeker equally suits you,” he said. “It always did, of course.”

Harry brightened. “Half the reason it suited me back then was because I was playing against you.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but the heat crept up his neck anyway. “Don’t flatter me.”

“I’m not,” Harry said firmly. “You were my favourite opponent. No one flew like you did.”

Draco didn’t smile- at least, not immediately. But the corner of his mouth tugged upwards, traitorous and pleased. “I enjoyed it too,” he admitted. “Though Merlin knows you’re not the same Seeker now as you were before.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“You’re… calmer,” Draco said. “Less reckless. More deliberate. It’s irritating, actually.”

Harry snorted. “Well, I had a few years of arsing about,” he said. “But when Gerald approached me, I figured I should probably get my shit together.”

Draco tilted his head, curious now. “Why Puddlemere?”

Harry shrugged. “They were the only ones who didn’t seem to care what I’d been doing before. No weird expectations, no headlines. Just… a team that needed a Seeker. I liked that.”

Draco studied him. “You could’ve had any team.”

“I didn’t want just any team.”

There was something quiet in his voice- steady and simple and entirely sincere. Draco looked at him, really looked, and for a moment forgot they were still sitting in a café, surrounded by half-empty cups and the scent of hibiscus and smoke.

Harry was fiddling absently with the edge of the tablecloth now, his eyes still on Draco. “Honestly, I didn’t think I’d stay as long as I have. But then Gerald started bringing in new players, and Kit joined, and then Connor… and then you showed up.”

Draco arched a brow. “Was that the point of no return, then?”

Harry grinned. “Basically. I was doomed.”

Draco looked down at his tea to hide the small, completely ridiculous smile trying to escape. “You really are shameless.”

Harry’s expression had softened again. That same open, raw fondness. “Do you ever miss it?” Harry asked suddenly. “Playing?”

Draco blinked. “Quidditch?”

“Yeah.”

He thought about it. The rush of air, the burn in his lungs, the sharp focus, the weightless stillness right before a dive. “Yes,” Draco said quietly. “Sometimes.”

Harry nodded, understanding without pressing. “You’d have made a brilliant professional.”

Draco gave him a sideways look. “Maybe,” he said. He snorted lightly, fingers drumming against his teacup. “Maybe we’d even be on opposing teams.”

Harry grinned. “Forced to be rivals forever.”

“Tragic,” Draco said dryly. “The press would have had a field day.”

“Oh, definitely,” Harry said. “The drama. The interviews. The slow-motion training montages.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “You’d have loved it.”

Harry leaned forward a little, eyes gleaming. “You say that like you wouldn’t have gone full villain. Silk robes, dramatic scowling. Posing on your broom with a wind machine.”

“I do not pose,” Draco said, scandalised.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “I’ve seen your old Prophet clippings.”

“That was editorial framing.”

Harry laughed, and Draco fought a smile, already losing.

“I think we’d have been brilliant on opposing teams,” Harry said, settling back in his chair, still watching him. “We’d have played dirty.”

Draco lifted his chin. “I never played dirty.”

“Selective hexing mid-air?”

“Strategic disruption.”

“Blinding me with the reflection off your hair?”

“Merely taking advantage of the sun’s natural placement.”

Harry huffed a laugh. “Unbelievable.”

“And yet, somehow,” Draco said, sipping his tea with pointed elegance, “You said you liked playing against me best.”

Harry paused. His gaze, though still amused, turned thoughtful. "Anything with you is better than without." he said casually. Draco's heart stopped. "Always."

Draco stared at him. He felt the familiar urge to deflect rising- some sarcastic quip to break the moment into something manageable- but the look in Harry’s eyes made it hard to move. Or breathe, really. "You're so bloody cheesy." he said, already kicking himself that he couldn't say something romantic back.

Harry didn’t look wounded. If anything, he looked… fond. Like he’d expected exactly that.

He opened his mouth- but then his eyes caught on his watch, and he startled. “Merlin, we should get you back.”

Draco blinked, jolting out of the warm little bubble they’d created. He glanced down at his own watch and nodded. Nearly three. The afternoon sun was beginning to mellow into a soft amber glow, stretching shadows across the tiled café floor.

Harry stood, patting at his pockets. “I’ll go settle the bill.”

Draco rose as well. “I’ll split it with you.”

Harry looked up sharply, brow arched.

The thing is, Draco didn’t usually offer. Actually, he never offered. He knew his worth, and generally preferred it to be reflected in the currency of someone else’s Gringotts vault. But, well. This was different.

Something about being out with Harry made him want to soften the edges a bit. Recalibrate. He didn’t want to come off like the snobby, difficult brat he used to be. They were clearly starting something new here, and Draco, unsettlingly, wanted to meet that moment properly.

Of course, Harry took one look at him, grinned, and then laughed so hard the table rattled. He clutched his side and wheezed, “Oh my God, Draco- who are you?”

Draco flushed from head to toe. Harry, still grinning like he’d just witnessed a miracle, waved him off and made for the counter, wallet in hand and laughter trailing behind him.

Draco sank back into his seat, scowling faintly at nothing.

That man.

He was going to be the death of him.

The walk back to the hotel was slow and quiet. they were hand in hand, and neither really wanted to let go and return back to physio appointments and afternoon training.

Harry squeezed his hand, breaking the silence. “I didn’t think you’d be the one to call this a date, you know.”

Draco turned his head.

Harry looked oddly sheepish. “I thought you’d brush it off. Pretend it was a ‘work outing’ or something.”

He gave a low laugh, shaking his head. “I didn’t think I’d say it either.”

Harry blinked. “No?”

“But it felt right,” Draco added, voice quieter now. “And I didn't want to run around in circles about this. Abpout you."

Harry stopped walking.

Draco didn’t realise until he’d taken a few more steps and noticed the sudden absence at his side. He turned back, confused- and then stilled completely.

Harry was staring at him. Not like he was waiting for an answer.  Just- looking. Like Draco had said something rare and inexplicably precious.

Harry stepped forward, closing the space between them without hesitation. His hands lifted slowly, tentatively, as if to make sure Draco wouldn’t pull away. When he didn’t, Harry let his fingers trace gently along Draco’s jaw, then settled them there, cupping his face with a kind of reverence that made Draco’s pulse trip over itself.

Draco forgot how to breathe.

Harry’s thumbs brushed lightly over his cheekbones. It wasn’t urgent or desperate, it was careful, deliberate, like he was committing every inch of Draco’s face to memory.

The sunlight hit Harry’s eyes just right, turning green to gold, and Draco could barely stand to meet them. He was so close. So warm. And looking at Draco like he was the only thing in the world worth seeing.

“I really, really hope no one interrupts us this time,” Harry said seriously. “I might explode.”

Draco snickered, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. He grinned up at Harry, helpless against it. “With our luck, a rogue hippogriff might charge through the square. Or a Gringotts goblin convention could break out just behind us.”

Harry stared at him. “That is… alarmingly specific.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “I don’t make the rules. I merely anticipate the chaos.”

Harry huffed a laugh, but it faded quickly- his gaze caught on Draco’s mouth again. His voice dropped, rough with restraint. “There were so many times I nearly kissed you. In Calais, at the hotel, the bloody medical tent- I just… I didn’t want to rush you. But Merlin, I wanted to. I wanted to push you against a wall and just-”

“You can,” Draco rasped. His voice caught. “You can do that.”

Harry’s eyes dipped instantly, the shift from playful to hungry happening in an instant.

And then he kissed him.

Properly. Finally.

It was soft, at first. Careful. Like Harry was asking the question all over again with every movement of his mouth.

Draco’s hands fluttered at his sides, then rose, tangled in the front of Harry’s shirt, tugging him closer. He let out a small sound, something between a sigh and a whimper, and that was all it took.

Harry deepened the kiss, hands sliding down to Draco’s waist, grounding him. Holding him together.

The world tilted. Not metaphorically- literally. The ground felt a step too far beneath him, and the only thing keeping him upright was the way Harry kissed him- sure and steady, like he’d been waiting a lifetime to do it right.

Chapter Text

The sun was already a merciless blaze overhead, and the inside of the medical tent felt like a sealed cauldron of sweat and paperwork. Draco had just wrapped up the day’s final strategy briefing, standing at the head of the long table littered with cooling charms and incident logs. As much as he'd like to stop and think about his and Harry's date yesterday, there was genuinely no time. 

The match was tomorrow, and with this heat, there were precautions to finalise. The team was already at a disadvantage, not nearly as used to Cairo’s suffocating humidity as the locals were.

But Draco didn’t get hung up on it. His part was well underway, and the meeting had gone smoothly. Julie was laughing at something one of the interns had said when the flap of the tent rustled violently.

Gerald strode in, one fist wrapped in the collar of Harry Potter’s shirt, dragging him behind like a misbehaving child. “Fix him,” He announced flatly, then, with all the weary energy of someone who had absolutely had enough, released Harry with a mild shove and strode straight back out.

Julie and the others snorted, not even pretending to hide their laughter. One of them gave Draco a sympathetic wave as they filed out. “Good luck, Draco.”

Draco arched a brow at the figure now sprawled in his exam chair like it was a chaise lounge. “Explain.”

Harry stretched, arms behind his head, shirt rising just enough to make Draco hate his own eyes. “There’s nothing to explain,” he said innocently.

Draco walked over and started assessing him anyway, casting a quick charm and scanning for any obvious bruising, inflammation, or sprains. Nothing. Harry was irritatingly uninjured.

When Draco frowned, Harry grinned. “I’m not hurt.”

“Then why are you here?”

Harry tilted his head, that maddening glint in his eye. “Just...distracted.”

Draco hummed in understanding. “Is it the heat?”

“No, we’re not all as cranky in hot weather as you are, Doctor.”

Draco rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “Then what are you doing here?”

Harry gave him a look that was altogether too fond. “Confronting my distraction, of course.”

Draco flushed so fast he was vaguely concerned about his blood pressure. “Harry,” he said warningly, “you cannot be serious.”

“Oh, I’m deadly serious.” Harry’s smile turned roguish. “Heal me?”

Merlin. Draco ought to throw him out. He should, honestly. But instead, he sighed, stepping forward. “You’re shameless. You’ve got a match tomorrow.”

“Mmm, have I?” Harry murmured, shifting in his seat, legs spreading wider to accommodate Draco stepping closer. “Must’ve slipped my mind. I’m just so distracted, you see?”

Draco snorted. “Oh, I’m starting to.”

Harry blinked. “…So you’ll help?”

Draco grinned. A wicked, slow thing that made Harry visibly straighten in his chair. “Fine,” he said.

Harry went a little pink. “Fine?” He had the gall to sound hopeful.

“Oh, don’t get ahead of yourself,” Draco drawled, turning towards the tray behind him. He palmed a small thermometer, tucking it into his glove, then sauntered back over.

He stepped between Harry’s thighs without hesitation, bracing one hand on Harry’s knee. Harry swallowed hard, gaze flicking from Draco’s eyes to his mouth and back again. The air was thick with it- want and nerves and whatever they’d become since yesterday.

Draco tilted his head. “You sure you’re ready for this?”

Harry nodded, lips parting slightly, breath hitching as Draco raised his gloved hand. Slowly, with calculated grace, Draco slid his thumb across Harry’s lower lip, pressing lightly. Harry's eyes fluttered half shut. His hands clenched around the edge of the cushion, as though physically restraining himself from grabbing Draco by the waist and yanking him in.

He was leaning in, just slightly, breath brushing Draco’s lips-

And Draco, very delicately, slipped the thermometer between Harry’s parted lips.

Harry gagged in surprise, eyes wide, arms flailing as he shoved himself back against the chair.

Draco broke.

He doubled over with laughter, clutching his stomach, nearly knocking over his own notes as Harry wrestled the thermometer out of his mouth and glared at it like it had personally betrayed him.

“Really?” Harry rasped, coughing and sputtering rather dramatically. “You really did that to me?”

"Oh, Merlin," Draco could barely get a breath in. “You should’ve seen your face,” he gasped, tears prickling the corners of his eyes. “You actually thought I'd entertain your- your fantasies in my office?"

Harry looked at him, betrayed and slightly scandalised. “That was cruel.”

“That was brilliant,” Draco corrected, wiping his eyes. “I should win a bloody BAFTA.”

Harry leaned forward, dropping the thermometer on the desk with exaggerated care. “I want it on record,” he muttered, “that I came in here for affection and you forced medical equipment down my throat.”

Draco leaned his hip against the desk, smug. “You came in here for a snog, Harry."

Harry shrugged, unfazed. “This is why we’re so good together,” he murmured, sliding off the chair. “You know me so well.”

The words we’re so good together made Draco’s stomach swoop in a way that was entirely traitorous. He cleared his throat. “Correct. So stop looking at me like that and get back to practice.”

Harry pouted, but obeyed, making his way to the door. There was still a spring in his step, as if simply seeing Draco had added three hours of energy to his day.

Draco bit back a smile.

He reached into his cooler and pulled out a chilled water bottle. “Harry, wait.”

The Seeker turned just as Draco stepped forward and placed the bottle into his hand.

“For the rest of training,” Draco said simply. Harry nodded gratefully, his smile softening. Draco glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching- then tugged Harry down by the collar of his uniform.

“And this,” he added, pressing a chaste kiss to Harry’s lips.

Harry smiled against it, then tilted his head and deepened the kiss ever so slightly. They broke apart just as voices rang down the hallway.

“Thanks,” Harry said breathlessly, grinning as he turned to jog back to training.

Draco watched him go, a little dazed.

The match was not going well.

Draco could tell that much from the inside of the medical tent, which had begun to resemble a makeshift battlefield hospital. So far, he’d treated four players for dehydration, resuscitated one who’d collapsed from heat exhaustion, and endured a steady chorus of complaints about “working in this bloody weather.” The only known treatment for that last one was a sharp glare and a world-class eye-roll.

Outside, the sun showed no mercy. Cairo’s air was thick and cloying, sweat slicking across Draco’s back despite the cooling charms he’d layered on hours ago.

Puddlemere were struggling. That much was obvious even from his restricted vantage point. Their movements were sluggish, legs dragging in the air like they were swimming through soup. Egypt’s team, far more acclimated to the oppressive humidity, looked practically effortless in comparison.

Ordinarily, Draco thought Puddlemere had the stronger line-up. More strategic. More aggressive. But today, they were off their game, and it was starting to show.

The match had passed the ninety-minute mark. The Egyptian Seeker had caught sight of the Snitch once, and Harry had chased it, but the wretched thing had vanished again.

Now, Draco watched Harry flying wide loops near the upper stands, his posture noticeably fatigued. He wasn’t gliding like usual; he was dragging. The Egyptian Seeker still looked irritatingly fresh.

Draco felt a pang of frustration- not just for Harry, but for all of them. He’d gotten to know this team over the past few weeks. He’d healed their sprains, iced their bruises, listened to their complaints and helped them train smarter. They were good people. They were hardworking. They deserved this win.

He just hoped they could pull it together before it was too late.

Draco was mid-gulp of water when the low, restless hum of the stadium suddenly erupted into a rising roar.

Nothing had happened yet- but Harry was moving.

And not like someone who’d spent the last hour and a half being wrung out by the Egyptian sun. No, he was flying like he’d just woken up. Like he’d shaken something off. Like he was home in the air.

Draco’s heart leapt to his throat.

He stood automatically, stepping outside the flap of the tent just as the game tilted into chaos.

Harry was chasing- leaning low over his broom, gaining speed fast, eyes locked on something small and bright. The Snitch. Definitely the Snitch. The Egyptian Seeker was on his tail, too close for comfort, nearly skimming his back.

Draco watched, breath caught somewhere in his ribs.

The chase was wild, spiralling through the stands, ducking dangerously low to the pitch, then shooting up into the air with bone-rattling vertical climbs. The Snitch was leading them on a death-defying tour of the entire stadium.

Then- suddenly- Harry stopped.

Mid-air. Just like that.

The Egyptian Seeker swerved around him with a look of disbelief, continuing the chase as if Harry had simply lost interest.

Draco frowned, eyes narrowing. Harry wasn’t giving up. He was watching.

Hovering, his chest heaving, sweat-soaked hair stuck to his forehead- but his gaze was laser-focused, following the Snitch’s frantic, unpredictable path. Studying it. Mapping it.

Then, without warning, Harrywas off again.

He shot across the pitch at a sharp angle, cutting clean across the Snitch’s anticipated path- intercepting it with one outstretched hand. He had to twist his entire body to avoid crashing into the Egyptian Seeker, who let out a startled shout as Harry veered inches past him.

And then it was over.

The whistle blew.

The stadium exploded.

Puddlemere colours blurred across the stands. People stood, screamed, waved their flags. Draco was shouting before he realised it, both arms in the air. It was the kind of celebration he usually scoffed at, but fuck, that was brilliant.

Harry hovered mid-air for a moment, still clutching the Snitch, blinking like he couldn’t quite believe it either.

Draco watched him- ruddy-faced, soaked in sweat, hair an absolute disaster- and felt something sharp and warm bloom in his chest.

Pride, he thought.

And something a little more dangerous.

He didn’t care. Not in that moment.

Harry was still in the air, circling lazily on his broom as the pitch burst with celebration beneath him.

His teammates were cheering, yelling, laughing- Kit had his arms flung around Connors' shoulders, Davies was sprawled dramatically across the turf like he’d personally saved the match, and even the usually nervous Connor was grinning like a madman, soaked through and hoarse from shouting.

One by one, they began peeling away, waving to the crowd, chugging water, making their way toward the changing rooms and the promise of a cold shower.

But Harry stayed.

Still airborne, still beaming- and looking directly at him. Their eyes locked from across the pitch, and Harry’s grin grew wider, impossibly bright. It matched Draco’s, unintentionally, and for a fleeting second, it was like they were alone in the stadium.

He tracked Harry's movement as he started to fly again, and his breath caught. People around him had begun to murmur, confused and curious, trying to track the trajectory of the match’s golden boy. Surely the medical tent? Perhaps an injury? Or some dramatic team gesture?

But Harry wasn’t injured, or looking for treatment.

And he realised, far too late, Harry wasn’t aiming for the medical tent. He was aiming for Draco.

Harry waved as he flew faster, eating up the distance between them with maddening confidence, and something about the gesture made Draco's stomach twist. It was soft. Warm. Undeniable.

And very, very public.

Draco’s pulse roared in his ears.

Because the way Harry was looking at him- that fond, unbearably real way- made it clear this wasn’t a casual post-match exchange. This wasn’t friendly.

It was… them.

On full display.

Broadcast worldwide.

And Draco wasn’t ready. The panic bloomed quick and hard. He took a tiny step back- minuscule, but not invisible- and shook his head once, tight and small. That was all it took.

Harry saw it. Of course he did. He always did.

Mid-flight, his smile flickered- just for a second- then slipped entirely. His broom slowed. He hovered, uncertain, a few feet away. His mouth opened like he might say something, then closed again.

He gave a jerky nod and turned back to rejoin his teammates without another word.

Draco watched him go, rooted to the spot.

The thundering in his chest had eased. But in its place was something heavier. Cold and aching. Like he’d split something open and wasn’t quite sure how to hold it together.

The hurt on Harry’s face- fleeting as it was- had landed like a gut punch. He’d tried to mask it, but Draco had seen through it instantly.

He’d caused it.

And he hated himself for it. He’d ruined a perfect moment. He’d made Harry second-guess something that had felt- just hours ago- so sure. So right.

Draco scrubbed a hand over his face. Merlin, he was an arsehole.

Chapter Text

Draco wanted to leave the tent as soon as possible.

But he was a Healer first and foremost, and that meant he stayed.

He treated Davies’ deeply concerning bruise on top of a blistering sunburn (and gave him a short, impassioned lecture about the wonders of sunscreen), sorted one of the Chasers who’d pulled their back mid-dive, and gave out iced towels, electrolyte tonics, and clear instructions to three interns who couldn’t tell the difference between magical heat fatigue and actual injury.

By the time the last player was patched up and the tent had finally cooled from an inferno to a tolerable oven, nearly forty minutes had passed since the match ended.

Draco handed over all non-urgent cases to Julie with murmured thanks, stripped off his gloves, and bolted out of the tent. He ran towards the showers, dodging interns and volunteers, praying Harry hadn’t already left.

He skidded to a stop outside the changing room door and, like a complete idiot, knocked.

There was a beat of silence. “…Yeah?” came Harry’s voice.

Draco exhaled, just a little. He eased the door open carefully, peering around first to ensure he wouldn’t get traumatised by any naked limbs. Then he stepped inside, and-

Right. Of course.

Harry was there. Shirtless. Only the bottom half of his Seeker kit still clinging to him, his skin gleaming with sweat and sun. His hair was damp, sticking to his temples, and his expression faltered  the moment he saw Draco.

Draco cleared his throat and very pointedly looked anywhere but at Harry’s bare chest. “I’m sor-”

“Are you alright?” Harry interrupted, stepping closer, concern etched across his face.

Draco blinked. “What?” Then realised how this must look. A Healer bursting into the changing room? Never a good omen. “Oh. No, everything’s fine. No injuries.”

Harry’s face relaxed slightly, though it remained tight around the edges. Still, his eyes were warm. It only made Draco feel worse, because if it had been him on the receiving end of a public rejection, he’d have gone cold. Distant.

But Harry?

Harry was worried.

“I wanted to- well.” Draco ran a hand through his hair, embarrassed. He was already fumbling it. Brilliant. “I wanted to apologise. For earlier.”

Harry cocked his head. “What?”

“It’s not about you, I promise,” Draco said quickly. “There were just- so many people. Cameras. I wasn’t ready for…” He trailed off, making an indistinct gesture in the air. “That.”

Harry smiled, sincere and understanding. “It’s alright.”

“No, it’s shit,” Draco said, a little desperately. “You were amazing, by the way, you played the best I’ve ever seen you. And I just… ruined it.” He sighed, eyes squeezed shut, frustrated with himself. Harry stepped forward as if to respond, but the sound of approaching footsteps down the corridor cut through the moment.

“Harry, are you done showering or not?” came Davies’ voice, echoing off the tiles. “The lads are waiting. I’m heading out once I put on that ointment thing.”

Draco felt immediate panic.

So did Harry, apparently. His eyes widened, then darted to the line of shower stalls. In one quick movement, he grabbed Draco by the wrist and pulled him into the nearest cubicle.

A single, very small cubicle.

Draco collided with the wall, flinching at the blast of damp tile against his back, his shirt soaking up whatever lingering shower steam was left. He looked at Harry, scandalised.

“Sorry,” Harry whispered.

Draco took a breath, steadying himself. “It’s fine. We’ll just… wait for him to leave.”

Except Davies was not in a rush. Draco could hear him fiddling with something just outside the door- presumably the same bloody ointment tube they’d gone over in detail less than an hour ago.

“Hold down, then twist, then break it off,” Draco muttered under his breath, glaring at the tiled ceiling.

Harry tried to keep a straight face, but his mouth twitched. He leaned in close, bracing one hand beside Draco’s head.

“Tell me how to do it again,” he murmured.

Draco blinked, face reddening. “What?”

“The cap,” Harry said, eyes glinting. “Tell me how to open it.”

Oh, bloody hell.

Draco made an embarrassing noise somewhere between a wheeze and a squeak. “Oh. Right. Hold it down, twist anti-clockwise, then snap it off.” Salazar’s sweaty bollocks, those instructions had never sounded remotely this erotic before.

Harry’s eyes twinkled. He straightened slightly, voice raised. “John?”

“What?” Davies snapped back, clearly still wrestling the packaging.

Harry smothered a laugh. “It’s one of those healing salves, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve got to hold it down, twist it, then break it off.”

There was silence. Then a click. A pause. And then: “Oh. Thanks, Harry!”

A beat.

“…Are you having a wank in there?”

Harry choked. Draco pressed his fist to his mouth to keep from laughing. “No!” Harry called back, voice climbing an octave. “Why the hell would you even ask that?”

There was some shuffling outside. “No shame in it, lad,” Davies replied cheerfully. “Just wondering, since you’ve been in there ages and haven’t turned on the shower.”

Draco was going to die. Right here. Of sheer, blistering mortification.

Harry looked up like he’d just been personally cursed by the heavens- then turned, presenting Draco with his back.

Oh, Merlin.

It was a very nice back, as far as backs went. Lean and strong and currently very, very sweaty. Draco could, in an academic sense, appreciate it.

“Sorry,” Harry mouthed over his shoulder, just as a spray of cold water hit them both.

Draco let out a startled gasp, twisting away to shield his face. Harry winced and shifted closer- far too close- blocking most of the spray with his body.

Once Draco was no longer actively being doused, he dared a glance up- and immediately regretted it.

Harry was staring down at him. Intently. Rivulets of water streamed down his hairline, down the strong lines of his jaw, his throat, and disappeared beneath the waistband of his kit. Draco cleared his throat and dragged his gaze upwards, only to find Harry still watching him, close and quiet and open.

“You ran all the way here to apologise?” Harry asked softly, no teasing in his voice this time. Just quiet sincerity.

Draco nodded. “I didn’t want to leave it like that.”

Harry’s lips curled into a small, fond smile, like that alone had solved every problem. “You don’t need to apologise for having boundaries,” he said finally. “And I shouldn’t have just flown to you like that. I know what’s on the line.” He rubbed the back of his neck, screwing his eyes shut as water streamed over him. “I was just excited. I wanted to share it with you.”

And oh, the twist in Draco’s chest was sudden and sharp. He could barely contain it- and he was starting to realise, very quickly, that he didn’t want to.

So he didn’t.

