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Chapter Text

The last thing a deeply ill person worries about is how he spent last night. The whole body is aching and the fever is not a state where one has the strength to think about anything. Even if all the days that followed were the consequences that would have to be faced - that would all be afterwards.

Tom Riddle was rarely ill. So rarely, in fact, that the slight fever and headache were blamed on overwork and the malaise on recent potion vapour poisoning. Since his childhood, Tom hadn't known what a cold was: in the orphanage he had been protected from childhood germs by magic, at Hogwarts by access to Slughorn's laboratory and the skill to brew tonics with his eyes closed. A strong immune system was a Slytherin's pride, allowing him not to be distracted by such nonsense as a runny nose and to earn a good income during seasonal illnesses.

Marvolo, Lord Gaunt, had been inattentive to his condition, and when he came to, it was too late to take the Pepperup Potion. His throat ached mercilessly, his joints felt almost ninety, and his only wish was to go into stasis and not wake up until he recovered.

"Accept, my Lord! He's the best one you can find within the realm right now," Lucius Malfoy, urgently summoned on his only day off, paced the varnished parquet impatiently.

"I was just asking for your advice, Lucius, not to assemble a consilium of doctors in an hour," Marvolo mumbled, rubbing his eyelids tiredly, barely restraining the urge to shove his guest out the door, "I wouldn't stoop to such a thing over a common ailment."

"You can't know for sure!" The devourer clasped his hands together inspiringly, his flickering aggravating Marvolo's migraine, "it may be a curse or some other symptom of the effect on you!"

"Who would risk it?" He snorted, running his fingernail over his lip thoughtfully." And they all know they can't get rid of me."

"But that won't stop them from trying," he said slowly, staring at his companion, "I guarantee you his reliability, my Lord."

Finally sitting down in the chair he had been given, Lucius pulled a folder from his pocket, enlarging it without a wand, and held out the papers to Marvolo.

"Here's about him, and a bit about his work."

In any case, Lucius would have found out about his condition sooner or later, so with his letter, with a brief, Come see me today, as you have time, he only saved himself the trouble of moralising. The thought amused him. His imagination obligingly conjured up an image from fifty years ago, when his trusted comrade and friend Abraxas Malfoy had brought his son, the un-adopted Lucius. And who would have thought that this dainty boy, flirtatiously averting his gaze, would years later be watching his health and nutrition like a hen, driving his own wife to fits of jealousy.

But the documents were... curious. Especially when compared to the healer's very young age and this list, delicately labelled by Lucius as small. And the list was very interesting, and by and large represented those cases where Mungo's had been powerless, or for personal reasons, had not been consulted at all. Ancestral curses, poisoning by dangerous plants, accidents with artefacts - a mage who took on such diverse cases was either a genius at what he did or an absolute madman. Most of the names on the parchment were hidden, leaving only information about the disease and the unchanging result of the treatment: successful.

One item caught the Lord's attention, causing him to raise his eyebrows in mute question.

"The curse of one heir—?"

"That is correct, my Lord," Malfoy stretched out contentedly, hesitating only for a second afterwards, "Cissy and I are expecting our second child."

The unexpected news confused Marvolo for a second. He was silent for a while before he remembered his decorum.

"Oh, congratulations to you!" he walked round the table to shake Lucius' palm with both hands, "Abraxas would have been overjoyed if he had caught this day."

It was only now that Marvolo took a closer look at the mage opposite. The usual perfect styling, the gleam in his eyes, and a surprisingly modest robe for his exit — as modest as the silver embroidery on the sides of the sleeves could be. Obviously, he hadn't come off a business meeting.

"I'll write to him," Marvolo nodded at the open folder, "and you should get back to your family."

I didn't have to ask twice.

The door slammed shut behind the mage, and Marvolo slumped onto the sofa, rubbing his eyelids tiredly. The effects of the Invigoration Draught were wearing off, and the viscous haze of malaise was once again clouding his mind.

All right, Lucius, you got it.

It wasn't difficult to write a short letter, asking the healer to schedule a visit himself. His strength was finally drained, so Marvolo wrapped himself in a warm cardigan, sprawled out on the sofa, and was just about to doze off when a small bird pecked insistently at the glass. It was a peregrine falcon. Aspid grey, a little smaller than the usual representatives of its species, it swooped into the ajar frame, delicately settling on the mage's shoulder. A small note, not even a letter, was tied to its paw, which gave Marvolo thoughts of rejection that were immediately dispelled when he unfolded the parchment.

Would six o'clock today suit you? Harry, the sloppy note said, and Marvolo didn't even bother to be angry; his condition had deteriorated so rapidly that it was time to suspect a jinx.

"Let him be half as good," Marvolo murmured, glancing at the bird as it slowly devoured the thinly sliced meat. It was in no hurry to go anywhere, waiting patiently for a return message.

The fireplace at Gaunt Manor will be open for you at six sharp, the reply loomed on the back of the parchment without much ado.

Later, as Marvolo settled down on his bed, the thought flashed across his mind that the healer's face was painfully familiar. The impossibly frizzy hair and the touching hump on his nose - yes, definitely a descendant of Fleamont, that eternal adventurer. It was worth contacting him, if he'd passed on some of his grandfather's talent.

Chapter Text

For as long as he could remember, Harry had dreamed of being a witch doctor. The kneazles in the Potters' cottage were regularly sick with meningitis and chickenpox, the owls were broken and bruised, the little canary suffered from laryngitis, and Grandpa Fleamont complained of asthenia, though Euphemia usually called it an aggravation of cunning.

So no one was surprised when Harry James Potter, who had great martial artists, artefactors and potions masters in his ancestors, went into healing magic. He had a special sensitivity to magical flows and fields, and an irrepressible curiosity, so he could choose any of the narrow and little-explored fields, whether it was treating the effects of mind-altering effects of misconstrued vows, or helping with accidents during rituals and ceremonies. It was almost Harry's duty to gain Mastery in these things, and he plunged into comprehending the subtle science. And he did not fail! At only twenty-eight years of age, he became one of the youngest Masters of Healer, only a year behind Cliff Cheney, the record holder for the entire United Kingdom.

With his head buried in research and occasional appearances at Mungo's to avoid losing his licence, Harry had the courage to occasionally take cases that didn't fit his profile. While he was known as a competent and sensitive healer, he often acted as a family counsellor, recommending individual potions for the teething firstborns or adjusting spells for the pain of battle scars.

So the letter that had suddenly appeared on Friday morning didn't surprise him in the slightest. It could have been anything - he'd once been summoned for a persistent itch that turned out to be a chlamydia infection - and young heirs.

The seal of the House of Gaunt was intriguing. Lord Gaunt, Minister of Culture and, according to his grandfather, a grey cardinal, did not appear very often at various events, usually sending a deputy in his place. No one knew his exact age, and though he looked barely older than Harry, he had started his career as a young Fleamont. To receive an invitation from such a personage was a far greater recognition of ability than a dinner at the Minister of Magic's house. And that invitation was right now lying on an open notebook, glinting with the chain of a personalised key.

It wasn't worth the hassle.

*********

The Caterwauling Charm went off at exactly quarter to six. Harry stirred, pulling his handbook away and not immediately realising where he was going. The suitcase with everything he needed had been packed in the morning, so the rest of the time was spent shamelessly changing his robes. Already standing by the fireplace and scooping volatile gunpowder from the bowl, Harry felt a slight shiver of anticipation run through his fingertips.

The flame. A tug. And so, Healer Potter carefully stepped over the fireplace grate, appearing in the spacious living room. Not that he was expecting a red carpet or a convoy of Aurors, but the absolute silence of the manor clearly set the mood.

