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Harry knows as soon as he wakes up that something is wrong. For starters, he’s in a bloody hospital bed, he can tell that much thanks to the rough sheets pulled over his body. In the infirmary, again, he thinks to himself dully. He tries opening his eyes, but to no avail. They feel glued shut, and terribly heavy. Without being able to see anything, Harry finds himself painfully aware of his other senses. Merlin, does his head ever hurt. There’s a familiar twinge in his left ankle, and he thinks that perhaps he’s fallen off of his broom during the Gryffindor versus Slytherin quidditch match that was scheduled for that morning.
He squirms under the covers, uncomfortable and sore. When he tries moving his uninjured leg, he finds himself unable to - there’s something holding him still. Frustrated, he groans.
“Oh, thank Merlin,” a familiar voice whispers, and that alone is too loud for Harry at the moment. It feels as though someone has taken a quaffle and slammed it against his head repeatedly. Honestly, that’s probably not too far off what happened, he supposes.
He attempts to say something in response, maybe ask just how many days of class he’s missed, when he hears the clicking of shoes against the floor coming towards his bed. Within seconds, he feels a tingly wave of relief wash over his body, and then he promptly falls asleep.
___
When his eyes do flutter open again, he’s confused. He obviously isn’t in the infirmary, he realizes. He’s lying on his side, facing the open door of a private hospital room. From this angle, he can see Healers rushing around in the standard uniform of St. Mungo’s. Which is rather odd, because no one from Hogwarts is ever brought to Mungo’s for a minor quidditch injury. What had happened to him?
Before he has a chance to sit himself up in bed - he’s not even sure he can, if he’s being honest - Hermione and Ron shuffle through the open door with steaming cups of tea in hand. As soon as Hermione notices that he’s awake, her eyes widen comically.
“Harry!” she gasps, her hand shooting out to grab Ron’s arm. “You didn’t tell us he was awake,” Hermione accuses, shifting her gaze to somewhere behind Harry. Who is she talking to? Harry wonders.
Suddenly, the pressure that Harry had felt on his ankle when he originally woke up shifts. He hadn’t even realized someone was here with him.
He looks at Hermione and Ron, confused. Who else would be here? Then, he notices that Ron’s got an actual beard, and Hermione’s hair is cropped shorter than he’s seen it before. They look … older, somehow, although Harry’s sure he couldn’t have been asleep for more than a few days.
The voice behind him speaks up again. “I didn’t know he was,” the voice says drily.
Harry knows that voice. It’s Malfoy, he realizes with a jolt of surprise. Malfoy, who came back to Hogwarts for their eighth year with apologies on his lips, a few extra inches to his height, and a new haircut. Malfoy, who had thanked Harry for testifying at his trial and begrudgingly accepted his wand back from Harry with a gruff, “Thanks, Potter.” Malfoy, who is still an infuriating git, but offers Harry help with his Potions homework and sits with him on the side of the Great Lake, throwing stones across the water as the last rays of sunlight bounce across its surface. They’ve come to a sort of unspoken truce.
Children, Harry has decided, is all they were when they were forced to pick sides in a war. Malfoy had done his time - two days in Azkaban before Kingsley had insisted he be released until the decision in his trial was made - and he’s still trying his best to make amends with the other students and their families. It’s something Harry was initially annoyed with. How dare a Death Eater waltz around the grounds as though his stint working under a murderous madman was just another typical adolescent mistake. That was before Harry really understood just how genuine Malfoy was in his remorse. A significant portion of the Malfoy vaults have been donated to various Muggleborn charities across London, and he attended each and every funeral after the Battle, offering condolences and apologies. He was met with more than one angry set of parents and two or three furious slaps across the face, but he took it all in stride.
As time went on, he felt himself drawing closer to Malfoy. He found himself staring into the fire in the eighth year common room on more than one occasion with Malfoy perched just a few feet away, and they sat there each time in a comfortable but heavy silence. There seemed to be no need to speak - there was a shared understanding acknowledged between the pair as they met eyes, the flickering of the warm flames casting soft shadows over Malfoy’s pale skin. That night was the first time Harry realized just how handsome the git was. His hair, golden and impossibly soft looking, his stormy grey eyes that said so much in only a stare, his sharp jaw, and his slender fingers. Harry noticed all of these things, and didn’t utter a single word to anyone about it.
