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Despite what everyone might think, Harry does not actually enjoy getting hurt on the job. He does not, in actual fact, go out looking for ways to get himself cursed, or hexed, or skewered or scraped or banged up. He really doesn’t.
“Well you wouldn't think that, given how often I bloody see you in here,” is Draco’s response when Harry tells him this.
Draco’s shirt is soft green, his eyes cold grey, and his hair ― well, his hair is a bit of a mess, truth be told. He looks like he just got out of bed, threw on whatever he was wearing the night before and stormed down to answer the door, to find a bleeding and hurt private investigator with an apologetic smile and a polite, ‘can I not die out here, please?’. Which is exactly what did happen.
Harry tries for another apologetic smile. Draco looks like he wants to wallop him.
The harsh light of Draco's pathology lab turned temporary-Potter-hospital isn’t doing the bags under Draco’s eyes any favours, Harry thinks, feeling observational and accidentally unkind. He still looks fit though, even at four am. Harry also observes that he, dinged-up private investigator, also isn't doing Draco any favours by getting injured in the middle of the night. He didn’t set out to do it, though.
“Well, I don’t mean to get hurt. It just happens. So, surprise, this isn’t a social visit,” is Harry’s very slick reply. Okay, his mildly slick reply, that still took him half a minute to come up with. His arm’s full of poison, he can’t be expected to be full of wit, too.
Draco looks like he thinks Harry is definitely full of something that rhymes with wit, but he just purses his lips, prodding a needle into the foil lid of a vial of clear liquid.
Harry smiles absently at him, legs swinging a little bit aimlessly in his borrowed trackies. There are splotches of blood on them from the gash on his arm, the stinging, weeping wound still sending shocks up Harry’s bicep and all the way to his shoulder. Draco'd had to lend him some clothes, seeing as Harry’s uniform was pretty ruined, and Harry’s trousers and shirt are probably already on their way to being ashes in Draco’s incinerating station. Harry'd had socks on as well, he remembers, under his nice new trainers, but his feet are bare now. He wiggles his toes. Socks and trainers are probably in the incinerator too, then. Apparently Harpy venom is quite noxious, and really rather deadly.
Harry should definitely have avoided getting a bunch of it all over his clothes, and on his shoes, and absolutely should not have got it all up in the huge wound the enraged creature tore into his forearm. He twists his mouth to the side in contemplation. Oh well. You learn something new every day.
Since leaving the Aurors five years ago, Harry’s found a steady stream of work looking into the weirder cases which remain unsolved by the MLE, or which they can't be bothered with, and which clients privately bring to him. He’s pretty good at it, which the Aurors are usually pretty annoyed by, and Harry is definitely a bit smug about that. All the fun, and none of the paperwork; he definitely prefers this line of work. Although, he has to admit this case did end particularly unexpectedly ― Harry’s already reported the Harpy nest under that London townhouse as being responsible for the disappearance of all those cats and the Aurors’ll have sent the exterminators in already, leaving only the glaring question of why and how the fuck are Harpies nesting in sodding London. But, that’s not part of Harry’s case anymore. He’s done his bit, and the cheque from the client who now knows what happened to their dear moggy Trisha shows it. Harry can move on to his next case.
That being said, he will still definitely be blowing up Robard’s phone to offer his services in finding out more about who is smuggling venomous creatures into big fancy London houses. There’s no way he can resist looking further into that.
“I feel like.” Draco pauses, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up over his forearms and the rather formidable needle now held in one hand. “I feel like you should have fucking known not to agitate the broodmother by going into her nest. I mean, heaven forbid I tell you you how to do your job.” Draco steps closer. “But is that not your fucking job? To know this shit beforehand.”
He steps closer again. He’s almost between Harry’s parted legs now, and Harry fights the urge to scoot backwards. It really is a big needle, and Draco really does look spectacularly annoyed, either at Harry’s lack of Harpy knowledge or by the fact that this is the third time Harry has had to make a stop off at Draco’s in as many weeks.
“Um.” Harry eyes the needle warily, and then eyes Draco even more so. “Sorry?” he tries, hoping to appease Draco a little.
Draco jabs the needle into Harry’s hurt arm, indicating a general lack of appeasement.
“Ow, buggering fuck, ow!”
