Chapter Text
Chapter 1.
Harry, the boy who somehow lived, despite his cocaine-high-squirrel like survival instincts
At exactly 3 AM in the morning, Harry Potter was rushed to the fourth floor of St. Mungo’s hospital. His skin was waxy, and he was starting to become cold to the touch. A near hysterical Ron Weasley and grim looking young woman with black hair in a stubby ponytail bore his limp body between them. A nurse at the reception desk caught site of the trio and hurried over, a clipboard in one hand and a quill clenched in the other.
“Name and ailment?” she asked.
“His name’s Harry Potter, and he was blasted by some sort of dark curse.” Ron hefted Harry up and readjusted his stance. “We don’t know what he was hit with, but the spell looked purple.”
The nurse hastily scribbled some words down and proceeded to help the two aurors load the unconscious Harry on to a trolley bed, whizzing him into a room with glass doors shutting behind the two of them.
Draco Malfoy, apprentice healer, was sitting in the healer’s break room reading an article on potion therapy for paralysis. He sipped at a cup of tea, which had started to go lukewarm. He nonchalantly cast a heating charm.
Ever since the end of the war and his trial, Draco Malfoy had been determined to right his wrongs. He hadn’t been carted off to Azkaban for “twelve years of hard labor”, as quoted by a squinting Wizmagot councilman, and he wasn’t letting this freedom on a platter go free. Yes, becoming a healer made a lovely reputation booster to his mud-smeared family name, but in the depth of his hearts, Draco was sincerely remorseful. The students of Hogwarts didn’t deserve to suffer. Half-bloods didn’t deserve the torture and the painful deaths administered by the Death eaters. Dumbledore didn’t deserve to die, and Severus didn’t either. Vincent didn’t deserve what happened to him, he should have gotten his NEWTS and gone on to be a ministry member like he’d talked about. The worst part was that Draco himself played a heavy hand in the mess of betrayal and slaughter. His friends, Pansy Parkinson and Gregory Goyle had attempted to comfort him by telling him it wasn’t his fault, and anyone would have acted the same way with the Dark Lord threatening their family. That was debatable. Regardless of the reasons, no one took the Dark Mark without being an accomplice.
The little golden bell mounted on the wall of the room rang out three times and displayed a number 2. “Healer Malfoy, your presence is required in diagnostics room two!” its regal voice called out. Draco set his tea and papers down and pulled his white coat over his dark blue jumper. He stowed his wand in his pocket and left the room. In the corner of the room, the other on-duty healer snorted and burrowed deeper into his cocoon of blankets on a sofa.
As an apprentice healer, Draco Malfoy was often given the less desirable shifts, and his apprenticeship under the healer Julia Hinge, expert in the field of reversal of dark magicks, meant that he would be manning the spell damage department, one of the busiest places in St. Mungo’s. He expected another bloke that had been drunkenly half transfigured into a slug in a bar fight or something of the sorts. Maybe, some poor fellow that had unwittingly set off someone’s security system stumbling around in the night. What he most definitely didn’t expect was the black hair and lightning shaped scar of the savior of the wizarding world: Harry sodding Potter.
Draco didn’t like Potter. Potter was exactly what he wasn’t; brave, well liked and had a hero’s complex the size of Hagrid’s full-grown pumpkins. After graduating from Hogwarts, Harry Potter had evidently become an auror, judging by dusty and bloody grey uniform he wore. Some spell had left an apples sized hole near his stomach. Draco didn’t doubt that Potter had probably heroically launched himself in the way of some madman’s spell in effort of saving someone else. Yet somewhere deep down, his stomach fluttered at the sight of the man. He hoped it wasn’t too late for him.
The apprentice healer began his routine of diagnosis, pulling on latex gloves and chanting incantations that would show areas of ailment. There was no obvious focal point of the tracing green glow. One of the night time nurses stood on the other side of the unconscious young man, occasionally casting a heating charm, or a charm that made sure his heart was still beating. His heart rate was slowing down, and so was his brain activity. Draco knew that Potter was pale and cold. It couldn’t be any sort of cold curse, as the magic tracing around Potter’s still form wasn’t strong enough that if it had been a cold curse of sorts, the heating charm would have negated its effects. His pulse was slowing down… On a hunch, Draco cast a detecting spell that would make the patient’s blood ways glow. This was usually used for monitoring internal bleeding, but perhaps there was something wrong with Potter’s circulation?
“He’s going into shock”, the nurse murmured, applying another heating charm and a heart accelerating charm.