Sometimes, they would even grab their brooms and fly around the quidditch pitch, zooming through the clouds with the evening sun setting across the horizon. Once in a while, Malfoy would bring out a snitch, and they’d have a competition between the two of them. It felt good, flying through the cool air with Malfoy rushing alongside of him, the green of his robes blurring into the fields hundreds of feet below.
Harry is always cold when they land, his face impossibly flushed and his hair windswept. Malfoy, of course, always looks absolutely flawless - a thought that Harry keeps firmly to himself.
Just last week, the weekend before the fateful quidditch match that has evidently put Harry in the hospital, something changed.
Sitting in the Great Hall, Harry noticed that Malfoy was staring at him intensely from his seat at the Slytherin table. Harry had waved awkwardly, but Malfoy didn’t even seem to notice. Harrumphing, Harry had pretended he wasn’t bothered, and continued eating his treacle tart. When he returned to the Common Room after supper, there was a blueberry tart and a tiny piece of parchment placed on his bed.
-DM. The note read. That was it. Just DM. A happy smile made its way onto Harry’s face. This was good. Really, really good.
Then, the next day in Charms, Harry entered the room with Ron at his heels and walked over to their usual bench. Before Ron had a chance to sit down, Malfoy appeared from seemingly nowhere, and slid gracefully onto the stool next to Harry’s.
“Malfoy?” Harry questioned, eyes wide. “You, er - this isn’t your seat.”
“I’d like to sit here, Potter,” Malfoy replied, a challenge in his tone. “Does Weasley have a problem with sitting next to his girlfriend?”
And that’s how Harry had ended up with Malfoy’s thigh pressing up against his for double Charms. The heat where their legs touched was hard to ignore, and Harry had found the lesson incredibly difficult to follow due to the fact that his thoughts were almost entirely focused on what it would feel like to have Malfoy touching other parts of him. At the end of the lesson, just when Harry thought he’d survived what Malfoy was putting him through, Malfoy grabbed his wrist when he attempted to continue down the corridor. The rest of their class walked on without them, and Harry was vaguely worried about being late for Transfiguration, but more preoccupied with the gentle hold that Malfoy had on his arm. How were his fingers so soft? Harry had wondered.
“Do you want to meet by the Lake after the match tomorrow? Say, three o’clock?” Malfoy whispered.
“Er, sure,” Harry agreed quickly. “Yeah, let’s do that.”
“Alright then, Potter. I’ll see you then. Do be on time, won’t you?”
Harry never did get to figure out what happened at three o’clock, or why he’s in St. Mungo’s instead of in the infirmary with Madam Pomfrey fussing over him like usual.
“I just woke up,” Harry finally rasps, his throat burning as he forces the words out. “Don’t worry, ‘Mione. You didn’t miss anything exciting.”
Hermione sighs, relieved. “I’m glad you’re awake, Harry. You hit your head awfully hard when that blasted wizard hexed you, so Ron says. I need to go get Healer Spleen and tell him you're up.”
“Okay,” Harry says, although he doesn’t understand what Hermione’s saying about a bloody hex. He just fell off of his broom, didn’t he? He watches as Hermione bustles out of the room, her bushy hair bobbing behind her.
Ron moves to sit on the chair beside Harry’s cot, balancing his tea on a small floating table nearby. “How’re you feeling, mate?” he asks. Ron’s voice is so calming, Harry thinks, though he’s never heard it sound so deep before.
“Bit peaky,” Harry says, trying to grin but stopping when it hurts his head too much. “Er, why am I at Mungo’s? Pomfrey couldn’t take care of whatever this is at Hogwarts?”
All at once, Harry feels the hand on his ankle tighten dramatically and watches Ron’s face fall.
“What.” Malfoy’s voice is like ice. Ron reaches over the side of bed, and rests his hand on Harry’s shoulder.
“Why the hell would you be at Hogwarts?”
“Well, it is where we go to school,” Harry trails off when the blank look on Ron’s face switches to alarm.
“I gotta get Hermione,” he exclaims, before retracting his hand and promptly leaving the room.
