Work Text:
To say that Harry’s day had been utter shite would be an understatement.
He’d been up at the crack of dawn, his Healer bracelet making an awful racket as it alerted him to an emergency at the hospital. Draco hadn’t even stirred as Harry clattered around the room and he had barely had a chance to mourn the loss of what would have been a brilliant morning before the bracelet beeped insistently yet again. By the time he had treated the patient—a small child caught in the middle of a duel—and was certain the boy wasn’t likely to stop breathing again, Harry’s shift was due to begin. He was covered in tears and snot and he hadn’t even had the chance to give Draco a proper good morning kiss.
His day didn’t improve. Tired and grumpy, he snapped at patients left, right and centre, including their resident hypochondriac, Matilda Jakes. She had been adamant that she'd been cursed with the Bubonic Plague, due to a funny twinge in her knee after she tripped over a very unusual plant from the depths of the Amazon in a shop in Diagon Alley.
“If I succumb to my symptoms, Healer Potter, on your conscience it shall be!” She wailed dramatically, clutching at her knee with one hand and dabbing at her sweaty forehead in despair. Lacking faith in Harry’s many years of experience and his status as ‘Saviour of the Wizarding World, she waved down a passing curse breaker, demanding a second opinion on the curse she had fallen victim to. When the curse breaker suggested a variety of very nasty, foul-tasting potions that would expel the curse from her body, Matilda seemed to recover quite miraculously and discharged herself before Harry could say Quidditch.
Before lunch, Harry had been vomited on no less than six times. A group of Hogwarts students had decided it was a brilliant idea to consume an entire box of Puking Pastilles and Canary Creams each as a dare. His ward was covered in feathers and last night’s Halloween feast, and he was certain he’d never get the smell of bile and pumpkin juice out of his healer robes.
Poppy Pomfrey had escorted the teenagers to the hospital, having clearly decided that today was not the day for her to be dealing with foolish children when she had a Quidditch match to fret about. They’d caught up over a cup of lukewarm cafeteria coffee and two stale slices of a Weasley birthday cake that he’d discovered in his locker. She commiserated with him over the joys of healing and complained about the stupidity of teenagers before she headed back to Hogwarts.
She finished their cosy little catch-up by plucking a bright yellow feather from his hair and telling him to make sure he got a good night’s sleep, her very polite way of letting him know that he looked awful. He knew he must look exceptionally bad if the woman who had seen him on his deathbed thought he looked like shit.
He contemplated getting one of the toasties, which were quite possibly the greasiest things Harry had laid his eyes on since Snape’s hair and tasted vaguely like plastic, yet the only edible thing in the cafe. He had just decided that yes, a shitty cafe toastie was a perfect replacement for the delicious homemade pesto pasta that he’d left in the fridge, when his name was shouted across the seating area, causing heads to turn. One of the trainee healers was hurrying towards him, weaving between the tables and chairs. He paused briefly to apologise to the woman whose soup he’d knocked all over the floor—though Harry thought it was probably better that way; no one should trust the hospital’s soup—and skidded to a stop at Harry’s table. He bumped into the table, sending the last of Harry’s gritty coffee into his lap and he resigned himself to the fact that his day was about to get much worse.
“I’m so sorry Healer Potter, sir!” The poor boy looked close to tears and his robes were covered in a mixture of soup and bodily fluids, and Harry was comforted with the thought that someone might just be having a day that was just as bad as his own. “It’s fine.” Harry sighed, cleaning up the spilt coffee with a wave of his wand and resisting the urge to bang his head against the table at the sight of the stain it had left behind. Feeling fed up and rather generous, Harry pushed his untouched cake towards the trainee.
“Do you want that?” The trainee, Darren or Derek according to the untidy scrawl on his name tag, accepted the plate eagerly, his eyes lighting up as he slid into the seat opposite Harry. Stale or not, Weasley cakes were legendary in the hospital. George was forever bringing them in for the staff after mishaps with his test subjects and Harry had witnessed many a fight over the last custard slice in the breakroom.
