Archive of Our Own

The first person Harry falls in love with is Romilda Vane. Weasley deposits him in Draco’s office right before he leaves for the day — Harry’s glassy eyes a slightly faded shade of green, a vacant, dopey smile stretched wide across his face. Draco doesn’t need to be Head Ministry Healer to know a case of Lovesickness when he sees one; the only thing missing is a cartoonish trail of pink hearts floating behind him as they enter the room.

“Wait,” Harry says, blinking hard as he glances around Draco’s office. “This isn’t Romilda’s shop. You told me you were taking me to Romilda’s shop.”

The length of Weasley’s sigh suggests Harry has been in this state for quite some time. “Did you honestly think Romilda Vane’s sword shop was in the Ministry medical wing?”

“Lovely of you to barge in, Weasley,” Draco says, snapping his case shut, and then glancing at Harry, who seems unsure of where he is. “You must have gotten lost. The medical wing is just down the corridor, first on your left.”

“I need to see her,” Harry says, voice pitching up into a whine. “I’ve got to tell her that I —”

“The DMLE thinks it’s best if Harry is left under more personalized care,” Weasley says. “Not a good look if we can’t even keep our own Aurors from getting spiked with those gag love potions, particularly if they’re Harry Potter.”

Harry’s eyes go wide. “That’s me.”

The DMLE is currently in the midst of rounding up a large quantity of crudely mimicked Amortentia being sold out of a joke shop on Knockturn, leaving the medical wing to pick up the slack. At least three or four cases of subsequent Lovesickness pass through the Ministry medical wing a day, which luckily requires only a slightly repulsive antidote and symptom monitoring to remedy. With eyes clouded by blind adoration and the general loopiness associated with heavily mood altering potions, Harry is a textbook case.

“Come on, Malfoy,” Weasley says. “He’ll be miserable if all of this babbling he’s doing makes it to The Prophet. Not to mention Romilda will know exactly where to come to sweep him off his feet.”

“Well, then the Aurors might actually catch a perp for once, seeing as she’ll have come to you,” Draco says with a shrug. “I honestly don’t see how any of this is my problem.”

Weasley’s narrow, almost stern enough to make Draco forget all the times he blubbered back at Hogwarts. “Look, I know the two of you are chums now —”

Draco goes a touch warm. “Just because we don’t hex each other on sight, Weasley —”

Weasley rolls his eyes. “Oh, come off it. We all know this is where he hides out when he doesn’t want to be doing paperwork. I know it’ll mean a lot to him when he — er —” Weasley throws Harry a sidelong glance. “When he’s himself again.”

Harry looks at Draco as if he’s just noticed him standing there. “Hullo,” he says. “Do you know where Romilda is?”

“Fine,” Draco snaps. “Fine. But you owe me.”

“And here I thought that the pursuit of healing would be reason enough. Here,” he says, and hands Harry’s Hawthorne wand to Draco. “Thought it might be easier to keep the patient reigned in if he’s unarmed.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s perfectly docile,” Draco says, watching Harry stare at the spines of the books on Draco’s bookshelf like they’re written in ancient Greek. When Weasley slips out the door, Harry tries to escape after him, only to find the door slammed in his face. Draco draws his wand and locks it with a spell. Harry attempts to jiggle it for a few moments, during which time he seems to have forgotten about the existence of wandless magic.

“Malfoy,” Harry says when gives up, stumbling slightly on uncoordinated feet. “You know everything. Do you know where Romilda works? You remember Romilda, right?” he says, a giddy Lovesickness speeding his words. “You know — she was at Hogwarts with us. The one with those beautiful curls and those incredible brown eyes?”

“I see her modus operandi hasn’t developed much since then,” Draco murmurs. He herds Harry into the chair behind his desk and uncorks one of his panacea antidotes. “Drink this and I’ll tell you.”

Harry studies the bottle for less than a second before he tips it back. “Where is she? I have to —”

“Merlin, the suggestibility with these potions is unreal,” Draco murmurs to himself. It’s uncanny seeing Harry so vulnerable, so besotted; as far as late nights at the office go, at least this one provides some entertainment.

“I just can’t stop thinking about her,” Harry says as Draco pushes him into a seat at his desk. “Do you ever get like that? Where you just can’t stop thinking about someone?” He lets out an airy sigh, sinking back into Draco’s chair. “I have to see her. We have so much time to make up for. Wait,” he says, looking down at his lap. “Why are you letting me sit at your desk? You never let me sit at your desk.”

“Special occasion,” Draco says, unable to fight a smile at Harry’s newfound ditziness. “Now, aside from being in love with Romilda Vane, how are you feeling? Any nausea? Headaches? I see your hair hasn’t started turning pink.”

“I feel better than ever,” Harry says blearily. “Would be even better if I was with her. You know. Romilda.”

Draco snorts as he presses the back of his hand to Harry’s decidedly unfeverish forehead. Harry’s brow furrows. “What’s so funny?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Draco says innocently. “It’s just that I was personally under the impression that you were gay.”

Harry blinks slowly. “Why would you think that?”

“Most likely because you told me that you’re gay.”