Confused and starting to feel a curl of panic swirling in his chest, Harry summons what strength he has and rolls over in the bed so that he can finally see Malfoy, who’s apparently been sitting at his bedside for what seems to be either hours or days.
“What’s wrong?” Harry asks, but he immediately cuts himself off. Malfoy - Malfoy looks like a man. He’s got a five o’clock shadow, and he’s broader and taller than Harry ever remembers him being. He’s wearing Auror robes with the sleeves pushed up so that his forearms are carelessly exposed, Dark Mark and all. “I,” he falters, as panic licks at his throat. “Malfoy, I, what’s, what’s …”
Malfoy flinches slightly when Harry says his name, and a look of hurt crosses his features briefly before he replaces it with a cool mask of calm indifference that Harry’s used to seeing. Now, it only provides a source of comfort. At least some things appear to be normal.
“You were hit by a stray hex, Harry,” Malfoy explains quietly. “We were on a mission -”
“A mission?” Harry interrupts, voice hoarse. “With who? For who? Why are you wearing Auror robes?” His head is swimming with questions. Where are Hermione and Ron?
“Harry,” Malfoy says his name again, as if it’s something he’s accustomed to doing, which is possibly the most alarming thing that’s happened so far. “Perhaps it’s best if we wait for Healer Spleen to come back to figure out exactly what’s happening.”
“No, I want you to tell me,” Harry insists, struggling to sit up on the springy mattress. It’s harder than he thought it would be, and when he almost topples sideways, he’s grateful for Malfoy’s quick reflexes that prevent him from falling onto the floor.
“Thanks,” Harry says, as Malfoy helps him sit back against the pillows propped up behind him.
“Don’t mention it,” Malfoy brushes him off. “I owe you a few life debts, after all. At least ten, now.”
Harry frowns. Malfoy only owes him one life debt, as far as he can remember, and he doesn’t even want to collect on that. He’s about to say as much when Hermione, Ron, and a mediwizard who must be Healer Spleen burst into the room.
“Mr. Potter,” Healer Spleen greets, shuffling over to Harry.
“Harry,” Harry corrects uncomfortably. He brings a hand up to his face to rub at his eyes - the lighting is awfully bright - and is greeted with the unfamiliar feeling of scruff on his cheeks. Just a few days ago he was debating on using a quick hair growing charm, but he decided against it. How long has he been asleep?
“Harry,” Healer Spleen amends. “Ronald here tells me that you’re experiencing some memory loss.”
“I am?” Harry asks alarmedly.
“Eighth year, mate, that was, well, that was three years ago now, wasn’t it?” Ron turns to Hermione, who nods in confirmation. Her eyes look teary, and Harry isn’t sure his aren’t as well.
“I’ve been … I’ve been here for three years?” he says, eyes darting around the room.
“Oh heavens, no,” Healer Spleen chuckles, but Harry doesn’t see what’s so funny. “And that, dear boy, is the problem. You’ve been here for just about twelve hours now. Your partner brought you in,” he continues, gesturing towards Malfoy, who’s hand is back to squeezing Harry’s ankle reassuringly.
His partner? Blimey. Ron had just said that it’s been three years since they’ve graduated - what happened by the Great Lake? Obviously something had, because apparently he and Malfoy are dating.
“Oh,” Harry breathes. He twists so that he’s looking at Malfoy again. Should he be calling him Draco now? Malfoy did call him Harry earlier. Just the thought of it alone is weird, so Harry shoves it to the back of his mind.
“You’re a lucky young man, if you’d gotten here any later we’d be dealing with worse than a bit of memory loss,” Healer Spleen chuckles again, and Harry fails to see what the man thinks is so amusing about his situation. He’s sitting in a hospital with no memory of the past three years or of his boyfriend. Harry just keeps staring at Malfoy, who’s hand is rubbing soothing circles into Harry’s calf while he listens to Healer Spleen drone on about brain injuries and the sort. Harry probably should be listening too, seeing as it’s his brain they’re talking about, but he finds himself entranced in the way that Malfoy’s hair falls across his forehead. He’s sure Hermione is paying enough attention for all of them.