“There’s been an incident in the Department of Potion Regulation. Head Healer Davis has asked for you to help since you know quite a few of the patients through your—” The trainee paused in a way that Harry was accustomed to; it seemed most of the Wizarding World had still not come to terms with their Saviour dating a man, even though it had been a good four years since Harry had made his relationship public. “—partner.” He settled on eventually, shoveling a chunk of cake in his mouth that was far too big to chew to cover up his hesitation.
Harry sighed, something he seemed to be doing rather a lot today, and stood up, too exhausted to bother snapping at Darren or Derek or whatever his name was. Mourning the loss of the last 20 minutes of his lunch break and his cake, he headed towards the lift.
The incident, as Derek had so vaguely put it, had involved 24 ministry workers and a crate of confiscated Valentine’s Potions that the Auror department had discovered in a warehouse. Half of Potions Regulation had been doused in the potions when a stray spell had hit the box, causing an explosion. The potion made the victim temporarily fall madly in love with the first person they touched, as Harry discovered when he made the mistake of giving one of the patients a helping hand up onto the bed. He suddenly found himself with an armful of sticky potions master and it took three trainee healers to pull the woman off him, while she yelled at them and begged Harry to run away with her. A handful of her colleagues were in a similar state, demanding that the healers release them so they could return to the poor souls who’d touched them without knowing the effects.
Fortunately, Valentine’s potions could be reversed, so Harry and the rest of the team sorted them out in record time. The woman Harry had touched had spent the hour it took to brew the reversal potion confessing her undying love for him and describing in explicit detail exactly what she was going to do to him when they were alone. It made Harry feel rather ill.
Of course, the trainee healers found it hilarious and Harry was very tempted to push them into a patient and see how they liked a stranger salivating all over and attempting to grope them.
When the potion wore off, instead of being mortified and apologising profusely like the rest of her red-faced colleagues, the woman admitted she had every intention of following through with her words, if Harry was up for it. When he very politely refused, taking a few steps back just in case, she had seemed unconvinced and asked him if he was sure ‘that Malfoy boy’ was right for him.
Needless to say, Harry discharged her and the rest of her colleagues hastily.
The last few hours of his shift weren’t any better. He was sneezed on, vomited on and even licked at one point by a delirious and hungry toddler with dragon pox. By the time he tugged off his healer robes and cast the strongest cleaning charms he could remember on it, he was glad to see the back of the hospital.
His last little ray of hope was his pottery class after work—he was at his most relaxed when playing around with different shapes on the wheel. His pottery lessons were a bright spot in his hectic week and, while Draco teased him good-naturedly about a Potter taking pottery lessons, Harry knew he loved the little misshapen bowls and vases he produced each week just as much as Harry did. Here, the worst that could possibly happen was him producing a very lumpy bowl.
Standing outside the little building where his classes were held, Harry realised he was very wrong. A note was pinned to the door inside a plastic wallet.
I’ve injured my hand and I suspect my fingers are broken, so I’ve had to cancel this week’s class. You’ll be refunded for this week, of course. Apologies for the short notice!
Debbie xx
It seemed like the world was conspiring against him today and Harry really just wanted to go back to bed.
His house was only a short walk from the pottery place and Harry was too tired to put up with the uncomfortable sensations of Apparition. With a heavy sigh, Harry turned away from the door and trudged down the street. At least Draco would be there, he told himself, wanting nothing more than to curl up in bed with his boyfriend and complain about his day. He’d stayed the night and had the day off work, so he’d promised to make his special soup for dinner. It was the only food Draco could make without setting fire to the kitchen, but he made it brilliantly. It was on par with Molly Weasley’s, though he’d never give Draco the satisfaction of knowing that.
The raindrops Harry felt against his forehead a few seconds later were really just the icing on the fucking cake.
Despite the protests from his aching legs, he began to jog down the street, his door already in sight. Something in the dark, menacing clouds told him that this wasn’t going to be a light drizzle. In the few minutes it took to reach his door, the rain had turned from a gentle trickle into a heavy downpour, drenching Harry in a matter of seconds. He came to a stop on the step, patting himself down in search of his keys and wiping away the water sliding down the lenses of his glasses.