“It’s different with her,” Harry says, but his voice has gone quiet, his eyes narrowed in consternation. “No, I mean — I guess I just love her enough that —”

“Sure, sure,” Draco says. “Never too late to discover bisexuality.”

He takes Harry by the wrist, pressing two fingers to the tender skin beneath his palm. Harry’s eyes follow Draco’s fingers, and then look up to meet his eye. “What are you doing?” he asks quietly. He sounds sluggish suddenly, voice burdened with the exhaustion of sobriety.

“The Lovesickness from those potions is associated with an increased heart rate,” Draco says, glancing at his pocket watch to track Harry’s slowly decreasing pulse. “Which means I imagine you’ll be feeling more yourself in just a few —”

Harry snatches his hand away suddenly. Draco can see it immediately, the sharpness returned to his eye, the way they narrow in confused suspicion, and maybe a touch of embarrassment. When Harry speaks, the giddiness has been replaced with the no-nonsense tone he generally reserves for DMLE orders.

“What am I doing here?” he says. He shuffles back slightly in Draco’s chair, hand shooting to his temples. “And — fuck. Why do I have a splitting headache?”

“Oh lovely, you’re back, ” Draco says flatly. “I believe any questions you have are best directed to Weasley, or perhaps Romilda Vane.”

Harry watches him with confusion as Draco hands over his wand. “Why do I get the sense that you’ve saved me from a brush with death again?”

“Oh, nothing as dramatic as all that,” Draco says. “Though it might be if you don’t vacate my office. I’d like to sleep at some point tonight.”

“Right,” Harry says. “Well, erm — thanks, then, I think.”

Harry stands, pausing to look at Draco as if he’s thinking of what else to say. He settles on a wordless nod, pockets his wand, and slips out of Draco’s office. The moment he’s gone, Draco releases the longest sigh he’s let out in weeks.

*

Harry is back in Draco’s office before the week is out. This time, he’s head over heels for the receptionist at the Floo Agency office on the third floor.

“I honestly don't know what that creep was thinking," Weasley says as he pushes a dazed Harry into Draco's office on his lunch break. "Wouldn’t be the first time Harry’s Cauldron Cake addiction did him in, though.”

"You know, I have other things to do with my day, Weasley,” Draco sighs.

"Thanks again, mate!" Weasley calls over his shoulder and disappears into the corridor.

"Fucking hell," Harry says, eyes wide and star-struck. "He kissed me. He bloody kissed me," he breathes, fingers brushing over his lips as he stares vacantly into space. He looks up at Draco. "I think I can die happy now. I can't believe he —"

"And who would that be?" Draco says, procuring another antidote from his drawer.

"Erm —" Harry says, dropping into a seat on Draco's desk. "Not entirely sure of his name, but — Well, isn't it enough to know that he's the love of my life?"

Draco snorts. “Of course.”

He uncorks the vial and hands it to Harry, who glances at it warily. "What is this?"

"Err," Draco says with a sigh. "It’s a potion that will make you remember your lovely beau’s name."

Harry's eyes narrow a touch. "Potions can't do that."

"Are you sure about that?" Draco says, leaning in conspiratorially. "Wouldn't you like to find out?"

That's all it takes. Harry tips the potion back, grimaces slightly at the taste, and then blinks a few times. "No, see, I told you it wouldn't work," he says. "Maybe it was Connor. Or Rupert. Or — Steven, maybe? Was it Steven?"

Harry springs off the chair and begins pacing the length of Draco's office like a nervous cat. Draco assumes Harry's seat and watches the lopsided zig-zag pattern he carves across the carpet. "We'll be together soon," Harry says. "Ron said the Aurors were just taking him away so they could do a background check, and then we can be together. Forever, I reckon. I think we'll get married. Of course we'll get married."

"Hopefully he takes your name so you won't have to remember his," Draco says.

Harry puts a hand on his heart and sighs up at the ceiling. There's always been something overwhelming about his emotions — his anger more fiery, his joy more contagious. Draco has never seen him in love, and even though he knows it's artificial, there's something about it that expands to fill the room, and that — for some reason — turns Draco's stomach sour.

"Oh, Draco," Harry says, sitting on the desk. "It's incredible. Being in love. I couldn’t even explain it.” He releases another dreamy sigh, eyelashes fluttering with affection, before turning to Draco. “Have you ever felt like this?"

Draco shuffles back slightly. Apparently, one of the side effects of Lovesickness is a complete disrespect for personal boundaries. "I can say with complete certainty I've never felt what you're feeling right now."

"You've got to try it for yourself one day," Harry says, leaning further in. "It's the most unbelievable thing — confusing and crazy and so overwhelming, but — it's everything, Draco."

"Yeah," Draco says with a snort. "I don't think it's meant to feel like that."

Harry’s face turns into a pout. “And how would you know?”

Draco watches that boyish irritation flare in Harry’s eyes and can't help but chuckle. Of course, all of Wizarding London would do anything in their power for this man to so much as spare them a passing glance. That receptionist probably thought losing his job was a more than fair price for the chance to kiss him.