"Zipy welcomes Healer Potter." Harry was startled by the silent houseelf. "His master told him to expect him in the drawing room. Is there anything Zipy can do for a guest?"

The houseelf pleading tone left no options, so, making himself comfortable on the sofa, he ordered:

"Green tea with mint, please." The startled houseelf clutched at his own ears before silently disappearing.

Before Harry could look around, the door suddenly swung open - it was clear who the houseelf was taking his cue from - and the master of the manor stepped into the room.

Wow... was all Harry could think as he slowly looked round at the man who had entered. Plain trousers, a dress shirt, and an overall rumpled appearance - you wouldn't remember him in a crowd.

When Harry had received the extended letter from Lord Malfoy - what a man who could turn a request into a favour - he had prepared himself for open defiance due to his age, or mistrust, perhaps even whimsy, but the man opposite looked more like a teenager than one might imagine.

Immediately jumping up, Harry held out his hand for an introduction:

"Harry Potter."

"Marvolo Gaunt. I was pleasantly surprised by your punctuality," his trained gaze didn't miss the pallor of his face and bruises. "Let's go to the cabinet."

Following the black-haired man through the corridors, Harry was amazed, making theories one by one, going over in his head all the methods he knew that could have provided such an effect. The young face in front was definitely not an illusion, his innate sensitivity would immediately show streams of magic, which meant it wasn't a matter of charms. Perhaps a potion? An artefact? One could discount the Lord's reclusiveness, which, according to the gossip, was almost impossible to leave the estate, but the outer fields were just as clear of influence. What a mystery.

The cabinet was quite cosy, immediately trustworthy. Calling the houseelf, who immediately set out cups of steaming drink, Marvolo got straight to the point:

- I suppose you are well aware that anything said within these walls must never be made public.

Intrigued beyond belief, Harry only nodded, encouraging him to continue talking.

"I've been feeling a little under the weather lately: no appetite, a headache that doesn't seem to be helped by potions, and insomnia. I know it may not sound serious to you," Harry looked down at his hands, noting another symptom, chills, "but as I've grown politically, I've encountered all sorts of people, and for my own peace of mind, I'd like to rule out outside influences."

Harry nodded to that as well. As a healer, he had dealt with many things, but one of the worst was human envy. It was capable of terrible atrocities, killing in a single breath, or poisoning many years of a wizard's long life.

Leaving his robe on the back of the couch, Harry stepped forward—

"Then, with your permission, I will begin."

A slight flick of his wand, and a soft stream of magic flowed towards the seated Marvolo. Like a curious little child, it peered everywhere, tugging, tasting, tasting for teeth, delicately weaving itself into the magic of the patient. The space around glowed with different colours, which Harry studied carefully, going over the thin threads with his fingers, moving and pulling the right ones closer. When a certain area began to pulse alarmingly, Harry paid attention to it as well, calmly navigating the multi-layered weaves of the alien magic field. True professionalism at work. The sight was quite meditative, so Marvolo didn't immediately react when a quiet voice called out to him—

"How does it feel?"

"Hmm... No worse than it was."

"That's good," Harry sighed with relief. And after a perplexed look he explained— "The higher the level of magic, the more unpredictable the reaction when rejected.

Marvolo followed the droplet of sweat running down the healer's temple with his gaze.

—Where to start. Um— I found no trace of external influence on the magic field, but the core reacted more strangely than I expected." he sank back onto the couch, wetting his parched throat with a sip of cooled tea. "Perhaps— you know about it?"

Marvolo stared intently and Harry felt a warm wave touch his thoughts. It didn't seek to dive in, but scrutinised the scraps of thoughts floating on the surface. He thought about becoming indignant, and Marvolo immediately backed away, averting his gaze into his cup.

"I know." he didn't look like he was going to share, "is this information necessary for a diagnosis?"

As a medical professional, Harry was good at a few things: keeping secrets was one of them. And if the anomaly detected was controlled, or even more, consciously man-made - he would remain silent about what he had seen for the rest of his days, until otherwise stipulated.

"Not at all."

He bit his lip thoughtfully. No magical interference detected, the core was originally an anomaly, hence the— A completely uncultured chuckle almost escaped his lips, and it was only experience that allowed Harry to keep himself in check. He glanced at Marvolo again, recalculating all the symptoms in his mind. There was no way there could be a mistake.

Taking a couple of breaths to calm himself down, Harry levelled himself, adjusting himself for business—

"Tell you what else, tell me, has anything happened recently that might have had an effect on your immunity? A misuse of potions, perhaps?"

The man rubbed the bridge of his nose glumly.

"Potion. I was experimenting with ricinus when one of the cauldrons boiled over."

"Excuse me?!" Harry's eyes widened in astonishment, amused Marvolo's by his immediate reaction.

"I'm immune to half the poisons you know." This fact was the wizard's undeniable pride, having saved his life more than once and more than twice.

The sudden revelation calmed the incipient merriment, and after some more mental calculation, Harry finally stated—

"I dare you to rejoice, your condition is not the result of any external or internal magical influence, and accordingly is not life-threatening." He paused for a moment, holding back a comical laugh, "It's just a common Muggle cold," he explained, "Wizards don't usually get it, but in immunodeficiency conditions, it happens occasionally."

Marvolo raised an eyebrow sceptically—

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely! I'll prescribe some potions and vitamin-containing foods to replace the concentrates that probably won't work on you, and you should be feeling much better in a couple of days."

Parchment and quill popped out of the briefcase, and Harry hurried to compose the recipe, biting the tip of his tongue with eagerness.

"—for headaches— Oh. I also recommend you drink honey tea regularly, and don't think I'm joking, it'll soothe a sore throat and speed up your immune system."

Already going to bed, Harry, summarising the day's results, remembered today's patient with slight amusement. It was a terribly funny incident, and he would rather eat his tongue than tell anyone about it, but it didn't stop him from laughing, remembering the amazed look on the esteemed wizard's face.

Finally calming down, Harry let go of all thoughts, letting them flicker chaotically in the back of his mind as a bird ramming madly into the glass pulled him back to reality.

Lord Gaunt had taken a turn for the worse.

Chapter Text

The boy who came in was quite interesting. Active and moderately professional, he made a very good impression on Marvolo. And although he almost got into things he shouldn't have, his attention to detail was above reproach.

"And I'm not kidding. Tea with honey is very good for the immune system, and in your case it will be even more effective than vitamin tinctures." said the healer in all seriousness. In Marvolo's humble opinion, the touching curls softened the seriousness of the statement a little.

Marvolo saw it too. How the bright orange, wispy thought suddenly skipped and how Harry struggled to keep a straight face. It was all quite obvious to the Master of Legilimency. His gaze lingered on the ajar lips that Harry occasionally moistened with his tongue without taking his eyes off the parchment in his hands. Bright and slightly puffy, they were attractive, and he recognised that the boy, no, the young man in front of him was damn attractive. Though his personal life had never been a problem for him, thanks to his classic austere beauty, there was a curious twinge inside him that made him look at the mage across from him.

Almost immediately after the healer left, Zipy, a proactive fellow, without even asking permission, set a tray with an empty cup of tea and a small rosette of honey on top of the papers. Marvolo grimaced, but decided not to resist, and moved him closer.

He returned to the not-so-long list of recommendations and worked out what potions he had in stock and what he would have to brew upon waking tomorrow. There wasn't much coming out at all.

Having failed utterly on the first attempt, Marvolo risked opening his eyes again, opening his eyelids more slowly and still hissing at the painfully bright light. The canopy of the bed appeared to be raised, something he had never allowed the houseelf to do, getting up always according to a surprisingly accurate internal clock.

Emptiness rang in his head.