“Fuck.” He rifled through his pockets again, in a desperate search for the house keys that he knew he wouldn’t find. Now that he thought of it, he remembered leaving them in the dish on the kitchen table, because he knew Draco would still be there when Harry got back from work.
Judging by the dark windows and the lack of an answer when he knocked on the door, Draco definitely wasn’t there.
Harry groaned, leaning against the door and thinking of every possible way that his day could possibly get worse. Short of Voldemort being resurrected and Draco breaking up with him, Harry thought that was impossible.
Thunder rolled across the sky as he slumped down on the doorstep, back against the door, puddles forming around him. He couldn’t Apparate into the house—Hermione had made sure his wards kept everyone who didn’t have a specially charmed key out. He couldn’t even unlock the door with a quick Alohomora without the key he’d left inside. Although since the door was locked, it was probably wherever his boyfriend had wandered off to.
He just wanted soup and cuddles, was that really too much to ask?
The rain only grew heavier, dancing on the pavement and pooling in his trainers. It was too late to cast an Impervius charm on them now, when the icy cold water seemed to have seeped into his veins as well as the fabric, sending shivers up his spine. Draco would probably kill him for casting one on the jumper he was wearing anyway—he’d stolen it from his boyfriend the previous week and he’d pulled it on this morning because it was comfy and still smelled faintly like Draco. He’d complained many times about charms ruining a good piece of clothing and Harry was too tired to make his boyfriend mad at him.
Rainwater ran down his back, dripping from the ends of his hair and over his shoulders. He wished he hadn’t left his robes in his locker—the smell of bile would be a small price to pay for a bit more warmth. He cast a half-arsed warming charm that faded a few seconds later, the magic not quite strong enough to withstand the force of the icy rain and wind. Hermione did teach him a much stronger one during a particularly bad winter a long time ago, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember the incantation and he knew he’d probably blow himself up attempting an unfamiliar spell in his current state.
He hoped Draco would turn up soon. His hands were like blocks of ice, his fingertips growing numb as he pulled his damp sleeves up over his hands. His jumper and jeans stuck to his body like a second skin, the wet clothing clinging uncomfortably to him.
There was more thunder, this time accompanied by a flash of lightning that seemed to light up the whole street. The rain grew even heavier—something Harry hadn’t thought was possible—and the raindrops felt like sharp, cold pinpricks on his face.
He wiped his fringe away from his face, peeling the wet hair off his forehead and glasses with a quiet splash. There was another splash, but louder this time, followed by another and it took Harry a few seconds to realise that it was someone running down the street. He could barely make out the shape of the person, the darkness of the street and the water from his fringe dripping down into his eyes making everything blurry and out of focus. The person stopped in front of Harry and he could just about make out familiar blonde hair and a bright, rainbow-coloured umbrella.
“Harry?” The figure asked, raising their voice over the rolling thunder and never-ending rainfall. “What are you doing out here? Was there a wasp drowning that you had to risk hypothermia for?” They crouched down, holding the umbrella over Harry’s and sliding the hood off their head.
“Draco!” Harry grinned, cherishing the brief reprieve from the storm. “I left my key.”
“And you didn’t think to take the spare just in case?” Draco asked, taking hold of Harry’s slippery, wet hand and pulling him up off the ground. He frowned, picking at Harry’s sleeve. “You’re soaked through.”
“I’m really not that cold,” Harry insisted as Draco pushed the umbrella into his hands and fished through his pockets for the key. Harry’s chattering teeth and his shaking fingers gave him away though, and Draco raised an eyebrow.
“And I’m the Queen of England,” Draco deadpanned as he huddled Harry through the front door, firing a million and one questions at him while simultaneously casting Hot-Air charms over him. Usually, he would be annoyed by Draco’s fretting and mothering, but he was too tired to snipe at his boyfriend and the charms felt amazing.
It was also rather nice to be the one being cared for, for once.