Draco’s hunch seemed to have been right, as the blood tracing spell was alarmingly fainter than it should have been. The spell must have been one that would have caused a significant amount of untraceable blood loss. The notes written by the receptionist had said the spell had produced a purple light. That meant it would most likely be the bloodletting curse, also known as sansaguinus. It wasn’t terribly common, and Draco had to summon a book on counter spells to find the write spell. He muttered an incantation, and as he suspected, a faint hissing noise was heard. He asked the nurse to bring several blood replenishing potions, and even a nutrition potion and another heating potion for good measures. This would mean no one would have to actively monitor his body temperature, and he wouldn’t be at risk of boiling from too many heating charms.
Satisfied that the nurse would be able to handle the rest, he grabbed a report form and started filling it out. While jotting down a few last notes about what he prescribed to the recovering auror, he wondered who exactly had brought Harry Potter to St. Mungo’s. Soon, Harry was sleeping peacefully in a private recovery room. His auror’s uniform had been neatly folded on the bedside table with his wand, and he had been washed and dressed in a hospital gown. He looked a lot nicer, Draco thought, without his glasses and the mildly stressed look that he remembered Potter having.
It was now 3:25, and Ron Weasley anxiously paced the dimly lit waiting room of the fourth floor. The only sound in the quiet room was the sole of his shoes brushing across the deep grey carpets and the ticking of a great grandfather clock in a corner. Ron and Harry’s squad leader, Auror Morgana Tin had found herself a seat in one of the plush arm chairs, and was watching Ron pace, her face still wearing the same grim expression. Every now and then, she picked at a bit of dried blood on her hand, her face or her pant leg.
The assignment had been tough. Ron and Harry were recently made aurors, and Robards had assigned the two of them under Auror Tin for a relatively easy assignment. They were to head to a certain old muggle factory and report on whether it was being used. There were rumors that a certain group of shady wizards were using it as a base for concocting illegal potions, but Robards was certain there wasn’t any basis to the rumors. The whole assignment was supposed to just be some practice on filling in the necessary paperwork.
It was a very surprising turn of events when Auror Tin and the two rookies had apparated in front of the collapsing building under the cover of darkness and found themselves surrounded by a good half dozen figures in black cloaks. Simultaneously dodging spells and throwing up shields, Tin had managed to cast a Patronus (a raven) and called for backup. Unfortunately, in the midst of the rather unfair duel of sorts, she had not noticed a spell coming for her and Harry Potter had dashingly thrown himself in front of her and had been hit in the stomach. Seconds later, the place was filled with angry aurors, wands drawn and incapacitating the remaining wizards that hadn’t been stunned by a furious Ronald Weasley. The boy who lived and had the survival instincts of a squirrel on cocaine had spent almost a full five minutes insisting that he felt fine and didn’t need the attention of a mediwizard before collapsing into the arms of a panicking Weasley and being apparated into St. Mungo’s.
Draco Malfoy went to the waiting room out of curiosity. It wasn’t uncommon for healers to comfort the friends or family of the ailing that had been in their care, but the blonde healer wasn’t one for such customs. Seeing the face of a former war criminal no doubt provided very little comfort.
The site of the Weasley, pacing the room like a caged kneazle didn’t cause him much surprise. Of course, Weasley became an auror as well, being the bloody heroic type he was. There was a witch in the room as well, a tall and lanky one with black hair and an auror uniform faring no better than Potter’s or Weasley’s. He placed his face in a perfect, alabaster mask.
Ron openly gaped at Draco Malfoy in a healer’s coat. In school, Malfoy had been the most insufferable git that ever existed. The fact that he could become a healer shocked Ron; there should be some sort of standard as to who could become a healer and who couldn’t. Definitely not Malfoy, who probably took more pleasure in sending people to the healer’s than helping them out of the place. Hell, there was a chance that perhaps Malfoy had treated Harry. He wondered if Harry was alright. If he had to take a guess, Malfoy probably stuck him with as many unnecessary needles as he could and forced some sort of needlessly foul potion down his best mate’s throat. Ron could see Malfoy a bit more as a healer now, making children cry with nasty herbs and unsavory remedies.
“Good day, auror Weasley,” the apprentice healer greeted him neutrally. “I’m here to inform you that auror Potter will be in good hands. We’ve successfully alleviated the curse and he’s currently in the recovery ward.” He paused at Ron’s surprised expression, before asking “Would you like to see him?”
Weasley was still in a mild state of shock. Draco attributed it to either the carrot-head seeing him for the first time in three years, or just the after affects of a bout of adrenaline. Perhaps he would insult him once, just for old time’s sake. Maybe, make a joke about how his current job must make more than his father did after thirty years. The sour faced auror with her hair pulled back in a choppy bunch had left, muttering that she’d better get a pay raise.
“Auror Weasley.” Draco passively repeated. “I’m here to inform you that Auror Potter’s been successfully treated for his condition and is now recovering in a ward. If you wish to visit him, this might be arranged with the receptionist.” Having said his lines, Draco turned to leave.