"There you are, sleeping beauty," Potter burst into the room bursting with energy, bringing with him the bitter smell of smoke. Jingling bubbles, he set some on the bedside table, removing the empty ones with a wave of his wand. "How are we feeling?"

He helped Marvolo up, making himself comfortable on the cushions, and put the neck of the first vial to his dry lips. He only pressed his lips together in protest.

"Potions first, and then, so be it, I'll give you some water." The glass pressed more insistently.

Confused, which of course he wouldn't admit, Marvolo obediently drank the potions, glancing at the healer. He gesticulated vigorously, emotionally recounting the events of the evening and night, sometimes speaking even in roles.

"—and then I even had to give an injection of adrenaline when you didn't react to the Withdrawal Potion. By the way, it can make you dizzy, but I'd recommend not drinking too much and trying to tolerate it."

"So far so good." It came out husky. The viscous potions did nothing to ease the sore throat.

"Then, with your permission," Harry waved his wand. The familiar field of colour glowed around Marvolo, even warming his numb limbs.

He stared at the healer, distracted by the case. His shirt was wrinkled, his eyes bruised and pale, and he looked like he hadn't slept for a couple of hours. Zipy must have offered the first guest bedroom, flashed through his mind. Meanwhile, Harry's focused gaze softened after a couple of minutes of observation.

"Much better than it had been the night before." A sweep, and the threads fluttered away, crumbling into small particles and finally disappearing just before the floor.

"May I—" voice cocked again, to which Harry poured water from the jug, continuing to hold the glass and after - Marvolo wouldn't hold it in his trembling hands.

"I won't say it was my mistake. All potions elicited the standard, maybe slightly less than usual, response."

"Sorry?"

Harry rolled his wand between his fingers, distracting both himself and his patient.

"I had your blood analysed, using the formula for the No Harm Oath as per protocol of course, and ran some tests to see what exactly caused the exacerbation." The boy hadn't slept at all today.

Marvolo tried to go back to yesterday. There were only fragments in his mind, but they were enough to form a rough picture of the events.

Tea. Papers. The evening's potions. A sudden gasp and a hastily scribbled note. And darkness.

"What did you find in there?"

"More like what I didn't find." Harry chuckled. "Nothing."

"Healer —" was all Marvolo's indignation.

"You can just call me Harry. If you're comfortable with that," he flashed his eyes merrily, bowing jokingly.

Marvolo saw the old picture as if it were real. They were walking in the garden, meeting for the first time at Mrs Goyle's reception, and Fleamont was acting like a blowhard, jumping from serious to flirtatious in an instant.

Realising the pause in his own way, Harry continued:

"I've used several testing methods, and none have pointed to potions." He jumped up from his chair, puzzled by his own conclusions.

Оh.

"You mean you don't know?"

Harry stammered a little before answering:

"Not yet. But I'll be sure to find out! In the meantime," he smiled awkwardly, revealing a row of white teeth, "I'm going to have to burden you with my company. At least until the circumstances of the crisis are clarified."

If one didn't dwell on the reason for their cohabitation, Marvolo was a rather hospitable host, and Harry, contrary to all his misgivings, and to the Lord's delight, did not feel like an intruder. He was given a laboratory for brewing the necessary potions and access to a small collection of books there, which Marvolo gave with a slight wave of his hand, marvelling at the indescribable delight on the healer's face.

The schedule was agreed upon at once, and consisted of only a few items: potions, meals together, and socialising in the evening as Harry went over and over the various theories, most of which Marvolo deftly dismissed with amusement. The boy's company was suddenly... comfortable. He was an interesting conversationalist, bringing up rather controversial topics and deftly lowering the degree when the discussion reached a dead end.

"Would you like some?" Harry pointed questioningly at the bowl that had been pushed back to the centre of the table, enjoying the dessert himself.

The man only grimaced, sipping his strong tea without sugar and making Harry laugh.

"Marvolo, ignoring the healer's recommendations?" He scolded jokingly, without insisting. Zipy was indeed overzealous, setting his tea and honey down at every opportunity, as if he thought they were far better medicine.

"As much as circumstances allow," Lorde replied in a tone. He'd never admit it, but a couple of days in the company of an energetic boy, infectious in his positivity, was even more fruitful than regular potions.

"—and then I just cancelled half of the medication and he was on the mend immediately!" A little tipsy from several glasses of aged wine, Harry eagerly recalled amusing incidents from his practice, sprinkling them with witty comments and apt jokes.

Marvolo enjoyed his story, warming his fingers on the hot porcelain. It was not an easy task to persuade Harry to drink, for the nobleman had intended to eat tea and porridge in solidarity, but he gave up quickly under a barrage of confident arguments.

"I see you're a marvellous expert, Harry," he confirmed his words with a nod, watching the bright blush spread across the boy's neck. He reacted exactly the way Marvolo needed him to.

"Let's deal with you first," he mumbled, wanting to change the subject.

"You don't think you can handle me?" light teasing on the edge of flirting had become Marvolo's favourite pastime of late. Most of the time Harry just joked back, but when he was caught off guard— oh, his reactions, so marvellous in their sincerity, only served to heighten the interest.

Suppressing a chuckle, Marvolo took a sip, wetting his sore throat. Harry, for his part, did the same, accompanying each sip with a twitch of his sharp Adam's apple. Marvolo felt his mouth go dry again at the sight.

"So, for the cancellation of the drugs," Harry took advantage of the pause and calmed down a bit and got back to the story," It took a whole potions team before we found out that he'd been drinking grapefruit juice, which reacted with the Echinacea and messed up the results of the tests."

Marvolo only shook his head disapprovingly at this:

"How irresponsible," he cleared his throat.

"And that's what I mean! I never thought that the hardest part of being a healer would be dealing with patient initiative!" He leaned over the chair and gave Marvolo a playful shove on the shoulder. Then he frowned, looking more closely at his companion's face. "You all right?"

"Tired today. And my throat hurts." He stretched out tiredly. A sudden heaviness filled his eyelids with lead and fogged his head.

"Marvolo?" he didn't notice Harry move closer, kneeling down in front of him.

The last thing he heard before the darkness completely enveloped his consciousness was Harry's anxious call and the soft touch of his charms.

Chapter Text

Breaking all the unthinkable rules of etiquette, Harry threw his robes on over his pyjamas, transfiguring his slippers into boots and rushing to the fireplace.

He was met in the living room by the houseelf, who was only separated from hysterics by an advance directive to assist the healer in every way.

"Take me to the master!" Harry shouted at him. He flew down the steps as if he hadn't touched the floor, thinking up a plan of action as he went.

Lord Gaunt did not look well at all. His pale face was blue from the dark sheets, and his sweat-damp hair was strewn across the pillow. Harry could hear his heavy, intermittent breathing from the doorway and was convinced that tonight was going to be a long night.

He diagnosed him with spells, gave him potions, pouring them down his convulsively constricted throat and massaging them gently, then checked him again with spells. Things were getting tight, and Harry couldn't understand why some of the potions weren't working at all. He remembered the immunity to poisons, but that didn't explain why Marvolo was vomiting from the Stabilising Potion or not responding to the Withdrawal Potion.

Determined to go to the extreme, Harry pulled down his pyjama trousers and with a practised movement drove the needle into the soft flesh. He rarely turned to Muggle drugs, due to their unpredictable effects, but there were almost no options left. Gently pulling the metal out, Harry began kneading the puncture site, dispersing a cc and a half of Adrenaline further into the muscle. That's a lot.

It would either work or Smethwyck would kill him, having cast stasis on the patient before.

After a couple of minutes, Marvolo's complexion became more akin to human, and Harry, now even paler, clutched at his wrist, taking his pulse.