He pushed off the wall, stepping closer, eyes steady even as the cold water rained down again. He winced, slicking his hair back, blinking through it as he looked up at Harry. “You’re so bloody wonderful, you know that?” he murmured, voice thick with honesty. He watched the blush rise on Harry’s cheeks with satisfaction.

“I don’t, um- ” Harry stuttered, stuttering nervously under Draco’s gaze.

“I mean it,” Draco said, as firmly as he could while speaking in hushed whispers. “I don’t have second thoughts about this. About us. And I’m certainly not ashamed of it.”

Harry huffed out a breath of relief.

“I just…” Draco trailed off, glancing away. “This is my career. While I’m contracted with your team, I don’t- I can’t be careless.”

Outside, they heard Davies shuffling with his kit. The door slammed behind him as he left.

Harry stepped closer immediately, brushing his thumb gently across the crease between Draco’s brows to smooth it. “It’s okay,” he said, quiet and certain. “I get it. Really. You don’t want to jeopardise your career. Merlin, neither do I.”

His hand lowered to cup Draco’s face- just like he did for their first kiss. Steady. Warm.

“The ball’s in your court,” Harry said. “Whatever you want.”

Draco could hardly think. Not with Harry standing right in front of him, holding him like this mattered. Like he mattered.

But he didn’t have to think.

“I want you,” Draco said. His voice came out rough.

And Harry’s grin- Merlin, that grin- lit up the whole bloody changing room. He laughed, resting his forehead against Draco’s, nose brushing his. “Okay,” he breathed, like it was the answer to everything. “Okay. So we keep going, yeah? And we'll keep it between us.”

Draco nodded, grateful beyond words. “Okay.” he mimicked.

Harry sighed like the tension had finally drained from him. His arms slipped around Draco, pulling him in, tucking Draco’s head under his chin like it was the most natural thing in the world. “God, it's been a long day.”

Draco hummed, arms wrapping slowly around Harry’s back. His fingers flexed against wet skin. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d held someone this close. Or the last time it had felt so good.

“You should get some rest,” Draco murmured. His eyes flicked up to the still-running water, now slowing to a light trickle. “And get out of the cold. It’s not good to go from extreme heat to cold that fast.”

Harry leaned back to look at him, smiling. “Okay, Doctor.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but he let Harry kiss him anyway.

The water was cold, but Harry's mouth was hot. His hands even more so where they roved over Draco’s back and waist, where he could feel the warmth even through the soaked fabric. His chest was solid, and Draco could feel the thud of Harry’s heartbeat reverberating against him- constant and grounding.

Harry tugged him closer, and Draco arched instinctively, mouth parting in a helpless, low groan as Harry deepened the kiss. Their mouths moved together in a slow, devouring rhythm, and Draco slid trembling fingers into Harry’s hair, tugging at the dripping strands. Harry shivered, just slightly, under the touch, and Draco chased that response, pressing in.

Their kisses slowed, softened, just a little, until Harry’s mouth left his, trailing across his cheek, then lower. He dragged his lips along Draco’s jaw with aching deliberation, then dipped to the side of his throat. His kisses turned open-mouthed, hot and dragging, until he bit down lightly at Draco’s collarbone.

Draco gasped, breath catching as his head thudded back against the tiles, but Harry’s tongue was already there, laving the sting with warmth. He kissed back up Draco’s neck, tongue flicking out before he sucked gently at a spot just below Draco’s ear. The wet, almost obscene sound of it made Draco moan, eyes fluttering shut.

Then Harry inhaled, breathing him in, and that was nearly Draco’s undoing.

He threaded his fingers through Harry’s hair again, yanking him back in, mouth crashing to his in a kiss that said thank you for being gentle, but don’t you dare stop there.

Harry got the message. He tilted his head, mouth slanting deeper over Draco’s, tongue sliding against his in a rhythm that stole the air from his lungs. Draco was vaguely aware of stumbling, when Harry crouched, hands slipping beneath his thighs, and then, in one effortless motion, lifting him.

Draco let out a sharp breath against Harry’s lips, wrapping his legs around Harry’s waist, heels digging into the warm expanse of his back as his spine met tile. Harry’s fingers flexed under his thighs, holding him steady. His teeth caught on Draco’s bottom lip, tugging, and Draco tilted his hips in answer, the cold, wet air now irrelevant.

Then, the door to the changing room slammed open with all the grace of a Bludger through glass.

“Oi, you must be having a wank in there! D’you know how bloody long it’s been?” Davies shouted, his voice echoing across the tiles.

Draco broke away with a startled wince, breath caught somewhere between laughter and horror. Harry groaned in pure agony, burying his face in Draco’s neck like it physically hurt to stop. He exhaled hard, then gently lowered Draco back down, careful and steady, making sure there was no sudden shift, no rustle loud enough to betray them.

“Stop asking me that!” Harry yelled, tipping his head back under the still-running spray and letting the last of the water run down his face before finally shutting it off. "I'll be out in five."

They waited, frozen in place, until they heard Davies grumble something unintelligible, then, thankfully, the sound of retreating footsteps and the slam of the outer door.

Silence.

Draco exhaled, leaning his back briefly against the cool tile. “I really should go,” he said, even though every part of him wanted to stay right there. “And you need a proper shower.”

Harry made a face. “Alright, just say that I stink.”

Draco snorted. “Shower, Harry.” He unlocked the stall door and stepped out, shivering a little as the air hit him. “I need a bloody towel myself.”

Harry, still catching his breath, pointed toward the locker with spares. “I’ll be heading out after this, but…” His voice softened. “I’ll see you later, yeah?”

Draco paused, glanced over his shoulder. “Yes,” he said quietly. “You will.” Then he padded off, dripping, heart racing, to dry off.

By the time Draco finally made it back to his room, he was half-soaked, bone-tired, and thoroughly wrung out. His hair stuck to his forehead and his shirt clung damply to his back. He peeled it off the moment the door shut behind him, casting drying charms aside in favour of a shower.

Ten minutes later, scrubbed and redressed in mercifully clean clothes, he padded down the hall towards the dining room, stomach growling.

He didn’t get far.

“Oi, Draco!” Jackie waved him down from across the room, her thick braid swinging as she tilted her head to beam at him. “Over here!”

Draco gave her a smile and detoured towards the buffet, plating himself a modest amount of food- some roasted vegetables, a fluffy pile of rice, and what he hoped wasn’t anything with tentacles. Then he made his way to her table, sliding into the seat across from her.

Jackie gave him a one-armed hug from where she sat, squeezing him lightly. “How are you, love?” There was a worried look in her eyes.

Draco blinked at her. “Good?”

She gave him a knowing look, sipping from her glass of Coke. “Gerald told me about the whole Wilkes thing. God, that man is such a twat.”

Draco choked on a laugh, startled. “He had his lawyers sending me letters for days. Honestly, it was like dealing with a Ministry owl that only delivered threats.”

Jackie snorted. “Ugh, what a wanker. Thank Merlin it’s sorted now. We were all cheering you on from the sidelines, by the way.”

Draco raised a brow. “Were you?”

“Some more than others,” she added with a cheeky wink.

He huffed a laugh, stabbing at his rice. “Noted.” He spoke after swallowing his bite. "How's everything on your end? You surviving the Cairo heat or slowly melting like the rest of us?

“Well,” Jackie said, “I’m sweating through layers I didn’t know I had, but otherwise holding steady." She grinned. “It’s just- this whole thing is mad, you know? I never travelled as a kid. So being out here with the team, seeing the world, even with Gerald being busy half the time- it’s magic.”

Draco nodded, touched by her sincerity. “It is, actually. I never really travelled either. Not properly.”

Jackie blinked. “You? Thought you posh types went to Rome for brunch.”

Draco laughed, properly. “Well, my father thought holidays were for people who needed rest, which we apparently didn’t. I’ve seen the inside of more ballrooms than airports.”

She made a sympathetic noise. “Poor you. No wonder you’ve got that tense, ‘I wasn’t allowed to have sugar as a child’ vibe.”

“I don't have much of a sweet tooth, honestly,” Draco shrugged.

Jackie gasped. “Oh my God. That’s criminal.”

“I know. I turned out terribly.”

“You turned out fine.” She smiled warmly. “Bit posh, bit pale, but you’re doing alright.”

Draco mock-bowed over his plate. “I live to impress.”

She pointed at his plate. “Speaking of which- good choice. That’s the moussaka, yeah? It’s brilliant.”

He looked down at the warm, golden square. “I’ve never had it.”

Jackie gasped. “You what? Right, no, I’m not letting that stand.”

“I’m a picky eater,” Draco admitted, a little sheepish. “I grew up with a private chef who cried if I didn’t finish my radicchio.”

“Radic-what?”

“Exactly.”

They both laughed again, and for a moment, the long day melted away.

Then Jackie hesitated, glancing at him shyly. “You’ll tell me if I’m being too much, right? People always say I start mothering everyone. I try not to, but- I’m the eldest of five siblings. It’s in my blood. I fret.”

Draco’s brows rose. “Five? Bloody hell.”

She held up a hand, counting off on her fingers. “Me, then two brothers, then twin girls. It’s chaos. Noise and elbows everywhere. You either learn to take care of people or die in the stampede.”

Draco smiled slowly. “Explains the Coke and emotional surveillance.”

“I’m basically a one-woman NHS,” she said proudly. Ah, the Muggle healthcare system. 

“Well,” Draco said, gesturing with his fork, “between you and me, I think the team would fall apart without you.”

Jackie flushed, visibly pleased. “Thanks, Doc. I’ll say the same to you.”

She glanced around to make sure no one else was close enough to overhear, then leaned in a touch. “I’ll be honest- before you came, people were talking. You know, wondering why they’d hire such a young doctor to lead the team. Bit of a stir.”

Draco gave a dry smile. “Let me guess. 'Unqualified prat who got the job due to nepotism.' "

Jackie laughed. “Something like that. But they all shut up pretty fast after watching you work. Honestly, the way you handled Wilkes? Brill. Should’ve been on telly.” She took a sip of her Coke. “I defended you from day one, of course." She flushed. "Had to, after interrogating you in the stands.”

Draco snorted. “Forgiven and forgotten,” he said. “We had a laugh about it.”

She hummed, tone suddenly suspiciously casual. “We... as in you and Harry?”

Draco froze- only for a second, but she caught it. He schooled his features quickly, leaning back in his chair with affected ease. “You thought I was his... something. He found it quite funny.”

“Mmm,” Jackie said, watching him too closely. “I bet he did.”

“Jackie,” Draco said flatly, pointing his water bottle at her like it was a wand. “No.”

“What?” she asked, all airy innocence, stabbing a chunk of aubergine with exaggerated focus. “I didn’t say anything.”

The rest of dinner passed in laughter and the ease of being around someone you didn't have to try too hard around. Draco was glad he met Jackie, even though she kept giving him eyes every time Harry was mentioned. Merlin forbid her and Pansy ever met eachother. They'd be an unstoppable duo of meddling and chaos.

Draco returned to his room well past midnight, utterly knackered. He redressed in clean sleepwear - plain grey joggers and a soft cotton tee - and began the grim task of packing. They’d be checking out tomorrow morning, off to Sydney for the final match.

He moved methodically, folding garments with the precision of someone too tired to function but too anxious to stop moving. His files came next. He sorted through the folders from his temporary office, collecting case logs, diagnostic charts, and the intern rota Julie had started drawing snitches on.

He was just finishing when a quiet knock landed at his door.

Draco frowned, glancing at the time. Quarter to one. He padded to the door and peered through the peephole, then snorted as he opened it. “Hello, Harry.”

A slightly flushed, slightly tipsy Harry Potter stood grinning at him in the hallway. “Hey,” He blinked down at Draco’s sleepwear and made a face. “No ferret pyjamas tonight?”

Draco sighed. “Do you want to be left in the hallway?”

Harry shook his head immediately, obedient as ever, even if he was clearly holding back a laugh.

“Good,” Draco muttered, stepping aside. Harry entered without ceremony, no longer bothering with the once-awkward hesitation. This had happened enough times now.

Draco eyed him as he kicked off his shoes. “Have you packed?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Just wrapped up the last bits before I came here.”

He’d changed into what looked like pyjamas as well- though Draco used the term loosely. It was an old Puddlemere shirt and a pair of faded shorts that did absolutely nothing to preserve Draco’s peace of mind.

“How was... dinner?” Draco asked, though he already suspected the answer.

“Drinks,” Harry said cheerfully.

“Shocker.”

Harry grinned. “It’s my first time drinking properly in, like-” He paused, thinking. “Six months? I went to the pub in Ireland, but I was honestly so knackered, the two beers had my eyes closing.”

Draco’s eyebrows shot up. “Six? Merlin. I’d perish.”

Harry shrugged. “Figured I deserved it today.”

Draco inclined his head. “It was a tough match.”

He hummed. "Speaking of the match..." Harry shifted on the balls of his feet, looking uncharacteristically sheepish, but the alcohol seemed to nudge him forward. “I’ve come to claim my- uh- prize. For winning.”

Draco blinked. “Prize?” he said, before realisation dawned on him as flashes of the train journey to Calais appeared in his mind. A certain seeker, asleep over his thighs. "Harry."

"Hm?"

Draco resisted fanning himself. "Is the tea not working? I thought you were sleeping better these days?"

“The chamomile’s good,” Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck, “but you’re better.”

Draco stared at him. “How can you just- God.” Harry looked perfectly unbothered, meanwhile Draco resembled a lobster. “Do you have any brain-to-mouth filter?”

“Unnecessary,” Harry said breezily, following Draco across the room like a lost Crup. “So, verdict?”

"I hate you." Draco muttered, despite fetching the spare pillow from the wardrobe. "So much." he said, while fluffing it up and pointing at it. "Get in before I change my mind."

Harry beamed, practically launching himself into Draco's bed. "Oh, I could get used to this."

“it's just one night,” Draco warned, shutting the door behind them. “No snoring again, no sprawling, and if you steal the duvet I will hex you bald.”

Harry saluted with mock solemnity. “Yes, Doctor.”

Draco gave him a flat look, then moved to fold the jumper he’d been half-packing and set it into his suitcase. “Honestly. You’re like a stray that keeps turning up at the door.”

“You love it.”

Draco turned around slowly. “No. What I love is silence. And well-behaved houseguests. You are neither.”

Harry flopped backwards onto Draco’s pillow with a loud sigh, stretching out dramatically. “You are unbelievably uptight for someone who let me grope him in a shower stall earlier.”

"Don't say it like that," Draco hissed. "Actually- don't say anything at all." He picked up the spare pillow, and placed it flat over Harry's face.

Harry laughed, the sound muffled behind layers of fabric. “You’re the one who moaned into my-”

“I will stun you,” Draco said, voice sharp and entirely humourless. Harry mimed his mouth shut and placed the pillow beside him. There was something so unguarded about him like this that Draco found himself unable to hold on to his irritation for very long.

Draco slid under the covers, the bed creaking faintly beneath him. He settled as far away from Harry as the narrow double would allow. The silence between them stretched, thick and charged, and Draco could feel Harry’s gaze like a weight, but he resisted looking back.

After a beat, Harry’s voice broke the quiet, soft and tentative. “Are you going to be all the way over there for the rest of the night?” He asked. “Some people like space when they sleep. I don’t mind it.”

Draco screwed his eyes shut. Every moment spent near Harry seemed to set his heart fluttering in unpredictable ways. “No-” He paused, struggling to find the words to untangle the knot of feeling in his chest. "I don't know."

Harry stiffened for a moment, then slowly turned to face him fully. Moonlight painted half of his face in silver, the rest shadowed but still unmistakably earnest. “Is it okay that I’m here?” Harry asked quietly. “I don’t want to push you. If you want space, I can-”

“No,” Draco cut in quickly, waving a hand between them. “I don’t want bloody space. I just… I’m not used to this. The way you say everything on your mind. The things you say about me.”

Harry’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “Ah, my lack of a brain-to-mouth filter.”

Draco snorted softly. “Precisely.”

“Then don’t think so much. Just say what you’re thinking,” Harry encouraged gently. “It’s just me.”

As if Harry could ever be just anything. Draco swallowed hard, his throat tight. “I can’t just turn it off- Merlin, okay." he huffed. "I want you to stay. Here.” His words rushed out, red flooding his cheeks before he could stop it.

Harry’s grin blossomed, bright and wide. “There we go.”

Something inside Draco softened- a little crack in the armour he didn’t realise he’d been holding onto so tightly. He felt emboldened by Harry's presence. “No, I mean-” Draco motioned to the space right beside him. “Here.”

Harry’s mouth formed a silent ‘O’ as his eyes followed Draco’s gesture. For all his usual confidence, his cheeks tinged a faint pink, even in the dim room.

Still, without hesitation, Harry shifted closer, until there was barely a breath between them. Draco forced himself to relax, letting Harry’s arm slide under his head. It was no duck feather pillow, but the warmth of Harry’s bicep beneath him felt like the closest thing to perfect.

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy did not sleep in.

He was the kind of person who woke precisely on time- if not before. He liked order, routine, the quiet solitude of the early morning. Tea brewed to the second, morning checklists reviewed while the sky was still grey. His internal clock was practically militant.

But apparently, even the strongest routine was no match for Harry Potter.

At 6:30am, when Draco would normally be dressed, caffeinated, and halfway through reorganising the bloody medical supplies for travel, he was instead fast asleep on Harry.

His cheek was pillowed over a firm chest, one arm slung loosely across Harry’s middle. Harry, for his part, had curled around him in his sleep, snoring softly into Draco’s hair, a hand fisted in the back of his shirt like he didn’t quite trust Draco to stay put.

It was... ridiculous.

And warm.

And really, if Draco were a weaker man, he might have called it nice.

He didn’t even realise how long he’d dozed until a loud, insistent bang rattled the hotel door.

“Doctor Malfoy! Are you there?”

Draco jerked awake, blinking in confusion at the unfamiliar ceiling, then immediately panicked. He sat bolt upright, limbs tangling in the sheets, and nearly elbowed Harry in the face.

“Shit,” he hissed under his breath, scrambling for his dressing gown. His hair was a mess, he could feel it- flat on one side, fluffy on the other. No time to fix it. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Harry made a groggy sound beside him, stretching lazily and opening one eye. “What time is it?”

“Too late,” Draco snapped, dragging his robe on over his pyjamas. “Don’t just lie there, get up! Someone’s at the door.”

Harry blinked at him, still entirely unbothered, and swung his legs over the side of the bed with the kind of casual grace that made Draco want to hex him. “Alright, alright.”

Draco was already halfway to the door when Harry padded over after him, barefoot and half-asleep, clearly with no intention of hiding himself.

Draco turned, grabbed him by the arm, and shoved him bodily into the little alcove beside the door. “Stay quiet,” he hissed, then turned back and forced a serene expression onto his face before opening the door.

Ben, one of the admin staff, stood there, clutching a clipboard and looking like he was about to cry.

“Oh, thank God you’re here,” he said with immense relief. “Doctor Malfoy, sorry to wake you, but-" he paused, "Are you ready to go? We’re collecting bags in fifteen.”

“Yes,” Draco said smoothly. “All set.”

Ben blinked, clearly frazzled. “Okay, brilliant. Erm- one other thing. I hate to ask, but, have you seen Harry?”

Draco’s stomach dropped.

“Potter?” he asked, forcing his tone into something casual. 

Ben nodded, distressed. “No one can find him. His stuff’s still in his room, but he’s not answering. And Julie’s having a meltdown. Said you two were... friends? Figured maybe you’d know?”

Behind the door, Harry was muffling a laugh. Draco could feel him trying not to shake.

Merlin help him. He pressed his hand blindly to the side, clapping it over Harry’s mouth just in case he lost it completely. “He... sometimes takes walks,” Draco said vaguely. “In the morning. Very long walks. For the nerves. Quidditch nerves.”

“Walks?” Ben echoed, brows furrowed.

“Yes,” Draco nodded, hoping he sounded more convincing than he felt. “Meditative ones that... clear the mind. He does this before big matches.”

Harry was actually trembling with silent laughter now.

“Oh. Erm. Right.” Ben still looked deeply unsure. “Well, okay. If you see him, let someone know, yeah?”

“Of course,” Draco said quickly, and shut the door on him with perhaps a bit more force than necessary.

The second it clicked shut, Harry burst out laughing.

Draco turned slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You’re impossible,” he said flatly, brushing invisible lint off Harry’s shirt. “Go on. You need to be seen in your room before people start thinking the Egyptians have kidnapped you.”

Harry snorted, but didn’t argue. He stretched his arms above his head, yawning as he wandered back towards the door. Then he gave his hair a quick shake, clearly under the impression it might tame itself.

If anything, it looked worse- sticking out in chaotic tufts like he’d been electrocuted in his sleep.

Draco let out a dramatic breath through his nose. “Come here.”

Harry looked puzzled, but stepped forward. He lowered his head dutifully, and Draco reached up, fingers deft as he smoothed the worst of the disaster back into something resembling order.

He let his hands fall to cradle Harry’s cheeks, thumbs brushing along the hinge of his jaw, and just for a second, everything felt very quiet.

Harry's pupils dilated, breath catching faintly. His eyes flicked down to Draco’s mouth just as Draco flicked his forehead with his finger.

"Ow!" Harry blinked, startled.

“Go,” Draco said simply.

Harry laughed, leaning back, rubbing the spot. “You really do keep me on my toes.”

Draco shrugged. “What can I say?”

Harry grinned at him, wide and warm, and with a final glance that lingered a little too long, he turned on the spot and disappeared with a quiet crack.

The room felt emptier without him, Draco realised, a little too aware of the warm patch left in the sheets and the fading echo of laughter.

He exhaled once, then turned toward his bags.

They still had a whole different continent to get to.

Compared to the Cairo sun, Sydney was a mercy.

The air was still far too warm for Draco’s liking, but it lacked the furnace-dry scorch of Egypt. There was a breeze, at least. He’d tanned, which was a disaster in itself- he was lucky he hadn’t peeled. His poor skin had been through hell.

Dragging his suitcase behind him, he stepped into the hotel lobby, blinking at the bright marble, the burst of cool, charmed air.

Then he froze, catching a flash of unmistakable red hair.

“Mummy,” said a small, lisping voice from somewhere near the floor, “Why doeth that lady have a musthache?”

Draco blinked. The speaker couldn’t have been older than two. Chubby cheeks, mop of hair exactly the colour of Ron Weasley’s, and a very serious expression as he pointed accusingly at a long-haired, mustached wizard currently checking into the hotel.

“Hugo!” came Hermione’s scandalised voice as she swooped down to scoop him up. “That is so rude.” She turned at once to the offended man, apologising with rapid sincerity. “I’m so sorry, he’s just- he’s learning social skills, please forgive him-”

The wizard, bemused and vaguely traumatised, muttered something about children and fled.

Hugo giggled, utterly delighted with himself.

Draco watched the whole thing unfold with something between amusement and awe. He’d heard through the grapevine that Granger and Weasley had finally sorted themselves out, gotten married, and had a child not long after. But seeing it in real life was something else entirely.

Hermione spotted him then. She gasped softly. “Draco!”

He nodded politely at first, but the smile that pulled at his lips grew more genuine as she approached. “Granger.”

“Oh, please.” She rolled her eyes, tugging Hugo along as she came in for a brief, one-armed hug. “Harry said you’d be here for the Cup. It’s good to see you. How are you?”

“I’m well,” he said, and meant it. “And you? And… Hugo?”

At the mention of his name, the little boy’s head snapped up, assessing Draco with a gaze far too intelligent for his age. He pointed at Draco’s head.

“White,” he announced.

Draco pursed his lips to hide the laugh building. “If you mean my hair, then yes.”

Hugo nodded solemnly. “Mine’s wed.”

“Red?” Draco echoed, amused. “Looks pink to me.”

Hugo’s face went scarlet. He made a sound like a tea kettle boiling and bolted off toward the lift in a furious toddle.

Hermione sighed, utterly unbothered. “Now you’ve done it.”

“I’ll inform the Prophet,” Draco said solemnly, watching the child vanish. “Terror at the Tournament: Malfoy Mocks Children.”

"Nothing new there," Hermione snorted. “And I’m doing well. Just started a new role at the Ministry. Hugo’s…” She made a vague hand motion. “Well. He’s Hugo.”

“That sounds accurate,” Draco agreed, lips twitching. “And yes, I heard. I’m now speaking to the Head of International Magical Cooperation. Shall I bow?”

“You certainly shall not,” she said, swatting his arm. “It’s all still very new. I’m getting used to having two assistants. Two!”

Draco raised a brow. “You’re one of the big folks now, Hermione.” His voice softened. “Congratulations. And...it's good to see you too.”

She smiled, warm and a little proud. “Thank you. It's been busy, but- well, we wouldn't miss this for the world.” She paused, eyes scanning him fondly. “And you, Draco. I was glad when I heard you’d changed careers.” Her expression turned into that classic Granger look- the one that said I absolutely predicted this and would like partial credit. “Healing suits you.”

“It was for the best,” he agreed, sincerely.

“Oi,” came another voice, familiar as anything. “What’s this I hear about you calling my son’s hair pink?”

Ron Weasley strolled over, eyebrow raised, one arm balancing a triumphant Hugo on his hip, the other casually slung around Harry’s shoulder.

Draco didn’t miss the way Harry leaned into it, grinning from ear to ear.

“Like father, like son,” Draco replied blandly.

Ron snorted, clapping him on the shoulder. “Still a prat, I see.”

“Prat with a medical degree,” Draco shot back.

Ron rolled his eyes. “Definitely still a prat.” He elbowed Harry. “How on earth d’you deal with it?”