“Did it not occur to you to cast an Umbrella charm?” Draco asked, shaking the water off the umbrella and closing the door behind them. “Your wand is in full working order.”
“I can’t remember the incantation for the Umbrella charm,” Harry yawned, dutifully raising his arms to allow Draco to pull his dripping jumper over his head.
“Can’t remember? Merlin, it’s a miracle the Dark Lord’s dead. It’s a first-year charm.”
“First year was a long time ago. I’ve died since then.” He toed off his trainers, leaving them by the door as Draco marched him through to the living room, still casting warming and drying charms over him. “I’m allowed to forget things.”
“Don’t think Hermione would agree with that,” Draco muttered, depositing Harry on the couch and summoning the duvet from Harry’s bedroom. Within seconds, Draco had him changed into pyjamas and wrapped up in layers of blankets and bed covers. Harry had never felt so warm, with his Weasley blanket tucked around his shoulders and his Snitch patterned duvet folded tightly around his front. Sleepy and comfortable, he settled back on the couch.
“Why didn’t you at least cast an Impervius charm?” Draco removed his robes and sent them floating out into the hall, water dripping off the hem as they bobbed away. Even his umbrella hadn’t protected him from the storm, it seemed. “You know how to cast that one.”
“Wearing your jumper,” He replied, voice muffled by the many layers he was bundled in. “You always complain harsh charms ruin the fabric. Didn’t want to wreck your jumper.”
“Harry.” It was a tone Hermione and Molly often used when he did something particularly selfless and ‘Saviour of the Wizarding World’-y, a mixture of fondness and exasperation. It was enough to make Harry pull his head out of his cosy cocoon to look at him properly. Draco was glaring at him disapprovingly, but Harry had known him long enough to realise that he was biting the inside of his cheek in an attempt to hide his smile. He looked torn between scolding Harry and smothering him with affection.
“It’s only a jumper,” Draco said eventually, crossing his arms and visibly deciding that gentle chiding was more effective. “I couldn’t care less about the jumper—I’d rather have you safe and warm than have a nice jumper hanging in my wardrobe.”
Even Harry’s tired, cold and muddled brain acknowledged that coming from Draco, of all people, that was exceptionally sweet and rather soppy. He was too exhausted to tease Draco for it, or to return the oddly romantic sentiment, so he pulled the blankets back up around his chin instead.
“Soup?” He asked hopefully, grinning when Draco rolled his eyes.
“Here I am worrying about your welfare after finding you freezing your arse off outside, and all you can think about is food?” His tone was playful though, and he bent down to press a kiss to Harry’s still damp forehead before he went to the kitchen.
Harry sighed happily, shuffling backward onto the couch until his back hit the cushions and arranging the blankets around him so he could move his arms more freely. He could hear Draco banging about in the kitchen, preparing their food and Harry found he couldn’t stop smiling. He wished he could come home to this every day, a warm, cosy home and food ready and prepared for him, this peaceful, quiet and loving atmosphere.
“Do you want bread?” Draco called from the kitchen. “There’s a few slices of that bread Molly sent you left.”
“Please!” Harry could never refuse Molly’s homemade bread—there was very little homemade Weasley food that Harry would consider refusing, but he had a soft spot for her seeded loaf. After he so generously sacrificed his slice of cake this morning, he thought he deserved the last chunk of Molly’s special bread. There was more clanging from the kitchen, before Draco emerged, levitating a bowl of soup and a plate of bread in front of him.
“Eat up,” Draco said, folding his legs underneath himself as he settled himself down on the couch next to Harry. The soup floated downwards and came to rest on Harry’s lap, supported by an anti-spill charm that Draco usually used on Teddy’s cup when he visited. “You need to warm up. Why were you back so early?”
Harry ate several mouthfuls of the heavenly soup before he replied, closing his eyes in bliss as the soup warmed him up from the inside. “My pottery class was cancelled. Deb’s broken her fingers. I thought you’d still be in.”
“You had no salt left and I can’t say I’m not glad you won’t be bringing home another ‘vase’ this week,” Draco nudged the bowl of soup when Harry didn’t immediately pick his spoon back up. “How was work?”