It was later, when the troll's dose of potions had been consumed and Marvolo didn't seem to be going to his graves anymore, that Harry was still sitting on the edge of the bed, watching his chest rise and fall.

"Would Mr Potter like anything?" The houseelf peeked through the ajar door," Zipy can make a snack for mister."

Harry was about to refuse, but after thinking it over once more, he told the houseelf to go ahead:

"Show me the lab first."

The deep basement room greeted him with surgical cleanliness and the slight scent of tart herbs. And it was extremely impressive in its scale, providing a workspace for at least a dozen mages. Wide countertops, sinks, and shelving units stood at an optimally comfortable distance, immediately indicating the professional habits of a potionist. Equally stunning was the assortment of various herbs and ingredients - just what he needed right now.

Half a dozen cauldrons took their places and with a sip of Invigoration Harry set to work.

Dawn had long since come, so after a quick snack of coffee and toast, to the audible wailing of the houseelf, Harry armed himself with potions and hurried over to the disturbed signal charms.

Marvolo looked barely better in the light of day. The pallor of his skin had gone nowhere, and his hair was still scattered across his pillow, turning the strong, statuesque wizard of yesterday into a weak and needy one.

"There you are, sleeping beauty," Harry was mesmerised by the scene and blurted it out without thinking, immediately jerking himself away. That's your patient, he thought, the one you barely managed to help yesterday. The bubbles in his hands jingled, sobering him momentarily and bringing him back to a businesslike attitude.

But he softened immediately, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. He went through the jars several times before deciding on the first one, giving Marvolo time to gather his thoughts.

Still, he had to hurry with the Invigoration before the malaise from last night's incident showed itself in all its glory. Opening the vial with a characteristic pop, Harry brought it to his dry lips. I'll have to brew some balm, a thought flashed through his mind. Marvolo's attempt to resist failed utterly, and as he was drinking the subsequent medicine, Harry began to distract him with his chatter, noticing that he was actually relaxing from the healer's direct behaviour.

The diagnostic spells showed nothing new. An acute autoimmune reaction to a presumably external stimulus. Quite little, considering the inconclusive nature of his research, which had taken all night and several pounds of his weight - the houseelf had a mansion full of work without him, and the journey from the lab to the bedrooms in the morning just seemed unbearably endless.

He caught the Lord's close attention from the side, but writing it off as confusion after waking up, he decided that this was the perfect moment for his news.

Living together in Gaunt Castle had made Harry once again confirm a truth written long ago - never trust gossip, and base your opinion solely on your own experience. However, the first step to correcting himself was to realise his mistakes, and Harry had taken a responsible approach to this, spending several sleepless nights in reflection.

He had made only three mistakes, and each of them was not critical in itself, unlike the sum of them. The first time was when he was preparing to treat the runny nose of a decrepit old rag, the second was when he thought it was a one-visit job. And the last one, which turned out to be the most fatal for him - allowing himself to show empathy for the patient.

His master must be spinning in his grave right now.

But Harry, to assuage his own conscience, had a good excuse for such blatant behaviour. He had, to his shame, never once in his life felt a serious crush on someone.

And now he seemed to realise the full horror of that fact, sitting on his knees opposite the unconscious Marvolo, drunk and utterly confused.

The picture repeated itself - Marvolo blending in, this time with the beige sheets, lying motionless in the master suite, Harry sitting on the edge of the bed, watching the barely perceptible shallow breathing, and the elf peering faithfully from behind the door.

Some sur.

What could he have missed? All potions had been triple-checked, bedding and clothes soaked in Antiseptic Potion, all surfaces treated with it. Harry didn't check for food allergies right away, but still found nothing. And there was a dead end. And Marvolo was worse this time - because of some individual peculiarity, which he didn't want to admit even under the threat of refusing to heal, this time the potions didn't work at all and there was only hope for the internal reserves of magic and their ability to restore.

All because Harry had thoughtlessly agreed to his stupid condition of not going to Mungo's under any circumstances.

He didn't want to resort to it with every fibre of his being, but there were no other options, so Harry rose heavily and headed for his chambers to write a letter to Lord Malfoy.

He came as quickly as if he'd been on fireplace duty, and Harry didn't know whether to be happy about that fact or not. As a healer, he had a plan to report back, but still, uncharacteristically, he was timid in front of the older wizard.

He waved a greeting and hurried from the fireplace into the bedroom without even taking off his robes.

Harry managed to catch up with him only at the very door, which Zipy had selflessly blocked.

"It's alright," Harry tossed him, and with a guilty clasp of his hands, the houseelf disappeared. It was a shame, his company might have eased Harry's burden at least morally.

"I wouldn't say that," the Lord stated, barely glancing at the motionless Marvolo. "The last time I saw him, he was only slightly ill."

Harry practically flinched at his icy tone, but didn't challenge it.

"The decision to recommend you was not a gesture of goodwill or gratitude for what you've done for my family personally," he folded his hands behind his back, "I've heard of you as a competent professional, unencumbered by prejudice like so many others. You struck me as a very promising investment."

Harry hesitated. As they walked up to the bedroom, he'd had a rough idea of what this visit would cost him, but he was still unprepared.

"Do you regret that decision?" It was bound to happen at some point. He couldn't be lucky for the rest of his life; no matter how much he buried himself in books, reality always made adjustments.

Harry wondered how his career would pan out now. No, the Lord wouldn't stoop to such a pathetic thing as gossip, but no conversation, business or not, would ever bring up his name again. Disgusting. Harry had taken this challenge as a walk, for which he had paid in full. Now he would have to burrow into the research, hoping that in a dozen years this incident would be forgotten, or at least considered a thing of the past.

Harry snapped out of his thoughts, barely missing his next words:

"Malfoys never regret their decisions," he had been standing half-turned for some time now, looking at Harry, "they only learn from them."

The mage nodded obediently. Malfoy paused for a moment before he stunned:

"So. What are your recommendations, Healer Potter?"

"I'm sorry...?"

Malfoy only snorted at that.

"I'm asking what your recommendations are, due to Lord Gaunt's deteriorating condition, Mr Potter. You do have one, don't you?"

"Yeah, I—" for just a few moments, there was a vacuum in his head. "His condition was an acute reaction to a momentary stimulus. The houseelf had been instructed to thoroughly disinfect every possible surface Lord Gaunt might come into contact with. All potions and foodstuffs were also checked, but no cause was found." Inspired by Malfoy's calm attention, Harry continued more boldly," I would suggest that Lord Gaunt be housed elsewhere, probably isolating him from contact with the allergen."

"Relocate him? Alas, there are few places where the Lord can be housed."

"Still, I insist."

Lord Malfoy thought hard, pacing the room from side to side.

"—shouldn't. And I can't have it, either, if that's the case." he looked worried, muttering things to himself that didn't quite make sense. "Suggest something simpler."

"Can't you?" That puzzled Harry. He thought that since Lord Malfoy was allowed to be involved in such a matter as his health, he might as well let the Lord shelter him for a while.

He only sighed, pulling back the hem of his robes. A very pretty one, by the way.

"Not now. I can't just kick the French delegation out. And, unfortunate as it is, my manor is no match for defence."

He fell silent again, thoughtfully tugging at his button.

"Do you live alone, Mr Potter?" Suddenly.

"At the moment, yes. And how exactly—" he paused, realising what Malfoy was getting at. Bad idea. A very bad idea.