Draco tilted his head innocently. “Yes, Harry. How do you deal with it?”

Harry beamed. Absolutely beamed. “Happily.”

Draco rolled his eyes as Ron made a loud, obnoxious whip-cracking sound.

“Charming,” he muttered, but he didn’t stop smiling.

Somewhere in the background, Hugo was already trying to get into the hotel fountain.

Draco stood in his temporary office, fingers absently straightening vials that had already been arranged three times. The cabinets gleamed, the files were stacked, his notes colour-coded and ready. There was nothing more to do, nothing more to prepare.

And yet, his chest buzzed with unease.

Tomorrow was the final. The culmination of weeks of travel, relentless training, and meticulous care. One match to determine it all: the Cup, the title, everything. Puddlemere had worked harder than any team he’d ever seen. And gods, he hoped they pulled through. It would be a shame to fall now, after all they’d built.

Still. Finals. Even getting here was a triumph. And Draco- though he’d never say it aloud- was bloody proud of every single one of them.

He was just reaching for a clipboard to review Kit's injury file for the third time when the door swung open.

“Morning!” Kit chirped, his wide frame filling the doorway.

Draco turned, arching a brow. “Good morning,” he said, nodding toward the seat. “You’re early.”

Kit grinned as he stepped in and flopped into the chair. “Had too much energy. Couldn’t sit still in my room.”

“How’re you feeling?” Draco asked, already flicking his wand to summon Kit’s chart.

“Good.” Kit nodded, voice bright with cautious optimism. “I’m ready to play today.”

Draco studied him for a moment. There was a focus in his eyes that hadn’t been there before- nerves, yes, but layered with something steadier. Determination.

“Well, if all goes well, you’ll walk out of here with an all clear,” Draco said, offering a rare, genuine smile.

“Fingers crossed.” Kit beamed back, already tugging his shirt over his head.

Draco moved around him efficiently, his hands practised and sure. The familiar diagnostic charm pulsed softly at the tip of his wand, casting a faint green glow over the length of Kit’s spine. It flickered faintly as it passed his lower back, but steadied.

“Any pain?” Draco asked, pressing gently at a spot just under Kit’s left shoulder blade.

Kit winced. “Bit tight, but nothing sharp.”

Draco nodded, murmuring a soft spell under his breath. The muscle eased beneath his fingers.

“You’ve been doing your stretches?”

“Religiously,” Kit said. “You terrify me too much not to.”

Draco snorted. “Good.”

He moved on to the shoulder, tracing the joint with practiced care. The tension in his frame told Draco everything he needed- Kit was ready to play.

“No signs of strain. No inflammation,” Draco said, stepping back and lowering his wand. “I’ll clear you for the match.”

Kit let out a relieved breath, rolling his shoulders. “Really?”

Draco raised a brow. “Would I joke about something that might get you flattened mid-air?”

Kit grinned. “You wouldn’t. You’re terrifying, remember.”

Draco hummed and started scribbling the last few notes onto Kit’s chart.

There was a pause, then-

“I’m really glad you came with us,” Kit said, quiet but steady.

Draco glanced up.

Kit was watching him, his usual grin tempered into something softer, more serious. “You didn’t have to care this much, you know. But you did. You do. You’ve made this whole thing feel... safer. Better.”

Draco didn’t quite know what to say to that. The sincerity in Kit’s voice was disarming.

“So,” Kit scratched the back of his neck. “After the match... If you’re free... Do you want to get dinner? Just us?”

“Ah – that’s...” Draco paused, his mind scrambling to shape a response that wasn’t cruel or dismissive. A part of him had sensed it was coming – the long looks, the nervous gratitude – but he hadn’t expected Kit to risk something like this on the eve of the most important match of his career.

He chose his words carefully.

“That’s kind of you,” he said finally, voice steady.

Kit’s face lit up with a hopeful smile.

Draco hesitated, then exhaled. “But I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

He watched it happen – the slow collapse of expression, the way Kit’s eyes dropped, his shoulders deflating.

“No worries, really,” Kit said quickly, with a strained little laugh. “I was debating whether it was even- uh...” He scratched the back of his neck, cheeks red. “I don’t know. Probably pulling above my weight class, huh?”

Draco frowned. It took courage to ask something like that, especially knowing the risk. “Don’t say that,” he said, tone firmer. He reached for the clearance document and handed it to him. “You’re a wonderful guy, Kit. Honestly. And anyone would be lucky to take you up on your offer.”

Kit's expression was resigned. "But not you."

“No,” Draco said gently, “Not me.”

Kit nodded slowly, his smile smaller now, but sincere. “Right. Yeah. Sorry if I made things... weird." Kit added, eyes flicking up to meet his, “I guess- I'm sort of wondering if there’s... someone else?”

Draco froze.

He hadn’t meant to. It was less than a second – a twitch in his jaw, a dart of his eyes – but it was too late. The question had landed somewhere vulnerable. He smoothed his face quickly. “No,” he said, too quickly. “I mean- nothing official.” Merlin, why did he have to add that?

Kit gave him a look that was far too knowing for someone who’d just been rejected. He smiled – soft and sad, no bitterness behind it. “Doesn’t have to be official to mean something,” he said quietly.

Draco swallowed. The words sat heavy in his throat, too close to something real. Kit didn’t push it, though. He just looked down, nodded once, and tugged his shirt over his head again.

“Still,” he said, voice brightening just enough to be polite, “thanks for being decent about it. And for... you know. Everything.”

"Of course." Draco handed over the match clearance paper. “You’re a talented player, Kit. And a good bloke. I mean that.”

Kit took the paper, nodding. “Thanks, Doctor.”

Draco managed a faint smile. “Try to focus on the match, alright? Eyes on the Cup.”

Kit gave a little salute and turned toward the door. He hesitated for a moment – like he wanted to say something else – but then just offered a final nod and left.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Draco sank into his chair, pressing a hand to his face. What a bloody day, and it wasn't even half done.

Draco didn’t even pretend to go back to paperwork after Kit left. He’d lasted all of five minutes in his chair before rising with a groan and heading downstairs in desperate search of caffeine.

The café near the main lobby was predictably crowded, but he managed to edge around a pack of giddy fans just as someone called out from a corner table.

“Malfoy!”

He turned and spotted Ron Weasley, slouched dramatically in a patio chair like a man on the verge of collapse. One hand was wrapped around a takeaway cup that looked like it had been downed in one gulp already. The other was half-heartedly keeping an eye on Hugo, who was darting around the nearby fountain with another boy, shrieking with delight.

Draco wandered over.

“You look terrible.”

“Cheers,” Ron muttered. He gestured over to Hugo, who was now attempting to ride his toy broom through a patch of hotel shrubbery. “One of those will do that to a bloke.”

“Ah,” Draco said, offering a noise of vague sympathy. “You could grab some rest now, you know. Tomorrow’ll be chaos. Match, press, a celebration.” the if, went unsaid. Draco had a good feeling about Puddlemere's chances tomorrow, but he didn't want to jinx it.

Ron groaned. “Cant. Hermione already feels awful that she's had to take a meeting in our room last minute, and I’m not about to pile on by asking her to let me kip while she’s knee-deep in managing Hungarian diplomats.”

Draco hesitated a moment, then offered, “There’s a bed in my office.”

Ron raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “You putting the moves on me, Malfoy?”

Draco grimaced. “Every time I think we’ve made progress, you open your mouth and prove me wrong.”

Ron snorted, clearly pleased with himself. “It’s very forward of you, I must say. Seducing a married man in a public café-”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Draco said blandly. “The offer still stands. The cot’s barely used. An hour of silence might do wonders for the state of your face.”

Ron eyed him, then glanced toward Hugo, who was now poking the fountain jets like he expected them to talk back. “Tempting.”

“I do have a few meetings shortly,” Draco added, checking his watch. “So I won't be able to watch him if you do go.”

"Have no fear." Ron grinned, already pulling out his phone. “There’s someone who’s missed his fair share of babysitting shifts.” He fired off a text with alarming speed, then stood, stretching his back with a groan. “God bless single people.”

Draco raised a brow. “I’ll pretend you didn’t just call me a blessing.”

“Oh, don’t worry. You’d never let me forget it.” Ron drained the last of his coffee and nodded toward the hotel elevators. “But I wasn't talking about you.”

Draco tilted his head, confused, when the sound of rapid footsteps turned both their heads.

Harry jogged into view across the polished floor, hair messier than usual. He barely registered the two of them standing there, gaze locking instantly on the gaggle of children near the fountain.

“Hugo!” he called, voice bright. “Come here, trouble,”

The boy turned and immediately squealed with glee, arms thrown wide as Harry swooped in. With practiced ease, he lifted Hugo straight into the air like he weighed nothing, spinning him once and holding him aloft like a prized snitch.

Hugo shrieked with laughter, clapping his hands in delight.

Draco, despite himself, was… charmed. Harry’s grin was wide and easy, the kind of grin that cracked straight through Draco’s stioc demeanour. He smiled, watching Hugo pat Harry’s cheeks as if he were a particularly soft teddy bear.

Ron caught the direction of his gaze, then smirked knowingly. “Dangerous game, Malfoy.”

“What game?” Draco said, tone as dry as possible. “Observing a man be competent with children? I think I’m allowed to have standards.”

Ron snorted. “You know, life’d be easier for everyone if you cut the pureblood deflection routine and just said what you were actually thinking.”

“I have no idea what you’re on about.”

“You do,” Ron said, far too casually. “You want to shag my best mate six ways to Sunday, and you’re not doing a great job of hiding it.”

Draco stumbled slightly on a paving stone and looked up sharply, face going red. “Excuse me?”

Ron shrugged. “I mean, you’re subtle, but not that subtle. And Harry is painfully obsessed with you, so...”

“I beg your pardon-”

“What?” Ron asked, deadpan. “Do you want a signed note of approval? A formal declaration? We can get it embossed.”

Draco rolled his eyes so hard it nearly gave him vertigo. “I don’t need anything from you, thanks.”

“Rude,” Ron said brightly, sipping his coffee. “True, but rude.” He paused thoughtfully, then brightened. “What about 'Mione’s approval? That’s the real prize, anyway. The woman’s practically a walking moral compass. If she says it’s alright, that’s practically binding.”

“No, Merlin,” Draco groaned, already seeing where this was going. “i don't need approval- put your bloody phone away!”

Ron was grinning now, thumbing through his contacts with glee.

“She’s in a meeting,” Draco hissed.

“So, it'll be a little present for her when she's done." 

Draco needed a nap himself now. Or a shotgun. Whichever was easier to get.

Neither, apparently, were on the cards with the afternoon he had ahead of him. Endless meetings about player safety and privacy, as if Draco didn’t already know these protocols back to front. So when his phone buzzed halfway through a particularly long tirade about how to handle players too proud to accept treatment, Draco was grateful.

He immediately regretted it.

It was an email from Hermione. Already a strange enough occurrence. But it had a PDF attached. Stranger still, the attached PDF read:

Approval for Coitus
Between
Harry J. Potter & Draco L. Malfoy

This document certifies that mutual sexual relations between the aforementioned parties have been formally approved.

Signed,
Hermione J. Granger
Head of International Magical Cooperation

(And Ronald B. Weasley, Instigator)

Draco shut off the screen immediately, face flaming.

Oh, he was going to kill them both and hex their son’s hair pink. Bloody hell.

Chapter Text

The knock came just as Draco was reaching to turn off the lamp.

He froze, brows drawing together. It was late- the kind of late where the team was meant to be asleep, saving their strength for the final. The medical wing was finally still, his reports filed, and his bones ached with exhaustion.

He hadn’t been expecting anyone, but he already knew who it was.

He got up.

The hallway light spilled in as he opened the door, and there was Harry. Rumpled and barefoot in an oversized hoodie and track bottoms- his hair was still damp and his eyes were warm as he looked at Draco.

Draco raised a brow. “Harry,” he said, resisting the stupid automatic smile that always tried to take over his face when Harry appeared. He fought it back and aimed for disappointed. “It’s late. Why are you still up?”

"Well," Harry said, clearing his throat, "I definitely wasn’t waiting for you," he said with a cheeky grin that melted Draco's insides.

He cursed under his breath and let his head thud against the doorframe. Merlin. What was a bloke meant to do with that? He peered into the corridor to make sure it was empty before tugging Harry inside by the sleeve.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said sharply. “Your match is in-” He glanced at his watch and frowned. “Eight hours. And you have morning stretches.”

Harry hummed, rocking back on his heels. “Wow,” he said, in a voice that was somehow both shameless and fond. “They should hire you to be my assistant.”

Draco scoffed, shutting the door behind him. “As if you’d know what to do with an assistant.”

Harry tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Oh, I’ve got a few ideas.” His tone was light, but there was heat under it- subtle, quiet, and thoroughly infuriating. It tugged low in Draco’s belly.

“I-” Draco started, lips twitching. He turned back to his desk, very deliberately not looking at Harry. He didn't need the git to have any bigger of a head than he already does. “As if I’d ever work for you.”

Harry laughed. “True. It’d probably be the other way around.”

“Now that I can get behind.” Draco set his reports aside and faced Harry again. He tried to school his features into something stern, but it was difficult when Harry looked so utterly unrepentant. “But that’s not what we were talking about. Stop getting distracted.”

Harry shrugged, stepping closer and curling one arm casually around Draco’s waist. His palm rested flat against Draco’s back, fingers splayed, heat seeping through the thin cotton of his shirt. “Stop being so distracting, then,” he murmured.

“Harry,” Draco said, warning clear in his voice, though his own heartbeat had begun to betray him.

“I know, I know,” Harry sighed. “I fell asleep after watching Hugo, and it’s messed up my internal clock. I’ll be fine. I promise I’ll be alright for tomorrow.”

“You’d better.” Draco’s fingers drifted to the edge of Harry’s hoodie sleeve, fidgeting idly with the soft, worn fabric. “Hugo seemed very excited about all of it.”

"He mentioned it a few hundred times," Harry’s expression softened. “He’s brilliant. Took him out on my broom-  he nearly outflew me.”

Draco raised a brow. “Please tell me you let him.”

“Of course, what do you take me for?” Harry grinned. “Ron’s thrilled. Thinks he's raising the next Chudley Cannons seeker.”

“He was glad you spent time with Hugo,” Draco said. “That, or he desperately needed a nap.”

Harry laughed. “When did you speak to him?”

“Before you came to get Hugo. He passed out on the spare cot in my office.”

“Ah. Yeah, Hermione’s got their room on lockdown.” Harry hesitated. His cheeks pinked, and his hand faltered on Draco’s back. “Which reminds me. She… told me what she sent you. That sodding email-” He trailed off, visibly mortified.

Draco raised a brow, amused. “...The shagging stamp of approval?”

Harry groaned and dropped his head onto Draco’s shoulder.

Which would have been fine-sweet, even-if he wasn't six foot three and heavy and absolutely forgot, constantly, that Draco was no longer an athlete.

Draco stumbled back under his weight, caught between startled laughter and exasperation as they both toppled onto the mattress. But Harry didn’t move- he stayed draped across Draco like a human blanket, grumbling into his neck, “They are so bloody meddlesome.”

Draco patted his back with mock sympathy. “There, there.” He shifted beneath him, squirming. “Now get off me, you great big hippogriff.”

Harry made a wounded noise, propping himself up on his elbows. His hair flopped in his eyes, and his nose wrinkled. “Rude.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

Harry huffed a laugh and dipped his head closer. “If you plan on keeping me around that long, I guess I will.” Draco didn’t get a chance to roll his eyes before Harry nuzzled just beneath his ear, warm breath ghosting over skin. He felt the faintest drag of Harry’s nose along his neck- soft, steady, like he was memorising it.

“Mm.” Harry inhaled, quiet and content. “You always smell so good,” he murmured.

And just like that, Draco forgot whatever he’d meant to say. The weight of him, the press of their bodies, the honesty in his voice - it burned through Draco’s carefully kept composure like acid through parchment.

He gripped lightly at Harry’s shoulder. “We, er, we should-”

Harry looked up at him, eyes wide and knowing. “Yes?”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “You know exactly what I'm going to say.”

“Do I?” Harry’s hand moved slowly, tracing a line beneath Draco’s shirt, curling around his waist. Draco, against all good sense, arched into the touch slightly, giving him more space. Harry’s eyes flicked down, watching, a soft smile playing at his lips. “See, I’m not sure I do.”

“I’m saying, ah-” Draco gasped as Harry dipped his head again, mouth working at the side of his neck- leaving open mouthed kisses, then sucking, warm and thorough. His fingers were dragging down Draco’s back, possessive and reverent all at once.

“Oh, sod what I’m saying,” Draco muttered.

He curled his fingers into Harry’s hair and pulled him up for a kiss- heated, and desperate. Harry melted into him like he’d been waiting for this exact moment, like he already knew all of Draco’s edges and was determined to memorise every one.

“I’m assuming you’re staying here tonight?” Draco managed to ask, breathless, once Harry had moved to kiss just beneath his jaw.

“Please,” Harry murmured, his voice low and rough.

Then he nipped Draco’s earlobe, the barest bite- gentle, teasing- but it sent a jolt of heat shooting through Draco’s spine. His thighs shifted involuntarily where Harry had slotted between them, and he had to bite down a groan.

Draco huffed out a laugh, trying for exasperation, but it came out shaky. He tipped his head back as Harry trailed kisses just below his ear. “Merlin knows why they even book you a room. Between your insomnia and you sneaking into mine, yours is a complete waste of Galleons.”

Harry chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against Draco’s throat. "True. I've got no use for it."

Draco hummed, fingertips tracing absent patterns up Harry’s shoulder and over the nape of his neck. The hoodie was soft- worn thin with age- and it made Harry feel absurdly real in his arms. Not the international Seeker. Just Harry.

“That surprises me,” Draco said lightly, as Harry finally stilled, tucked warm and heavy in the crook of his neck. “I thought every athlete had their odd pre-match rituals they carried out in the privacy of their own rooms.”

Harry pulled back slightly, far enough to look at him, but close enough that their noses nearly brushed. He was grinning, but there was something fond in it- something that softened the sharpness of it and made Draco feel like he was made of spun glass.

“…You haven’t noticed?”

Draco blinked. “Noticed what?”

Harry pursed his lips like he was trying to decide how much to say. Then he gave a soft laugh, and Draco felt it again- warm breath against his cheek.

“I didn’t used to have a routine,” Harry said. “Didn’t see the point. Superstition never really felt… practical.”

Draco arched a brow but didn’t speak, sensing Harry wasn’t finished.

“But this season…” Harry tilted his head, searching Draco’s face like he was a little worried about saying it. “I started doing something before every match. Didn’t mean to. Didn’t even notice it at first. But then I looked back- and it was every time. Without fail.”

Draco’s heart gave a dangerous sort of flutter. “And?”

Harry’s fingers found his cheek not firm, they were warm, and a little shaky.  “It’s you,” Harry said quietly.

Time seemed to slow. Draco barely breathed.

“I come to find you. You yell at me. You look out for me. You hit me. Then you worry about me.” Harry’s lips twitched as Draco scoffed, looking away. “And we go out and win. Every time.”

Draco didn’t speak. He couldn’t. There was a tightness in his chest, and a lump forming in his throat that he didn’t quite know how to swallow. He couldn’t meet Harry’s gaze, not with the way it held steady on him- wide and open and maddeningly sincere.

He wanted to say something clever. Deflect with a quip. But all he could do was let Harry’s hand slide to his jaw, let his thumb brush the corner of Draco’s mouth. "Too much?" Harry asked.

Draco finally looked at him. "It's not. You're not," he said, quiet but sure. "But as we've established, my brain-to-mouth filter is a little more..."

"Present?" Harry offered, eyes warm.

Draco hummed in agreement, threading his fingers through Harry’s hair again, letting the silence stretch between them. It all felt so painfully domestic. Comfortable. Easy. And the strangest thing was- it didn’t scare him. None of this ever had, not with Harry..

He swallowed. "Can I ask you something?"

Harry nodded.

"That day in Cairo," Draco began, tone more cautious now. "You said you saw me on the first day. That you realised you fancied me, or...whatever." He waved a hand, trying for nonchalance. "How long have you felt that way?"

Harry’s smile was small, a little sheepish. His gaze flicked to the side. "If you’re asking me, I think you already know."

Draco was starting to understand, but he needed to hear it. Needed to know for certain that this wasn’t just something sudden or convenient or fleeting.

He brought his hands down from Harry’s hair to cup his face, firm but gentle, coaxing his gaze back up. "Tell me," he said quietly, the words steadier than he felt.

"Since-" Harry let out a soft breath. He looked almost nervous. “Since seventh year,” he finally admitted.

Draco’s lips parted. His hands went a little slack against Harry’s skin.

“Maybe even before then,” Harry added, “and I just didn’t realise it.”

Merlin.

Draco stared at him. “You... can’t have,” he said slowly, like the words might make more sense once spoken aloud. “That was nearly five years ago.”

Harry gave a short, amused huff. “Oh, I definitely did,” he said. “After we graduated, I still thought about you all the time. Kept trying to forget it, but it didn’t go anywhere. Eventually decided I should move on after not hearing from you in a while."

Draco’s chest was tight again, but in a different way now- full of something weighty and ridiculous and deeply earnest.

Harry smiled. “Then at the start of the season, Gerald told us we were getting a new team of Healers. Headed up by Doctor Malfoy.” His voice softened. “And I thought- bloody hell, that’s a second chance if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Second?” Draco echoed faintly.

Harry shrugged. “Apparently, I was too subtle at school. Seeing as you thought we hated each other.”

Draco scoffed. “Didn’t we?”

"Maybe at the start. Then I just wanted to be your friend. But you clearly didn't want that, so naturally, that's when I realised I was bent as a pretzel for you, and wanted to be a lot more than just your friend."

"I did. I mean- mostly." Draco said. "It was..confusing."

Harry tilted his head, voice quieter now. “And now?”

Draco met his eyes. Wide and green and hopeful behind his frames. It should’ve been illegal, really. “How could I possibly be confused with how bloody forward you’ve been?” Draco said dryly, lips twitching.

Harry flushed, smiling in that crooked, boyish way that made something in Draco ache. “Ah. I suppose it was a bit much.”

“Mm.” Draco made a noncommittal noise, then reached up, curled his fingers around the back of Harry’s neck, and tugged him down. “I can handle it.”

Their lips brushed, softer than before. Harry smiled into it, nose bumping his.

Draco let himself fall into it.

Because if this was a ritual- if he was Harry’s calm before the storm- he wasn’t about to break the pattern now.

The match had been, by all accounts, going well.

Not particularly thrilling for the Seekers, who were still circling at opposite ends of the pitch like bored vultures, eyes scanning the sky, but the Chasers were in peak form. Fast, aggressive, clever. Especially one of them - the Australian team’s number seven- who was flying like a man possessed. Too fast. Too reckless. Like he thought the rules didn’t apply to him, or that his bones were made of steel.

Draco had been watching him for a while, eyes narrowed behind the charmed glass of the medical tent. He didn’t like the player’s approach. Too much bravado, not enough control. It made him nervous.

His instincts proved correct in the worst possible way.

Number seven streaked toward a Bludger, moving too quickly, and then, at the last second, collided hard with a figure in blue and gold. It was a jarring, messy impact, the chaser's broom driving straight into the other’s abdomen with brutal force.

Draco’s heart stopped.

He squinted out into the light, stomach plunging.

Harry.

Draco recognised him instantly, even before the monitor switched to a close-up. Even before the echoing gasp from the stands.

Harry was still on his broom, but barely. Curled slightly forward, arms tight around the handle, his face pinched in pain. He was clearly trying to stay upright, jaw clenched, eyes fixed, stubbornly, on something glinting far ahead.

The Snitch. Of course, it was the Snitch.

Draco stood automatically, his chair scraping backwards. Around him, the med team snapped into motion, vials pulled from cases, scanners activated, hands reaching for stretchers.

But no one moved for the pitch.

Because Harry didn’t come down.

He kept playing.

Draco stared at the screen, heart thudding. He watched Harry shift his weight subtly on the broom, clearly favouring one side. His grip didn’t loosen, but his breathing- Draco could see it, ragged and shallow.

“You bloody idiot,” Draco muttered.

Just then, the tent flaps burst open.

“I’ve got half a mind to petrify him midair,” Hermione snapped as she strode in, dropping gracelessly into a nearby chair. Her hands were shaking slightly.

Ron followed a step behind, jaw clenched, eyes still on the sky beyond the open tent flap. “He’s always been like this,” he said darkly, though the way he crossed his arms looked more like self-soothing than irritation. “Always takes it too far.”

Draco didn’t respond. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the screen.

Then came a soft voice, just behind Ron.

“Is Hawwy going to be okay?”

Hugo.

He peeked out from behind his dad’s legs, eyes wide and misty. It hit Draco in the chest. He crouched down without thinking.

“He’ll be alright,” he said gently. “I promise.”

Hugo glanced toward the tent’s main table, where bloodied gauze and broken broom fragments had been tossed aside. His little face crumpled slightly.

Hermione moved quickly, kneeling beside him. “Hugo, love,” she said, brushing hair from his forehead, “why don’t you go sit with Gran in the stalls for a bit? Her seat’s right at the front. Best view in the whole stadium.”

Hugo's eyes went back to the screen, full of worry.

Ron nodded, backing her up. “You’ll be our eyes, yeah? If anything happens, you’ll see it first. And you can tell us. That’s an important job.”

Hugo hesitated, then nodded bravely.

Hermione kissed his cheek, and Ron ruffled his curls. One of the staff crouched to take his hand, and with a backwards glance at the pitch, Hugo let himself be led out.