"You’re right," Draco says. “I wouldn’t know at all.” He takes Harry's wrist, presses his fingers to his pulse, feeling it slowly fade from an elevated pace to a healthy one against his fingers.

Harry has gone quiet. His eyes are locked on Draco's fingers, pressed against his skin, and then he releases a long breath through parted lips.

"Fuck,” is all he says.

"Welcome back," Draco says, pushing off the desk with the sudden desire to put as much space between them as possible. "I don't mean to victim blame, but you might want to be a bit more careful with what you eat and drink for a while."

Harry's hands go to his hair as they always do, ruffling it as his eyes slowly grow clearer. "Forgive me for thinking the Ministry cafeteria would be a safe place. Fuck, do you have anything for this —"

"Bottoms up," Draco says, and hands him the headache potion he knew Harry would be fiending for.

Harry tips the potion back like it’s a cold glass of water in the middle of the Sahara. “Thanks,” he murmurs, eyes focusing anywhere but Draco’s. “Sorry you had to — erm — see me like that.”

“Why are you apologizing?” Draco says. “This is better entertainment than when the Magizoology department kept passing around that case of multicolored dragon pox.”

Harry finally meets his eye and snorts. “I guess I’m paying for these services with my dignity. Can I — erm, I’ll buy you a drink or something to thank you.”

“Christ, Potter,” Draco snaps. “Have you learned nothing? You can thank me by not drinking at bars until these potions are off the street.”

“Oh — right,” Harry says sheepishly. “Hey, did I say anything stupid?”

Draco smirks. “Rest assured that every word that came out of your mouth was completely and utterly inane, and that I’ve committed every single one of them to memory.”

Harry’s smile goes lopsided. “Wouldn’t expect anything less,” he says, though his cheeks have grown slightly red at the tops. He gives Draco one last nod, lingers in the doorway for one more moment, and then he’s gone.

*

Harry usually makes appearances in Draco's office once or twice a week. It’s usually under the guise of checking in on DMLE matters, despite them both knowing full well that Draco's office is one of the few places in the Ministry that he can hide out without being pestered about cases or badgered for favors. Draco has always told himself that Harry's visits were meaningless, that their conversations — usually about the latest Ministry gossip, Harry's recent missions, or the interesting and bizarre cases that passed Draco's desk — were just a way for both of them to make the work week go by a little faster. It isn't until Harry stops coming by after his past two amorous visits that Draco realizes how much they contributed to the rhythm of his week, how much he finds himself at a loss for who to regale with stories of sentient viruses and new jinxes that made their victims grow barbed cat tails.

When Harry steps through his door the following week, Draco thinks he may have finally gotten over his ego — until Weasley steps in behind him. Draco is in the midst of wondering just how many people are bold enough to try to spike Harry Potter with a love potion when Harry turns around and throws his arms over Weasley's shoulders.

"What are we doing here?" Harry murmurs, not quiet enough that Draco can't hear it. "I thought we were going to yours."

Draco bursts into laughter before he can stop himself. Weasley shoots him a glare that could kill.

"Don't bloody look at me like that," Weasley says to Draco, who has all but doubled over with laughter. "It was all his idea."

Draco wipes a tear from his eye. "It’s utterly insane, so that makes perfect sense.”

Weasley pries Harry's hands off of his shoulders, earning him a boyish whine from Harry. "Well, him and Robards, really,” Weasley says. “Robards thinks it's a liability, all of these potions going around, Harry being a target and all. They thought an opportunity for Harry to practice resisting it in a safe environment would be useful — see if he could break out of it himself."

"Break out of what?" Harry says. "Wait —" he says with a choked sound. "Are you breaking up with me?"

"Fucking hell," Draco chokes, trying unsuccessfully to hide another bout of laughter behind his hand.

"Anyway, he's obviously failed the test, and he's honestly getting a little annoying," Weasley says. "I have mountains of paperwork to catch up on, and it’s a little hard to focus with him hovering over my shoulder asking when we’re going to get married and how many children we’re going to have together.”

"Six," Harry says to no one in particular. "A girl named Lily, a boy named James, a girl named —"

"You know, I could just send you off with some antidote," Draco starts.

"Thanks, mate," Weasley says. He pushes Harry slightly toward Draco's desk, then bolts out the door before he can object.

Harry makes a loud, confused sound that almost sounds like a sob, staring at the door like an abandoned puppy. "Where did he go?"

It's ridiculous, and none of it is real, but that note of vulnerable tenderness in Harry's voice makes Draco's chest tighten. "He'll be back," he says, putting a hand on Harry's shoulder and guiding him to the armchair in the corner of his office, his usual place on his lunch time visits. "You know what they say: absence makes the heart grow fonder."

"That's an utter crock," Harry whines. "My heart is plenty fond." He looks suspiciously down at the vial of antidote that Draco pushes into his hand. "What is this for?"

"Oh, I don't know," Draco says impatiently. "It’ll make Weasley love you more.”

"I dunno," Harry says, eyeing it suspiciously. "Love potions are pretty unethical, you know."

"You're telling me," Draco murmurs to himself. "But he said he wanted you to take it."