Chapter Text

The Potter residence greeted them with freshness, and the spicy scent of baked goods, which Kreacher must have done on purpose. Harry only grinned at the prank - he couldn't be impressed by it, and those who could.... Either way, the houseelf would still get his chance. Letting Zipy personally remodel the guest quarters to suit the Lord's tastes, Harry began to manipulate the protective circuit: bring in a new inhabitant; adjust the ancient building's magical fields to suit him, a dark wizard by nature. It wasn't a particularly difficult task, but his unconsciousness was to his advantage - the stroppy house wouldn't see bad intentions if they weren't there as such.

Finishing, Harry took a few steps around the living room, noting the calm reaction to his interference. Good. Time for the next item.

He ran easily down the steps and opened the kitchen door, entering the spacious room. Harry waited a moment, watching the unfamiliar scene of good cheer, before he called out to him:

"Ahem."

"Does the Master want something?" Without turning around, the houseelf snarled nastily.

"You didn't meet us."

"Kreacher was busy eating his master's dinner," he said, feigning resentment. "The master was eating all sorts of disgusting things, not wanting to stoop to Kreacher's cooking. Kreacher will fatten him up in no time."

Harry only grinned, having been used to his caring grumbling since he was a little boy.

"We have a guest who will be staying here for a while."

The houseelf was stirring with a ladle something that smelled marvelously of herbs. Cherry sprigs, cinnamon, some rose hips. He nodded contentedly, finally turning to Harry and wiping his thin, crooked fingers on a towel.

"Had the master finally come to his senses?"

"How could you!" Harry chuckled at that, resting his back against the door trim. "Don't let Lord Gaunt hear you say that." He scolded.

"Mistress Walburga would approve," Kreacher ignored his words, "a strong wizard for a strong House."

During this brief period of acquaintance Harry had grown very comfortable in Marvolo's company. And he believed, from the long evenings over tea and undisguised interest, that the feeling was quite mutual. They had managed to become buddies, and Harry hoped that he might become even closer to him after the contract the patient — healer was over.

If he was interested too, and not just passing the time for lack of alternatives.

But the only way Harry could find out was to ask him directly.

Pretending not to hear the elf's mutterings, Harry drained his glass of water and hurried to Marvolo's chambers as the time for potions approached. Even though they weren't working - which made him angry - he couldn't skip the regular diagnostics, either.

Harry looked up from the table of contents of Unpredictable Potions: Side Effects and Reactions and glanced at Kreacher, who had interrupted him unceremoniously. He asked not to be disturbed by trifling matters.

"Master, Lord Malfoy is waiting in the drawing room." The houseelf didn't show a bit of indignation, unlike he did when school friends came to visit.

"Оh—" Harry's thoughts were still in the midst of medical terms, "Then— serve tea and snacks, please."

He rose, sticking the bookmark in about a third of the book in his hands, and hurried down to his guest.

Lord Malfoy was seating himself languidly on one of the light-colored couches, throwing his leg over the leg gracefully and looking as if he had previously been honored by a visit from the Queen herself. "The negotiation went well," Harry surmised. He stepped out to his guest in straight homemade clothes: cream shirt undone on the first two buttons, soft slippers on his feet. Lord Malfoy only snorted at this, lingering his gaze on the ink stain at the collar of his shirt that Harry hadn't bothered to change. Because he wasn't the one making the surprise visit, and besides, they'd been getting along quite well for quite some time now, and neither of them saw the point in unnecessary ceremony.

"Lord Malfoy?" Harry shook his hand, "Tell me what brings you here. I have a lot of work to do."

"You didn't look busy yesterday," he said with perfect nonchalance, picking up a tiny tea cup. Kreacher had gone to the trouble of putting the best of the porcelain sets on the table, with rosettes and saucers.

It was a challenge. And Harry was accepting it.

"Okay," he lifted his cup from the saucer. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but this isn't the Lord's first case of indisposition, is it?"

"Of course it is." Harry leaned forward, intrigued. "You've caught two," Malfoy said wryly.

But no. He knew what he was talking about, and clearly didn't plan on revealing it, not right away. Harry was annoyed by that.

"I'd say it happens intermittently," he took a sip to avoid saying too much, "with a wide range of times, places, and people. Am I still right?" Harry had his own theory of events. And if truth required playing questions - he had no problem with that.

"You're not making a lot of sense," Malfoy was clearly amused, peering slyly over his cup. "But you could be quite right. Asking the right question is half the answer."

"Then I'll ask it directly," he clinked his saucer on the table. "And you'll do your best to remember the details."

"Mm-hmm."

Harry leaned back in his chair irritably. He didn't like this sort of thing. That Lord had a way of getting on his nerves.

"Does Lord Gaunt know the cause of his ailment?"

"You really get right to the point," Malfoy snorted, deigning to clarify. "It had happened more than once or twice. High receptions, meetings with ambassadors and ministers, interviews, dinner parties. We didn't take it seriously at first. So what if some old geezer with a score to settle poured some belladonna into a goblet. That's what a lord drinks with his oatmeal for breakfast. But then there was the Christmas celebration at the Ministry of Magic. No one would risk it, and no one could - don't ask, it's classified technology - and I was treating the Lord like we'd been guzzling Muggle liquor all night, not just a glass of sparkling wine all evening. You know, you can't go public about something like that. The only thing we found out was that it wasn't poison, at least not in its direct sense."

"Did you check absolutely everything?" Harry jumped up irritably from the couch, pacing back and forth across the living room.

"Young man," Malfoy threw him a barbed look, "I've been at this longer than you've been alive, and if we checked, there really wasn't anything there."

"It could have been a delayed-action artifact."

"Really narrows it down. Just the whole of Magical Britain and a dozen other Asian countries."

Malfoy scraped his cup against the saucer irritably. The investigation was indeed massive, especially for this level of secrecy. Dozens of trusted people had literally scoured the Ministry at the time without finding a trace. Besides, the boy is clearly arrogant - it's high time he dealt with the Lord's fortune, searching his abstruse books for what he needs.

"That's your job!"

"You said yourself that the influence is not of a magical nature." The Lord mocked in a childish way.

"I was talking about the consequences! That's what we're seeing right now. And they're the reason Marvolo's in a coma and the potions aren't working!" Harry jerked angrily toward the Lord. "But the initial cause may well have been magical. And don't tell me you haven't thought of that! I could name a dozen rituals that would suck the life out of you for decades, with occasional minor annoyances like rashes and constipation."

"Are you threatening me now? I'd like to remind you that it was under your supervision that Lord was here," it wasn't entirely fair. It's happened before, but not on this scale.

"It could have been anyone else. And he would have sought hospitalization at St. Mungo's instead of bowing to you!"

"You wouldn't dare," Malfoy hissed at him like a snake. "It was part of your oath."

"And I won't! Happy now?" Harry needed to snap at someone. He'd let Marvolo get closer than he should have, and the realization of his own helplessness was depressing. "I'll rummage through the books and watch over your Lord like a leprechaun over gold in case he wakes up."

"If we need a nurse, I'll find someone better," Malfoy said, no less furious. "Your job is to keep him from dying. That's a start."

"And what are you going to do in the meantime?" Harry glanced at the still seated Lord and continued his inquiries.

"You know." Malfoy panted, forcing himself to calm down. "It's—"

"What?" Harry exhaled angrily, sitting up sharply and catching the table leg. The dishes clinked pitifully, spilling tea all over the white tablecloth. The rosettes tipped over as well, and a viscous stream of cherry jam from Malfoy's side and buckwheat honey from Harry's. He lingered on it for a moment, trying to catch a thought, but the excitement made it hard to form.

"Perhaps it has something to do with it," the small incident, strangely enough, finally calmed the Lord, "but I can't tell you. I really can't." he insisted, under Harry's indignant stare. "There's a certain ritual. That's all."