The flap closed behind them.

Silence settled again. Heavy. Tense.

Ron exhaled, scrubbing a hand down his face. “He’s not going to come down,” he said, resigned. “He’ll play until he’s got the Snitch in his hands.”

Draco didn’t respond right away. His eyes were still locked on the screen, on Harry, hunched slightly, still flying like his ribs weren’t likely cracked.

He wanted to say it was stupid. Reckless. That nothing was worth aggravating an internal injury. But he didn’t bother.

Because he knew better.

It was the final.

And Harry has always done whatever it takes. Pushed through pain like it didn’t matter, like the win was more important than his own body.

Draco just hoped to Merlin he hadn’t pushed too far this time.

Chapter Text

Harry was clearly affected by the injury. His movements had gone jerky, his turns sharp and poorly timed, every sweep of his broom carried out with a frantic sort of defiance, as though he could outfly the pain if only he refused to acknowledge it.

He was, Draco noted grimly, flying much like the Snitch itself-erratic, gleaming, impossible to pin down. Maybe that’s what helped him finally catch it.

The moment his fingers closed around the Snitch, the stadium exploded. Blue and gold rained down from the sky in bursts of magical fireworks. People shouted, screamed, leapt out of their seats.

Draco didn’t move.

He couldn’t. He was too busy watching Harry’s body crumple midair. Still upright, technically-but barely. His spine curved inward with pain, one hand clenched at his side as if holding something in. His broom dipped under the weight of it.

Draco felt it like a punch to the gut. His knees nearly gave out.

He turned to prepare the tent before the medics even reached Harry. They had a stretcher, just in case levitating him would jar the injury further-but Harry, stubborn to the last, managed to walk.

Sort of. He staggered between the two field medics like a newborn foal. His face was tight with pain. His gait stiff. His shirt half-untucked. He looked wrecked.

Still, when he caught sight of Draco waiting, he smiled.

Draco didn’t return it.

“Table,” he said shortly, already Summoning a fresh diagnostic kit.

Harry was compliant for once. He let the medics ease him down with a soft grunt of discomfort. Julie conjured a stabilisation charm over the cot as one of the interns hovered awkwardly.

“Shirt off,” Draco said, his tone clipped. “Carefully.”

Harry winced as he sat up and pulled it over his head. The moment the fabric cleared his ribs, Draco knew it was worse than he thought.

Bruising had bloomed deep and ugly across Harry’s side, so dark it bordered on black. The diagnostic charm flickered crimson over half his torso.

Draco didn’t let it show.

He handed Julie the scan with brisk efficiency. “Confirmed crack along this rib. Intercostal bleeding. No lung collapse, thank Merlin. Julie, prep the reknitting salve. Sean, top shelf, blue vial- the internal closure draught.”

His hands hovered over Harry’s skin, warmth already pulsing from his palms. The stabilisation charm glowed faintly under his touch.

He worked fast. With focus. His body moved like a metronome-precise, steady-but his jaw was set too tight, his shoulders rigid with something unspoken.

Harry watched him silently.  Just quiet, pained eyes that didn’t leave Draco’s face.

When Draco applied the reknitting salve, his fingers were deft, but gentler than necessary. Harry’s breath hitched, but not from pain. There was something else in his expression now.

“You’re holding your breath again,” Draco said without looking up.

“I’m trying not to move.”

“You’re not helping anyone if you pass out.”

Harry gave the smallest exhale, more a hum than a laugh. “Right.”

The charm settled with a low pulse of gold. Draco circled it once with his wand, setting the final bone-stabilisation charm into place.

“The bleeding’s stopped,” he said to Julie. “Muscle wall’s sealed. Rib’s bonded.”

Harry shifted slightly. “Feels better.”

Draco didn’t answer. He moved to wash his hands, his back to the bench.

Julie turned to the Sean. “Alright, he’s stable. Time to clear the tent. Harry needs proper rest. And the rest of us have a long shift still.”

 He nodded and began packing up supplies. Julie placed a fresh potion beside the bench, then patted Harry once on the ankle.

“Don’t do that again,” she said mildly, before turning on her heel and leaving.

Ron and Hermione ducked in a few seconds later. Hermione made a soft sound the moment she saw Harry, then strode over and kissed his head, muttering in a confused flurry of joy and worry. Ron, already halfway to exasperated, gave him a thump on the shoulder.

“Nice one, mate,” he said. “Next time, try not to scare the entire bloody stadium, yeah?”

“I’ll do my best,” Harry said wryly.

They stayed only a minute more, enough to check that Harry was properly conscious and not actively dying, before Hermione tugged on Ron’s sleeve.

“Come on,” she said, nodding to Draco, “he needs quiet. And we need to go collect Hugo before he agrees to be adopted by randoms.”

Ron offered a nod. Hermione gave Draco a fleeting look, part gratitude, part understanding, then they were gone.

The tent slowly settled into quiet.

Draco finally sat, bracing his forearms against his knees, his shoulders no longer pulled quite so rigid. His gloves lay forgotten beside him.

Harry shifted again on the bed. “Are you okay?”

Draco baulked. “Am I okay?” he repeated, incredulous. “Seriously?”

Harry flushed. “You just-”

Draco didn’t let him finish. “I am okay, Harry, considering I’m not the one who got nearly impaled by a broom going at about sixty miles an hour, give or take,” he said flatly, the edge in his voice slipping past his control.

Harry watched him carefully. “I’m sorry.”

Draco’s eyes snapped to his. “For what?”

Harry blinked, clearly thrown. “For... all this?” He gestured vaguely to himself-his torso, the bruises, his bandaged side. Draco might’ve laughed if he weren’t still so tightly wound. “And for flying through it.”

“You’re sorry,” Draco said, voice low, “but you’d do it again.”

Harry didn’t answer at once. Then, with a slow, deliberate nod, he said, “I’m never going to lie to you.” As if that was meant to make it better. “But,” he winced, rubbing the back of his neck where the movement pulled freshly healed skin “-yeah.”

Draco sighed and stood, reaching down to lower Harry’s hand gently. “We don’t need to talk about it,” he said coolly. He’d really, really rather not. “What we do need to talk about is recovery.”

He gestured to Harry’s arm. “No stretching above shoulder height for the next twenty-four hours. Shower with-” he turned and rifled through one of the care kits until he found the wrap he was looking for, “-one of these. It’s waterproof. Or cast an Impervius over the area, but that’s fiddly, and if you miscast it, you’ll just end up damp and itchy.”

Harry nodded, brow furrowed, though there was something odd about his expression- quiet, like he was holding something back.

Draco ignored it. He couldn’t afford to think about anything else until the post-care briefing was done. There was something in his brain that wouldn’t shut off until the checklist was complete. He picked up two small vials of clear gel and held them out.

“You’ll need to apply this twice daily,” he said. “It’ll help with pain and deeper muscle recovery. Reapply if it gets wet.” He handed over the salve and the waterproof wrap.

He brought up the schedule next. “You’ll need to see a Healer regularly after you’re back in London. I’ve left notes in your file, obviously, but they’ll put together a physio plan alongside your training schedule- though I expect you to actually take a break,” he added sharply.

Harry was quiet for a beat. Then, almost shyly, “You won’t be my Healer?”

Draco looked up. Properly, for the first time since the briefing had begun.

And softened. Instantly. Harry's face was unsure, the kind of expression you make if you wonder if you've gone too far.

He hadn't, and Draco didn't want him to take any additional stress, especially while in recovery. He cleared his throat. “Unless you’re planning to break it off with me, it’s best if someone else handles it. You need someone more... appropriate.”

Harry huffed out a laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Definitely not. Not ever.”

Draco looked away again, this time with a snort. “Don’t make that promise so soon. I could have some horrifying hidden trait that has you running for the hills.”

Harry shook his head slowly, not even humoured- just certain. “You could grow a tail or tell me you trip children for fun, and I’d still think you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Draco went very still. Harry always said things like that- blunt, ridiculous, utterly sincere- and every time it hit Draco like a Bludger to the sternum. He looked away, trying to school his face into something unreadable. It never worked around Harry.

"Well, stop making the best thing to ever happen to you worry so much," he snapped, with no real heat behind it.

Harry nodded, all false obedience and flashing eyes. "Sir, yes sir."

Draco turned toward him, slow, unimpressed. Stared flatly.

Harry just grinned and raised his hands in surrender, as if he wasn’t currently bruised from collar to ribs. "Hey- you said you liked that one."

Merlin. He had, hadn’t he? How humiliating.

“Anyway,” Draco said crisply, deciding the only way forward was to ignore it entirely. “Despite all this... I wanted to congratulate you.”

The words felt strange, like a slightly ill-fitting robe. He adjusted them with a clear of his throat, glancing toward the tent flaps where distant roars of the crowd still filtered through. Chants being sung. Fireworks going off. A full-blown celebration outside.

“You played brilliantly,” he said, a bit stiffly. Then, quieter: “We-" he paused, considering, "I am proud of you.”

It came out a little hoarse.

He kept his eyes on the monitor beside the cot, watching someone in the crowd accidentally spill beer on their own shoes.

Then he heard the rustle of robes and a soft grunt. His gaze snapped back immediately. Harry was halfway off the cot, propped on one elbow, face screwed up in pain.

“Oh my- lie back down!” Draco barked, already moving. “What is wrong with you?” He huffed in frustration as he leaned over, fixing the bandages he’d just settled less than ten minutes ago. “Do you want to be stuck in medical care for the rest of your life?”

Harry smiled at him through the pain. “Yours? Definitely.”

Draco went pink. Instantly, utterly betrayed by his own stupid face.

He could’ve smacked him. Really, he should’ve. He deserved it. But looking at the state of Harry- half-delirious, grinning like a loon- he decided perhaps physical violence could wait. “Don’t say things like that,” he muttered, settling the last wrap and carefully lowering Harry back to the pillow.

Harry just grinned wider, even through the obvious ache. “Sorry,” he said, entirely insincere, eyes bright and far too pleased with himself. “Can’t help it. You said you were proud of me.”

His voice was a little slower than usual. Slurred, even.

Ah. The pain relief salve must have started taking hold. It didn’t knock people out, not exactly- it just took the edge off the pain, dulled everything down into a kind of pleasant hum. It was still very much trialled for in-match use only, but in Harry’s case... well. He’d clearly already drifted straight into blissed-out sap territory.

“Felt good,” Harry added vaguely, as if Draco hadn’t heard him the first time.

Draco sighed.

He reached out and brushed the hair back from Harry’s forehead. It was damp and matted from sweat, spiking in every direction like he’d been struck by lightning. Which, frankly, wasn’t outside the realm of possibility where Harry was concerned.

Draco’s thumb skimmed his temple, then dropped lower, over the sharp slope of his cheek.

Outside the tent, fireworks cracked again, and the crowd roared louder.

Inside, Harry’s eyes fluttered shut. His head tilted slightly toward Draco’s hand. Pressing into the touch. Like he’d been waiting for it.

Draco froze.

It was just the two of them here. Everyone else had rushed off to the pitch or the party or the chaos of the changing rooms. No one would come back for a while, he had time.

Slowly, Draco let his fingers slide into Harry’s hair, combing them through the strands. Harry made a quiet noise of contentment, and Draco decided he could endure the mess of tangles for this.

Draco was exhausted.

Not in the poetic, sighing-out-of-a-window sort of way, but in the very real, bags-under-his-eyes, warts-at-lunch, back-aching-from-standing sort of way.

The clinic had been waiting for him the moment he returned. Patients who wouldn’t dare trust anyone else were suddenly flooding in again, as if he’d vanished for years instead of weeks. The emergency wing was permanently full. Lunch breaks, when they existed, were mostly spent elbow-deep in rash diagnostics or very pointedly not breathing near suspicious fungal growths.

He’d had one cup of tea that morning. It had gone cold. Twice.

Now, he was hunched at his desk, flipping through next week’s calendar, trying to determine which appointments were genuinely urgent and which were just overfunded hypochondriacs with too much time and not enough perspective.

He started marking the truly urgent ones, wand tapping neatly over the parchment, just as the front doors hissed open and shut.

Draco didn’t even need to check to see who it was.

“Seven-thirty, Draco!” Harry’s voice rang through the front lobby, followed by the unmistakable stomp of irritated footsteps. “Dinner was at seven-thirty, and I just got pecked in the face by Morgana and told you weren’t coming!”

Draco looked up. Harry was striding in, eyebrows drawn together and hair even messier than usual, a small red mark blossoming on his forehead.

Draco barely resisted the urge to laugh. “I’m sorry,” he said, genuinely, gesturing to the towering stack of folders. There were so many now that he had to stand just to place the overflow on his own chair. “I have to finish this tonight.”

Harry gave him a flat look. “Do you actually have to? Or is this the infamous Malfoy paranoia and perfectionism joining forces again in their ancient, deadly alliance?”

“Is it-what?” Draco sputtered. “Oh, for the love of Merlin, just sit down.” He waved vaguely toward the waiting area. “I’ll be done soon.”

Harry stared at the chair like it had personally offended him. Then, with a long-suffering sigh, he slumped into it, arms crossed dramatically over his chest. Draco shook his head, a tired smile curling at his lips.

It had actually been a fairly smooth transition back to normal life, considering how chaotic the tournament had been.

Harry had taken his recovery seriously- more seriously than Draco had dared to hope. He'd extended his leave after the tournament, committed to physio like it wasn’t the world’s most boring form of torture, and had even admitted, once, that he liked the feeling of getting stronger again.

Draco had floated on that admission for days.

As for himself, he’d batted away offers from most teams in the international league. He didn’t want another contract. Not yet. Not when he had patients who needed him. Not when he had a quiet flat in the city, an owl named Morgana who bit people on sight, and Harry Potter’s toothbrush in his bathroom.

And Harry- Harry was still in his life.

Which made everything else bearable.

They’d gone public two weeks after returning from Sydney. It hadn’t been some grand decision- they’d just been on a walk, hand in hand, and apparently looking at each other like a pair of sentimental gits. The press didn’t buy the ‘school reunion’ line. Honestly, Draco didn’t mind. He liked a bit of attention. And if any reporter got too nosy, well- he’d been brushing up on his hexes anyway.

He was just finishing the last note on a prescription when he felt it- warmth at his back. Strong arms curling around his middle, a steady weight leaning in.

He didn’t startle.

One of Harry’s hands rested lightly on Draco’s hip, the other braced against the desk beside him, boxing him in. Harry leaned in, his chest rising and falling against Draco’s back, a comfortable weight that made Draco’s focus waver.

“I’m not finished yet,” Draco reminded him, staring determinedly at the parchment.

“No?” Harry’s chin hooked over his shoulder, breath warm near his jaw. He glanced down at the papers for all of three seconds before clearly losing interest and turning his head inward, pressing a soft kiss to the curve of Draco’s neck.

Draco cleared his throat. “I’ve got a stack of prescriptions to fill before we leave,” he said, voice steady- but only barely.

Harry hummed in response, lips brushing along his skin again, his arms tightening, pulling Draco back into him. “How many?” he asked, voice low and maddeningly casual.

“Uh-” Draco’s eyes fluttered shut as his head tipped back slightly. Harry’s mouth was a persistent, gentle thing. His hands were worse, roaming up under Draco’s jumper now, warm fingertips brushing his skin. “Maybe seven or eight.”

“Okay,” Harry murmured, then, mercifully,stepped back a little, giving Draco just enough space to breathe again. “I’ll bring dinner, then, since we missed it earlier. You finish up.”

Draco exhaled shakily and turned slightly, enough to catch the warmth in Harry’s eyes.

He reached for Harry’s forearm and gave it a light squeeze. “Thank you,” he said, more softly than before.

He wrapped up in record time-he suspected even the handwriting was barely legible-and had a full minute to spare as he shrugged on his coat, locked the office door behind him, and warded it shut. His wand was already slipping into his sleeve when he reached the pavement-

And stopped.

“You cannot be serious,” he said, staring in horror at the beat-up, barely intact car parked at the curb. “I’m not getting into that metal monstrosity again.”

Harry was leaning casually against the passenger's side, beaming like an idiot. “Don’t listen to the mean man, Spidey,” he said, patting the hood.

Oh yes. Spidey. The car he’d named after his favourite childhood superhero. Draco had never hated anything more fondly.

“Call it what you like,” Draco sniffed, eyeing it like it might spontaneously combust. “It’s still an explosion waiting to happen.”

Harry shrugged, utterly unbothered. “That was one time.”

“One explosion is too many explosions, Harry,” Draco snapped, pointing at him accusingly. “I can't believe that’s a sentence I have to say.”

Harry rolled his eyes and slipped a hand into Draco’s coat pocket, pulling his hand out and lacing their fingers together, guiding Draco closer to the car. “It wasn’t my fault. Fred and George did something weird to it. They didn’t know Ron already did something weird to it. And the magic sort of... overlapped.”

“Exploded,” Draco supplied flatly. “With us inside it.”

“We were fine,” Harry said, grinning. “We had protective charms.”

“My shoes didn’t,” Draco bit out. “They’re gone forever.”

“I offered to buy you another pair.”

“One,” Draco jabbed his free hand in Harry’s face. “I don’t need things bought for me. And two, if you buy me new ones, I’ll have to stop being cross about the old ones, and I quite enjoy holding it over your head.”

Harry blinked like he coudn't quite believe what he was hearing. Then burst out laughing, head tipping forward, glasses sliding down his nose. “You are so petty.”

Draco preened. “Thank you.”

Harry’s laughter softened into something gentler. “I swear there’s nothing wrong with it now. But I like driving. And I like driving with you even more.”

Draco stared at the car. Then at Harry’s stupidly sincere face. Then back at the car. “Fine,” he sighed.

Harry beamed and opened the passenger door with a flourish. Draco climbed in, muttering something about sacrificing his dignity for love as he did.

He buckled in, sent a quick prayer to Merlin, and hoped his limbs would make it out in one piece.

Harry slid in next to him a moment later, settling into the driver’s seat. The car blinked to life with an indignant little shudder, and Draco eyed the dash like it might cough up engine parts.

“How’s your abdomen?” he asked, automatically scanning Harry’s posture, hands, expression.

Harry nodded. “All good. Been cleared for pretty much everything now. In fact, I spoke to Gerald. Said I’ll be ready to come back in a few days.”

Draco nodded. He’d been hesitant about passing Harry off to another Healer, but and Harry’s recovery had been textbook so far. So much so that he felt ready toplay Quidditch again. “Good. I know you've missed it.”

The car turned onto the main road, which was thankfully empty on a Monday night. Draco visibly relaxed.

“I got Thai,” Harry said, just remembering,  jerking his head toward the plastic bag in the back seat.

Draco hummed happily, already perking up. “With the-”

“Yes, the Pad See Ew with prawns and your aloe sippy cup.” Harry recited, resigned but fond.

"Its not a sippy cup!" Draco squawked indignantly.

"Then why do you have to sip from it? And why is it bright green?"

"I don't know, Harry, i didn't engineer the bloody bottle." he huffed. “And it’s aloe vera- of course its green. It’s good for digestion and skin clarity.” Draco finished decisively.

Harry threw him a side glance. “And ego inflation?”

“Hilarious,” Draco muttered, giving him a look of deep offence. “At least it’s still better than your order.”

“What- it’s Pad Thai. Everyone loves Pad Thai.”

“It’s basic.” Draco sniffed. “You’re so bloody uncultured.”

Harry cast him another amused glance, eyes warm, mouth twitching. “You’re so bloody pretentious.”

"Well, what a pair we make." Draco muttered, unable to hold back his grin as Harry reached over, lacing their fingers together easily, like he’d been waiting to do it all day. The silence that settled between them was comfortable, familiar with routine.

The car sputtered a little as they pulled into familiar roads, and Draco had to press his lips together to avoid commenting on the possibility of another explosion. Harry just grinned shamelessley, humming to himself as the engine let out another startling hiss. The Morgana bobblehead, now proudly perched on the dash, shook her tiny head in apparent disapproval.

Draco couldn't hold in his laugh this time.

Chapter Text

Seventh Year

“We’re playing against the snakes. You coming?” Ron called, voice muffled around a slice of toast clenched between his teeth. He was tugging on his Quidditch boots as he walked- half-hopping, really- and holding one of his gloves in his other hand like he couldn’t possibly spare time to actually get dressed sitting down.

Harry shrugged, sniffing his kit. It had been worn once, just for practice. It would do. He’d have to stay a few steps away from Hermione, though. That girl was a bloody sniffer dog for overdue laundry. “The state of a Quidditch player's kit reflects their attitude on the pitch, Harry. Get serious,” she’d say, and then return to her favourite book, the one in tatters that she refused to replace or fix.

Girls.

He grinned at the thought and pulled the shirt on. “Yeah, alright. Let’s go.”

The two of them clattered down the dormitory stairs, Ron still chewing on his toast, Harry trying to yank his socks up as he jogged. They took the steps two at a time and filed out onto the pitch where, to Harry’s surprise, nearly everyone was already there.

Ginny stood dead centre, broom in hand, arguing with- was that Marcus Flint? Harry slowed slightly, taking in the scene. They were standing toe-to-toe, and the tension was unmistakable.

“No, Oliver’s mine,” Ginny snapped, jabbing the bristles of her broom threateningly at Flint’s chest. Her eyes were narrowed to dangerous slits.

Marcus didn’t flinch. “I called him first, Weasley. You’re the one who suggested this, so stick to your own bloody rules. Or do Gryffindors always get a free pass?”

“He’s the captain, you utter halfwit. You can’t just call him,” Ginny snapped, clearly losing patience. When Marcus stared back at her, unmoving, she huffed, seemingly relenting. Ginny grabbed the back of Oliver’s robes, and shoved him toward Marcus. “Fine. You want Oliver, take him.”

Marcus caught Oliver awkwardly and went oddly red in the face.

Before Harry could process that, Ginny had already stalked over to the opposite side of the pitch. “But you’re with us,” she said to Draco Malfoy, who had been standing with his arms crossed and one perfectly disdainful eyebrow raised.

Draco scoffed. “Desperate, are we?” But he didn’t protest. Instead, he turned and started walking toward the Gryffindor side of the pitch- now a rather alarming mix of red and green.

Harry glanced sideways at Ron, who looked absolutely betrayed. “I knew she’d do this,” Ron grumbled. “She told me it was Gryffindor versus Slytherin. That we were going to show them who’s boss. Course she’d mix up the teams and not tell us.”

He nodded, frowning, before he realised that Draco was coming to their side. “…Wait,” Harry said slowly, horror dawning. “Does that mean I’m seeking for Slytherin?” He hadn’t meant to sound so sour, but it slipped out anyway. It wasn’t that he disliked Slytherins. Not really. But he was house proud, especially when it came to Quidditch. This felt almost sacrilegious.

A familiar voice, nasal and unmistakably smug, cut through his thoughts. “Wow, Potter. You really are getting smarter by the day.” Draco said with false cheer. There was a smirk on his face, and his eyes shone with competitiveness.

“And you’re getting dimmer,” Harry shot back, unable to keep the grin off his face. They’d been in an odd sort of stalemate lately, where their insults lacked the bite they used to have. It felt more like teasing now. “If that Transfiguration test has any merit.”

Draco’s expression dropped instantly. His face went pink, brows drawing together in a scandalised little furrow. “You- oh, piss off,” he hissed, turning on his heel with a flap of his robes.

Harry grinned, satisfied. He jogged over to join Oliver, who was now looking vaguely confused and a little betrayed on the Slytherin side. “You ready?” Harry asked, stretching his arm across his chest.

Oliver blinked, nodded. “Let’s pummel them,” he said automatically- then hesitated, as if only just realising that the opposing team was, in fact, mostly made up of his own friends.

Harry shrugged. “Opposing team’s the opposing team,” he said helpfully, and held out a fist.

Oliver returned the bump with a chuckle, falling into formation.

Harry mounted his broom and kicked off the ground. As the wind caught his hair and the pitch spread out beneath him in all its ridiculous, mismatched glory, he thought- yeah. This was going to be a good match.

He was, of course, wrong.

Harry nearly had it- the Snitch was right there, golden wings fluttering like mad just inches from his outstretched fingers. His broomstick groaned as he pushed it harder, lungs burning, air slicing past his ears. Just a little closer-

“Oi-!” he shouted, as something nudged the end of his broom and sent him veering off-course with a violent jolt.

It wasn’t a bludger. It was bloody Millwards- one of the other lanky new Slytherin recruits, green-clad and wild-eyed, who’d been flailing like a first-year trying to dodge a bludger and had clipped him.

Harry jerked upright, swearing under his breath, and had just managed to stabilise when a streak of silver blurred past him, robes whipping, and a hand reached out with effortless precision.

Malfoy's hand.

Harry’s stomach dropped as he watched the smug bastard wrap his fingers around the fluttering Snitch like it had offered itself to him.

And then came the whistle, sharp and final.

Cheers erupted from the Slytherin side- loud and raucous. Gryffindor shouts quickly followed, just as passionate to retaliate. A Ravenclaw in the stands threw up her hands and yelled, “He only won because someone sabotaged Harry!”

Harry descended in a tight spiral, fuming. He already knew Malfoy had that look on his face- that glow of self-satisfaction that was absolutely going to haunt Harry all evening. By the time his boots hit the grass, Draco had dismounted and was smoothing down his hair like he’d just walked out of a bloody shampoo advert.

He turned, Snitch still in hand. “Oh, don’t pout, Potter. It’s undignified.”

Harry shot him a glare. “I had that catch.”

“You almost had it,” Draco corrected. “But as usual, I was faster. And better. And-”

“-and more irritating than a case of magical lice?” Harry offered.