“Stay still,” Draco orders, and Harry does. “Good boy,” Draco adds with a smirk when Harry stops squirming. Harry wants to glare, but his eyes are watering a little.
“That hurts,” he states instead, making what he assumes is a truly ridiculous face as Draco compresses the base of the needle, injecting whatever it is into Harry’s arm just above the worst of the wound. He hisses when Draco withdraws it, Summoning a small cotton bud in its place with a muttered spell Harry doesn’t recognise. Harry realises that Draco hasn’t touched his skin once, even when he cleaned it.
“Is it really that dangerous?” Harry asks as the cotton bud dabs at his arm, before sticking down. There’s a tiny dark patch of blood where the needle pricked his skin, but it’s already stopped hurting. The rest of Harry's arm feels like it’s on fire though.
“The venom? Yes. Idiot,” Draco mutters absently. “Best to avoid any direct contact with the skin, and under no circumstance get it in the eyes, mouth, or open wounds. Idiot,” Draco repeats pointedly. “I’ve got the worst of it out of you, though. You’ll be fine. If you weren’t, we’d have seen some more noticeable symptoms by this stage.”
“Like?”
“You’d be dead.” Draco sniffs, pushing his hair out of his face and turning to the tray of needles and cotton buds and bandages and several small pots of coloured goo Harry can only assume are healing salves. Or, jams, but that’s really less likely.
“Ah. That would be quite noticeable, yes.” Harry licks his lips. “Fitting, though, to do it here.” He waves a hand. “You know. Pathology lab.”
“I am aware I work in a pathology lab, yes, Potter.”
“It would really save on travel. Like, you wouldn't have to transport me anywhere, just.” Harry clicks the fingers of his good hand, not sure what he’s even talking about. “‘Cause I’m already here. Ready to be pathologized.”
“Hmm.” Draco fiddles with something metal and vaguely terrifying on the tray and doesn’t quite make eye contact with Harry. “That’s not a word. And you better not bloody do that.”
“Do what?” Harry has to lean in a little to hear him properly, his voice is so low.
Draco straightens up, meets his eyes. “End up in here one day. Via...transportation.”
“Ahh.” Harry nods in understanding. “No. No, don’t plan on doing that.”
Harry twists his mouth, feeling a little bit awkward under Draco’s scrutiny. He thinks maybe he could make a joke like already died once, not that fun really, ha ha, or, if I was going to get offed on the job, Draco love, you’re the only one I would want weighing my post mortem kidneys, but he doesn’t. He thinks Draco might actually find that a bit funny but Hermione did also recently tell him, while looking quite teary, that he’s not got the most normal perspective when it comes to dying and his jokes are sometime a bit awful. So, he’s working on that.
“If I did, you could maybe send me back.”
Okay, so he’s trying to work on that.
Draco laughs, surprised, and Harry smiles at the sound. “That’s not how it works, Harry. There's no return to sender. This isn't express owl post.”
“Need a bloody big owl if it was.”
Another laugh, and this time Draco’s hand moves like he wants to cuff the back of Harry’s head. He doesn’t though, just shakes his head and schools the smile off his face. He shoots Harry a stern look.
“Sit still and shut up for five seconds now, will you?”
“Yes, sir,” Harry says, failing at item two already. Draco doesn’t look bothered. Well, he does, but not at Harry.
“I’m not actually a Healer, so.” Draco waves his hand over the array of Ointments Which Are Probably Not Jam. “I need to consider the best way to activate the healing now the venom is taken care of.”
Harry lifts his good arm to his forehead in a salute. Draco ignores him, picking up a box from the corner of the tray instead.
Harry shifts a little on the hospital gurney he’s currently perched on. At least he thinks it’s a hospital gurney. Draco’s typical patients are, well, usually a little less lively than Harry is, and Harry doesn't know if there is a special word for what he’s sitting on. The phrase ‘corpse tray’ pops into his head, and Harry immediately deducts 100 points from Gryffindor for being the fucking worst, because come on, Potter, no. Harry suddenly thinks he might rather sit on the floor, but he doesn’t. It might seem rude. It was kind of Draco to let him into the lab ― Harry knew Draco’d be here, given he sleeps on the top floor and works on the bottom, in an impressive show of ‘I have no healthy way of separating work and the rest of my life and don’t even try’. But, Harry’s not really in a position to judge anyone about boundaries. Not seeing as he keeps coming here instead of going to an actual hospital whenever he needs medical attention beyond what he can administer himself with a wand in his left hand, a bottle of methylated spirits in the other and a strong cup of tea brewing.