"Well if Ron wanted me to, then," Harry says. He tips the potion back as though it were a shot and grimaces immediately at the bitterness.

"Ron, then, this time?" Draco says, squatting beside Harry as he scans him for side effects.

"Oh, it's so obvious," Harry says dreamily, eyes gazing vacantly into the empty space before him, that dopey smile back on his face. "Who else could it possibly be? It's been Ron all along, I reckon. I don't know why it took me so long to realize it."

"To realize it," Draco repeats quietly.

"Yeah," Harry says. "That I've been in love with him for years."

Something feels heavy in the pit of Draco's stomach. "You mean you — you've been in love with him before today, then."

"Well, of course," Harry says, but his face twists in ponderment. "Well… I'm not really sure. But I reckon I must have been, right? It can't just happen all at once, can it?"

It's really none of his business, anyway, who Harry may have been harboring boyhood crushes on for years. "I think everything with you happens all at once,” Draco murmurs.

Harry looks down at him as his eyes grow slightly clearer. He studies Draco unabashedly, head cocked to the side. Draco shifts down onto his knees, suddenly feeling self conscious. "How are you feeling?" he asks, if only to make Harry stop staring at him like that.

"Erm — confused," Harry says a bit more clearly, like he's stuck in the space between drugged and sober. "Yeah, it's a confusing thing, isn't it, love?" he adds, chewing on his thumbnail contemplatively. "No, it's just bloody strange — knowing someone for so long, and just... suddenly realizing that you're meant to be together. Do you know what I mean?"

Draco isn't sure if it's the Lovesickness making Harry's eyes look like that — so intense as they scan Draco's face, so heated with desire — but he knows he can't endure it for much longer. "I can't say I do," he murmurs.

Harry finally looks away. Draco sucks in a breath. "Right," Harry says. "Yeah, I..." His voice trails off. He drops his head into his hands.

Draco stands and goes to his desk where he's stored a headache potion for this exact occasion. When he turns, he can see in the haze of Harry's eyes that he isn't quite on the other side of it. Or he can't be, because if he was, he wouldn't be looking at Draco like that.

"Have you ever been in love?" Harry asks quietly, like the words are heavy on his tongue.

Draco hesitates. "My, that's awfully personal."

"Sorry," Harry says vacantly. "I just wasn't sure how it was meant to..."

Draco watches as Harry's usual demeanor slowly returns. He glances around Draco's office with tired eyes, and then looks up at Draco. "Shit," he says, voice devoid of its previous dreamy melody. "I'm guessing it didn't go well, then."

"Must be a huge blow to your ego," Draco says unsympathetically. "Can fight off an Imperius but can't even break away from some knockoff love potions."

Harry laughs dryly. "Thanks," he says, taking the headache potion from Draco, though he doesn't drink it. "Ron wasn't supposed to let me wind up here."

Draco shakes his head. "I don't mind.”

"No, I know that," Harry says, one side of his mouth ticking up in a half-smile. "It's a little humiliating, is all."

"Trust me," Draco says. "You've done far more humiliating things than profess your undying love for Ronald Weasley."

"Fuck," Harry says, laughing. "That bad?"

"You'd have the world convinced."

Harry frowns. "I thought Ron would be a good trial run, seeing as I know for certain I don't have actual feelings for him," he says. "But these things are stronger than I expected."

Draco crosses his arms, leaning back against his desk. "You certainly had me fooled."

"No," Harry says, eyebrows lifting. "No, it's not like that — he's like my brother." He makes an exaggerated face of disgust at the thought, and then raises an eyebrow at Draco. "Did you really think —?"

Draco feels stupid, suddenly, for having thought anything at all. "It's none of my business, anyway," he says. "But speaking of business, I'd love to get back to mine if you're done conducting your experiments in my office."

"Oh," Harry says, looking slightly stricken. "Right, yeah. Did you — erm. No, right.” He turns for the door. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Harry,” Draco says.

Harry swivels around — and after seeing them so vacant, the sharpness of his inquisitive eyes is almost staggering. “Yeah?”

Draco isn’t sure what he wants to say. He isn’t sure what he planned to say. So after a moment of faltering, he settles on: “For the love of God, stop drinking things you haven’t prepared yourself.”

Harry chuckles. “Yeah,” he says. “You got it.” He steps into the corridor and closes the door behind him.

*

Whatever precautions Harry is taking to prevent himself from getting dosed with love potions seems to work for about two more weeks, during which his appearances in Draco’s office remain purely professional, if a touch unnecessary. He drops by once to get Draco to sign off on paperwork that is normally sent by Ministry courier, and another time with a gash on his shoulder that drenches his Auror robes in a deeper hue of crimson.

“That’s funny,” Draco had said as he watched Harry pull his robes back over his shoulder, bared so that Draco could heal it. “I thought the DMLE did a better job of teaching you lot the basics of healing spells. I think these could have been healed by a sixth year,” he’d pointed out, not mentioning the fact that there was an entire wing full of Mediwitches who would be happy to get a peek of Harry Potter’s exposed torso.