After a few minutes, Malfoy’s gaze darts away from where he’s been staring intently at Harry’s Healer. Their eyes meet, and Harry quirks the corner of his mouth, giving Malfoy a tiny smile. He’s scared out of his bloody mind, but somehow the feeling of Malfoy’s hands on him provides him with a sense of comfort. Malfoy looks a little surprised at Harry’s smile, but he returns it after a pause, and Harry notices that his cool grey eyes have a warmth in them that he hadn’t noticed before.
“Well then,” Healer Spleen declares, clapping his hands together. “That’s that. I’ll be back in a couple hours with the antidote, Mr. Potter - Harry. You let him rest,” he points at Malfoy, and Harry’s mind immediately rushes to all the ways Malfoy could do the exact opposite. He’s thankful for the thick blanket covering his lap. Harry take a deep breath. An antidote, he said? Well, at least he’ll be able to remember this whole life he’s seemed to have forgotten, he thinks in relief.
He’s so caught up looking at Malfoy that he doesn’t notice Ron and Hermione slipping their jackets on.
“We really need to get back to Rose,” Hermione tells him, and Harry nods even though he isn’t sure who Rose is. “You’ll be alright with Draco, won’t you?”
“‘Course,” Harry assures her. “He’ll take good care of me, won’t you, Malfoy?”
“The very best,” Malfoy inclines his head towards Hermione, who seems appeased. Ron leans in and drops a quick kiss to Harry’s forehead before they leave.
“I was bloody worried about you, Harry. Floo us when you’re out, alright?”
“Sure,” Harry says, surprised by Ron showing such casual affection - he’s definitely grown from the last memories Harry has of him, which featured him refusing to hug even Hermione in public.
“Bye,” Malfoy says, and in a matter of seconds, Harry’s left alone in the room with Malfoy, the door swinging shut behind his friends as they leave.
“Well,” Harry speaks up. “I’d like to say I’m surprised by this, but I sort of saw it coming.”
“You knew you were going to get cursed by a dark wizard and lose your memory?” Malfoy scoffs, leaning backwards in his chair, finally taking his hand away from Harry’s leg. Harry feels the loss like an ache.
“What? No, not, not that,” Harry shakes his head. Blimey, what’s he getting cursed for now? Voldemort is dead, he deserves a break. “This,” says, waving his hand around in front of him.
“You’ve lost me,” Malfoy sighs exasperatedly, but his eyes tell a different story. There’s a fond glimmer, only noticeable to someone like Harry who has spent countless nights thinking about Malfoy and his annoyingly gorgeous face.
“Us,” Harry says.
“Us?” Malfoy echoes, shifting in his seat, which seems terribly uncomfortable. Now that he’s looking, Harry notices that Malfoy’s usually perfect complexion is offset by dark bags under his tired eyes, and there are three empty coffee cups littering the windowsill behind him. He’s been sitting next to Harry’s bed the whole time, Harry realizes suddenly, and feels a swell of emotion flare in his chest.
“Y’know,” Harry struggles to find the words when Malfoy still doesn’t seem to grasp what he’s talking about. “Er, us being, being partners.” He’s not sure what word to use - are they boyfriends? Engaged? Married? Merlin, Harry hopes so - but Healer Spleen had referred to them as partners, so he chooses that as the safest option.
“Oh, that,” Malfoy replies, shrugging. “I suppose it makes sense. I was furious, at first, as I’m sure you can imagine. When Kingsley assigned us to our first case together, we both just about had conniptions. It’s worked out quite well though. You aren’t half bad to work with.”
“What are you on about now?” Harry scrunches up his face. Malfoy’s not making any sense. Maybe he’s the one who’s been hexed. “I’m talking about our relationship, you git.”
“What?” Malfoy freezes, his hand that was reaching for Harry’s ankle once more stopping in its path.
“I might not be able to remember how it happened, but I’m not an idiot, you know. I can see the way you’re looking at me, the way you feel about me. Are we always this obvious?”
“What … Harry, what are -”
“Clearly we’re serious enough about each other that Healer Spleen knows we’re partners,” Harry says, wondering why Malfoy isn’t happier that Harry remembers that their relationship exists.
“Yes, we’re partners,” Malfoy begins, and Harry butts in once more, too curious to stop himself.