Lord, he could really go for a cup of tea right now.
“No,” Draco says sternly, as if he’s read his mind.
Harry frowns. “No what? I didn’t say anyth ―”
“No, but you had that face on you. The one that means you’re thinking of something and about to blurt it out, and I’m not in the mood.” Draco pulls on a glove, white latex with a thin layer of powder over it. Harry can smell it from here. He doesn't mind it, really, but he wrinkles his nose for show.
“What’s that for?”
“I beg your pardon?” Draco snaps the glove against his wrist.
“The glove.” Harry nods his head at it, then shakes his hair out of his eyes. “Haven’t seen you wear one of those before. Planning on giving me a prostate exam, then?”
Harry makes a little movement with his good arm, curving two fingers and miming poking them upwards. Draco doesn't really react, other than to blink at Harry in confusion and look down at his own, latex clad hand as if he’s never seen it before. Belatedly, it occurs to Harry that he’s just said something a bit weird. He can’t think of anything not weird to follow it up with though, so he just prods the air again with forefinger and middle and then lets his hand drop into his lap.
He really could do with some stronger painkillers, he thinks. His arm is bloody throbbing and his brain has apparently gone on vacation. It’s dancing in Ibiza and god knows who is in control of Harry’s mouth right now in its absence.
Draco has raised one brow, and his mouth is slightly open. He doesn't look mad, just confused, and like he isn’t getting paid enough to be woken up in the middle of the night to chat about prostates with Harry.
Harry supposes he has a point. Draco’s not getting paid for this at all.
(Harry’s offered; Draco always refuses. “It’s a favour, Potter. We do favours for each other now. One day I’ll move house and get you to carry all my boxes upstairs,” Draco said one night, while a little bit pissed on drinks he for once let Harry pay for. Harry’s chest did a small happy thing at that; he likes that Draco thinks of them as people who do each other favours. He supposes after four years of putting up with each other since Ron and Pansy’s engagement, they are on pretty good terms.
“But if you’re determined to take dangerous, stupid jobs from weird clients who only meet you in back alleys ― honestly you’re such a fucking noir cliche, Harry ― then I consider it my duty to patch you up. Could you just fucking try not to do it so much? Like, do you even try or do you just assess the room for danger and then clap excitedly and walk into it?”
Draco looked exasperatedly fond at that, one of the cigarettes which he likes to pretend he doesn’t smoke — but always does when he’s been drinking — in one hand. Harry wanted to counter that he didn’t do that, he wasn’t even clumsy, things just sometimes got a bit hairy on his stakeouts. But he just stole one of Draco’s chips off his plate instead, and then took a generous swig of Draco’s cider to wash it down with, too.)
“A prostate exam,” says Draco. “That’s what a medical glove makes you think of?”
“Um.” Harry would shift uncomfortably, but his arm hurts, and it’s taken him this long to find a spot on the hard metal gurney that doesn’t make his tailbone feel like it shouldn't be there. “Apparently?”
“And you expect that right now, when you turn up covered in Harpy venom at bollocks o’clock in the night, is when I would give you one?”
“Also apparently, yes.” Harry’s given up on being embarrassed. He’s gone right past it to resigned and happy. He’s reached zen.
“Hmm. Well, it would really depend.” Draco rests his hands on either side of Harry’s thighs, face inches from Harry’s. He looks so unamused by all of this it makes Harry want to giggle. Or, that might be the throbbing pain in his arm. Harry’s always gone a bit weird when he’s hurt.
“Depends on?” If Harry spread his legs a little wider Draco’s hands would be touching him. He wouldn't be able to feel the latex through his trackies, but he would know it was there.
Draco’s fingers squeak slightly as he drums them against the gurney. “On how much venom you got up your arse.”
Harry does laugh then, loud and in Draco’s face. He’s happy when he sees Draco’s lip tick up into a small smile, eyes crinkling for a fraction of a moment before Draco can remind his face of their standing agreement this evening to Not Find Potter Amusing.