Draco smiled sweetly. “Touchy, touchy. You know, I don’t need to beat you at Quidditch to feel superior, but it’s such a pleasant bonus.”

Harry rolled his eyes, not having the energy to respond.

Their teams filtered back toward the castle, the match dissolving into a mix of laughter and grumbling and people shouting for post-game drinks. They walked back toward the changing rooms in silence- if still slightly competitive. But just before they reached the doors, Hermione stormed up, hands on her hips and a wild look in her eyes.

“Harry James Potter, I swear to Merlin-" She wrinkled her nose. "Your kit smells like it’s been worn by a troll and buried in a compost heap-”

Harry groaned as Draco snickered, leaving Harry behind. “Hermione, please.”

“No. No, I will not be quiet. This is a public service. You are a walking olfactory hazard-”

By the time Harry escaped her impromptu intervention and slunk into the changing room, most of the team had already cleared out. He expected to find it empty, but it wasn't.

“Malfoy,” he said, blinking.

Draco was sitting on the bench, half in his Quidditch gear and half out of it, his head tilted back and eyes closed. A towel hung around his neck.

Harry blinked again. He wasn’t unused to seeing shirtless teammates- it was a changing room, after all, but something about this moment felt private, like he’d stumbled into someone else’s dream and was now standing awkwardly in it, fully clothed and unwelcome.

Draco cracked an eye open, as if Harry’s voice had nudged at the edge of his consciousness. “Potter,” he drawled, not moving.

Harry cleared his throat, looked away, and shuffled further inside. “Didn’t think anyone would still be here.”

“Well, surprise,” Draco muttered, his gaze fixed balefully on the showers.

Harry followed it, frowning. “Why are you making that face?”

“Your barbarian teammates used up all the hot water," he said bitterly, eyes narrowed at the faucet like he could will it into compliance. "It takes ten minutes for it to come back. At least.”

Harry pulled out his wand as he approached. “Oh, easy fix.” 

Draco shook his head. “Don’t even try charming it-”

Too late. The moment Harry flicked his wand, the nearest showerhead sputtered angrily and sprayed them both with a stream of icy water. Draco swore loudly as the plumbing let out a mournful groan, like it, too, was tired of this shit.

“Fucking hell, Potter!” Draco spluttered, dragging the towel up to shield his face. “Are you physically incapable of following instructions? It doesn't respond well to magic!”

Harry was too busy gasping from the cold to form a proper retort. He wiped his face, his hair now soaked and plastered to his forehead. “You could’ve warned me!”

“I was mid-warning, you absolute pleb.”

“You’re a pleb,” Harry muttered, with all the intellectual wit of a concussed flobberworm. Draco rolled his eyes at the insult, or possibly just at Harry’s continued existence - and cast a swift drying charm around them both.

Harry blinked as his robes and skin warmed instantly. “Oh,” he said quietly, shaking a few last droplets from his fringe. “Thanks.”

He gave a dismissive flick of his fingers. “You’ve suffered enough today, I suppose.”

Harry snorted, flopping onto the bench beside him. “The only thing worse than losing to you is you taking pity on me.”

“Who said anything about pity?” Draco smirked, still staring ahead. “It’s purely selfish. I enjoy your humiliation.”

Harry huffed, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I really did have it, you know,” he muttered. “The Snitch. It was right there.”

Draco didn’t answer at first. And then, quietly: “I know.”

Harry turned so fast he nearly fell off the bench. “What?”

He flinched at the volume. “Do you mind?” Draco snapped, rubbing at his temple. “I can feel your shout in my bones.”

"What do you mean, you know?" Harry gaped. 'Are you admitting that I should've won?"

"Oh, don't look so shocked." Draco rolled his eyes as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I enjoy winning. I fully intend to do it many, many more times and hold it over your head until the day you die. But I’ve got integrity. Millwards threw you off course. He does the same thing to me all the time. He's got no bloody control over his broom.”

Harry stared blankly. His brain might have fallen out of his skull and rolled away across the floor. Draco Malfoy- proud, smug, emotionally constipated Draco Malfoy...admitting Harry deserved to win. Were pigs flying?

After a moment, Draco turned to squint at him. “Complex human nature too complicated for you, Potter?” he drawled. “I suppose it must be all Gryffindor good, Slytherin bad in that thick head of yours.” He lowered his voice in a frankly terrible imitation of Harry.

Harry was so stunned- and the impression was so hilariously awful- that he burst into laughter, tipping sideways into Draco’s shoulder. He snorted once, then twice, and when he finally managed to look up, he nearly lost it again.

Draco was staring at him with a look of utter revulsion, edging as far away as physically possible without falling off the other end of the bench. His eyes were critically trained on the spot where their shoulders were touching, as though considering amputation.

Harry shuffled back, trying to smother the last of his laughter. His smile lingered.

Draco waited another beat before muttering, “You need help.”

“Probably,” Harry admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “But, er, you’re right. About… what you said. I guess I was wrong to judge you. Or your house.”

There was a long pause. “I actually had fun today,” Harry added, quieter this time. “Barring Millwards and his shit flying.” Draco snorted faintly. It might’ve been approval. Harry took the opening. “We should play together more often.”

Draco blinked. “We were on opposing sides, Potter.”

“I was talking about Gryffindor and Slytherin,” Harry said innocently. “But if you were so keen on us playing together…” He let the sentence trail off meaningfully as Draco sputtered. “Well, anything for a fan,” Harry added, smile widening.

Draco stood abruptly and deliberately stepped on Harry’s boot on his way to the showers. "Delusional twat," he muttered, as the door slammed behind him. 

Harry started laughing again. 

Predictably, Hermione and Ginny were already waiting on the stairs outside the boys’ dormitory when Harry and Ron emerged, still yawning from barely waking up ten minutes ago.

“Oh, finally,” Ginny drawled, arms crossed and foot tapping impatiently. “Are the princesses done getting ready?”

Hermione snorted as Ron narrowed his eyes at his sister, dramatically pretending to flip long, lustrous hair over one shoulder. “I’d be a prettier princess than you, Gin.” he scoffed. "Freak."

“Who are you calling a freak, you dickhead?” Ginny launched herself down the stairs before Ron could react, tackling him with terrifying precision. There was a startled yelp and a loud thud as they both disappeared into a tangle of limbs and insults at the bottom of the staircase.

“Siblings,” Harry muttered, adjusting his collar and watching them with mild exasperation.

Hermione nodded in agreement, stepping over them without pause as if they were merely inconveniently placed furniture. “Listen,” she said, tugging on her scarf as they walked through the corridor. “We’ve decided to sit with Pansy this morning.”

Harry blinked. “What, like... by choice?”

“She invited us,” Hermione said with a shrug, as if this explained everything. “We were talking at the game last night and- don’t make that face- she's quite funny.”

Harry made a noise halfway between a cough and a laugh. “You know, ’Mione, there’s a lot of help out there.”

She frowned at him. “Help?”

He nodded solemnly. “For people who self-sabotage.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes and whacked him with the end of her scarf. “Hilarious,” she said dryly.

“I try.”

“You and Ronald are free to stay at the Gryffindor table, of course” she said loftily. “But I hear the juice is extra fresh at theirs.”

Harry scoffed. “Oh, sure. Betray your house for superior juice. Is nothing sacred?”

But Hermione had already swept into the Great Hall. Ron lingered beside Harry, adjusting his sleeve like he was bracing himself for battle. “Have you heard the madness they're spouting?” he hissed. "Sitting at the Slytherin table. Merlin above."

Harry hummed, eyes scanning the room. His gaze landed -inexplicably- on a familiar figure sitting near the end of the Slytherin table. Malfoy was already halfway through a croissant, talking idly with Pansy and Blaise. He looked a lot calmer when he wasn't biting Harry's head off.

"You know what?" he grinned to himself. “Let’s join them,” Harry said lightly.

“What?” Ron squawked, stopping dead in his tracks. “Not you too,” he groaned. “Mate, if it’s fresh juice you want, my mum’ll squeeze half a pumpkin patch for you and you know that.”

“I do love your mum,” Harry said solemnly. “But that’s not the reason.”

“Then why?”

Harry started walking toward the Slytherin table. “It’s nearly the end of the year. I just- I think we should try new things.”

Ron trailed after him like a man heading to the gallows. “Sure,” he muttered, dodging a second year. “We could try ket,” he suggested rather loudly, attracting the horrified glances of a few teachers. "Or a new Quidditch formation," He paused, dropping his voice to a horrified whisper, “But not the dark side.”

Harry just chuckled, swiping a goblet off an empty placemat and sitting down next to Hermione.  Draco broke off mid-sentence, brow furrowing as he glanced across the Slytherin table. He squinted, leaned forward like Harry might be an illusion, then reached out and prodded him in the face.

Harry blinked at him as Draco recoiled with a girlish shriek. "Shit!" Draco clutched his chest, looking personally attacked. “What in Salazar’s name are you doing here?”

Harry shrugged casually. “Breakfast,” he said, already helping himself to a pastry from the silver tray in front of him.

Draco looked nothing short of scandalised. He snapped his head toward Blaise, who looked equally confused, and then they both turned to Pansy with a synchronised air of betrayal. “What did you do?” He demanded, like she’d brought a banshee into their midst.

Pansy, looking completely unbothered, inspected a tapestry above the table with theatrical interest. “Oh, do stop looking at me like that,” she said, tossing a grape into her mouth. “I asked the girls over. It’s not my fault the dunderheads followed.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. “Dunderheads?”

Ron scoffed from his seat next to him. “Excuse you, Parkinson. Watch your mouth.”

“Should I?” she said, arching a brow. “And what exactly are you going to do about it?”

Ron opened his mouth. “I’ll-”

“Do nothing,” Hermione cut in briskly, her voice sharp enough to slice through the table. “Let’s not pretend we can’t all be civilised for half an hour.”

A general murmur of reluctant agreement followed. Even Draco muttered something sulky under his breath and reached for the pumpkin juice like it had personally offended him. “Good,” Hermione said with finality, then immediately turned to Ginny and Pansy to resume their conversation, utterly at ease.

Harry shot a grin at Ron, who was already stuffing his mouth full of buttery croissants. He looked affronted, despite the crumbs.

Ron met his eyes. “Terrible. Snake food,” he said grimly, chewing through two pastries at once. He reached for the jug and drowned his fake disappointment in juice. “Absolutely atrocious.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “That might be more convincing if you weren’t inhaling half the table. Do leave some for the rest of us, Weasley.”

Ron gave him an innocent look. “Okay!” he said brightly, then picked up two sausages and shoved them dramatically into his mouth.

Blaise scoffed. “I think Weasley’s trying to tell us something about a recent change in sexual orientation,” he said dryly.

Harry, to his own surprise, snorted. The sound escaped him before he could stop it. Draco glanced at him, startled, then let out a reluctant huff of amusement, his mouth twitching into something very nearly a smile.

Ron was busy facing Blaise with the kind of wounded pride only a very straight man could muster, his expression a perfect portrait of "how dare you," while Blaise looked smug, as if he'd accomplished something.

Harry, wisely, tuned them both out.

Instead, he angled his body slightly towards Draco, who was sipping on his juice, trying to pretend like he wasn't listening. His sleeves were rolled up, Harry realised, and the glint of cufflinks sat untouched on the table, caught his eye.

He pointed to the links. "Pretty formal for a normal Thursday, Malfoy. Got a hot date?"

Draco didn’t even look at him. “Not all of us roll out of bed looking like cursed shrubbery, Potter.”

Harry let out a short breath, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “That’s a new one.” He ran a hand through his hair on instinct and felt it stick up worse than before. Typical. “So what do you wear on actual dates, then? Full dress robes? Top hat and monocle?”

Draco gave a disdainful snort, still not turning his head. “Why the sudden fascination with my love life? Has yours finally dried up like your shampoo supply?”

Harry didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, yeah, I’ve hit rock bottom,” he said, grinning. “Next stop: Malfoy.”

Draco gave him a dry look. "Now that's funny. You couldn't land a date with divorced merfolk if you tried, forget me."

Harry’s mouth twitched. He wasn’t smiling, exactly, but something about the barb pleased him. “Bit full of yourself, aren’t you?”

“I have standards,” Draco sniffed, reaching for his toast with the kind of precision that made it feel like he was trying very hard not to throw it at Harry’s head. “You wouldn’t make it past the screening process.”

“Screening process?” Harry echoed. “What, do you accept applications?”

Draco took a delicate bite of toast. “Of course not. I have Pansy for that. She weeds out the ones who wear socks with sandals and use ‘your’ when they mean ‘you’re.’” he gave Harry an assessing look, taking in the mess of hair, the slouched posture and his rumpled uniform. "You certainly wouldn't qualify."

Harry let out a soft laugh, amused. “Harsh. I’ve never even seen socks worn with sandals.”

“You've never seen a comb either,” Draco muttered, buttering his toast.

Harry leaned forward, elbow on the table, angling himself just enough to watch the pink creeping up the back of Draco’s neck. "At least I've got charm." The unlike you was heavily implied.

Draco gave him a withering look, lifting his juice glass in what looked suspiciously like a way to hide his expression. “You’re not charming. You’re like… a brick wall.”

Harry cocked his head. “A brick wall that can fly circles around you.”

“That’s debatable,” Draco snapped, setting his glass down with more force than strictly necessary.

Harry only shrugged, unbothered. “So’s your flirting technique.”

“I wasn’t flirting, Potter,” He said sharply. His ears were unmistakably pink now. “Merlin, what a revolting accusation.”

“Touchy, touchy,” Harry said, repeating Draco’s own words from after their match. He took a slow sip of pumpkin juice, pretending not to watch Draco glare holes into the tablecloth. "Come on, you admitted it yourself. I'm the better player."

Draco scowled “I most certainly did not.” His voice rose a little, but he tried to keep his cool. “I said you might have won that practice match if Millwards hadn’t thrown you off. It was sympathy, which, clearly, was a mistake.”

Harry’s grin widened, sensing the perfect opening. “If you’re so keen to prove yourself, Malfoy, how about a rematch?”

Draco spat the word ‘Fine’ out with a sharp snap, and without hesitation, he reached over to Blaise, pulling him out of conversation with Ron like he was about to drag along his whole entourage.

But Harry shook his head. He caught Draco’s wrist before Blaise could be summoned and tugged it back down onto the table. "Not them. Just us."

Draco’s eyes flicked down to their hands, confusion blooming into something like horror. “Just... us?” he repeated, voice low and uncertain.

Harry cleared his throat, quickly pulling his hand away. “Seeker versus Seeker,” he clarified, voice light but challenging. “Scared?”

That snapped Draco out of his moment of stunned silence. His glare sharpened, confidence returning with a snap. “Not even close,” he said, voice steady and clipped. He stood as everyone began preparing to head to their first lesson of the day. “Tonight. Before dinner.”

Harry nodded once, a spark of satisfaction lighting his eyes. “Deal.” He watched Draco stalk off, the annoyed set of his shoulders and clenched fists making Harry’s grin widen. There was something undeniably entertaining about getting under Malfoy’s skin. A small win off the pitch.

Hermione’s voice broke through his thoughts. “What exactly are you up to, Harry?” she asked pointedly, eyebrows raised.

“Rematch,” Harry said simply, not bothering to hide his expression.

Hermione gave him a sharp look. “Don’t give me that nonsense. You’re clearly goading him.” She shook her head. “Don’t do anything stupid, Harry. No pranks.”

Harry blinked, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “No- I mean, I wasn’t going to anyway.” He gave a half-smile, a little sheepish. “And I'm not goading him, I just like winding him up a bit. Besides, I do actually want a rematch.”

“First of all, that’s quite literally the definition of goading,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. “And second of all, since when do you want to spend time with Draco Malfoy?”

Harry scoffed, feeling an odd warmth creep up his neck. “Don’t say it like that,” he muttered, trying to keep his voice casual. “It’s just Quidditch.”

Ron clapped him on the shoulder as he passed on his way to Divination. “Beat him for us, mate.”

Harry nodded, glancing back at Hermione’s curious, sceptical expression once more before heading off, face feeling oddly hot.

Chapter Text

The rain was relentless, hammering down in thick sheets that blurred the edges of the pitch and soaked through their robes within minutes. Thunder grumbled low in the distance, a dull roar beneath the sharp whistle of the wind. Harry’s hair plastered to his forehead, he wiped a streak of rainwater from his eyes, squinting into the gray haze.

His broom was slippery beneath his fingers, but he kept his grip firm, eyes locked ahead.

Ahead, the snitch flickered like a flame in the storm, darting and weaving unpredictably. Harry lurched forward instinctively, muscles coiling and releasing in one sharp burst of speed.

He barely had time to register Draco behind him before he executed something Harry wouldn't even know how to describe-an audacious midair somersault, twisting upside down with a fluidity that made Harry’s breath catch.

Draco swooped low, hand stretching out, fingertips grazing the snitch’s wings in a near miss that was almost too fast to see. Harry’s fingers snapped forward, closing around the snitch just as it dropped lower, skimming the slick grass beneath them.

He’d caught it- but only just.

Malfoy was hot on his tail, the intensity in his eyes unmistakable. 

The rain poured harder, but Harry’s heart was pounding with the fierce thrill of the chase. They landed hard, slick boots sliding slightly on the soaked grass. Rain clung to their robes and hair, running down their faces in rivulets. Harry shook out his fringe, blinking the water from his eyes as he looked up.

Draco had already turned away, silent as he peeled off his soaked gloves with sharp, annoyed motions and set his broom down with unnecessary force. His shoulders were tight, posture rigid.

Harry was still high on the win, breath short from the final dive and his heart pounding like mad. It had been a proper match- fast, intense, near impossible to call until the last second. The kind of practice he only ever had with Draco.

“Hey,” he called, voice slightly hoarse from the wind and rain. He didn’t actually have anything to say. He just wanted to do...something.

Draco didn’t turn. He shrugged off his outer cloak and let it drop to the wet grass, jaw clenched. Harry tried again, walking up to him. “Malfoy, that was-”

Draco turned sharply, and Harry stumbled back. He’d misjudged the distance completely- was still moving as Draco pivoted, and suddenly they were much too close.

Draco had to look down slightly to meet his eyes, which Harry hated, but not enough to step back. The glare Draco was wearing faltered the moment he registered how little space there was between them. His mouth opened, then closed.

“Er- hello,” Harry said, not entirely sure why that came out.

Draco scowled, stepping back like Harry had burned him. “Merlin, you’re insufferable.”

Harry felt something strange pulse in his chest but ignored it. “Didn’t take you to be a sore loser.”

Draco rolled his eyes, raking a hand through his dripping hair. “You caught it by sheer chance. I was right behind you.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, grinning slightly. “I noticed. That flip thing was- mental, honestly.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, suspicious. “Was that meant to be a compliment?”

“Dunno,” Harry said, honestly. “Maybe.”

Draco narrowed his eyes like he was trying to figure out whether to take offence.

“You’re not bad, Malfoy,” Harry added, still a little breathless. “Really not.”

Draco blinked at him. Then scoffed. “Stop talking to me.”

Harry laughed. He couldn’t help it. Draco’s scowl deepened like he didn't understand what went on in Harry's brain. Then again, who did? “Sore loser,” Harry muttered again, just to see what would happen.

What happened was a glove flying at his face. It smacked him directly on the cheek with a wet thwap, startling him into a laugh as he stumbled back a step. “Oi!”

Draco didn’t say anything, his expression was still pinched and unimpressed, but he turned slightly to the side. His shoulders were shaking in a way that didn’t match his scowl. Still grinning, Harry walked back over and handed the glove back to him. Draco took it without a word. He looked… slightly less murderous, though not quite friendly.

The impulse hit Harry before he could think too much about it- this odd, fleeting urge to cheer him up. Which was ridiculous, but he rolled with it anyway. “D'you want a pumpkin pasty?” he asked, completely out of the blue.

Draco turned, slinging his kit bag onto one shoulder, and squinted at him like he was completely deranged. “...What?”

“A pumpkin pasty,” Harry repeated. “I keep some in my bag for after practice. I get hungry.”

“So?”

Harry huffed. Merlin, Malfoy was not making this easy. “Do you want one?”

He braced himself for a disgusted scoff or some snide dismissal. Instead, Draco looked at him for a long moment, rain still trickling down his cheek, and said, “Okay.” He looked faintly confused by the answer himself, like he wasn’t sure why he’d agreed.

Harry smiled, oddly pleased. “Brilliant. Come on. Let’s get out of the rain.”

Draco sneered at the mud splattered up his shins. “When you said out of the rain, Potter, I sort of assumed you meant… inside.” He glanced around the underside of the stands with obvious disdain, eyeing the dripping beams and squelchy ground like they’d personally offended him.

Harry, already halfway through his pasty, didn’t even glance up. “It’s nice out.”

Draco blinked at him. Then looked outside, aghast. “Nice?” he repeated, as though the word itself were an insult.

“Food with a view and all that,” Harry added mildly, gesturing out to the pitch with his crust.

Draco followed the motion and stared at the gloom: a grey, sodden expanse, thunder rumbling low above it, sheets of rain blurring the goalposts. He squinted. “You can’t even see two metres ahead. That’s not a view.”

Harry shrugged.

Draco looked down at the sad, damp pasty in his hand and then back out at the pitch, clearly questioning every choice that had brought him here. “Blind as a bat, you are.” He muttered, before finally taking a bite.

“You could be more grateful. I offered you my favourite food. That’s a huge honour.” Harry looked over at him with mock reproach, lips quirking as he took a reverent bite of his pasty. The rain still pattered gently on the canopy above them, a dull, constant hum that made the strange stillness between them feel oddly suspended. 

Draco stared down at the thing in his hand like it had personally offended him. “Thank you for this cold, wet pastry,” he said dryly. “I don’t know how these can be your favourite when treacle tarts exist.”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “Too sweet,” he said, then glanced down at his pumpkin pasty again, his voice reverent. “These are far better.”

There was a pause. Draco rolled his eyes, but not as sharply as before. “Nobody asked you to share them with me.”

Harry just shrugged, unbothered. “You were huffy.”

Draco turned his head sharply, eyes narrowed. And just like that, he was huffy again. “Excuse you-”

Harry cut him off without looking, chewing contentedly. “Oh, come on, I was cheering you up. It worked!” He nudged Draco lightly with his elbow, a hopeful grin twitching at his lips. “You’re happier... now?”

That earned him a long, flat look. Draco turned to him, brows drawn in something between confusion and disdain, lips unmistakably downturned.

Harry groaned aloud, flopping his head back against the wooden stall behind him. “Merlin, never mind.”

Draco sighed. “Why are you so concerned over my happiness, Potter?”

“I'm- not!” Harry said, voice cracking with the sheer force of how unconvincing he was. He winced, rubbing a hand over his neck, trying to act casual despite the sudden heat crawling up his collar. “Hermione told me I shouldn’t piss you off so much. She was already suspicious that I asked you for a rematch.” He exhaled, flicking a pebble with the toe of his boot. “I don’t want to be jumped by your new fan club if you come back glowering.”

“I don’t glower,” Draco said at once, managing to both glower and sound offended about it.

That did it. Harry burst out laughing.

It startled a twitch in Draco’s expression, but he didn’t say anything- just scowled harder and stared back out at the foggy, miserable pitch. His hair was damp and curling slightly at the edges, and there was a smudge of mud on his jaw that he hadn’t noticed.

Harry smiled faintly.

Draco shuffled, leaning back on one of the beams and getting comfortable. “Just because I’m not rolling around in the mud snorting like a pig, doesn’t mean I’m not having fun.”

Harry leaned back on his palms, grinning. “Good to know.”

They lapsed into silence again. Not awkward- just quiet, the kind that came after flying and arguing and being out of breath. Harry didn’t quite understand what had possessed him to offer Draco a pasty. And he definitely didn’t understand why it had felt weirdly successful when Draco accepted.

Still, he didn’t regret it.

Their practices became a frequent thing after that.

Harry wasn’t quite sure how it started, only that it did. There was never a plan, no agreement, not even a “same time tomorrow?” It just… happened. Draco would raise an eyebrow at breakfast or Harry would catch his eye in the corridor, and before he knew it, they were both trudging down to the pitch again like something about the idea was inevitable.

They’d fly. Or sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes they barely got off the ground before settling into casual bickering over nothing, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the stands with the sun dipping low behind the goalposts and the damp grass glittering around them. Harry didn’t know what they were doing half the time, but he did know it was the best part of his week.

Unfortunately, it also hurt like hell.

He groaned as he collapsed onto the common room sofa, flopping dramatically across the cushions like he’d been felled by a curse.

“You alright?” Ron asked, peering over the back of the couch.

Harry didn’t lift his face. “Everything hurts,” he muttered into the upholstery. “My back. My neck. My hands.”

Hermione, curled up in the armchair with a book and a mug of tea, reached out to pat his head with a sort of resigned sympathy. “You should go to Madam Pomfrey. She’ll sort you out. And then stop overdoing it,” she added. “Honestly, what are you doing out there? Combat drills?”

“I’m glad you’re taking training seriously,” Ron said, “but this is getting a bit mental. You’re out till late every time.”

Harry shifted onto his side, grumbling. “It’s just...Quidditch. You know how it is.”

Hermione gave him a look over the rim of her mug. “Oh, you don’t seriously think we’re that thick, do you?” Harry blinked at her and she sighed. “Alright. Maybe you’re the one thats thick.”

“Hey!” he said, sitting up.

“Harry,” she said, tone very careful now, as though trying not to spook a wild animal, “you do realise that Quidditch is not the reason you’re spending hours on the pitch nearly every other evening?”