“Can you tell me? How it happened, I mean. The last thing I can remember is the day you sat next to me in Charms and held my hand. You invited me to the Lake after our quidditch match,” Harry rushes to explain. He wonders why Malfoy looks as though he’s just been hit with a body binding charm.
“Harry,” Malfoy breathes, “Harry, we are Auror partners. Not ... partner partners.” He says it softly, but the words hit Harry like a bullet. Nothing in his head is adding up, and he can feel embarrassment blooming in his stomach.
“Oh,” Harry mumbles, his tongue feeling numb and heavy in his mouth. “But, the Lake,” he trails off, looking to Malfoy for an explanation.
“You never showed up,” he whispers, his eyes meeting Harry’s and holding his gaze. “I’m not sure why, I never worked up the nerve to ask you.”
“What?” Harry says disbelievingly. “I’m crazy about you, I mean, I was crazy about you. That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Don’t say things you don’t mean, Potter,” Malfoy hisses, drawing back from the bed as though he’s been burned.
“I’m not, I didn’t,” Harry argues. “I’m obviously not messing around, as you just saw, I thought we were together, and I was bloody happy about it.”
“Well then why didn’t you come?” Malfoy asks, raising an eyebrow.
“I don’t know now, do I?” Harry insists.
“I guess we’ll find out soon.”
“I guess so,” Harry says. “Why are you even here, then? If we’re not dating.”
“Because, as hard as it is to believe, we’re friends,” says Malfoy. He’s scooting closer towards the bed again, and there’s a hopeful glint in his eye that makes Harry feel like less of an arsehole.
“You still became friends with me, even though I didn’t show up?” Harry questions, leaning his head back so that he can rest it on his pillow. All this talking and confusion is only worsening his headache, but he wants answers.
“Yes,” Malfoy confesses. “I. Well, I liked you, quite a bit. You never offered a reason, and I was too relieved that you were even speaking to me that I rathered us be friends than nothing at all. I don’t think I could’ve lived with that.”
“Oh,” Harry says, not sure how to respond.
“Oh, indeed,” Malfoy replies. “Would you like some water? Healer Spleen should be back soon with the antidote.”
“Sure, my mouth is really dry, actually,” Harry replies, and Malfoy accio’s a cup from across the room before bringing his wand tip to the rim and filling it up with a stream of water. “Thanks.”
“Of course,” Malfoy says. As he passes the cup over, he settles back in his chair, but shifts so that he’s sitting near Harry’s pillow instead of by his feet.
“I’m tired,” Harry admits fuzzily when his vision starts to swim in and out. Malfoy takes the cup out of his trembling hand and lays it aside.
“You should sleep,” he says. “I’ll wake you when it’s time for you to take the potion, if you’d like.”
“You’ll stay?” Harry asks, reaching out on instinct and clasping Malfoy’s hand in his.
“I will,” Malfoy assures him, and Harry barely has enough energy to nod before he drifts off.
_____
It’s late by the time that Healer Spleen meanders back into his room with a flask of shimmering purple potion in hand. Malfoy had woken him with a gentle hand on his shoulder, and Harry had the treat of waking up to a pair of lovely eyes looking down at him.
“The antidote is here,” Malfoy says.
“Right,” Harry says as he sits up and extends his hand to take the potion from Healer Spleen, who hands it over readily.
“Perfect, perfect. Just take a swig, and you’ll be good to go in no time,” he instructs, and Harry takes a gulp. He’s not sure what he was expecting it to taste like, but he’s surprised when the minty potion glides down his throat. “You’ll start feeling the effects soon, just give it a moment, understood? I’ll be back in an hour or so to discharge you.”
Harry nods, and turns back to Malfoy once Healer Spleen has left the room.
“Soon I’ll remember everything,” he says.
“Obviously,” Malfoy snorts.
“Still such an arse,” Harry says, but he gives Malfoy a grin to show that he’s only kidding around. Any minute now, he’ll be able to remember what happened to land him in this situation. For his own sake, as well as Malfoy’s, he hopes he had a good reason for not meeting him at the Great Lake that fateful day.