"You really—"

"I took an oath," Malfoy said calmly. "That's all I can do. If you want more than that, all the answers now occupy one of your bedrooms."

Catching the moment of truce, Kreacher, without showing himself, hurried to fix the mess on the table. Harry was still staring at the painted rosette when magic willed it back to its usual place.

Lord Malfoy, on the other hand, was interested in something else at the moment. He had gotten his hands on the collection Harry had brought from the study earlier, which had miraculously escaped the chaos.

"Side effects and reactions?" he opened the book by the bookmark, "Anything can happen." he flipped through a bit, giving Harry time to finally cool down as well. "You know what? It really could be a fluke, after all. He practiced a lot of different magic, I don't know the part."

"That narrows it down a lot," Harry returned him tiredly, which only elicited a soft chuckle.

"I really think you're a good healer, Mr. Potter. This may seem difficult, but please try." he closed the book carefully, placing it on the edge. "And I really don't know who could have handled all of this better," Malfoy swept his hand through the air, encompassing that abstract all.

Harry looked at him seriously, finding no falseness. Merlin sees, I'll do it, he thought.

Chapter Text

Later, sitting in the chair in his office, Harry tried to put the facts back together.

"What do we have? After a failed experiment, the body's resistance drops and Marvolo gets a cold. It's simple." he nodded to himself, replaying their first meeting. "He had looked sick then, but it was nothing compared to his current condition."

Harry stared at the wall opposite. The evening sun illuminated the spines of the books, forming bizarre shadows between the volumes. This used to be his grandfather's study. When Harry was very young, he used to spend a lot of time here, leafing through the children's books his houseelf had prepared for him, sitting just like this and looking at Fleamont, who was busy working. Harry loved him very much. He dreamed of being like him when he grew up. And now he was grown up.

Harry chuckled sardonically.

Fleamont hadn't been with them in years. Neither had Grandma Euphemia, may Magic favour them on the other side of the line. Harry didn't remember what they had been like when they were alive anymore. No, of course, there were portraits in the drawing room, the Ancestors' Room, and even in this study, but Grandfather, once convinced of Harry's competence, preferred to spend his time in his other portrait, many hundreds of miles away in France. There now, Mum was building her potions business, and Dad, under Granddad's strict guidance, was mastering the jungle of financial red tape. So everyone had their hands full.

Harry leaned back tiredly, sighing in confusion. He wished he had someone to talk to, someone to get an outside perspective—

Jumping off the couch, Harry made his way over to the portrait canvas, hastily trying to comb out the curly mess on his head. Realising the futility of his actions, he only grinned, pitching forward.

Touching the corner of the frame lightly with his wand, Harry called out softly:

"Grandad? Can we have a word?"

They had been poring over various folios and parchments for hours now, trying to piece together a coherent picture and still bumping into the wall.

"If there are no options, I'm going to have to go for it." Harry leaned back in his chair tiredly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His grandfather only glanced at him carefully, figuring something out to himself before throwing it in without any explanation:

"Depends on what purpose you have in mind."

Harry took his gaze away from the table perplexed, transferring it to the portrait.

"What are you talking about?"

"The ritual hasn't been practised for a long time, and there are a number of reasons for that," Fleamont smiled slyly, tweaking the edge of his moustache." Do you know what they are?"

Harry turned back to the parchment, glancing at the lines but not knowing what he was looking for.

Magic donation itself wasn't a particularly common practice, due to some of the side effects. Emotional attachment - as if it threatened him - was one of the more innocuous reasons why Harry wouldn't have gone for it at any other time.

"Perhaps—" thoughtfully, Harry twirled his wand between his fingers," I can't check for a lack of blood feud between the clans?"

It would have huge implications for him as a donor. History remembered only a few cases where both participants in the procedure survived after such a thing; more often than not, one of them died in terrible agony, within a single moon.

Fleamont only chuckled, slapping his palm on his knee:

"You don't have to worry about that. I checked it out when I was going to marry your father to Marvolo. It's just a shame it didn't work out - it would have been a good match." His eyes filled with warmth, as they always did when he went back to the old days, "and on the other hand, it was better."

Why better, Harry decided not to elaborate.

"Any other options? Think, Harry." He gave him a stern look.

"Hyoscýamus? Intentions? I'm his healer, with a bad motive I simply won't be able to perform the ritual."

"That's self-evident." He stepped forward a little, "If you decide to do it, be prepared to clean up afterwards."

Harry frowned, realising what Fleamont was getting at. He knew him like the back of his hand, how could he be expected not to notice the concern with which Harry was immersed in his books; which he had always forbidden himself to show towards the sick.

"Take a closer look." He nodded at the book in his hands.

Harry snickered, still struggling to wade through the thicket of ancient English writings: —a procedure often used for a progressive condition expressed by disruption or cessation of the normal circulation of small energy flows in the nucleus—is one of the causes of high mortality—caused by mutation of the outer shell—biomagical processes—that have no definite script to buy into a state of low influence—peripheral shells—. It all made sense, but seemed to make absolutely no sense at all, which was not what Grandfather was getting at.

The main problem was the difficulty of diagnosing Marvolo's condition. Harry had already tried every possible spell on him, even turning to some of his own - and not yet registered - developments. Blood testing meant the usual overkill on various reactions, more of which could only be pulled off with informed consent - not their option. Ritual checks like the goblins' could also be put in the same category - again, you can't do it on your own without consent, and even less so in a bank. Dead ends.

Harry buried his fingers in his hair, imagining the prospect of being in Marvolo's shoes. No documents that would allow him to carry out the necessary procedures, no relatives to give their consent, nothing. Was he so sure of himself, or was he unwilling to resist?

"Definitely not the latter," Harry shuddered. It sounded like he'd said the last phrase out loud.

Marvolo really didn't seem like a fatalist. Anostik? Perhaps. But it was unlikely he'd just sit idly by.

"—his core," Harry barely audibly muttered.

Fleamont only nodded contentedly at that:

"Go on."

"Could it be—But how—? Unless—" hesitating to formulate a hypothesis, Harry scurried around the office, making his rummaging even more chaotic. "But that doesn't explain it at all!"

Familiarising himself with the papers had initially taken a long time, and believing that everything he could and had done, Harry had come to a decision. But what if the question was the wrong one to ask in the first place? It had concerned him even earlier, but he had brushed it aside then, under Marvolo's confident tone. Now this thread could lead to an entirely different result.

"Was that possible? To live with partial core dysfunction?" Harry turned confusedly to the portrait that had been calmly waiting out the minute of his tantrum. "He wouldn't live a couple of years. It's like a half-working heart!"

"No, no, no. We're talking about more intangible things." Fleamont chastised him affectionately. "You're on the right track. Nobody's going to try to pour ether into a bottomless jug. But there's a problem."

"I— I need to be sure." Harry whispered before slipping out the door the houseelf had thoughtfully opened.

Harry sat on the edge of the bed, staring at Marvolo's hands over the blanket. So pale, with the blue veins bulging out. Harry ran his fingers over them thoughtlessly, counting the barely perceptible pulse with his fingertips.

He wasn't prepared for the news he'd received.

Healer was an extremely difficult profession in itself. Curses and jinxes, poisons, unknown diseases. Every healer is essentially a detective, wading through the thicket of complaints and lamentations, poring over the tangle of confusing symptoms, getting to the very centre - the root cause of the ailment.

Apparently Harry wasn't much of a detective, if even the portrait had reached conclusions beyond his reach.

"That's the kind of ritual Malfoy seemed to be talking about," Harry summed up frustratedly, adjusting the blanket he'd wrinkled.

Soul magic.