“Malfoy, wait.” Draco stopped and turned around, not expecting the young auror to have uttered his name. “Malfoy, what did they do to him?” Ron asked. His hands were clutched together, his knuckles white and nails digging into his skin. In the dim light, the healer in training could see just how exhausted the man was. There were dark circles under his sleep-deprived red eyes, and his skin was pale even compared to his normal complexion. “What hit him?”
Draco Malfoy felt a pang of pity. There was no sneering that he’d expected. No self-righteous attitude, no attempt to belittle him on the war.
“A bloodletting curse, a simple one,” Draco replied. “If you require any further assessment of his condition- “
“It’s all my bloody fault, it was.”
Draco clamped his mouth shut.
“I could’ve thrown up a protego, I could’a interrupted it”. Ron Weasley looked miserable. He took a shaky breath, as if holding a sob back. “Harry almost died an’ I didn’t do a single fucking thing to stop it.”
Somewhere very deep down, the urge to insult the distressed auror or taunt him died silently. “You can’t expect yourself to protect Potter, he’s a fully-grown person.” He summoned a box of tissues with a flick of his wand and passed it to the ginger who blew his nose loudly into the tissue. “Besides, if anyone should be worried about that oaf, it shouldn’t be you. You got him here, right? In one piece, still breathing too. He’ll be fine.” He observed Weasley, surprised that his words seemed to have given him some comfort. The nervous hand wringing had stopped, a limp tissue loosely grasped in his hands. “You should go see him, I think he’d like to see his best mate waking up.”
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Harry Potter, the boy who lived through a bloodletting curse woke up feeling very much uncomfortable. His muscles ached, his joints creaked and his attempts to move highlighted the massive headache he was experiencing. He felt something on his arms resting atop of the hospital bed covers. There were rune patches stuck on. Harry wasn’t sure what they were for; runes were never his strong point in school.
He noticed Ron passed out in the plush mauve armchair by his bed, his head propped against his palm and drooling a little bit.
One of the runes on his hand started humming the muggle British national anthem, waking Ron up. His eyes flew open and he briefly lost his balance, palm hitting himself in the eye.
“Morning Ron”. His voice cracked, feeling particularly dehydrated.
Ron Weasley stood up, stretching all six feet of him. “Morning, Harry. I’m going to see if I can find you a nurse. Glad to see you awake.” He dusted his dark brown sweatshirt and reached for the ward door. At that moment, the door flew open, revealing a nurse of slight build and a clipboard. She unabashedly ogled Harry, before exclaiming in a high-pitched voice, “Auror Potter, sir! I’m here to run a few tests on you!”
Harry let the nurse run her tests, not fighting her magic probing his aching ribs and head. “Hey Ron, do you know which healer treated me? I should thank them”. He reached over to the table where his glasses sat, any damage already charmed away.
Ron looked mildly amused, running a hand through his hair. He comfortably leaned against a wall. Harry noticed that he was still wearing his uniform, complete with dust and burns. “You wouldn’t believe it mate, it’s quite funny actually. Draco blimey Malfoy.”
Harry stopped polishing his glasses and set them back on his face. “Oh.”
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Andromeda Tonks held the small sleeping boy with brilliant blue hair in her arms and rocked back and forth in the plush green velvet chair. The lustrous white room was usually used solely to receive visitors. It didn’t have any carpet, just shiny black wooden floors in case the visitors brought muddy shoes with them. The most prominent feature, a tall fireplace built with a lovely white marble streaked with cranberry imprints of prehistoric creatures and sediment held a magically lit fire that kept the room warm from the autumn chill.
Andromeda had brought the armchair into the room and had stationed herself in it ever since the day before when she’d received a floo call from a blonde-haired healer about Harry’s magical ailment. She was worried beyond her mind. She’d scooped the sleeping child from his bed and brought him with her to her post, unwilling to deal with her worried mentality by herself. It was a floo call, days after the fact that had told her about her beloved Fred, and it had been a hastily send floo call that had told her about her precious Nymphadora and Remus. She hugged Teddy tighter and kissed his soft forehead. She rocked back and forth. Desperately, she wished that Harry would come home safely.
It was in the afternoon, when Andromeda woke up. Teddy had left, presumably fed by a house elf. Andromeda summoned for a house elf. Tipper appeared, a relatively large house elf wearing a lovely little uniform of white fabric. He carried a tea tray laden with a teapot, cream and sugar.
“Tea, mistress?” He asked. She nodded, readjusting her back into the chair so that she was no longer slouching. She smoothed down her navy-blue dress and readjusted her shawl before accepting the china tea cup. Tipper had thoughtfully placed a dash of milk in the lavender tea, exactly the way she liked her tea.