“Yeah,” Harry had said, placing his hand flat atop his robes, which glimmered slightly before being magically washed clean of blood. “Hadn’t really thought about that.” He’d stood, stared for a moment with slightly parted lips, and then nodded. Draco had stepped into the doorframe of his office, watching as Harry disappeared down the narrow corridor without looking back once.

It’s Granger who deposits him in Draco’s office this time, which is how he immediately knows Harry has outdone himself: Granger rarely sets foot inside of the Ministry. “Oh, good,” she says as she pulls Harry in by the hand. “Ron said you’d be here.”

“I do work here,” Draco says, scanning Harry’s all-too-familiar listless daze. “At least, when I’m not being asked to babysit.”

“I’m perfectly happy to take care of him myself,” Granger says impatiently. “I just need the antidote.”

“Who are we taking care of?” Harry asks. He turns to Granger. “Is Rami still downstairs?”

It takes a moment for Draco to place the name. When he does, his stomach twists. “Is it honestly that difficult to stop the man from accepting suspicious drinks for a few months?”

Granger shuts the door with her foot and crosses her arms. “We all know Harry is a touch too trusting,” she snaps. “But I’d hardly call Rami suspicious.”

“Rami isn’t suspicious,” Harry says indignantly. “Rami is — where is Rami? Are we married yet?”

Draco’s eyes shoot to Granger, who puts her hand up defensively. “Okay, yes, obviously Rami is more suspicious than I expected,” she says. “Are you going to give me the antidote or not?”

Draco sits atop his desk. “Leave him,” he says. “It’s best if he’s monitored by a medical professional.”

“Malfoy,” Granger scoffs. “I think I’m qualified to watch him until he sobers up.”

“Harry,” Draco says, watching Harry’s eyes go wide at the sound of his name like an excited dog. “I’ll bring you back to Rami, but only if Granger leaves.”

“Honestly,” Granger huffs.

Harry turns on her. “I really want to see him, ‘Mione. He’s the love of my life.”

“Fine,” Granger snaps. She squeezes Harry’s arm. “Come by mine when you’re finished here, alright? Merlin,” she sighs, brushing his hair from his eyes. “It’s always something with you.”

“I’ll tell him,” Draco says patiently. “I’d be surprised if he remembers any of this.”

Granger studies him, then nods. “Thanks, Draco,” she says, guiding a highly suggestible Harry into the armchair before turning to leave.

Draco listens for Granger’s footsteps to fade before he walks over to Harry, who appears to be on the verge of falling asleep in his armchair. “Big day for you, then, is it?”

Harry perks up. “Yeah,” he says. “Rami and I got married. Well, I think we did, at least. Right when we were about to sign the papers, Ron and Hermione showed up and started shouting and screaming and all.” He sighs, propping his head up on a hand. “Probably because they were so excited about it.”

“Oh, I’m positive they were utterly beside themselves,” Draco says mildly.

“It’s just so very obvious,” Harry says. “We’ve always been such a good match. He’s so charming and smart and ridiculously fit.” He nods vigorously at Draco like an over energetic puppy. “He’s perfect for me. We’re perfect together.”

“That all sounds very romantic,” Draco says flatly. “Though I seem to recall the two of you splitting up some time ago.”

Harry blinks. “Oh, yeah,” he says. “I suppose we did, back when he …”

Draco takes the last antidote from his desk and hands it to Harry, who contemplates it as he sits in ponderment.

“He cheated on me,” he says quietly. “While he was out playing with the Kestrels. He cheated on me a lot, actually.”

Draco ignores the strange pain in his chest at the sight of Harry’s downturned doe eyes. He’s only studying them, he tells himself — their pupils no more dilated than usual, their green crystal clear. It’s as if Harry is fighting off the potion himself, which shouldn’t be so surprising. It’s Harry, after all.

“It was quite the scandal,” Draco says. “The Prophet ate it up, of course, but you were grumpier than usual for a few months while it was coming out.”

“Hey,” Harry says lightly.

“Don’t worry,” Draco says, patting him on the knee. “You won’t remember this conversation. Which means you won’t remember me telling you that you were always too good for him, anyway.”

Harry stares at Draco for a long moment — so long that Draco almost takes a step back, like Harry might leap out the chair. “No,” Harry says eventually, blinking hard. “I’m not. I’m perfect for him. He’s perfect for me. We’re in love.”

“Lucky him,” Draco murmurs, uncorking the antidote. He ignores Harry’s sound of protest and takes him by the jaw, tipping the potion gently into his mouth.

“Merlin, that’s foul,” Harry says, sticking his tongue out. “What did I do to deserve that?”

“Punishment for being utterly irresistible, I suppose,” Draco sighs.

Harry’s head lolls to the side. “You take such good care of me.”

Draco hums, eyeing him warily. “It’s part of the job.”

“No, I know,” Harry says, his words quiet, like he doesn’t entirely have the energy to speak. “I just…”

He trails off, like he’s forgotten he started a sentence. As dopey and spaced out as he may be, Draco has grown fond of this docile, impressionable Harry — the way the potions amplified his earnestness and quickness to flush. He takes Harry’s wrist, and then pauses, reaching instead for the dip of soft skin beneath his jaw, where his pulse barrels away beneath Draco’s fingers. Harry shudders at his touch.