“Don’t think I got any in there, to be honest,” says Harry, still smiling. He’s coming to the realisation that he has an agreement with his face to Keep Flirting Badly With Draco.
“Good.” Draco straightens. “Now, how much pain are you in? You’re being insufferably weird, so I take it the numbing agent I just gave you isn’t really doing much?”
Harry looks down at his arm. “That was the needle?”
“Correct.”
“Yeah, it’s not...” Harry tries to move his arm then winces, trying to fight the all-over body shudder the pain brings him. “It’s not very numb.”
Draco hums, looking slightly concerned. Harry smiles warmly. He feels charmed by the fact that Draco knows that Harry being weird means Harry’s arm is still bloody sore. He’s less charmed that his flirting is such a disaster, but he’s got form on that, really. He’s about as smooth as a hedgehog’s back when it comes to matters of the heart, and/or prostate.
He’s never really thought of Draco as being one of those matters, but he might be reevaluating that. Probably when all of his skin is one piece though.
“So, how much pain are you in?” Draco repeats, replacing his gloves quickly after having touched the gurney and then Levitating a small jar, half full of a kind of lilac goop.
“Out of ten?” Draco nods, and Harry chews his lower lip thoughtfully. “A six right now. Seven when I move it. Ten when you jab huge needles into me.”
“Ha ha.” The lid of the jar pops off when Draco waves his hand. “The needle was for your own good. The lack of warning was for your own good, too. That’s what they do with animals at the Magivet clinic,” he adds slyly.
“Are you saying I’m a dog?”
“Well.” Draco dips two fingers into the jar, coating them with the thick substance as Harry watches. It looks cool, the light catching on the pearly, lilac colour. When Harry looks up, Draco is watching him. “Would it have made you feel better to know the needle was coming, or was it better to avoid that anxiety and just get it over with?”
“I’m not scared of needles,” Harry says, and then hisses slightly when the cool liquid touches his arm. “What is that?”
“Lavender balm,” replies Draco, quietly, massaging around the edges of the cut. “Few other things in it, too,” he adds when he sees Harry’s surprised look. “Rosemary, to relax the muscles. Propolis, to help keep the wound clean.” His fingers veer dangerously close to the worst of the cut, but they feel nice against Harry’s skin all the same. Draco’s other hand is holding Harry’s wrist lightly, keeping his arm in place. Harry swallows thickly.
“Sounds distinctly un-medical,” he mumbles. “Bit new agey and all.”
“Oh, it’s also got a huge amount of morphine in it,” Draco smiles, genuine and open, “and an accelerant healing agent which will help the skin knit back together.”
“Why didn’t you open with that?” asks Harry, feeling the pain in his arm sliding down into a pleasant tingle. The tingle gets stronger when Draco laughs, triples when he tightens his fingers around Harry’s wrist in a warm squeeze.
“Because.” Draco shrugs. “I like lavender. You can smell bergamot, too, look.” Draco lifts his hand, the back of his gloved fingers near Harry’s face. Harry takes a sniff, letting his eyes slide shut. His arm has stopped hurting as much, the pain trickling off to a dull ache. He knows he’s in pain, distantly, but between the needle and Draco’s fingers, it feels far off, like it’s happening to someone else’s arm and not his own. He’s also suddenly achingly tired.
“Lemony,” he croaks belatedly, his eyes still shut.
Draco hums, the sound just audible over the thwap of him removing his gloves. “Where are you sleeping tonight, Harry?”
“In a bed, please.”
Draco snorts a laugh. Harry fights the urge to tilt towards it.
“Are you planning on sleeping here, then?” asks Draco quietly, a joke in his voice and something else underneath it, too.
Harry forces his droopy eyes open. He licks his dry lips. He could do with a glass of water. “Can I?”
Draco’s already looping Harry’s good arm around his shoulder. “Not in here. Come on. Bedroom’s upstairs.”
Harry’s never slept here before. He’s never even really seen Draco’s flat, just the lab downstairs, and he bangs into the coffee table once they’re finally up the stairs, through the living room (Harry wants to make a joke, but he’s far too tired to think of a good one, and the missed opportunity guts him), and then into Draco’s small but neat bedroom.