"No, not that I mind," he continued indignantly, "But, you know? That's something you should have talked about beforehand!" he was being blatantly sly. No one in their right mind would share such a secret, not even with a personal healer. Perhaps Malfoy's awareness was just a coincidence, too.

This revelation was yet another stone in Harry's research. Charms that couldn't be undone with a couple of strokes of the wand, or by complex multi-step rituals either. What was worse, without an accurate description, he could only try to patch the shell by feel, hoping it would be enough to sustain life. But whatever it had been created with - the genius of the wizard Harry couldn't deny, despite the difficulties ahead of him because of it.

After calming down and giving it some thought, Harry decided that he had got Fleamont's message right after all. Transfusing magic, like blood, was not only risky for wizards, but also extremely intimate. Like Muggles that after a heart transplant can change their tastes and preferences, a wizard gets an inexplicable connection with the donor from such a procedure. But that's in the case of no damage to the nucleus. Here, however, one can only try to predict the consequences. Undoubtedly, Harry's magic will do its job, pushing through the problem area and restarting the system. But it's magic. A load-bearing part of Harry himself.

Perhaps this is his chance.

*********

Having come to certain conclusions, Harry suddenly discovered within himself a reserve of simply insane inspiration. He persistently burrowed into all sorts of literature, shamelessly using the Malfoy library, and skipping between the Malfoy Manor and the previously mothballed Black mansion. The latter was a feast for Kritcher, who stomped by Walburga's portrait dropping tears. It had only been a fortnight since Harry had made his decision, and most of the work was already done. Convinced that the search for an alternative could take months, he was systematically preparing for a ritual that could be a whole new round of his career. Provided, of course, that Marvolo didn't want to get rid of him when he found out. According to what he'd read in the diaries of one of Black's 15th-century relatives, his relatives had done this sort of thing before, but only within the family. There were several reasons for this: first of all, the law did not allow such rituals to be performed left and right, and, of course, the support of the whole family in case of failure. Another one of the points that Harry unceremoniously ignored was the pre-existing bond between donor and recipient, often marriage. This greatly reduced the risks of rejection during the infusion, and only strengthened existing bonds," Harry shook his head feignedly disapprovingly at this note. However, from his calculations everything was working out quite favourably and he confidently prepared to carry out.

The Ritual Hall was the obvious choice: its magic-soaked walls would support Harry and keep them both safe from a sudden outbreak if Marvolo's magic did break out.

After sifting out the superfluous stuff inherent in the witchcraft of the times, the final ritual was not too complicated, but represented considerable preparation, as if for the sacrifice of an organ. Though it was. Harry drank gallons of cleansing potions, meditated, took special baths, and even stopped eating flour, which the noxious Critcher was only too happy to do. And after a week and a half, he could have sworn he'd lost a few pounds, though to be fair, he felt better.

It was time to get down to business.

Chapter Text

Excited about what was to come, Harry rubbed his damp palms against the rough white fabric of the ritual toga. Marvolo was dressed exactly the same, except that his cloth was a dirty grey, a tribute to an ancient tradition that Harry saw no practical use for. But Fleamont had insisted on that detail, and Harry trusted him implicitly.

Walking a few steps forward with a rather substantial body - Marvolo was not a frail boy, after all - Harry lowered him carefully onto the stone prepared for the occasion. Taking great care not to accidentally erase the runes he'd spent three nights carefully drawing, he adjusted the cloth and stepped aside. Marvolo wasn't allowed to use magic for a couple of hours before the ritual, so Harry had to drag him from the first floor to the basement for a good ten minutes. His hands were shaking from the strain, so he gave himself a short break, gathering his strength and setting himself to work.

«Be sure of what you're doing» — Grandpa's advice flashed through his mind.

He can pronounce everything correctly, find the exact moment and point of fusion, but if he hesitates even for a second—

Harry preferred to think that the ritual would just break down.

Taking a deep breath, and lighting one of the candles with a Muggle match, he walked in a circle along the walls of the room, lighting the others one by one. It took a while. Last he lit the bundle of incense at Marvolo's feet and set the candle in the special notch by his head.

It was ready.

At exactly six forty-five Marvolo opened his eyes lazily, trying to remember what day of the week it was. It had to be Wednesday. He had a meeting with the representative of the House of Lords, Chetman, and the bloodsucker wouldn't leave until he'd discussed absolutely everything in his ugly mustard-coloured notebook.

Waking up with a headache had become something of a routine for Marvolo. A thick, wide band of tape began to tighten around his skull, making it uncomfortable even to blink. His mouth was a desert. He tried to move and was immediately taken aback. He counted his right arm, both legs, but his left— Didn't move?

Turning his head, he bumped into someone's hair.

The bells in his head began to beat an uneasy rhythm, and with a muffled moan, Marvolo closed his eyes, giving himself a moment to collect himself.

A few minutes later, he was sleeping sweetly, buried in the black curls of the mage, sniffling against his neck.

An unpleasant throbbing sensation made itself felt the first time he turned his head. It wasn't constant, but it was persistent with sudden movements. Strange. Marvolo was pretty sure he hadn't had a drink since last Christmas Eve, when he'd foolishly succumbed to Lucius' entreaties. So it was something else— And suddenly it came to him.

The disease. Potter. The evening by the fireplace.

And then nothing.

Marvolo curled up on the sheets, burying his face into the pillow and trying to piece his thoughts together. The linen smelled of orange zest and cinnamon.

He was alone in bed.

Instead of something sane in his mind, it was the recipe for the meat pie Harry had suddenly wanted to make the night before, and only his patient's diet and remnants of conscience prevented him from rushing to the kitchen on the ground floor. Potatoes, milk, half a pound of pork— Marvolo is very fond of pork. It was a rarity at the orphanage, served on certain holidays, and at school you couldn't show your eating habits - someone attentive would be sure to find a way to use that knowledge.

Shaking his head and immediately gritting his teeth at the new outbreak, he hooked his fingers into the canopy, pulling it away.

These were not his master quarters. Nor the guest quarters, or any of the others in his manor. Memory persisted, trying to plant a clue, but so far failing. Marvolo listened to himself warily, trying to find tracking or signalling charms, but there were none.

An autumn landscape hung above the mantelpiece. Quite a practical purchase, familiar to him from the All-European Guild Convention in the sixties. He'd wanted one for himself, but there was no need. This painting was a binding artefact that in normal times had no use, being isolated from visitors from other canvases, but at a critical moment it became available, giving the owner plenty of options. Which gave him some thoughts.

The resting place. In a mysterious residence. And it doesn't look like a guest house at all.

No clan symbols appeared in sight, complicating the reasoning.

The houseelf didn't respond to the snap of his fingers. Neither did the wand, which Marvolo hoped would be within reach. Not good.

He struggled to get out of bed and drained the glass of water that had been hospitably left on the bedside table. He almost choked on it, stumbling on another unexpected detail.

On his left hand, where just yesterday there had been nothing - Marvolo could have sworn by magic - was a platinum wedding ring. It fit snugly and would not come off. A closer look at the ring showed a triangle, a circle, and a straight line stamped into the metal on the side of his palm.

He couldn't formulate a question.

Following the appetising odours, Marvolo took a few steps into the kitchen and stopped. With his back to him, Harry was standing at the cooker, humming a familiar tune.

"Oh. Good morning," he jerked awkwardly and almost knocked over the coffee pot with his hand.

The soft pink apron Harry wore tinted the touching blush that had appeared on his cheekbones. It almost quieted Marvolo's anger, which only grew with each step down the stairs. Potter residence - he realised where he was as soon as he stepped out of the chambers. The atmosphere had changed a little since he'd been here, but it was still recognisable. He was tempted to look into the study that was in his way, but common sense was more persuasive.