Harry blinked again, slower this time. She gave him a meaningful look. “It’s Draco.”

That was- that was absurd.

Wasn’t it?

Harry opened his mouth to protest. But then he remembered the way Draco sometimes smiled when he thought Harry wasn’t looking, the way their flying had slowly devolved into sitting around and talking nonsense, the way he’d started instinctively glancing at the Slytherin table every morning just to check if Draco looked as tired as he felt-

Oh God.

“It'sb about time,” Hermione muttered fondly, shaking her head. “It’s the only way you two can go about spending time together. Flying around and pretending it’s about practice. You’re completely hopeless.”

Harry dropped his face into his hands. His ears were so warm they could probably fry an egg.

After all his posturing, he’d gone and got attached to Draco bloody Malfoy.

Brilliant.

Ron let out a scoff. “You are so easy, mate.”

Harry’s head snapped up. “What?”

"Seriously." Ron looked deeply unimpressed. he reached for Harry's paper bag. “The git calls you stupid, flutters his evil grey eyes at you, and suddenly you disappear for half the week to chase him around on a broom and watch the sun go down together.”

“I’m not- that’s not what’s happening!” Harry protested, though he had no viable alternative explanation. “And I’m not easy! I’m not just going to fall into bed with the next person who looks my way!”

“No one said you were,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. “Ron’s being a prat. All I meant was that you’re... open. Emotionally. You like someone, and you seek them out instinctively. You don’t play games, you just go. It’s sweet.”

Harry stared at the fire, mortified and soft and far too aware of how not subtle he apparently was.

Ron, meanwhile, had gone still, frowning down into the paper bag. “Wait a second.”

Harry tensed.

“Where are our pumpkin pasties?”

Hermione looked up, curious. “Did you eat them all already?”

Ron pulled out something else- a slightly squashed square wrapped in waxed paper. “What’s this?”

Harry cleared his throat. “Er. Treacle tart.”

Ron blinked. “Treacle-? Eugh.” He dropped it back into the bag like it had insulted him. “Why’d you get those?”

Harry knew he could lie.

He also knew he wouldn’t. “They’re… Malfoy’s favourite,” he said, quietly.

There was a beat of absolute silence. Then Ron shot upright, pointed a finger directly at Harry’s chest, and bellowed:

“EASY!”

Harry wasn’t sure when it had started happening- when his words had begun betraying him. Things that used to come out as casual or teasing now just... sounded flirty. Awkward. Obvious. Like he was trying to impress someone rather than wind them up.

Draco noticed. Of course he did. He’d startle slightly when Harry spoke too warmly, glance away like he wasn’t sure if he was meant to laugh or run. He’d stiffen when Harry said his name like it meant something. Sometimes, when Harry caught him alone and tried to start a conversation, Draco would go very still, like he was bracing himself. Not for an argument, those were easy, but for Harry’s interest. And that was much worse.

It wasn’t that Harry expected anything back. It wasn’t that he was doing anything. But whatever Draco had felt before- annoyance, curiosity, maybe even a weird sort of camaraderie- it had gone quiet. Slipped out of reach.

Harry had ruined it. Somehow. And now Draco avoided him the way you might avoid someone you suspect has a crush on you but you’re too polite to say so.

So, Harry went back to square one. back t what worked the first time.

He just… sat beside Draco in the library. Quietly. 

Draco was already hunched over a textbook when Harry arrived, scribbling something with his eyebrows drawn so tightly together they were nearly touching. He didn’t look up as Harry dropped into the seat beside him- he just kept writing, lips pursed.

Harry didn’t speak. He reached into his bag and slid a napkin-wrapped parcel onto the table. It bumped lightly against Draco’s elbow.

Draco blinked, glanced at it, then at Harry.

Harry didn’t look over. Just opened his Potions textbook to the first page and stared blankly at it. His essay- if one could call a parchment with just Harry Potter at the top an essay- sat beside it in quiet shame.

He picked up his quill, twirled it idly, kept his gaze down.

Draco sighed. Long and dramatic. He unwrapped the parcel, revealing a treacle tart- just the way he liked it, edges crisp, centre still a bit gooey. He didn’t say thank you. Didn’t ask why. He just took a bite, then carefully reached over and slid Harry’s empty parchment between them both.

His voice was low and clipped. “You spelled your name wrong.” Harry blinked, genuinely confused. He wasn’t great at Potions, but he knew how to spell his own name.

Draco pointed at the parchment with a faint smirk. “This says Harry Potten.”

“No, it says Potter.” Harry leaned in, jabbing a finger at the offending letter. “That’s an r.”

Draco snorted, unimpressed. “That’s clearly an n. Three lines, Potter.”

Harry shook his head, trying not to laugh. “It’s cursive.”

Draco gave him a deadpan look. “In what world is that cursive?”

Harry grinned, enjoying himself now. “The Muggle world. Thought Mr Perfect Handwriting might know about cursive.”

There was a sudden puff of Draco’s chest that Harry found horrifically endearing. “I do. Wizard’s cursive,” Draco said, pulling a fresh sheet of parchment from his bag. With a flourish, he wrote something in a loopy, extravagant script.

Harry squinted at it. It was beautiful, no doubt- flowing, graceful. But honestly? “That looks like graffiti.”

Draco narrowed his eyes, slow and deliberate. “What is a ‘graffitee’?”

Harry smiled at his pronunciation. “Muggle vandalism.”

Draco scoffed loudly. “You’re saying my handwriting looks like vandalism?” His scowl deepened. “I don’t even know why I’m showing it to you, when you can’t even tell the difference between an r and an n.” His glare was pointed and sharp.

Harry bit back the urge to jump up and cheer. Their old dynamic was creeping back, and as much as the feelings inside him wanted to spill over, he held himself tight. This was important. Their friendship. Their easy sparring.

“Do you need glasses too?” Harry teased, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. “Clearly your eyesight’s getting worse.”

Draco shuddered dramatically. “Perish the thought. Glasses? Horrific.”

Harry tried not to take offense. “Brilliant.”

“Not you, Potter.” Draco rolled his eyes, waving dismissively at Harry’s own glasses. “Those things are practically cemented to your face. I mean on myself.”

Harry’s gaze lingered on Draco longer than he meant to. The way the light caught the pale skin just under his eyes, the sharp lines of his cheekbones- it made Harry’s throat tighten, his breath catch in a way that was too revealing.

He forced himself to look away, then glanced back, voice softer, quieter than before.

“Square ones, maybe,” he said, raising a finger hesitantly. His hand moved slowly, almost without thinking, tracing just beneath Draco’s eye. The skin was warm and real beneath his fingertip, softer than Harry expected.

Draco’s eyes snapped wide in surprise, the colour rushing into his cheeks as if he'd been caught off guard by something far more than just the touch. He jerked back instantly, his fingers reaching up to cover the spot Harry’s finger had grazed.

For a moment, they just stared at each other- Draco’s brows furrowed, tense, unsure, and Harry’s own eyes wide and searching. The silence stretched, heavy and brittle, charged with everything neither dared say. Harry could feel the heat of his own skin, the awkward flutter of nerves twisting low in his stomach.

And then Draco’s voice came, sharp and a little rough, breaking the spell. “Like I said,” he muttered, still brushing at his face, “perish the thought.”

Harry blinked, swallowed the tightness in his throat, and looked away first- because maybe it was easier that way.

The space between them suddenly felt vast, colder. But beneath it all, Harry knew one thing with sudden, sharp clarity: he wanted more than just friendship, even if Draco didn’t.

He just didn’t know how to say it without everything going wrong.

Chapter Text

It seemed things were going wrong anyway, because Draco was acting weird.

Not much more than usual, but it still felt off. He felt far away these days. And Harry, who recently discovered that he'd like Draco much closer to him, physically and mentally, realised this was a bit of a setback.

It made him uneasy.

Hence…

“Any reason why I’m being escorted to class, Potter?”

Harry shrugged, biting his lip. “It’s, um. On the way to mine?”

“Wrong,” Draco clicked his tongue. “You have Divination. Upstairs.” He stopped abruptly, turning so quickly that Harry didn’t have time to slow down. His chest bumped straight into Draco’s crossed arms. Heat shot through him, and he flushed, painfully aware of just how close they were.

Harry cleared his throat, hands twitching at his sides. He wanted, absurdly, to touch Draco- just a wrist, a shoulder, anything- but he forced his fingers still. “You didn’t come to practice yesterday.”

That at least shifted something. Draco’s expression softened- guilt, maybe. “I… had an interview.”

“An interview?” Harry frowned. It wasn’t unusual for people to start making plans after graduation, but they hadn’t even sat their final exams yet. “Bit early for all that, isn’t it? What for?”

Draco’s arms uncrossed as he pressed his lips together. “Just...things.”

“Wow,” Harry drawled. “Things.”

“Shut up, Potter,” Draco snapped, huffing, but there was no real heat in it. "I've just... been busy. Likely will be for the next few weeks."

"Oh," Harry tried to hide the disappointment in his voice. "So no Quidditch?"

"Probably not." Draco shrugged. He wasn’t looking at Harry – his gaze was fixed somewhere off to the side, which made it hard to read his expression. He finally turned away, one hand braced lightly against the doorway to the Ancient Runes classroom. He glanced back, over his shoulder, and for a moment his face softened.

"Go to Divination, Potter." His lips curved faintly, almost into a smile, and then he was gone.

Harry stared into the curling mist rising from the crystal ball and saw absolutely nothing.

Just fog, and his own reflection- glasses crooked, hair a mess, face tired. Which was fair. He hadn’t been sleeping properly, not since Draco had started pulling away. His nights ended in restless tossing, staring at the canopy, or giving up entirely and pulling out The Amazing Spider-Man until dawn bled through the curtains.

“You’re doing that broody thing again,” Ron muttered, poking at his crystal ball. “What’s wrong? Has he said anything?”

Harry’s fingers curled against the low table. He didn’t answer at first. Around them, teacups clinked and voices murmured about death, fortune, love. “Maybe,” he said at last.

Ron huffed. “That's not vague at all.” He shot Harry a sidelong look. “Is he being a git again? Just 'cause you like him doesn't mean you should put up with that.”

“He’s not being a git, he's just-” Harry stopped himself. His voice was too quick, too defensive. “Look, he’s not like that all the time. And this is different.”

Ron looked at him like he’d confessed an attraction to Blast-Ended Skrewts.

Neville offered a tentative smile. “I think it’s sweet, actually. He is… different now. Sort of. And you seemed really happy after practice last week, Harry. Remember?”

Harry remembered. Too well. The tilt of Draco’s mouth when he’d smiled, the way his hair had been wind-mussed and his cheeks flushed as they’d drifted side by side in the cooling air. Laughing, breathless.

And the very next day, Draco had stopped waiting for him.

Harry had thought, stupidly, that they were getting somewhere. And now Draco could barely meet his eyes, and Harry was sitting here trying to read the future when his present was looking bleak.

“Maybe you just need to be more forward,” Seamus chimed from behind, cheerful and loud. “One good snog’ll do it. Maybe a bit more. He’s a stubborn one.”

Harry closed his eyes. “Merlin’s beard, Seamus-”

“I’m just saying! Bet he’s a freak in bed. Control issues, posh attitude- it's always the ones you’d never suspect-”

"Do you mind?" Harry snapped, more sharply than he meant to.

Seamus held up his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. Just trying to help."

Ron scoffed,"You're the one who needs a shag, mate. Stop projecting onto Harry."

Neville patted Harry’s knee under the table, kind and awkward. "It’ll sort itself out. Maybe he’s just scared. People pull back when they care sometimes."

Harry bit the inside of his cheek.

Maybe.

Or maybe Draco had come to his senses.

Professor Trelawney was still floating about the room, shawls rustling and bangles clinking, her voice drifting like incense.

"Today, we seek meaning," she intoned, gesturing grandly at the foggy glass orbs resting in their carved wooden stands. "You must read the language of the mists, my dears. There are always signs, always symbols. But only your intuition will guide you to the truth. The ball reveals, but you must decode."

"Right," Ron muttered, half-asleep, chin in one hand. "Decode that it’s all bollocks."

Harry wasn’t listening. Or rather, he was pretending not to listen while his brain ran in tight, mortifying little circles.

He glanced around. No one was paying attention to him- Ron was doodling something that looked suspiciously like a dragon fighting a chicken, Neville was trying to coax meaning from a smudge in his ball, and Seamus was whispering something to Dean, who looked horrified.

Harry inhaled. Then, under his breath, just loud enough for the mist to hear, he asked:

"Will Malfoy ever like me back?"

For a long moment, nothing happened. And then the mist inside began to shift.

It swirled- slowly at first, then faster, strange colours bleeding into the fog. A flicker of yellow. A smear of blue. A dizzying whirl of green and grey. The ball gave a low, eerie hum, then flung itself out of its cradle, rolling straight off the desk.

"Wait-"

It hit the floor with a thunk and took off across the room, past a stunned Lavender, between Parvati’s boots, and straight out the open classroom door.

There was a moment of stunned silence as it reached the spiral staircase.

Harry winced as it clattered down the steps.

Then-

CRASH.

Harry blinked, slowly. "Fucking brilliant."

Trelawney turned on the spot, her eyes enormous and full of mystery. "Mr Potter," she breathed. "What precisely did you ask it, my dear?"

Harry stood slowly, red-faced and jaw tight. "Nothing. Just... general things, you know. Life."

"Mm." She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "The ball does not lie."

“Yeah, well,” Harry muttered, sinking back into his seat, “it’s also not great with stairs.”

The laughter started then, whispers and giggles rippling across the room. Harry folded his arms, wishing the floor would swallow him. He told himself it didn’t mean anything- that the universe wasn’t mocking him, that it wasn’t an answer at all.

But when he glanced at the empty stand, all he could think was that he had asked if Draco Malfoy might ever like him back, and the universe had hurled itself away, shattered into pieces.

Not ideal, really.

Safe to say, the crystal ball incident had set the tone for the rest of Harry’s day.

Herbology was a disaster, because of course it was. He’d apparently insulted a Mayflower root, which had then launched itself out of the dirt and whacked him in the face. His glasses, thankfully, had saved his eyes from being gouged out, though they were now cracked to hell and clinging to his face like a spider on its last legs.

The worst part? He’d shrieked. Loudly. And rather girlishly.

Hermione had looked mortified.  She'd agreed to partner with him on account of him having a shit morning, but he'd pretty much bollocksed up their chance of a passing grade.

She’d marched over, expression like thunder, and thunked him on the head with the end of her towel. "That was textbook handling, Harry!" she hissed. “You compromised the root's emotional integrity- do you even read the prep notes? The Mayflower is a sensitive root.”

Harry, still half-blind and flinching from towel attack, had muttered under his breath, “You're a sensitive root.”

Big mistake.

Her head had snapped around. She'd gone an alarming shade of red, glared at him like she was contemplating murder, and muttered a sharp incantation over his glasses before storming off-  her boots squelching in the compost.

“Harry,” Ron groaned, watching her go. “What did you say to her? You know what she’s like when she’s mad.”

“I know,” Harry grumbled. He pulled the cracked glasses off his face and squinted down at them. “I was just- pissed. I’ll apologise.”

“You better. What’d she even do to your glasses?”

Harry shrugged. “No idea.” He carefully picked them off his face and shook out the broken glass. He gave them a cautious poke with his wand and muttered, “Reparo.”

The glasses sparked.

A tiny snap of magic zinged out and clipped him across the forehead before shooting off toward the back of the greenhouse- where a cracked plant pot promptly glowed gold and mended itself with a smug little hum.

Harry yelped.

Ron frowned. “That’s not supposed to happen.”

He pulled out his own wand and aimed it at the glasses. “Reparo.”

Same thing. The spell sparked, ricocheted, and clipped both of their foreheads before zipping across the room to fix a wonky gardening stool.

“Ow!” they chorused.

Harry reached up and rubbed his head. “What the fuck?”

“She probably did some anti-tamper thing to it. Does the same thing to the ugly jumpers mum sends through so I don't Bombarda them.” Ron sighed. “Honestly, I admire the level of petty. It’s very her.”

He sighed and carefully slid the cracked glasses back on. They sat wonky and slightly foggy. Brilliant. He’d been rejected by a crystal ball, assaulted by a sentient root, hexed by his best friend, and he still hadn’t apologised for being a knob.

Ron patted him on the back. “Come on, mate. You can apologise at lunch. She’ll have cooled off by then.”

Harry exhaled slowly. “God, I hope so.”

They trudged off to the Great Hall with Harry stumbling every other step because the bloody floors were crooked, and he couldn't see properly. Ron didn't bother hiding his snickers.

The Hall was warm and buzzing, full of clinking goblets and the low hum of conversation as the smell of roast meat and gravy floated up through the arches. Outside, it was drizzling- thin, steady rain tapping against the enchanted ceiling.

Harry scanned the Gryffindor table and spotted Hermione at the far end, sitting with Ginny and Pansy. The three of them were laughing about something, heads tilted together.

He detoured by the serving platters and nicked a few extra Yorkshire puddings, stacking them neatly on a plate. Then he made his way down and slipped it onto the table in front of Hermione. "Peace offering?" he said sheepishly.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at the plate, then at him- but her mouth twitched into a smile. "I won’t always be bought with these, Harry."

He gave a half-hearted shrug. “If it worked the first seventy-five times…”

“It’ll work another seventy-five times,” Ron finished, sliding into the seat beside him and helping himself to one of the puddings with no shame whatsoever.

Hermione rolled her eyes but looked far less furious than she had in the greenhouse. She reached for her pumpkin juice, gave Harry’s glasses a brief glance, and winced. “I know what you’re about to ask,” she said before he could open his mouth. “And no, the spell hasn’t worn off yet. It lasts another hour. I’m sorry.”

Harry groaned and rubbed his temple, trying not to jab his own eye in the process. “What even is it?”

"Invenire Stultitiam," she recited primly. “Found it in a book about toddler behaviour management.”

There was a pause before Pansy and Ginny both burst into laughter.

Harry blinked. "Toddlers?"

Ron sputtered. “Hermione! That’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?”

Hermione arched an eyebrow and daintily buttered a piece of bread. “Is it?”

She didn’t elaborate. She didn’t need to.

Pansy leaned in, smirking over her pumpkin juice. “Speaking of toddlers, darling, you’ve got a repulsive-looking stain right on the front of your jumper. Positively offensive, really.”

Ron looked down in horror. “Where?!”

“Right there.” She pointed with one painted nail. “How unfortunate. Maybe go fetch one of those lovely jumpers your mother's been sending you?”

Ron went scarlet. “Hermione!” he barked, spinning towards her. “Why are you telling people about the hideous jumpers?!”

Hermione burst out laughing, hiding her face in Ginny’s shoulder as they both tipped sideways into each other. “The owl came at dinner, Ron,” she snorted. “Everyone saw it.”

Ron covered his face with one hand and groaned like he might never recover.

Harry watched them fondly. Female friendships, he thought, vaguely. Very sweet. Very wholesome. Unfortunately, there were other pressing matters.

“I can’t fucking see properly,” he said, clearing his throat.

Hermione straightened up, visibly guilty. Or at least she sounded guilty- her face was sort of a blur with two glowing cracks running through it. “Oh- I am sorry, Harry. Properly. That was a bit overboard.”

“Just a bit,” he said dryly.

"Look, come find me at the end of lunch and I'll fix it for you, alright?"

Before he could respond, Ginny had taken her by the hand, and the three girls were rising from the bench. "Yes, yes,” Ginny said breezily. “Find her later. For now, we have plans."

Ron blinked. “What plans?”

“Threesome,” Ginny called over her shoulder without missing a beat.

Ron nearly choked on a roast potato. “What?”

Pansy cackled, linking her arm through Ginny’s as they strolled off. She turned back as they reached the archway. “Oh- and if you boys get bored, Blaise and Theo are trying out those new card games they ordered. I’m sure they’d welcome more players.”

Ron looked torn. Deeply, profoundly torn. On one hand: Slytherins. On the other hand, new card games. “...Maybe I’ll come by,” he muttered at last.

Harry didn’t comment. He was still staring at the half-eaten roast on his plate, heart doing something unpleasantly fluttery in his chest.

And then, against all common sense, he said, “And Malfoy?”

Pansy paused mid-step.

Her smile turned slow and sharp and full of terrifying meaning.

“In his room. Said he wasn’t feeling too good,” she said smoothly. “Actually, be a doll and fetch him, will you? We’ve got Potions next, and I need to secure him as my partner before Theo does.”

Ron, entirely unfazed, reached for another Yorkshire pudding. “Go on, go fetch.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Oh, piss off.”

Ron didn’t even blink. Just gave him a long, slow look, lifted an eyebrow, and said absolutely nothing. Harry sighed. Of course he was going to fetch Malfoy. Because his day wasn’t shit enough without adding an awkward encounter to it. Brilliant.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Are you going to find his evil step-sisters, then?”

Ron nodded, mouth full of pudding. “Yeah. Might see what they’re playing.”

“Alright. See you later.”

Harry pushed to his feet, shoved his hands into his pockets, and took the side entrance out of the hall- a different one the girls had used earlier, since it was quicker if you were heading towards the dormitories.

And because fate had a truly theatrical sense of humour, he completely missed their conversation happening just around the corner, about how strange it was that a crystal ball appeared in front of the Slytherin's Ancient Runes class that morning, and shattered as it hit the doorframe.

Seemingly out of nowhere.

Harry stopped by Gryffindor tower long enough to grab his cloak, tugging it over his jumper as he made his way back downstairs. The castle was quieter now- most students still in the Great Hall or lingering in courtyards - but Harry didn’t want to be spotted wandering anywhere too obviously toward the dungeons.

He waited at the corridor turn until an unsuspecting first year shuffled past and followed in behind them, timing it just right to slip through the Slytherin common room entrance as the door creaked open. The kid didn’t even notice him, which was ideal. The less people who saw him voluntarily entering Slytherin territory, the better.

The common room was dim and low-ceilinged, warmer than he expected, with a greenish light filtering through the submerged lake windows. It smelled like old parchment and mint tea. Someone had a wireless on in the corner- faint music drifting through the room- and two seventh years were murmuring over a game of chess by the fireplace.

Harry kept his head down and climbed the stairs to the dormitories.

He had no idea where Draco's room was, but seeing the world half blurry certainly didn't make it easier. He squinted at the titles on door after door before finally finding it.

A plaque with three names lined the last door on the left. Brass, neat, unassuming.

D.L.M.
T.M.N.
B.N.Z.

Harry stared at them for a moment, wondering what Theo's and Blaise's middle names were, before remembering what he came for. He glanced over his shoulder. The corridor was empty. No sounds, no footsteps. Just the low hum of magic in the walls and the slow drip of water somewhere down below.

He raised a hand and knocked.

The door creaked open before Harry could even lower his hand from knocking.

Draco didn’t look up.

"Back from playtime already?" He was already walking back into the room, waving vaguely over his shoulder. “I swear to Merlin, how did both of you forget the unlocking charm again?”

He dropped onto the edge of his bed with a huff, legs stretched out, one sock half on, and rubbed at his temple like he’d been holding a headache hostage all afternoon.

“And before you say anything,” Draco added, clearly mid-rant now, “the interview was shit. Absolute shambles. They asked one half-arsed question about market equilibrium before bombarding me with questions about Father and his work. Why do I even fucking bother?”

Harry stood frozen just inside the doorway, cloak in hand.

He cleared his throat.

Draco finally looked up.

There was a brief, stunned silence as the two of them stared at each other across the room.

Draco blinked. “...Potter?”

Harry raised a hand. “Hey.”

Draco’s brow furrowed slightly. “Why are you- did you- why are you here?”

“You opened the door before I could say anything,” Harry said, stepping inside and nudging the door shut behind him. The room smelled faintly like expensive soap and parchment, and something else that was probably just Draco, and absolutely none of this was helpful.

Draco was still squinting at him, his whole face scrunched in suspicion and sleep-hazed confusion, like he couldn't quite believe Harry had materialised in front of him. His hair was rumpled, soft and fine-looking, like he’d been lying down, and he was wearing an old Slytherin jumper that looked a size too big.

Harry couldn’t see much else, but he was glad for that. His expression was already threatening to betray him. “Pansy said you weren’t feeling great,” he explained. “She sent me to get you for Potions.”

“Right,” Draco said slowly, as if still processing Harry's presence in his room. “I already told Theo we’d partner up, but he’s honestly so shite that even I can’t save him.” He rubbed the heel of his hand against one eye. “Alright, I suppose I can go with her instead.”

Harry nodded. His brain was doing something very stupid, like wondering what Draco would look like curled under a blanket in that same jumper, and whether he wore it when he was ill, and whether he'd let Harry-

No. Stop.

“Where are your glasses?” Draco asked, just now realising Harry's state.

Harry sighed. “Oh, right.” He reached into his back pocket and fished out his completely mangled glasses.

Draco snorted immediately. “Let me guess, you sat on them and forgot they were in your pocket?”

“No!” Harry scowled. “Some stupid root attacked me in Herbology, and then Hermione put this anti-tamper spell on it- its a long story.” He waved the frames uselessly. “Can’t be fixed for another twenty or so minutes.”

“Hm. Pity.”

Harry’s stomach swooped, heat blooming in his chest. “What, you like my glasses now?” he teased.

Draco rolled his eyes, cheeks colouring. He looked away, fingers tightening on the sheets around him. “I never had any issue with your glasses, as we already established, Potter.” His voice sounded a little hoarse. “You look strange without them.”

“Strange,” Harry muttered, shifting awkwardly where he stood. “I’ll take it.”