“What are you doing?”

“Shh,” Draco says. He looks down at his pocket watch as he counts the beats, but he can feel Harry’s eyes lingering on his. “Fine,” he says, drawing his hand away. “You should be back any time now.”

“Back,” Harry says dreamily. “Is Rami …” His voice trails off. His eyes go vacant, and then wide, and then flutter shut as he drops his head back onto the armchair.

“Fucking hell.”

“Don’t act so pleased to see me,” Draco chuckles.

“That fucking —” Harry starts, springing to his feet. “That dirty, conniving little —”

“Alright, alright,” Draco says. He puts a hand on Harry’s shoulder and guides him back to a seat, breathing heavily as though he’s just narrowly won a duel. “I’m sure your friends and the department are taking care of your fiance. You’re going to really need my medical attention if you don’t take it easy.”

“I’m a fucking idiot for trusting him,” Harry says bitterly.

“No,” Draco says. “He’s a fucking idiot for treating you the way he did.”

Harry’s breathing has steadied. His eyes land on Draco, and even though he’s no longer bespelled, it’s as though he’s only just now realizing who he’s speaking to. “Thanks,” Harry says, running a hand through his hair. “Christ, I told myself the next time I was here it would be to —” He cuts himself off, eyes going wide. “Sorry,” he says. “I don’t know what I’m saying.”

Draco studies him. “A stronger dose might take a bit longer to get out of your system,” he says. “I’m guessing he doubled up if it was enough to almost get you down the aisle.”

“Down the what?”

“You’ll have to get Granger and Weasley to give you the play-by-play,” Draco says. “I didn’t witness it.”

Harry scoffs. “And I’m sure you’re very disappointed about that.”

“Well, of course,” Draco says. “It would have made a fine addition to the collection of Harry-Potter’s-Most-Embarrassing-Moments memory vials I keep by my pensieve.”

“Fuck,” Harry says, and then he’s on his feet again. “Thank you, Draco. You didn’t have to do all of this."

“Well, I sort of did,” Draco says. “Seeing as it’s my job.”

“Right,” Harry says, face falling. Then it’s that same awkward, self-conscious version of himself that Draco has seen so much of lately; nothing like the Lovesick Harry who was here mere minutes ago.

“But I’m happy to do it anyway,” Draco offers. He isn’t sure why he says it, but if it’s to see Harry smile again, it pays off.

“So,” Draco says. “Do you want to repay me by buying me a drink at the Leaky?”

Harry blinks. “Oh,” he says, shifting on his feet as his grin spreads across his face. “Yeah. Sure. I was actually thinking —”

Draco swats him on the arm. “For fuck’s sake, Potter, how many times do I have to tell you? No drinking anything you didn’t prepare yourself until these potions are off the streets.”

Harry’s brow knits in confusion, then he laughs. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll take you out the minute we’ve cleared them all out.”

Draco pulls in a short breath, and finds for a moment that it’s hard to let it out. “Knowing the state of the Auror division, I guess that means I’ll be waiting a year or two.”

Harry laughs, and even though it isn’t as giddy or dreamy as his Lovesick laughter, it has the same music to it. “Right,” he says. “I’ll have to whip them into shape. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he says, fist clenching at his side, “I believe I need to have a word with my ex.”

He opens the door and steps out of it, then pops his head back in, pointing a finger at Draco. “Three weeks,” he says. “At most. Pencil me in.”

Draco scoffs, but finds that Harry's gaze is suddenly too intense to meet. “I’ll clear my calendar,” he says to the floor.

Harry grins, then nods, then he’s gone. Draco fingers drift up to his own neck without his permission, where he finds his own pulse, pounding beneath his touch.

*

Harry's next appearance in the medical wing is announced not by one of his friends but by a young Mediwitch. Her nervous eyes immediately inform Draco that there’s something more pressing than the Unspeakable who he’s currently treating for a case of Mumblemumps.

“It’s Harry Potter, sir,” she says. “They’ve just brought him into the private wing.”

The Healer at Harry’s bedside nods at Draco as he steps into the room. The sleeve of his robes have been torn open, his hair more disheveled than usual. In his eyes, the glossy glint of Lovesickness.

“Only minor injuries, no signs of significant magical illness,” the Healer informs him as Harry shuffles listlessly in the bed. “Head Auror Robards requested he be treated by you personally. It seems that a Prophet reporter slipped him one of those Knockturn love potions in some attempt at getting a scoop right before a mission.” She tuts down at Harry. “Poor dear must have been too busy fantasizing about romance to see the curse coming. Luckily, it only grazed him.”

“Oh, it’s Draco!” Harry says brightly from the bed. “Draco, you’ll never believe it, but I’ve met the most amazing man —”

“I can believe it,” Draco says, and nods to the Healer. “I can take it from here.”

The Healer pulls the door close behind her. Harry shuffles up into a seat. “I should probably owl him, don’t you think?” he says. “Let him know I’m in the medical wing. I —” he winces as he shifts onto his arm, and Draco puts a gentle hand on his shoulder to guide him back into a seat.

