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“What the hell is wrong with you?”
Pansy held Theo’s arm before he could launch himself on Draco. “He’s been sulking all day,” she muttered in Theo’s ear. “Something to do with work, I believe.”
On the sofa, Draco huffed. “I can hear you.”
There was no bite to his voice. Pansy and Theo exchanged a look. They knew what that meant.
“I’m gonna floo him. You keep Draco distracted. Be nice and gentle, please.”
Theo rolled his eyes, but complied. Pansy made her way to her bedroom and threw a fistful of powder into the hearth.
Potter’s head popped up inside the flames in barely a few seconds. “Is he with you?” He asked, worried. “Is he okay? I was going to call just now — he should have been home for dinner, and he ignored the owl I sent him an hour ago.”
“He is.” Pansy didn’t like Potter. It was something everyone knew. Still, she loved Draco dearly, and she knew her friend needed the Gryffindor git. And so she raised her chin and asked, with as much decency as she could muster, “Could you come over? Something happened at work. He won’t talk about it, but he’s really not okay right now.”
“I’ll be there in a minute.” Potter retreated, then stuck his head in the flames again, almost as an afterthought. “Please tell me he’s not alone with Theo.”
“He is.”
“Shit,” Potter muttered. “I’ll hurry up.”
Draco didn’t need to turn around to know who had just walked into the room. He recognised the rhythm of the steps.
He didn’t say anything as Theo got up from the sofa and left the room, throwing one last half-worried, half-exasperated look at him. He didn’t look up from his lap as those familiar steps approached, bringing with them the scent he loved the most — the scent he’d been waking up to every morning for the past three years.
Harry crouched beside him just as the living-room door closed with a soft click. Still, Draco remained quiet, gaze fixed on his knees. He’d been holding it in for hours. He could get through this, too. He just needed to stop sulking and get over it, as Theo had so helpfully suggested.
“Hey.” Warm fingers stroked his fringe. “Are you okay?”
Draco’s chest suddenly felt very, very tight. He took in a shuddering breath, trying to compose himself, but it was useless — the tears welled up in his eyes, his lungs faltering. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. Stop that. You’re not going to cry over— His thoughts were shadowed by the memory of what had happened, and a sob escaped him as the scene played itself on his mind over and over again. Fuck.
“Fuck,” Harry breathed, echoing his thoughts. He pushed Draco’s body way too gently until there was enough room for him to lie beside him, and all too soon Draco was surrounded by a warm body, arms enveloping him, short breaths tickling at the back of his neck.
“I — I didn’t want this to happen,” Draco said, trying and failing to steady his voice. “This is why I didn’t go home. You shouldn’t have come looking for me.” He hated how weak he sounded — hated that the reason he was crying in front of Harry was so utterly stupid.
He was usually unaffected by his patients’ comments on his past. He’d been for years. He’d found his own way of redeeming the Malfoy name, found his passion in life, and he knew he could survive the people he treated bringing up his Dark Mark and the horrible things he’d done as a teenager. He’d learned to forgive himself. He’d earned the forgiveness and acceptance of everyone he cared about.
Then why the hell was he crying?
“You’re an idiot, I hope you know that.” Harry propped himself on an elbow and caressed Draco’s fringe again as he tutted. “Whatever happened… you can tell me, silly man. I’m not going to think it’s stupid.”
How could Harry read his mind so well?
“But it is,” Draco groaned, covering his eyes with the balls of his hands. The last thing he wanted was for Harry to see him like that. “It is stupid. So stupid.” Another sob escaped him, and he groaned in exasperation.
“Tell me. That way I can judge for myself.”
Draco shook his head. He just wanted Harry to stop looking at him.
“Come on.” Harry somehow managed to sit up and bring Draco with him so that Draco’s cheek fell on his shoulder. Harry’s arm crept around him again, holding him close. “There, you don’t have to look at me now. What happened?”
The fact Harry knew exactly what he needed just made more annoying tears well up in his eyes. Draco stayed stubbornly silent, tears rolling down his cheeks as Harry traced slow circles on his back and touched his hair.
It wasn’t until Harry started to pull away from the hug and form a sentence of insistence that Draco blurted, “It was that man.”
Harry stilled. “Mr O’Sullivan?”
“The very same,” Draco said, trying to sound scathing. He had been treating O’Sullivan for months now — had been working for nights on end on an experimental potion that might be able to ease the pain his disease caused him. And all despite the man’s snide comments about who Draco was — who he’d once been. But that day… that day had been different.
I pray to the gods that I live long enough to see your marriage fall apart.
That a Death Eater has dared turn Harry Potter into a dirty faggot!
If it were up to me, you wouldn’t even be allowed to have a job in the magical world.
You disgust me.
The words had been muttered under his breath, barely even audible. Draco, as always, had remained nonchalant, changing O’Sullivan’s bandages with perfect professionalism.
And he’d been unaffected by it all. Really. He had.
That is, until the man had given him a look of unrestrained disgust and spat, You do not deserve to be with someone like him.
“What did he say to you?” Harry asked. Draco could feel the way Harry’s blood had started to boil — he could feel it in his tone, in the way Harry’s body had gone tense around him. Protective.
Draco opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He sighed. “I…” I can’t, he almost said. But different words stumbled from his lips. “I don’t deserve you. I’ve turned you into a faggot.” He shuddered. “He wants me to heal him so he can see our marriage fall apart.”
He’d actually said it. He didn’t even know where the words had come from.
Harry squeezed Draco between his arms, inhaling sharply. “That bastard. That fucking, disgusting old—” Draco broke into another sob that made him shake, and Harry cupped his head. “I’m sorry, Draco. You shouldn’t have gone through that. It’s so fucked up.”
“Please, don’t. I don’t n-need your compassion.”
“My—” Harry pushed Draco’s chest, trying to look him in the eye, but Draco hid his face, ashamed of the hot tears that were still rolling down his face. “Draco, it’s not compassion I’m feeling right now. You know me too well not to know that. It’s rage. Rage, because I know you, and I know you’re nothing like that old moron thinks you are. And because I fucking love you, and I can’t stand to see you like this. He doesn’t deserve to make you feel like this. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
Draco huffed. He wanted to reply that he had, in fact, done many wrong things in his life, but he refrained. He was past that point in his life. He was a different person — a better person. He did not sulk because of who he had been once upon a time.
“Listen,” Harry said. He pushed Draco again, and this time Draco managed not to hide in the crook of his neck again. “We’re going home now. I’ll cook you lasagne, we’ll watch whatever film you feel like watching, and”—he wiped the last of Draco’s tears away from his cheeks—“then we’ll owl the St Mungo’s HR and explain to them that you’re suffering discrimination from a patient. They’ll hand his case to another person.”
“But my potion—”
“Someone else can take it from where you left it. Your notes are so organised even I can understand them, it won’t be an issue for another healer.”
Draco almost complained. But really, the mere idea of not having to see O’Sullivan ever again was making him feel relieved, taking a weight off his chest.
“Fine,” he mumbled at last, feigning annoyance. He stood up, brushed his robes and raised his chin. “But we’re watching a romantic comedy. And if you tell anyone I cried, I will eat all the lasagne and leave you none.”
Harry chuckled. He got up too, and enveloped Draco in a tight hug, unabashedly sniffing his hair. “That’s my Draco.”
Draco rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t suppress a smile. He was Harry’s, indeed. No matter what anyone had to say about it.