There was a long pause. Draco was still watching him, just barely, and Harry couldn’t stop noticing the way his sleeves were bunched at his wrist, the glimpse of pale collarbone above the jumper’s stretched neckline, the careful distance between them, charged and awkward.

Draco sighed, glancing away. “Let me get redressed, then we can go down.”

Harry nodded. His body didn’t follow.

They stared at each other.

Draco raised an eyebrow at him, something sharp and amused glinting in his eyes. “Are you expecting a show, Potter?” he scoffed. “I’ll have you know I charge heavily. You couldn't afford it.”

Harry’s entire body flushed. “I- no, Merlin, fuck-” He dragged a hand down his face, and Draco’s laughter rang out, short and smug. “You’re such a prick. I’ll wait outside.”

He shoved his cloak back on and crammed his glasses into his pocket. He was halfway through opening the door when he turned back, heart still thudding, something reckless overtaking him.

“And by the way,” he said, watching Draco glance up, grey eyes flicking around uncertainly, trying to track him now that he was invisible. “I could definitely afford it.”

He wasn't going to say it- the words had slipped, brazen and stupid- but the cover of the cloak gave him confidence. And the look on his face- sweet Merlin-  Draco’s lips parted. His eyes went wide. Then he flushed, so quickly Harry almost missed it, and his bottom lip disappeared into his mouth.

Harry had to leave. Now. His heart was going to explode, and his trousers were already starting to betray him, feeling awfully tight.

He shut the door firmly behind him and leaned against it, heart hammering, staring at nothing.

Draco emerged a few minutes later, his hair neatened and his uniform pristine once again. He’d even put on his outer robes, which most students had abandoned as the summer heat set in. 

They walked down the dim dungeon corridor in silence, footsteps echoing faintly against the stone, and Harry quietly slipped off his invisibility cloak as they reached the stairs leading up to the main floor. The light was softer here, and the air warmer, but Harry barely noticed.

He’d caught sight of a familiar corridor branching off to the side. One he’d snuck down countless times in his years at Hogwarts. It tugged at him now, a sudden reckless urge blooming in his chest.

He nudged Draco lightly with his elbow. “Do you have a few minutes for a detour?”

Draco frowned. “To where? I don’t want to get caught up in any of your idiotic hair-brained schemes, Potter. Go to Weasley and Granger for that nonsense.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “No, you’ll like this one. Promise.”

Draco’s lips parted, clearly ready to object, but Harry didn’t give him time. He steered them into the side corridor anyway, heart beating faster as he pulled his cloak back out from under his arm. The walls were narrower here, quieter, the air tinged with the scent of baking from the kitchens nearby.

Harry looked down at the cloak, then at Draco. It would be tight, but they could just about manage it.

“You’re going to have to take your robes off,” he said, eyeing the heavy fabric critically.

Draco paused. Then he brought his hands up to his chest, scandalised. “Excuse me?” he said, voice going shrill with disbelief. “I- most certainly will not,” he hissed. “Merlin, but you’re forward with your perverseness today.”

Harry coughed, flustered. “No- sorry. I meant just the outside bit. It’s too faffy,” he said, waving vaguely.

Draco scowled. “You’re too faffy,” he muttered, but after a dramatic sigh, he relented.

Harry meant to respond. Something witty, or at least passable. But whatever he’d been about to say completely died on his tongue.

Because Draco was pulling at the front of his robes now, pale, elegant fingers unfastening the clasp and loosening the fabric from his shoulders. It wasn’t anything. It shouldn’t have been anything. Loads of people took off their robes every day.

But Harry wasn’t watching loads of people. He was watching Draco Malfoy. And Draco somehow looked absurdly attractive even while doing something as simple as shrugging out of his robes.

He gave the garment a small shake, draping it over one arm before folding it, meticulously, of course, into a perfect rectangle. His fingers smoothed it once, twice, and then he held it against his chest like it might wrinkle if he let it dangle.

It was, frankly, unbearably endearing, and Harry’s chest gave a stupid sort of ache at the sight.

The invisibility cloak just about fit over them both, but they were walking ridiculously close to each other.

He tried to focus on moving forward. On keeping the hem from dragging. On anything except the fact that they were pressed so close together he could feel every shift of Draco’s uniform brushing his own.

Draco was standing rigidly, staring straight ahead with the kind of grim resolve Harry had seen him wear in the library before exams. 

And all the while, Harry, slightly behind and angled at an unforgiving height, was trying very hard not to ogle him.

It was no good.

He’d never been this close to Draco before. The cloak had never felt this bloody small in his life. Every step seemed to bring a new point of contact, the rustle of fabric, the brush of the backs of their hands, the faint heat of Draco’s hip bumping his. And Merlin help him, Draco smelled incredible. A bit like citrus, maybe, and something sharper. Cologne, of course. Always dramatic.

Harry was going to die.

He was going to expire right here in a quiet corridor outside the kitchens, overcome by proximity and the lemony waft of Malfoy’s shampoo.

Then, finally, just as Harry was beginning to seriously consider chewing off his own tongue to stop himself from saying anything stupid-

“These are the kitchens,” Draco whispered, his breath hot over Harry's ear.

Harry nearly yelped from the sheer tension. “Ten points to Slytherin,” he muttered, breath catching when Draco elbowed him sharply in the chest. “Ow, fuck. We have to be quiet.”

“I’m not the one making a fuss,” Draco hissed back.

“Shut up,” Harry hissed, heart lurching as he caught voices- one of the kitchen elves, and unmistakably a professor’s low tone. He didn’t stop to think. Just grabbed Draco by the arm and hauled them both against the nearest wall, as far out of the way as possible.

The heat from the ovens had already warmed the corridor, but now- with Draco pressed up against him, chest to chest, mouth barely a breath away- it was unbearable.

Harry didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare look. His eyesight may be blurry, but just the knowledge that Draco was right there did funny things to his chest.

The voices passed. The footsteps receded. The coast was clear.

And then Draco exhaled- a long, shaky breath that ghosted across Harry’s temple- and shoved him back with both hands, palms pressing into Harry's shoulders. His face was flushed, and his voice came out tight. “Do try not to make me one with the walls next time,” he said, before ducking out from under the cloak and smoothing his hair.

Harry followed, heat still crawling up his neck. “Sorry,” he said, honestly. “But…”

He led the way to a wide brass oven at the far end of the corridor, one he’d recognised more as of late. It hissed open at his touch, and a wave of rich, golden-sweet warmth drifted out.

Behind him, Draco made a faint, utterly involuntary noise- something between a gasp and a groan. “What is it?”

Harry grinned, levitating two slices out with his wand. “Treacle tart. Fresh.” He could forego the pumpkin pasties today, he supposed.

Draco turned to him, eyes bright, looking genuinely startled. “This is where you get your stash from, then. I always wondered.”

He didn’t seem to notice how close they still were, or if he did, he didn’t seem to mind. His attention had fully shifted to the warm pastry now nestled in a paper napkin in his hands. Harry couldn’t blame him. He looked so pleased, so content in the soft glow of the ovens, that Harry forgot for a moment to feel embarrassed at all.

They didn’t leave right away.

Instead, they stayed where they were, half-hidden near the ovens, leaning against the warm countertops with their paper-wrapped tarts in hand. The hum of the kitchens had quieted- whatever elf had been nearby had wandered off, and for now, they had the place to themselves.

Harry took a bite, what was once too-sweet pastry seeming suddenly delicious on his tongue. He wasn’t even hungry, really. Just- content.

Beside him, Draco was silent, slowly tearing the corner of his paper to expose the tart like it was some precious artefact. He took a delicate bite, then another. His lashes dipped low, lips slightly parted.

Harry might’ve been staring. Just a bit. 

They stood like that for a while, not speaking, just the quiet of shared sugar and quiet breathing between them. It was peaceful. Strangely so.

And then, finally, softly, Draco said, “Thank you.”

A slow smile crept onto his face before he could stop it. “You’re welcome,” he said, and meant it.

He didn’t say for what. He didn’t need to. Maybe it was for the tart. Or the distraction. Or the fact that Harry had noticed at all, had shown up in the first place. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that Draco had said it.

And then, before he could lose his nerve, Harry asked the thing that had been tapping at the back of his mind since he’d first seen Draco in the doorway- rumpled and quiet and not quite sharp around the edges.

“About the interview,” he said, lightly. “You said it didn't go well?”

He saw it instantly, even without his glasses. The way Draco’s shoulders tensed, the shift of his jaw. “The first few are always rubbish,” he said curtly, clearly not wanting to talk about it.

But Harry didn't drop it. “You seemed pretty annoyed. You...you brought up your dad?”

Draco huffed. “Yes, well, I was already not wanting to be there, and having to chat about my dad’s estates wasn’t exactly ideal considering the amount of prep I'd done.”

“You didn’t want to be there?” Harry frowned. “Then why bother with it at all?”

He meant it to sound curious, but it came out sharper than he intended. Too blunt. Too personal.

Draco stiffened. “I’m not going to shirk my duties because I’m a little put off by it. I still want a job, Potter.” His voice was clipped, every word chosen carefully. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t plan on draining my vaults because I was too picky to make a living for myself.”

Harry bristled- he couldn't help it. “I’ve got a plan, Malfoy. The only difference is that I actually like mine.”

"Right. Of course. Must be nice – making choices just because you want to. Chasing after something for the thrill of it.  Meanwhile, the rest of us poor gits get to map out our lives with legacies breathing down our necks." He looks away, jaw tight. "But you wouldn’t know what that’s like, would you?"

Harry blinked, a little surprised by just how bitter Malfoy sounded. He tried not to take it personally, despite Draco's obvious attempts at pushing him away. 

"I...know a thing or two about expectations," he said slowly. "I just decided I know what's best for me," he looked at Draco, meaningful, firm. "And I think you do too. About yourself, I mean."

Draco stared at him for a long moment, jaw tight, then folded the treacle tart in deliberate, precise movements. “I do,” he said sharply. “And it’s not up for debate. Don’t start trying to talk me out of it, Potter. Don’t make this your business.”

There’s a flicker in Harry’s chest, something sharp and sinking. He hadn’t meant to push. He’d only wanted to understand. “Right,” Harry said, finally. He doesn’t mean for it to sound so flat, but it falls between them like dead weight.

Draco glanced up, something unreadable in his eyes. The silence stretched out, awkward and brittle.

Then, like nothing happened, Draco brushed his hands off and stood, putting his robes back on. “We should probably head back up before Pansy sends a search party.”

Weeks came and went, the castle buzzing with a tension that seemed to seep from the very stones. Final exams loomed like storm clouds, and the student body as a whole was frayed, sleep-deprived, and at its wits’ end.

Even if he had wanted to, Harry didn’t have the time or headspace to make things right with Malfoy. Not that anything had exactly gone wrong, but he hated leaving conversations jagged at the edges- things unsaid, emotions festering under the surface like a splinter.

What surprised him was how little it bothered him in the way he thought it would. Staying busy helped, of course, but there was more to it than that. He didn’t want to push Draco when he was clearly under pressure. Harry could be patient. He could wait. And however sappy it sounded, he was content simply watching him.

Draco laughing with his friends, head tipped back and eyes lit in a way Harry hadn’t seen in weeks. Draco bent over a Defense revision scroll, brow furrowed in sharp concentration, quill tapping impatiently against the desk. Draco rushing down the corridor with a slice of toast in hand, elegant as ever despite crumbs on his robes, as if even the Minister for Magic himself couldn’t have deterred him.

Draco never reached out.

And Harry, for once, had enough sense to leave him be.

When the time was right, things would mend themselves. That’s what Hermione said, anyway. And Hermione was almost never wrong.

Chapter Text

May 1998

Dear Mr Potter,

Please find attached your training schedule for the period June '98 – January '99. Should you have conflicts with particular dates, management may make adjustments provided a minimum of two weeks’ notice is given.

Your kit collection date is scheduled for 13th May.

Please ensure that your international papers and travel allowances are compliant with Ministry regulations prior to 1st June. Ample time should be allowed to complete this process.

Personal brooms will not be permitted until January. At that time, you may arrange for your own broom to be collected from the London office, or you may continue with your assigned training broom.

We look forward to beginning your Quidditch career with us.

Regards,

Cleansweep Training Academy

Hi Hermione,

I've finalised my training! I told Ron at the grad party, but I think he was too sloshed to remember, so give him a reminder once he's done puking his guts up, will you? How's Wizarding Poli-Sci treating you? I've heard it's a load of performative rubbish, but the qualification will look good for the Ministry, won't it? Surprised they haven't laid down a red carpet for you at the gates, just looking at your N.E.W.T.S.

I've posted my broom over aswell, I told Ron he could keep it warm till I can use it again in January.

Speak soon,

Harry

Dear Malfoy,

Feels weird saying 'dear' to be polite and then immediately calling you by your last name, but I figured you might have me flogged for improper writing etiquette. How've you been?

Would you be up for one last Seekers match (at least for the next year or so)? I'll be heading off for Quidditch training soon and won't have my broom back till about Jan. 

Let me know.

Love From,

Potter

July, 1998

Hi Harry,

What's all this rot I'm hearing about you not coming home for your birthday? You can't be all the way out in the middle of nowhere for your 18th!! Let's at the very least organise a Floo call or something. And keep an eye out, I'll be sending something truly embarrassing over as a present if you don't come home. 

I've been keeping up with your training stats, by the way, and I'm very impressed. I'm sure you'll get a letter from Ron soon and it will say some laddish nonsense, but he was nearly weeping at watching you fly, so keep that in mind. 

Annoyed yet proud,

Hermione

Harry,

I'm having an absolute blast on your broom :)

And don't worry, not a scratch. Mostly. Mum's been asking about you non-stop, and says that she'll disown me if you don't write her. Not sure why my place in the family is being threatened here, but you'd better get bloody writing!

We saw your rankings in the training league the other day, and they're pretty decent. Your speed's brilliant and your manoeuvres are something to fucking see  just as they should be. Doing well, mate. Don't worry about your birthday, just do what you need to. 

Fair warning, don't ask Mione about anything work related for now, she's getting a bit of heat to wrap up her course early and join the dept, and they've apparently threatened to cut her scholarship. It's all a bit of a mess, but we're working through it. Wish I had any pull in this, but apparently Aurors in training don't get any privileges except a voucher for a prostate exam. Figure you'd like that more than I would, in any case ;) (don't tell Hermione I said that).

Ron

Dear Mr Potter,

The intended recipient of your owl no longer inhabits the residence you have written to. I see a D.L. Malfoy as the previously listed tenant; however, to my knowledge, he ended the contract with our London office and opened a new one at the Paris office. 

Kind regards,

Lauren Biggs,

Brettwell and Blooms, connecting wizards to their homes since 1865.

August 1998

Hi Harry,

It seems a random donor has supplied me with the exact amount needed to cover me till the end of my course in light of the ministry's cutbacks. With allowances for an exchange month at the French Institute, no less. What a mystery, hm?

Jokes aside, I hope you know I am both endlessly grateful and supremely annoyed that you did this. Your support generally means the world to me, so this was completely unnecessary, but thank you anyway.

Let me know if there's any way in which I can help you. I'm not asking because you did something for me, by the way!! That offer is always on the table. 

Also, Ron is still pissed regarding the Birthday Floo Call Extravaganza. He is in a very delicate mood, and there were THREE sad faces in his last owl to me, as well as insistence on his straightness.

Lots of love,

Hermione

Hermione!!

The post office has just sent over my very late, very large birthday present, likely from you, and apparently, gifts sent to athletes undergo security checks, and it was flagged as contraband!! I had to unwrap the bloody thing in front of my bosses and explain why I was being sent a personal broom when it is strictly not allowed. Imagine all of our surprises when it started lighting up and singing "Happy Birthday!" AND WHY WAS IT VIBRATING? I DEMAND ANSWERS.

I will owl Ron about the other birthday disaster, don't you worry.

Also, I have no clue whatsoever about any donation. I'm sure whatever magnanimous, handsome, mysterious stranger did that had every good intention of your rising above the ministry and giving it a much needed refresh :)

Speaking of, I do actually have a favour to ask. While you're in France for the course, is there any way for you to check if Malfoy is occupying any of the Brettwell and Blooms properties in the area?

Not sure if he's written to you or not, but I couldn't reach him. Apparently he's in paris?? 

Annoyed about vibrating broom,

Harry

Dear Mr Potter,

As your liaison to post-training options, I have written to bring to light several local and international Quidditch teams that have expressed an interest in offering you a contract, should your performance stay at this high level till April, when initial agreements are sent out. Please see the business cards, and feel free to ask any questions. I urge you not to make any quick decisions and to do your due diligence before selecting a team.

Best wishes,

Loewe Halley,

Cleansweep Training Academy.

Ronald Billius Weasley,

I have no regrets about the Birthday Floo Call Extravaganza. If half of our year had to hear about me saying Malfoy's name while dreaming, then they certainly had to hear about you being catfished in fifth year and accidentally going out with a bloke in the disguise of a girl. Nobody told you to keep dating him though. For a week. 

Anyways, how's Auror training coming along? Anything exciting happen yet?

Harry

September 1998

HARRY JAMES POTTER,

YOU KNOW I FELT BAD. His ex apparently looked like me and I couldn't break his heart!

Moving on from this forever, but not from Malfoy, apparently, (still can't believe I had to hear you moan his name before I even had any food in me to want to throw up, gross.) because I've heard from Mione he's in Paris?? And you're looking for him.

Now, listen, I'm not supposed to tell you this, but I know you'll nag her forever about it, and if you nag her, she nags me, and then nobody will get anything done here, so keep this between us, alright?  She did some not-so-legal sleuthing and found that Malfoy lives near Trocadero. Apparently, they ran into each other, and Malfoy was sort of a git again. Told her to leave him alone and all that, but he was polite before that apparently. Don't know what exactly set him off. Not to say I told you so, mate, but I told you so. 

Hermione didn't want me to tell you. She said some crap like how you'd become more open-minded since befriending (loose word for mooning over, but alright) him and choosing to see the good in people or whatever. It turned out to be bollocks anyway, but she's still right.

I might think you're batty for liking him, but that's not why I'm sending you what I'm about to send you. Mum says you've still not written to her, and is now yelling at me to make sure that you bring someone home for Christmas. She says she doesn't care if it's your captain or your binman of your future wife. Her words. Either way, I'd rather you not bring your binman to Christmas dinner, so I've included another parchment with people I think you'd like. 

Anyways, Auror training is fucking grim. My body hurts and my brain hurts, and I miss Hermione. 

Also, you, I suppose. Git.

Nearly disowned,

Ron, a straight, considerate man.

January 1999

Dear Molly,

Thanks so much for sending over the leftovers!! I am stuffed beyond belief and will continue to exist like this for the coming weeks, if the size of your parcel means anything.

I'm sorry I didn't bring my binman round over hols (we actually have a magical waste disposal service at the training grounds), but, wary of not wanting to overshare, I'm sort of pursuing someone at the moment. Who is not my binman. Or my anything, really. Will keep you updated. Please keep Ron in the family, he's too bloody ginger to be part of any other one.

All my love,

Harry

Dearest Harry,

I forgive you for not bringing anyone over, son, and I do apologise if I'm pestering you about it. It just hurt to see you alone. But Ginny had a stern word with me about how being single is good for self-development and being alone doesn't mean being lonely (good Merlin, is that Lovegood girlfriend of hers rubbing off on her or what?). 

It's so exciting to hear you've got your sights set on someone! Do let me know if you need any help. Don't ask Arthur. I love him to bits, but the man courted me by stealing my lunches and taking me to Acromantula sanctuaries. How is it going thus far for you? 

Do write home more often, Harry. We miss you and are very proud of your progress.

Love,

Molly

Thanks, Molly. Knowing Arthur, I suppose that was actually the safe end of his courting. Merlin knows what he would've done with a rubber duck and some explosives.

And, well, the bloke I'm after is actually a little bit missing right now. As in, completely off the grid. But not to worry! I've got it under control. I'm sure I'll be bringing him home this xmas.

Love,

Harry

November 1999

Dear Molly, 

Can't want to see you all next month! This new Falcons contract is pretty demanding, so I'll be back on Christmas Eve at the earliest. Alone. I know you won't say I told you so, but your lovely gaggle of redheaded bellends (Ginny included) might. If you could threaten to hold back their share of pudding for some privacy, I would be ever so grateful.

Love,

Harry

Dear Mr Potter,

You are invited for a 1-on-1 meeting with Captain Richardson and myself this coming Friday. Please make the necessary arrangements to avoid affecting practice and ensure a timely arrival.

Best,

Georgia Holmes, Falmouth Falcons Manager

Dear Knob Supreme,

I heard that you called me a bellend. Is this wishful thinking? Do you want me to grow a prick so we can date again? Luna might have an issue or two with that.

Anyways, thanks for the laugh, and the forty galleons you won me and George about Mysterious Missing Bloke. Do go out and get laid and move on. I'm being serious! Wallowing like I know you're doing right now won't do you any good. Go outside, get some sun, and also some artificial pulsing lights. Meet nice people and shit people and fit people and go out and be human. Owl me anytime you need a wingwoman who can give a first-hand review of your shagging skills.

Tough love,

Gin

December 1999

Dear Mr Potter,

If you are going to miss meetings with your captain and your Manager, please have the decency to owl at least 24 hours in advance. Not only is it highly unprofessional and disrespectful, but I had to sit with Richardson alone for an hour while he stared down my blouse and talked about his large broom. I don't think we were talking about the same broom, Potter.

Get your arse up and into my office before you head home for hols. We have to talk.

Best,

Georgia Holmes, Falmouth Falcons Manager

Happy Christmas, Georgia!

I am genuinely sorry about Creeptain Richardson (see what I did there?). I'll stop by your office on the last Wednesday before break, if that's alright with you. As long as you're not going to sack me on sight, I have a few things I'd like to discuss aswell, specifically regarding the length of my contract.

Thanks,

Harry

Dear Anonymous,

We have received your query, and, for the first time in all four years of running Tania's Tenacious Tracking Services, we have had to cancel your request and have returned your deposit in full. 

Mind you, Mr Potter, that we only needed a coin transfer. You giving us your Gringotts Digital Account details revealed things you'd probably not intended regarding your identity. Our lips are sealed, but our hands are tied too.

We could not locate Draco Lucius Malfoy in our given scope. In cases like these, the person is either deceased, or they are not looking to be found. I may have only been doing this for four years, but I've known a lifetime of leaving things alone if they are not yet meant to be brought into the light.

I apologise for our failure, and we hope to work with you again in the future.

Warm wishes,

Tania

Hey Gin,

I'm up for that night out if you are.

Harry

Good to have you back, Harry.

And the night before Christmas? What would Mum say!!!???

I suppose we'll find out tomorrow. I would ask what's brought this on, but I suppose you'll blabber it at me two shots in. I'm bringing Seamus and Lavender. If you call her annoying to her face, I'll chop off your balls and string them up on the tree. Can't wait for tonight!! We're going to Heaven, don't dress hideously.

Gin

Jesus fucking Merlin on a unicycle going down an active minefield, Harry. 

I have so many questions. Mysterious Missing Bloke is Malfoy?? You're this gone over Draco sodding Malfoy??????? I am too hungover to process this, but it explains a shocking number of things.

Also, whichever twink you took back last night is in MY bathroom for some reason. I haven't showered and smell like Jager, hence why Errol's taking this downstairs to you. This guy is also making some funny noises, so get your arse back before I come down stinking like a club and bring your Malfoy-substitute down aswell, funny noises and all. You're so lucky this wasn't a howler.

Hungover and stinky,

Gin

January 2000

Welcome to the new millennium, Potter!

I hope you've thought over your decision to terminate your contract with us this May? There's no need to be hasty, and the Management team and Player Support members will be happy to help in any way. 

Best,

Georgia Holmes, Falmouth Falcons Manager

Hey Georgia,

Can we be frank for a minute? You know I don't belong on this team, and you know I've been shit. You can say it, I'm not going to cry about it. Things have been rough, but I spent some time with family over hols and cleared some things up. I'm going to take a break, and my next team likely won't be the Falcons. I'll miss you something terrible, though. Thanks for putting up with me.

Harry

Hi Harry,

I feel like we barely spoke over Christmas! Thank you for the wonderful gift; I'm sure the baby will love it. I was meaning to chat some more, but Molly absolutely would not let me out of her sight, as if this foetus the size of a walnut is going to cause much of a ruckus. Still, I appreciate having her. 

I heard from Ginny that you're leaving the Falcons this summer. I'm glad you're taking a break, but I wonder if there's anything more to it? I will always support pulling back to rest, but you shouldn't run away from things, Harry.

She also described in vivid detail what the man you brought home looked like. Surrogate shags are a dreadful habit to break!! 

God, I'm lecturing you again, aren't I? Suppose it's good practice for when this walnut grows up. 

Love,

Hermione

Hey Mione,

Ginny is dead to me. And it wasn't a 'surrogate shag'! Whatever the fuck that is. I just happen to have a type. A very specific type. 

Anyway, don't worry too much about me. I'm looking for new teams come September- I just want a few months to be a useless layabout and day drink and wank without the threat of 10 grown men walking in any minute. 

I'll need all the lazing about I can get if I'm to be a good godfather to baby walnut (is that really what we're calling it?) when the time comes. Also, I'll get together with the lads to plan Ron's promotion party. I'm sure he'll go out with the other trainees from work, but I think we ought to do something nice for him too. 

Harry

February 2000

Dear Harry,

Your performance has been so up and down, I've gotten vertigo just staring at your stat sheet. But you've got undeniable skill, and there's a tenacity about you on the pitch that I've not seen before. I agree, I think you'll do better with some time off and starting fresh elsewhere. Keep me updated, alright? 