Harry groaned and, in between spoonfuls of soup and mouthfuls of bread, he recounted the events of his day, with Draco making appropriate sympathetic noises during his tale.
“I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to look any of my colleagues in the eye after hearing that,” Draco said with a shudder, as Harry recounted the incident with the Valentine’s potions. “I’m glad I had the day off.” He stretched, stealing the last slice of bread from Harry’s plate and banishing the empty bowl to the kitchen.
“Hey!” Harry protested weakly.
“You weren’t eating it.”
“Still.” He yawned, sinking back into the couch. He could already feel his eyes starting to drift closed, too full and too cosy to move, tucked up in all the blankets. Exhausted after his day at work, falling asleep on the couch and listening to the gentle pattering of rain against the windows sounded like heaven.
“Don’t fall asleep on me,” Draco said, poking Harry’s stomach. “I’m not carrying you upstairs to bed, you heavy lump.”
“I’m not a heavy lump,” Harry insisted, moving so that he was sat in Draco’s lap, head resting against his chest. “I’m a cuddly lump.”
Draco snorted and reclined on the couch, head resting on the arm of the couch. He pulled Harry down on top of him, so Harry’s head was tucked under his chin. “You really are exhausted,” Draco said fondly, running his hands through Harry’s hair. “You work far too hard.”
“Hmmm,” Harry was barely paying any attention to what he was saying, too focused on how good Draco’s fingers felt against his scalp and the comforting feel of Draco’s heart beating against his own. He wished he could feel this comforted and loved for the rest of his life. He could, his sleepy brain pointed out, if Draco lived with him.
“You should move in with me,” Harry said, voice muffled by Draco’s shoulder.
“What?” Draco’s hand stilled, much to Harry’s disappointment and he found himself pushing his head into Draco’s hand like a needy cat.
“Harry, you’re worn out. You don’t know what you’re saying.” His voice was strained yet soft, like he was explaining something particularly uncomfortable to a small child.
“I do.” Harry turned his head to the side, allowing him to look up at Draco‘s face when he didn’t resume his hair stroking.
“Why are you asking now? Why not in the morning when you can think about what you’re asking me?” Draco seemed to reconsider his words. “Although, I don’t believe you do very much thinking anyway, if this evening is anything to go by.”
“I do think. I’m thinking right now,” Harry said, humming contentedly when Draco began running his hand through his hair again, albeit much more hesitantly. “We’ve been together for ages. And you make nice soup. And you give good hugs.”
“So you only want me for my soup?”
“And the hugs. Hugs are very important.” Harry was too tired to ensure he was making any sense, but he knew that getting his point across was important. Almost as important as the hugs.
“My father would be rolling in his grave if he heard that,” Draco was laughing now, chest vibrating under Harry’s own. “A cuddly Malfoy.”
“He’s not dead yet,” Harry muttered. He didn’t really want to think about Lucius Malfoy while he was so content and cosy lying on top of Draco.
“Don’t remind me.” Harry didn’t need to look up to know that his boyfriend was rolling his eyes.
“Hugs. We were talking about hugs.”
“You want me to move in with you just because I give good hugs?”
Harry shifted, pressing his face back into Draco’s shoulder and suppressing a yawn. “And you’re pretty. That’s a bonus. And there’s more sex if you live here. More sex is always good.”
“Malfoys aren’t pretty. We’re handsome.”
“You’re cute. Adorable. Sweet.”
“You’re exhausted, Potter,” Draco said, exasperated. “I need to get you up to bed.”
“Say yes first,” Harry would stay here all night if that was what it took to get Draco to agree. Not that it was a hardship, mind. Draco made a perfect pillow and his blanket cocoon felt like paradise.
“Yes, then, if that’s what it will take to get you to move your arse up to bed.” But Harry could see the corner of his mouth curling into a smile and Draco was hugging him just that little bit closer.
“Love you,” Harry murmured, eyes drifting closed as he finally succumbed to his exhaustion.
“I love you too, you sappy sod.”