“Let’s have a look,” Draco says, taking Harry by the wrist to angle his arm out. A lengthy laceration runs down his forearm, ending at the middle of his palm. If Harry is in any pain at all, it’s clouded out by the dreaminess. “There,” Draco says, drawing his wand down his arm and murmuring an incantation that closes the wound like a zipper. “You’re normally in much worse shape when you’re in here. This won’t even leave a scar.”

Harry lets out a long breath as the healing spell traverses the length of his arm, catching slightly as it finishes at the tender skin of his palm. Draco glances at him, expecting those vacant eyes to be staring aimlessly at nothing, but finding that Harry is watching him intently as he works.

“You’re usually a lot more chatty when you’re like this,” Draco murmurs.

“Like what?” Harry asks.

Draco falters. "I don't know," he says. "In love, I suppose."

Harry's eyes drop as he ponders this. "Right," he says. "I suppose I am."

"Well," Draco says, pocketing his wand. "I can give you something for the pain, but I'm afraid you've completely cleaned me out of antidotes, so you'll have to wait until it wears off naturally like the plebians." He checks his pocket watch. “I reckon we’ve got about another thirty minutes or so.”

"Love potion?" Harry says blearily. "Is that why — No. Raphael would never do that." His eyes go wide and excited, snapping back up to meet Draco's. "He's going to take me out to dinner, you know, once I'm discharged. He told me. Even though I told him I couldn't, because tonight I wanted to —" his voice trails off. "I was going to go for drinks with..."

"Well, he sounds like a delightful man, and certainly not one who would take advantage of someone's trust in order to get a good headline," Draco says flatly.

"He's brilliant," Harry says. "He's absolutely incredible."

"Raphael," Draco repeats. "What did you say his surname was again?"

"I —" Harry hesitates. "Well, I suppose I haven't asked —"

Draco hums. "And where is he from?"

Harry shakes his head. "I'm sure I'll have time to find out…"

"Well, it seems like you've done your due diligence," Draco says with a chuckle. "I can tell you're very in love with him."

Harry falls into that uncharacteristic quiet again, though his glassy stare remains unchanged. "Right, then," Draco says, clapping his hands together before turning to the door. "Seeing as The Prophet already knows, I'll send a Mediwitch in to monitor —"

"Do you want me to be?" Harry's voice sounds behind him, uncharacteristically quiet and unsure.

Draco turns around. "To be what?"

"In love with him," Harry murmurs.

It's almost too much to see him like this, the confused, vulnerable parts of him risen to the surface, and his heart — as misguided as it might be — stitched onto his sleeve. There's something infectious about it. That’s the only explanation for how Draco feels, like his usual composure is just out of reach, replaced with a tightness in his chest and a lump in his throat that he can't swallow down.

“I honestly don’t know why I’d care who you’re in love with,” Draco finally hears himself say. “It has nothing to do with me.”

Harry blinks. “Of course it hasn’t.”

“It wouldn’t matter anyway,” Draco says. “Even if I did care, it wouldn’t matter.” He pauses, taking in Harry’s vacant stare. “Even if I did care, it’s not as if you’d remember it anyway.”

Harry blinks, his eyes lingering shut for a long moment before he opens them again. “I won’t?”

Harry’s hair is sticking up in the back. His robes are rumpled and torn, and something about the potion makes his eyes impossible to look away from: wide and open and wild. Draco is struck with the familiar desire to take Harry by the shoulders and shake him, and not for the first time. At times, Draco had imagined it with accompanying demands of How are you always winding up in my medical wing? and Can you please take care of yourself so I can stop worrying about you? and Are you aware that you’re not immortal? But lately, it’s something closer to How am I supposed to keep sitting by and watch you fall head over heels for a different person every week?

“You’re angry with me,” Harry says, breaking Draco from his thoughts. There’s a pout in his voice Draco has never heard before. “Why are you angry with me?”

Draco crosses back to Harry’s bedside, and Harry shuffles up to a seat. “I’m not angry with you,” Draco says, without bothering to examine if it’s the truth.

This is a new version of Lovesick Harry — just as dazed, though significantly less preoccupied with the current objects of his affection. Draco pulls his eyes away and takes Harry by the hand, finding his pulse at his wrist. It’s beating so rapidly he doesn’t even have to check his watch to know it’s within the elevated range associated with Lovesickness.

Harry’s eyes drop down to Draco’s hand as he works. He balls his hand into a fist. “You’re always angry with me,” he murmurs, like he’s trying to figure it out himself.

“It would be easier if that were true,” Draco sighs.

“Then what is it?”

Draco chuckles despite himself. “It’s hard to say,” he says. “I’m not sure it’s something you can wrap your mind around right now.”

“Oh,” Harry says. The sound is so soft and so sad and so unlike anything he’s used to seeing from Harry. Draco chews the inside of his lip.