If Draco is finding it weird that Harry has asked to stay the night ― if he’s finding it weird that he himself essentially offered it ― he’s not letting on. He drops him on the bed, gently as he can, and then helps him get under the covers. Harry wants to be a bit more coordinated about it all, but he’s fucking knackered and a bit doped up and the relief of having four mostly pain free limbs it making him a big giddy, to boot. He sighs, deep and contented, and wonders if it would be impolite to fall asleep in Draco’s bed and not wake up again for a whole week.
He pats Draco’s hand in thanks when he pulls the covers up over him.
“Sweet dreams, idiot,” Draco says softly, and starts to pull away. Harry grabs his wrist.
“Where’re y’going?” he mumbles.
“Sofa, Potter,” Draco responds as if it’s obvious. “I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
Harry thinks Draco might look as tired as he feels, which is impressive. His hair is falling over his forehead as he leans over Harry, and his expression is a little bit wary, and a lot fond. He shouldn't have to give up half a night’s sleep as well as his bed, Harry wants to say. Harry shouldn’t deprive him of his bed.
“Bed’s big enough for two people,” is what Harry says instead, and it’s true; the bed is massive. Harry maybe needs to get a grip on just blurting out these kind of things, though. He’s not entirely sure he wants to. He’s not sure he wants Draco to leave.
“Three, even,” Draco replies, expression unreadable. “Which should be just enough room for you and your ego, I expect.”
“M’ego’s not that big.” Harry smiles around the yawn he’s trying to stifle. There’s early morning light creeping around the curtains on Draco’s windows, underneath the hem and through the cracks where they’re not pulled tightly together enough. “Get in.” He lets go of Draco’s wrist to pat the free side of the bed with his good arm. “Bed’s massive. Sofa’s crap.”
Draco laughs once. “You’ve never seen my sofa,” he replies, his voice a little strained, a little slurry with tiredness.
“Shh.” Harry pats the bed again, eyes falling shut. He’s ready to fall asleep. He wants the comfort of another body in bed with him when he does, he decides stubbornly, and he flips the edge of the duvet down. He can feel the way the bed dips when Draco sits on the edge of it, and Harry smiles wider.
“Potter…”
“Just get in.”
“You’re hurt.”
“I have received top notch medical attention.” Harry rubs his eye like a toddler fighting sleep. He tries to give Draco his most convincing smile, but he knows it comes out wonky. It’s ruined entirely when he yawns, wide and loud. When he looks at Draco again he finds him looking down at Harry, his expression exasperated and fond again.
Draco lets his breath out in resignation. His fingers move to the buttons of his shirt.
“This is a hideous idea,” he says, sounding knackered and like he actually thinks it’s the opposite. Harry smiles. He knows he’s won.
“Don’t forget to take your shoes off,” Harry mumbles, turning onto his side and trying to move his bad arm as little as possible. The ointment has dried stiffly over the skin, and it feels tight, meaning it’s already starting to heal. He listens absently to the sounds of Draco undressing, then redressing for bed. Harry shuffles ahead further when he feels Draco slip under the covers, almost close enough to touch but still keeping a little distance between them.
“‘m the little spoon,” Harry slurs into the pillow, drunk with fatigue.
He feels Draco’s huffed laugh behind him. “Of course you are.”
There’s a quiet moment in which Draco does nothing, before slowly he scoots forward. His knees fit to the backs of Harry’s, one socked foot sliding between both of Harry’s, and his arm is gentle as he slips it around Harry’s waist. His chest feels warm and solid behind Harry. Harry hums happily, mouth falling open and body heavy.
“Wake me up if it hurts,” Draco mumbles after another quiet moment, his voice thick as though he was on the verge of sleep but forced himself to wake up and say it. Harry rather feels the same.
“The spooning?” he asks dimly.
“The arm.” Draco pinches Harry’s side, and Harry smiles.
“‘kay. You wake me up if your arm hurts, too.”
This time when Draco laughs Harry can feel it against the back of his neck. It’s low and soft, and his breath is warm. Harry presses back against his chest. He feels Draco’s lips move against the nape of his neck when he speaks again.
“Good night, Harry. You idiot.”
Harry smiles into the pillow in reply.
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