She never got to enjoy her tea beyond appreciatively smell the lovely aroma as in that moment, the fireplace flashed green and spat out a young man with messy black hair and glasses, still dressed in a white hospital gown supported by, or maybe supporting considering that he was lurching to the side trying to regain some sense of balance, a young man with bright copper hair. Her tea splashed across her lap as she jumped with surprise. Not minding the hot liquid on her dress (the thick woolen material absorbed it before it hit her skin) she embraced them both. Behind her, Tipper hastily grabbed the shattered bits of the tea cup, disapparating them and the tea stain on the velvet armchair fabric. Withdrawing herself form her fierce hug, she frowned at the.
“You boys really ought to be more careful, my poor heart can’t handle this sort of thing.”
Harry grinned sheepishly. “Sorry Dromeda. I’m home.”
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Draco Malfoy woke up on his couch, still dressed in his clothes from yesterday. He hadn’t showered upon returning, it had been close to 5 in the morning when he’d apparated in from of his flat. His almost white blonde hair clung uncomfortably to his head, and the inside of his mouth tasted unfortunately like shit. His clock told him it was noon. He trod across the creaking walnut floors towards the bathroom, discarding his sweater, jeans and then boxers as he walked. Stopping in front of the mirror, he stared at his reflection. His grey eyes stared back. His hair was messy, flipping awkwardly up on one side of his head. His shoulders and chest, once well-muscled and defined from quidditch many years ago had wasted into a thinness that he liked hidden under his clothes. He could almost see his ribs.
As he showered and brushed out his mouth (yes, he could’ve cleaned with magic, but he enjoyed the motions) he thought about Harry Potter, in his ward. He’d likely returned home now to his doting Weasley of the female variety and his crowd of little Potterlings. The thought of Harry being happily married made him a tad bit sad for some reason. He attributed it to the fact that he was very much by himself. Ever since his trial, Draco had taken his opportunity to flee from that cursed manor that he grew up in. He hated walking about the halls, expecting Voldemort to be waiting for him, eyes glinting with unspeakable evil. He didn’t want to see his parents, of whom he loved but reminded him of how they lived, terrified for their lives when Lucius fell out of favor of the Dark Lord. To place it simply, he was running away.
When the bathroom was so filled with hot steam that his head felt light, he stopped the water from the tap with a flick of his wand and stepped out. He wrapped a fluffy white towel about himself and redressed himself with clothes found in a clean laundry hamper. A quick drying spell left his hair dry and a bit puffed up. He didn’t have to go to St. Mungo’s again until 8pm, and so picked up a book to kill time. These days, he only left the house to go to the hospital, and the only people he interacted with regularly were Madame Hinge, his mentor every now and then, Blaise Zabini. Research occupied most of his time. The current issue he was poking at was the use of potion therapy in reversing the unpleasant affects of the cruciatus curse. Nerve damage from burns, severe trauma and the likes had been known to be fixable with a simple concoction of potions, most of which contained seeds of the small absinthe. He wondered if, since the cruciatus curse overstimulated every pain receptor in your body and deadened certain pathways in your brain, potions that encourage regrowth in the brain might help the victim regain some of their functions. Memories wouldn’t be regained, he suspected, but it would still be a vast improvement to the state of life some members of the Janus Thickey ward lived.
The next time he broke concentration was when the booming voice of the grandfather clock sang out “Six O’clock… Now burst above the city's cold twilight
The piercing whistles and the tower-clocks…”
Draco looked up, disoriented. He realized that he was probably feeling hungry. It had been a few hours, and he had to untangle his stiffened legs from their neatly folded position on the armchair. He rubbed his eyes, set his book down and limped to his kitchen. His left foot was numb. The kitchen was quite empty, exactly the way it had been the last time he’d checked it. A thought did occur that he should have to buy groceries at some point. He grabbed a jar of hazelnut spread and a spoon and absentmindedly consumed a large mouthful of the sugary sweet paste.
In that moment, something flew past his ear.
Draco, confused and startled, dropped his jar and spoon. There was an indignant looking rather large barn owl that had landed on his counter, perched on an empty fruit bowl. It hooted at him and puffed out its downy chest and held out a claw. Draco hurried to untie the parcel, receiving a few gentle pecks in the process. He didn’t recognize the owl; he doubted that he even knew anyone that had a barn owl. Or, at least anyone that would want to send him anything.
The large barn owl had left, flying out of the open window Draco had opened about a week ago to let some air in. The small piece of paper was scribbled with a somewhat messy script.
To Healer Draco Malfoy
Auror Weasley informed me as to what happened last night. I would like to thank you for what you’ve done for me; I woke up well rested and feeling significantly better than I remembered passing out. I’m happy to know that you’ve done well as a healer, and I would like to treat you to tea at some point. We could talk and catch up on how we’ve been since Hogwarts. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have any bad intentions, I just wish to thank you.
Have a nice day and hopefully, hear from you soon.
(Signed) Auror Harry Potter