“Maybe I’m a little tired of it,” Draco says, maybe because Harry isn’t going to remember it anyway. “Of seeing Lovesick Harry Potter.” He glances over at Harry’s glassy eyes. “Maybe I’m a bit tired of all of the swooning and heart eyes and —” of watching you love anyone else. Draco shakes his head. “Forget it.”

“It isn’t on purpose,” Harry says. His voice is airy, but his brow has knit in concentration, like it’s all he can do not to start spouting sonnets about his newest beau. “I’m trying.”

Beneath Draco’s touch, Harry’s pulse grows faster and stronger. Draco pulls his hand away, realizing only then that his fingers were lingering on Harry’s wrist.

“Merlin,” Draco mumbles. “Are you feeling alright? Your pulse is…” There are more accurate ways of measuring heart rates, but Draco presses two fingers to Harry’s neck instead. Harry sucks in a short breath, barely audible.

It takes less than a second for Draco to find Harry’s pulse. It flutters beneath his touch, as quick as a cat’s, building and building until —

Harry rests his hand against Draco’s, warm and strong and steady. His heartbeat steadies and then slowly reduces to a measured, relaxed rhythm. Draco realizes he’s forgotten to exhale. When he looks up at Harry’s eyes, they’re trained on his, and crystal clear.

“Hi,” Harry says.

“You’ve broken it,” Draco stammers. “You broke out of it. How did you —”

Harry’s hand keeps Draco’s in place on his neck, which means Draco can feel his pulse pick up again, just slightly, before he bunches his hand in the collar of Draco’s robes and pulls him into a frenzy of a kiss — short, and clumsy, and needy enough to bruise.

Draco pulls away. Harry’s hand is still on his shoulder, eyes swimming. Draco’s thoughts are a swarm of disjointed cupid’s arrows pinging around the inside of his skull. “Fuck,” he says frantically. “Fuck.”

Harry’s lips are smiling, but his eyes are concerned. “What?”

Draco studies him — clear eyes, regulated pulse, and yet — “I don’t know,” he murmurs. “I’ve never seen it before.” He presses his fingers to his lips, half in wonderment, half to capture any heat that might be lingering there. “I’ll have to tell Robards. This could be catastrophic.”

“Draco,” Harry says, swinging his legs out over the bed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“As if you’re not enough of a liability already,” Draco scoffs, breaths coming short and fast, lips still warm. “If these love potions are strong enough to make you fall in love with anyone indiscriminately, it could be disastrous.”

Harry’s laughter cuts him off, thunderous and twinged with a trace of mania. “Draco,” he says, his voice steady and sure. “I’m not Lovesick. Well,” he scrubs his face, “not anymore.”

Draco’s mouth has gone very dry. “You’re not?”

“Well, if I’m being honest, I think I have been for a while,” Harry says. “Just not because of the potions.”

It’s Draco’s turn for an elevated pulse. His heart pounds so loudly in his ears that it clouds out any hope for him to hold onto a single thought other than the way Harry is looking at him, and —

Harry’s face drops into a frown. “Look, I’m sorry if I crossed a line.” His cheeks are kissed red, that bashfulness Draco is used clear on his face.

“No,” Draco manages. “You didn’t.”

Harry gives him a tentative, bemused smile. “Then why do you look so angry?”

“Because, Potter,” Draco snaps. “It breaks about fifteen codes of conduct to kiss a patient, and you’re making it very difficult for me right now.”

Harry springs to his feet. This time, it’s a proper kiss, Harry’s hands warm on Draco’s waist, his lips soft and inquisitive and exactly as gentle as Draco has always imagined. He pulls away too soon, and Draco feels vaguely like he might crumple if Harry’s hands weren’t there to keep him upright.

Then, Harry is laughing. Again.

“What?” Draco snaps.

“Nothing,” Harry says without dropping his hands. “You’ve just gone all loopy.”

Draco feels himself flush. “Oh, and you’d know nothing about that.”

Harry grins and draws Draco nearer by the waist. “It’s my turn to watch you look like a ditz.”

Draco nudges Harry away gently by the shoulder. “You’re still out of it,” he says, hearing the frenzy creep into his voice. “Once you’re all sobered up, you’re going to —”

“Draco,” Harry says, voice even and soothing. “I feel like sending everyone who spiked me a thank you card. I don’t know if I’d have ever worked up the nerve on my own.”

It’s all too much to be real, and Draco can only laugh. “As long as you send them court summons immediately after.”

“Listen,” Harry says, his voice dropping. “I was wondering if you could help me with something.”

Draco can’t think with those eyes on him, with Harry’s hands back on his waist. “Sure,” he breathes. “Anything.”

“I’ve been recently instructed not to drink anything I haven’t seen prepared myself,” he says. “But I really fancy a drink tonight.”

Draco snorts. “Well, you’re in luck, because I happen to have one of the most pretentious home bars in creation.”

“I’m sure it’s positively dreadful.”

“You’re going to detest it.”

It’s breaking seventeen codes of conduct, actually, to kiss a patient. Draco does it anyway. And when he pulls away, it’s there in Harry’s eye — that complete, head-over-heels, heart-eyed, shaky-kneed affection.

And this time, it’s real, and it’s all for Draco.