Suddenly, Harry feels as though his head has been dunked under a stream of icy water. It prickles up the centre of his forehead, and he’s reminded unpleasantly about the way his scar used to burn. Just like that, Harry’s memories are thrust back into consciousness, and all at once they begin to hit him.
He remembers the way he was so excited to meet Malfoy that he could barely focus on the quidditch match, and how he had almost asked Hermione what he should wear to meet Malfoy. He remembers arriving at the tree-line and seeing Malfoy hugging Pansy Parkinson tightly to his chest and dropping a kiss to her forehead. He remembers being furious and devastated, but otherwise cordial to Malfoy in all of their interactions from that point onwards - he had to be an example for the younger students.
He recalls how he felt when he found out that he’d be in Auror training with Malfoy, and the frightened lurch of his heart when it was announced that they would remain partners once they joined the force. Things between them had been fairly stinted, which was to be expected with their shared past, but over time Harry had learned how to push his feelings for Malfoy to the back of his mind.
They spent more time together as the years passed. Nights in on Malfoy’s couch with Muggle movies playing in the background as they argued over who would win the World Cup became a common occurrence. Every Thursday, they’d take turns in choosing a new restaurant to try. Sometimes, if Harry was lucky, they’d be working on a case so late that they’d fall asleep on Harry’s living room floor and wake up with tangled limbs and parchment sticking to their clothes. Throughout all this, Harry had become quite good at ignoring his more than friendly thoughts about Malfoy. Thinking about the swell of his arse or the low timbre of his voice only served as distractions which he most certainly couldn’t afford in the field.
Which, ironically, is what got him hexed in the first place. He probably shouldn’t have been thinking about what it would be like to wake Malfoy up with a blowjob while he was supposed to be arresting a criminal.
Now, when he thinks about how just hours ago, he naively asked Malfoy if they were boyfriends, he can’t quell the embarrassment that threatens to swallow him whole.
“Harry?” Malfoy questions. His hand is wrapped around Harry’s upper arm, his fingers spread out and incredibly gentle.
“Yeah,” Harry groans. “Merlin, Draco, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”
“You were injured,” Draco replies easily. “Don’t worry about it. We all say things we don’t mean when we’re ill.”
“Oh, I meant it,” Harry corrects him. Even through his embarrassment, he knows that lying isn’t going to get them anywhere. It never has.
“You what?” Draco says, shocked.
“I meant every word of what I said,” Harry clarifies. “I’m crazy about you.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I just said that I did, didn’t I? Are you even listening?”
“Shut up. Then why didn’t you come find me at the Lake?” Draco asks. His hand is still on Harry’s arm, something Harry is immensely grateful for.
“I showed up,” Harry says. “And you were hugging and kissing Parkinson.”
“I most certainly was not,” says Draco.
“You were,” Harry insists. “Just on the forehead, but. I was jealous. I thought you invited me there so I’d see you two and leave you alone.”
“Merlin, you are thick. She was there giving me advice on what to say when you showed up. She’s my best friend, as ridiculous as she can be. But nothing more, not now, not ever.”
“Oh,” Harry says, shocked. He had avoided Draco like the plague after what he had seen. He was inconsolable for weeks. “Well, I, er, feel rather stupid now.”
“Well, it seems that you most definitely fucked things up,” Draco agrees.
“Yeah, and now I’m trying to fix it,” Harry says, eyes darting around the room so he doesn’t have to look at Draco when he says it. “What do you say?”
“What do I say about what?” Draco asks, his hand tightening its grip on Harry.
“Do you want to give this a try? Give us a try, I mean,” says Harry. He can feel his heart beating like mad, he’s not sure that he’s ever been this scared before.
“Us,” Draco says. “Together?”
“Yeah,” Harry confirms. “Together, for real.”
“You’ll have to ask me on a proper date, first,” Draco says.
“I’ve already got a place in mind,” Harry tells him honestly.
“Is that so?” Draco says, and his smile is bright enough that Harry has to look away - he might start tearing up.
“Yeah,” Harry whispers. “Meet me on Thursday, at three o’clock?”
“Don’t you dare ruin it this time,” Draco threatens, before twining his fingers with Harry’s, their hands linked together tightly.
Harry smiles. Not bloody likely, he thinks.