I'll miss you too, Harry.

Like a headache. 

Best of luck,

Georgia Holmes, Falmouth Falcons Manager

May 2000

Harry,

It was good meeting you at the Kiddies Summer Quidditch Tournament. I understand from your old team that you're planning to take a break, but I wanted to know if you'd be open to discussing a new contract with Puddlemere this season.

It would be probationary to begin with, and even after that, you'd play as a reserve Seeker till you hit one year on the team, but I can assure you that you won't be bored for a minute. It's hard work and you'll need your mind sharp, but I saw you coaching the kids at the tourney. I can see fire in you, and I'd like to see it grow.

Look forward to hearing from you.

Regards,

Gerald Udderson, Captain of Puddlemere United

July 2000

[ERROR: LETTER OWLED BACK TO RECIPIENT}

Dear Malfoy

I turned twint twentt 20 today!!!!!!! Not sure why Im writing you, becuase even sloshed, I do know that you dont live here anymore. You dont seem to live anywhere anymore.

What are you running from? Why won't you tell me?

Listen, Ive got all this wisdom banging about in my head at my big age, so let me share some with you, even though you'll never get this owl. Its generally bad form to leave your friend hanging and disappearing on them after graduation. Even worse form when that friend is was is was half in love with you.

Not to worry tough, love mate, because I am completely over all that nonsense! Im a free man, not playged plaug plagued by horrible chest flutters or melty feelings. Ive got a seeker contract coming up, and the bloke offering it is called Udderson. 

Im trying to think of a clever joke like one you'd make, but im genunely laughing too hard at udder, so ill sign off here.

Love (but not in love),

Your Potter

December 2000

Hi Gerald,

Thanks again for letting me sub in on the match last week. Hopefully you'll find it in your great big heart to bend the rules again, given the record time in which we won :) 

I wanted to let you know that I will be sticking with Puddlemere after the probationary period ends in January. I've owled Management too, but I want to tell you separately.

Also, Davies said he saw a woman leaving your office last week. The last time you were spotted with a member of the opposite sex I must've been back in bloody Hogwarts. I'd wager that any explanation you give me will be better than anything Davies cooks up on his own.

Harry

Happy Christmas, you nosy wanker.

That was Jackie. I've only just started seeing her, so tell Davies if he starts mouthing off, I will put him on water duty. 

I'm glad you'll be returning to us after the holidays. Rest up, because I've got big plans with you as our official Seeker in the new year.

Best,

Gerald Udderson, Captain of Puddlemere United

July 2001

Happy 21st mate!! Mione and I will be round with Hugo around 4 to set up- though he won't stay long, we're trying out a new nanny. I've told her that you don't know squat about this surprise party that is definitely still a surprise, so please be anywhere else but your flat at that time. I'll come collect you around 6 for 'lads drinks' and then you've got to act like you never saw the whole thing coming.

Please.

Also, Hugo made you a card all by himself this year, and it is seriously fifty shades of ugly, but you've got to love it, alright? I got you a card from Card Factory, though. It's got some geriatric lady's tits on them. 

Ron

August 2001

Hi Harry,

I'm so glad you had a good time last night. It was lovely to see you so refreshed and present! Your acting skills could use a little work, though. I think the fourth consecutive 'Gosh, I am just so surprised!" was a little much. I will let Ronald off on account of him being on sleeping duty all week.

Sorry we had to head out so early this morning, Hugo was being awfully fussy with his new sitter and some intervention was needed. In between work and all this, I feel like my head might blow off.

Speaking of work, there's a sweet guy called Wyatt who's down in Magical Creatures that I think you'd like. He's got a wicked sense of humour once you get to know him, too. I've attached his address at the back of this parchment if you're interested, along with a photo.

Love,

Hermione

Merlin, Hermione, by 'photo' did you mean photo album? Is this poor sod aware that he's got a stalker that follows him around with a camera all hours of the day? 

Harry

Dear Wyatt,

Hermione sent over your info as well as a truly shocking number of pictures of you. All very flattering, might I add. Would you be interested in meeting for a coffee this week?

From,

Harry

Dear Harry,

I would love to get a coffee with you. Does Saturday 2pm work? I do hope I live up to these photos, which I wasn't aware even existed.

Sincerely,

Wyatt

November 2001

Harry,

I don't care at this point, bring the fucking binman to Christmas. Anything to get Mum off my back. You'd think a bloody grandchild would get her off your case, but apparently not. I don't know how well it's going with that boyfriend of yours, but if you and Watt are anything closer than two strangers, you'd better bring him.

Although with how much you've been in the papers lately, you might escape the nosy questions. 'Britain's most promising Seeker in a century' is quite the topic change. Proud of you.

Once again at risk of being disowned due to your stale love life,

Ron

Ron Weasley,

(I included your last name so you'll stop fretting about your place in the family.)

His name is Wyatt, and you know this, and you've met multiple times, and yes, I'll be bringing him. I don't know why you have a problem with him, but you'd better get over it before Molly sniffs it and starts asking me a million questions.

Harry and W Y att

Harry,

Watt is a boring turd and Hugo gets all pissy when he's around. Literally. Pisses himself. 

Ron

February 2002

Harry,

Don't shut me out, we can fix this. Please allow me to. It was only one night, and I was just so lonely. It didn't mean anything to me in the way that you're probably thinking it did. It wasn't about the sex. I just needed someone there. And you weren't. You barely are. Even when you are, I feel like when you look at me, you're hoping it'll be someone else.

But even a little bit of you is better than none. I want to make things right. I want to talk. Please.

Still Yours,

Wyatt

Harry,

Ron is sorting things with the Prophet, and the rest of the family are practically banging down my door to get to Errol, but I hope I'm making the right decision by asking them to give you some space after everything that happened with Wyatt. God, I'm seething just writing his name! What a lying piece of garbage. I'm sorry for ever even setting you up with him. I know you'll want time alone, but you let me know if you need anything at all, alright?

Lots of Love,

Hermione

Hermione,

Please don't be sorry, there's no way you could have seen this coming.

Can I tell you something? I think I've done more wrong here than he has. He shouldn't have stuck his prick in another man, obviously, but anything else that was there to fuck up in a relationship, I fucked up. I wasn't good to him. Merlin knows I don't want to think of the reason why.

I appreciate you holding off your horde of Weasleys, but they've bypassed your defences anyway, because they're currently sitting in my kitchen and drinking my Pimms. Come over.

Harry

July 2002

Happy 22nd Birthday, Harry!

I've got some bloody good news for you and the team. We've qualified for the World Cup next year! It goes without saying, I want you as Seeker. We should get together in the coming months. I want to run some formations by you and the others, as well as get some reserves fixed. There's a new kid Management scouted, too, Kit Adams. He's young, but he shows promise. Let's see how he plays with everyone else.

Best,

Gerald Udderson, Captain of Puddlemere United

Thanks Ger,

I'll let everyone know. This is bloody brilliant. By far the best present I received today! Let's catch up next month to fix the game plan. Is Connor still out on medical leave?

Harry

Harry,

'Fraid so. I'd say I trust the Healers from St Mungo's, but I'm starting to doubt the fact myself. I'll look into it.

Best,

Gerald Udderson, Captain of Puddlemere United

November 2002

Look Alive, team!

Training for the Cup starts in the new year, so I've given you all time off from early next month to go rest before it all begins. It's going to be incredibly challenging and we will all be pushed far outside of our comfort zones, but this is what we've been practising for. 

I expect the best from you, but I aim to return it too. I've taken on board your feedback about our less-than-ideal arrangement with St Mungos, and have sourced a private Healer to accompany us for the Cup. I'm still speaking to the provider to iron out the details and will keep you lot updated on the final decision.

Best,

Gerald Udderson, Captain of Puddlemere United

April 2003

[AUTOMATED LETTER. PLEASE DO NOT RESPOND.]

Dear H.J. Potter,

This is a formal notice that there has been a change to your healthcare provider. Your previous cover was with St Mungo's Hospital for Medical Maladies, on Level 3. Your new cover will be with Keep Moving LTD.

The clinician assigned to: HJP < Puddlemere.WorldCup2003 is Draco Lucius Malfoy, MD, PhysioCert, Platinum Band.

Please refer any questions regarding your insurance cover and pre-authorised treatments to your Management. Please refer any questions regarding your new clinician to Keep Moving LTD.

Puddlemere United is proud to keep you safe and healthy.

Regards,

Puddlemere Player Care 

Hermione, Ron,

Read the parchment behind this one. Fucking. Hell.

Harry

Harry,

We're coming straight over. FYI, I knew you were still gone over the pointy git. 

Ron

Chapter Text

Harry jogged down the corridor, late again. Gerald was going to have his head, but practice had run over, and really, what was new? If there was one thing he was consistent about, it was being the last to arrive.

He shoved open the office door, breathless and flushed from the sprint, ready to throw out a cheeky apology. But then-

Oh.

Draco sodding Malfoy.

Harry nearly tripped over the threshold. It was stupid, really. He’d known this was coming for weeks now, but nothing could have really prepared him for it.

There he was in the centre of the room- his perfectly styled, platinum hair catching in the light like spun silk, expression carefully blank in that way Harry remembered too well. He was gorgeous. Not that he hadn’t been at school, but five years had turned sharp-boned haughtiness into something refined, elegant. His cheeks coloured just faintly as Harry stepped in, and Harry felt his own grin break wide and uncontainable.

Merlin, but Malfoy was a sight for sore eyes.

He tried to sound casual, but the word snagged in his throat. “Malf-uh, Doctor Malfoy.” He extended a hand, hoping Malfoy wouldn’t notice how much his pulse was racing. His palm was still warm from practice, rough in a way that felt indecently intimate compared to the immaculate polish of Malfoy’s.

Draco’s fingers slid against his own- firm, precise, not lingering, but enough. Enough to send a spark racing up Harry’s arm, landing somewhere dangerous in his chest.

Merlin, Harry thought. I’m in trouble.

“Good to see you again,” he managed, voice pitched low with a pleasure he couldn’t quite disguise.

Malfoy blinked, just a fraction too long, and Harry saw the flicker there - the tiniest break in composure. He wanted to hold on longer than was decent, test if Malfoy would pull back first. The fact that he'd grown taller than Malfoy didn't escape his notice either. Oh, if only seventeen-year-old Harry could see him now.

“Likewise… Potter.”

Gerald clapped his shoulder before Harry could say any more. “This one will need your services the most, I’d say, Draco,” He said with a wink. “He’s a walking medical malady.”

Harry shrugged, letting his cocky grin spread, because if Malfoy was watching- and he was watching, Harry could feel it- then Harry wanted him to see it. “Don’t hear you complaining when I get the snitch.”

Malfoy’s mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly, the tiniest spark of irritation.

Gerald laughed, clapping Harry on the back. “You’ve got me there, mate." He turned back to Malfoy, cheerful as ever. "We’re heading out for drinks now, would you like to join?”

Harry held his breath, ridiculous as it was, but Malfoy only gave a polite little smile and shook his head. “I should be getting back to prepare for tomorrow.”

Gerald nodded easily. "Ah, that's right. Lots to do?"

“Somewhat. I just need to sort some details with the local office.”

Harry should’ve glanced away then, given him space- but he didn’t. He stared. Rather shamelessly.

Malfoy’s eyes were impossibly clear, grey with a depth that seemed to catch on every flicker of light in the room. His mouth moved with such careful precision when he spoke, every syllable shaped neatly, lips soft and pink against the sharp lines of his face. And his hands- Harry couldn’t help noticing them- he gestured more than he remembered, small, exact movements that made his robes shift just so at the wrists. Elegant, even in the smallest things.

Malfoy turned to go, and Harry tilted his head, unable to resist, his grin curling slyly. “We’ll miss you there, Doctor.” He dropped his voice, warm and teasing, just to see what it did.

Sure enough- the faintest wash of pink bloomed across Malfoy’s cheekbones. Harry’s pulse jumped, pleased and a bit dizzy.

“Maybe next time,” Malfoy muttered, a fraction too quick.

Harry’s grin spread helplessly. He didn’t even try to stop it. He just kept watching, drinking him in, until Malfoy disappeared through the door. And then he relaxed, heart pounding, utterly gone all over again.

“You’re looking a little red in the face, lad,” Gerald said, his eyes narrowing in worry. “You alright? Should I get Doctor Malfoy back in here?”

Harry huffed a laugh, tugging a hand through his hair. Yes, please, his mind supplied, too honest and traitorous. He imagined Malfoy’s cool hands on him, that sharp voice asking what was wrong, pale eyes staring into his- it would undo him completely.

He shook the thought off, flashing Gerald a grin that he hoped looked easy. “No, I’m fine. Tough practice.”

Gerald gave him a once-over, lips twitching like he didn’t buy it.

Chapter Text

Harry sat hunched forward on the bench, elbows braced against his knees, gloved hands fiddling with the battered strap of his watch. The pitch stretched out before him in grey mist, hoops rising pale and skeletal at either end. He should have been in bed, should have forced himself to stay there, but he’d never been able to. Matches always set him on edge- the night before, the morning of. Sleep was a lost cause.

He’d thought maybe sitting here would help. Just him, the pitch, the quiet. His broom leaned against his leg like a silent accomplice, waiting. He hadn’t decided whether he’d fly, but the temptation was there, coiling in his chest like it always did.

The faint sound of footsteps on damp grass reached him. Harry startled upright, shoulders jerking, heart thudding like he’d been caught out past curfew. He looked round and saw a tall, pale figure striding nearer, coat sharp against the shadows.

“Potter?”

Harry blinked up at him, hair falling into his eyes, a little dazed from the stillness. “Oh. Malfoy.” The knot in his shoulders loosened. He shifted sideways on the bench and patted the empty space beside him.

Malfoy hesitated, lips pursed like he was calculating the risks of contamination, then sat down with a dramatic sweep of his coat. Harry smothered a smile. Same as ever.

“It’s not even five,” Malfoy said, his tone disapproving.

Harry pointed at his scratched watch. “I can tell the time, believe it or not.”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed as he ignored Harry's quip. “Is the tea not working?”

“It is. Mostly.” Harry shrugged, trying not to sound as restless as he felt. “But this is just habit. I get restless before a match. Can’t stay in bed.”

Malfoy’s gaze dropped to the broom leaning against the bench. His eyebrow arched, sharp as a blade. “You’re going to fly now? This early?”

“Was thinking about it.” Harry scratched the back of his neck.

“What if you get hurt?” Malfoy’s voice had that clipped edge he used when he was pretending not to care too much.

Harry tilted his head, let his mouth curve. “Worried about me?” He nudged Malfoy’s shoulder with his own, just enough to see if he’d bristle.

He did, predictably. “Don’t distract me with your stupidity. The match starts in three hours.”

Harry grinned wider, enjoying himself. Merlin, he shouldn’t poke, but he couldn’t resist. “You could join me, you know.”

Malfoy’s brows drew together. “Join you?”

Harry gestured vaguely at the dark expanse of pitch. His breath fogged between them. “Up there. Flying. Just for a bit.”

He looked positively scandalised. “Absolutely not.”

Malfoy’s glare should have been final, but Harry recognised hesitation when he saw it. He’d seen it before, years ago, when Malfoy would linger after a match instead of storming straight off the pitch. That split second when Harry thought maybe-

“Fine,” Malfoy muttered, scowling at himself.

Harry blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

But Malfoy was already pulling at the buttons of his coat, slipping it from his shoulders in one clean movement. Underneath, Malfoy was all long lines and sharp edges, lean without looking fragile. His shirt fit too well- crisp, pressed, the fabric catching faint light and clinging just enough to suggest more than it concealed. His trousers cut close down his thighs before tapering, neat and immaculate.

Harry’s eyes traced him before he could stop himself, lingering far too long on the sweep of his back, the curve of him as he bent slightly to fold the coat. Bloody hell. He dragged his gaze up too late, catching the pale line of Malfoy’s throat as he straightened. His pulse jumped traitorously.

Malfoy smoothed the coat into a neat square and set it on the bench, utterly unaware, before reaching for a spare broom with elegant fingers.

“I swear, if you make me regret this-”

“You won’t,” Harry cut in, voice too quick, grin tugging helplessly at his mouth.

“Don’t grin like that. It’s unseemly.”

Harry swung onto his broom, goosebumps fluttering over his skin that had nothing to do with the cold. “Last one to the hoops is a flobberworm!” he called, and kicked off hard into the air.

Malfoy’s muttered “Unbelievable” drifted up behind him, and then Harry heard the whoosh of him giving chase.

The air was sharp, biting, glorious. They looped and dove through the hoops, raced the wind around the goalposts. Harry held back without even thinking, letting Malfoy keep pace. It wasn't really about that, though. He wanted this to last longer; he wanted to be able to actually see Malfoy up here with him, rather than a blur of a figure on a broom. Harry liked the way the blond flew, free yet in complete control.

They climbed higher, circling slower, the sky spilling colour across the horizon. Pink and gold bled into the grey, painting the mist below. The stands looked tiny from here. It felt like another world. Just them.

Malfoy sat upright a few feet away, pale hair stirring in the wind, eyes fixed on the sunrise as if it belonged to him alone. For a moment, Harry almost forgot to breathe.

Of course, Malfoy wasn’t one for silence. He sighed in that way- the one that meant Harry was trying his patience with all his wizzing about - and called, “Potter, you’re like a hummingbird on fire.”

Harry laughed, doing another lap around Malfoy just to hear him huff. He swung by Malfoy’s broom close enough to stir his robes.

“Honestly,” Malfoy snapped, “Must you-”

Harry swooped again, this time hanging upside down by his knees right in front of him. The startled noise Malfoy made was worth every bruise Harry might earn.

“Merlin’s arse, are you trying to fall to your death?” He cried. 

“Relax,” Harry said, grinning until his face hurt. “I’ve done this loads." He thought back to his training days- doing ridiculous stunts on training brooms charmed for not much more than flying circles around each other. In fact-”

“Do not finish that sentence. You’re going to give me a coronary.”

But Harry didn’t move. He liked the way Malfoy looked at him: exasperated, flustered, caught off guard. His pale hair lifted in the breeze, eyes narrowed against the rising sun. For a second, Harry swore he saw something softer there, something that made his chest go tight.

Then Malfoy leaned forward. Harry froze. A gloved hand reached out, brushed his cheek, and nudged his glasses back up his nose. Harry’s breath stuttered. Malfoy’s thumb lingered on his skin, close enough to make him go cross-eyed, before he murmured something low and careful. The glasses settled snug against his face, stuck in place.

“Was- was that wandless?” Harry asked, once he’d remembered how to speak.

“Yes,” Malfoy said calmly, like his touch hadn’t just sent sparks down Harry’s skin. He leaned back, all business. “It’s very basic.”

Harry flipped himself upright again, hands tight on the broom, trying to mask the rush in his chest. “Basic- Malfoy, that’s amazing! How long have you been able to do that?”

Malfoy cleared his throat, eyes fixed firmly on the horizon. “A while. It’s sort of a prerequisite to being a good Healer.”

“Oh. Right.” Harry’s grin returned. His cheeks hurt a little from smiling. “Wicked.”

Malfoy gave a short, crisp nod, trying for unaffected, but even Harry could see the pleased flush on his skin. “Indeed.”

The whistle cut through the roar of the crowd, and Harry leaned forward into the dive.

Wind surged up to meet him, cold and sharp in his lungs, the familiar bite that settled everything inside him. This was what he knew best: the weight of the broom beneath him, the whine of air in his ears, the stretch of pitch rolling open below.

The match started cautiously. The Snitch hadn’t made an appearance, so Harry held back, climbing, circling, eyes sweeping the edges of the pitch for even the faintest glint of gold. He barely registered the first goal - Puddlemere’s Chasers cutting a corkscrew so tight it made the crowd shriek. Harry caught the flare of blue and gold streamers erupting from the stands, but it was only peripheral.

His job was waiting.

Patience, he reminded himself. He was here to win.

Strangely, the waiting didn’t gnaw at him the way it used to. His body thrummed with readiness, but his mind was calm, clear. He still felt it- the residue of dawn with Malfoy. That morning flight had settled something in him, worked the edge off his nerves. He carried it now, like a secret charm stitched inside his robes.

He swept low, then angled up again, scanning. No flash of wings yet. The Irish Chasers were ruthless, Puddlemere’s Keeper braced against their onslaught, and the Beaters were in full swing, Bludgers cracking so close Harry could feel the vibration in his ribs. He dipped just out of one’s path, the rush a clean shot of adrenaline, then levelled out, scanning again.

It was easy to lose himself in the rhythm: climb, arc, sweep, scan. His world shrank to that loop, broken only by the occasional flick of his eyes to where Gerald orchestrated the chaos with clipped precision. Gerald was more than their captain - he was anchor, a friend, the reason Puddlemere’s plays looked like art rather than madness. Harry trusted him completely.

Which was why the next sound hit like a well-aimed hex.

The crack of Bludger on bone, loud enough to slice through the roar of the crowd. Harry’s head whipped round just in time to see Gerald stagger mid-air, Quaffle dropping loose, his face contorted with pain.

“Fuck-” Harry banked hard, instincts screaming to dive, but he stopped himself. His grip tightened on his broom until his knuckles burned. Not his role. That was not his role. He had to stay where he was needed.

Gerald was already spiralling for the ground, Jackie shouting, the reserve Chaser vaulting up into play. Harry’s gut twisted, but then-

He saw him.

On the grass below, Malfoy was already running, coat flaring, med bag swinging. Swift, purposeful, wand in hand. Harry’s chest loosened by a fraction. Gerald would be fine. He had to be. Malfoy was there.

Still, it took every ounce of discipline not to keep glancing down. Harry forced himself higher, eyes scanning again, letting the noise and chaos blur beneath him. His heartbeat thudded in time with the crowd. Patience. Focus. Gerald would expect nothing less.

Minutes bled past, strung tight with tension. The score climbed. The crowd swelled. Harry’s world narrowed to his circuit: arc, sweep, scan. His muscles hummed, waiting for the moment.

And then it came.

A dart of gold above the north goalpost, quick and easy to miss.

Harry didn’t think twice. He folded low over his broom and dove. The air tore past, sharp as knives, his stomach lurching with the drop. The Snitch darted left; he cut across it, body angled sharp, every muscle screaming with the effort. The pitch blurred. The roar of the crowd dimmed to a pulse in his blood.

The Snitch flickered once, twice, and Harry reached. His fingers closed around it, wings beating against his palm before falling still.

It was over.

The stadium erupted.

Noise crashed like a wave - cheers, shrieks, enchanted banners bursting blue and gold across the sky. Harry hovered, arm lifted high, grin wide and unstoppable. His chest heaved, hair stuck to his forehead, but the rush in his veins made him feel like he could fly forever.

He let himself glance down, just once. The staff section. Malfoy- clapping, of all things, lips curved in a laugh Harry wasn’t sure he’d ever seen before. Something flared hot and satisfied in Harry’s chest, cutting straight through the din of victory.

He angled down fast, ignoring the reporters shouting, the hands reaching. His boots hit grass, broom still in one hand, words spilling before he could breathe. “Is he-?”

“Absolutely fine,” Malfoy said at once, like he’d expected the question. He gestured to Gerald, seated with his arm bound neatly in a sling, Jackie posted at his side like a guard. “Minor dislocation. Two days off a broom, provided he listens.”

Relief tore through Harry so fast it left him unsteady. “Good. Thank you.” His hand landed on Malfoy’s arm before he thought about it, fingers pressing in a quick, grateful squeeze. “We’ll make sure he does.”

Malfoy hummed under his breath, attention caught on the slow business of peeling off his gloves. He drew the latex free finger by finger, precise as ever, and Harry, absurdly, couldn’t look away.

It was nothing, an ordinary motion, but his stomach knotted as though Malfoy had done something indecent right there in the open. Pale wrists bared, long fingers flexing in the cold air - Harry’s mouth went dry.

“You played well,” Malfoy said at last, voice mild, eyes on him. “Congratulations.”

And- well. Fuck.

It shouldn’t have mattered. Praise was the one thing Harry never lacked these days. Crowds screamed it, teammates shouted it, his name written across banners and headlines - all of it. But this? Quiet, unadorned, falling from Malfoy’s lips like it cost him something to admit it- and it affected Harry more than anything else.

Harry felt warmth rush to his face before he could stop it. He grinned anyway, unable to hide it. “Yeah?”

Malfoy arched an eyebrow, as though he’d expected nothing less. “You knew that already.” He tipped his head towards the stands, still thundering, the air thick with colour and smoke.

Harry ought to have left it there, but adrenaline was still thrumming in his veins, loosening his tongue. Malfoy’s cheeks were pink from the cold, his hair a little wind-ruffled, and Harry had the daft thought that he’d never looked more handsome. Something twisted low in him, sharp and giddy, and the truth slipped out quieter than he meant.

“I like to. From you, especially.”

It was out before he could snatch it back. What he didn’t say, what rattled inside him, was far more pathetic: that he’d tuck those words away like treasure, that Malfoy smiling at him across the noise of a stadium was worth more than the win itself. 

For once, Malfoy didn’t have a ready retort. His eyes held Harry’s, steady but uncertain, lips parting like he meant to speak before pressing shut again.

Then, the tide of his teammates crashed into him, arms hauling him back into the frenzy, shouts of victory ringing in his ears. He let himself be dragged, laughing breathlessly, but his gaze kept catching on the place he’d just left, where Malfoy still stood with his gloves in hand and that look on his face that made Harry want to shrug everybody off and run back to him.