The table was laid out with cutlery and white plates on neatly lined cloth napkins. There was also a carafe of pumpkin juice and a couple of glasses, and a sugar bowl on the countertop near the cooker.

Having chosen his tactics, Marvolo decided to make a point at once:

"And what does all this mean?"

"Well," Harry stammered. "Coffee? I think I can afford some now."

Anger reared its head again, starting to build up from the very centre of his chest.

"I'm asking WHAT. ALL THIS. SIGNS. Answer me, boy!"

Harry froze in the middle of the kitchen with a cezve in his hands. There was still a pan on the hob, filled with batter.

"Hmm," he lingered and turned back to the worktop, pouring coffee into two tiny cups and moving them to the dining table. The sugar bowl followed them. "How are you feeling?"

"Where's my wand?" Marvolo could barely keep his fingers from trembling. This hadn't happened to him in a long time. Confusion, anxiety, fear over the lack of his wand - all of it threatened to turn into hysteria, which was bound to bring down the healer.

Harry glanced around the room, where the dishes on the shelves were beginning to rattle.

"You'd better not be nervous right now. We need to let the core stabilise - that's why you haven't seen the houseelf and I'm not casting a spell on you. You should wait a while."

"Then," Marvolo scraped his chair against the parquet, resting his elbows on the table and resting his forehead on his palms, “I can listen to all this for now,” he said with a shrug.

The smell of smoke spread through the kitchen and Harry immediately returned to the cooker, occupying his hands. Marvolo felt ashamed of his outburst. Like a little boy, by God. Confused, he'd forgotten for a moment that the oaths the healer had taken were so precisely stipulated that he wouldn't even add an extra spoonful of sugar to his tea, let alone try to harm it.

Marvolo recalled the list Lucius had brought him at first. Surely this one,’ he twirled the ring on his finger, ’has an explanation.

Having calmed the storm inside a little, he finally looked up, looking around. Surprisingly, the atmosphere of the manor didn't seem hostile - despite the chaos it had nearly caused - and was welcoming. The hot lump in his chest did not disappear, but became something weightless and incredibly soft, tugging at something outside. Marvolo understood perfectly well what it was. The metal on his finger radiated warmth, invisibly joined to its half, the same rim on the finger of a slender, youthful hand.

"So," a plate with a delicious-smelling stack of pancakes stood in the middle of the table. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine." Marvolo wasn't lying. He really hadn't felt this light in a long time. Whole.

Harry watched him carefully.

"I won't say for sure without knowing the details," he began distantly, "but from the looks of it, my attempt to patch up the outer shell was successful."

Marvolo froze before the fork reached his lips.

"—that makes sense," he muttered, staring at his palm.

Harry had a hundred questions on his tongue, but he preferred to save them for later - they'd have plenty of time now.

"Ahem. About that," Harry hesitated. "Did you— did you know my grandfather well?" he asked suddenly.

Marvolo broke away from his contemplation of the metal, looking at his companion thoughtfully. He slid his tongue over his lips before he spoke.

"I wouldn't say that. We've worked well together in our time, and Flimont once did me a huge favour that I didn't have time to return." There was a note of regret in his words. "He was a very talented artefactor. Moderately vain," he chuckled, "but no less impossible. I suppose I could call him my mate. Though, I'm ashamed to say, I've never said that to him."

It was obvious to Harry that this was not at all what he wanted to hear.

"Maybe," he paused, choosing his words, "you had some sort of— arrangement?"

"Vows?" Marvolo had a knack for ignoring decorum when necessary.

"Yes."

"Not that I remember."

Harry turned away from the window, lost in thought. The sun shining through the curtains emphasised his profile, giving him an otherworldly glow. Marvolo stared at his eyelashes, impossibly long in this light.

"You were dying." Harry said suddenly, still avoiding a direct gaze.

Marvolo shuddered, clutching his fork to his white fingers.

"Time was running out, and I didn't have much to choose from."

"And you—"

"You can feel it, can't you?" he finally turned round, looking point-blank. "My magic in your veins. I performed a donation ritual to trigger your core."

Marvolo had actually felt something like that since waking up. It was quite a pleasant feeling. He, who was perpetually cold even under warming spells, felt like he was wrapped in a warm cocoon, warming him from the inside out.

"I don't remember it being necessary," he nodded at the ring.

"Yes."

They paused, each staring at their own plate. Unexpectedly hungry, Marvolo was happily eating the still hot pancakes while Harry picked at his portion.

"He said it's all down to magic," Harry tossed his utensils aside, moving closer to his companion. "But I know him well. I know when he's lying. He won't talk to me."

Marvolo enjoyed his breakfast, watching his companion surreptitiously. He looked worried, with his shirt untucked and his head mussed. Not using Sleekeazy's?

He lowered his gaze, encountering the thick green of his iris, with a clear charcoal rim. There was hope in the eyes opposite - for something more, or an offer of a way out? Marvolo didn't know.

"I'll give it a try."

Harry smiled tiredly.

Harry didn't like easy paths. They were boring - meant you weren't using your potential to its fullest. Still, he preferred to deal with manageable tasks, for not only his career, but often the lives of his tasks depended on his ambition.

While Marvolo was making the old connection with Flimont, sitting in the study on Harry's favourite sofa; he went back downstairs with mixed feelings. He strolled back into the kitchen and poured a glass of pumpkin juice. His appetite was gone, even though he hadn't eaten in over a day for sure.

A few sips only tightened the lump in his stomach more.

Harry listened. Silence. There was no sound coming from the corridor, expectantly, though he was sure the fireplace in the living room was definitely lit. Only half an hour ago the house had been ringing with cutlery, an hour with coffee hissing and frying pans crackling. Two hours—

It wasn't likely to happen again, though.

Harry looked round the table once more, finding no desire to tidy up, stood up, carefully pushing his chair back into place, and followed to the transport fireplace - he could use some air.

Chapter Text

It's not that bad. It happens sometimes. There's a reason why healing ethics came about.

Damn it.

Leaping out of the fireplace in the Leaky Cauldron, Harry hesitated, and still dismissed the idea of walking through the magical part of the city. Of course, the odds of meeting Malfoy there weren't too great, but he didn't want to take any chances.

Stepping out onto Charing Cross Road, Harry hurried to the nearest alleyway that would hide him from prying eyes. He pulled out his wand, and froze against the wall for a while, covering his eyes. Before him, out of the bluish haze, a very young stag appeared, snuggling faithfully into his master's shoulder.

"For Hermione Granger. Confidential: I need you right now. Near the Hole."

That could really be a problem. He knew very well that he found Marvolo quite attractive, despite his apparent aloofness and his role as a grey cardinal. He knew, and then he would talk to him long evenings by the fireplace, getting to know him more and more, even though it was outside his duties. And let Smethwyck take his licence away from him, but Harry saw, by the long glances while he himself was busy with something, by the genuine attentiveness - he was not the only one trapped by these circumstances. They'd both been there, sending all sorts of— signals, and now Harry would be fired. Brilliance.

Merlin bless her, the otter came running in a few moments later with an answer:

"At Gouqi in fifteen minutes. Get a table by the window."

*********

"I told you."

"It's nothing of the sort" he mumbled, his hands folded on the table.

There was something unfair about the way he'd brushed off all her offers to go out on the weekend, whereas she'd come running to his aid on his first call.

"Well, maybe I wasn't so specific, but those experimental methods of yours were bound to fail one day."

Hermione sat opposite, studying the menu. The café was a little crowded at midday. Tourists and workmen who'd popped out for their lunch break were chattering, ordering, staggering back and forth, doing their best to drown out Harry's inner voice.

"I don't know how that happened."

Hermione only snorted.

"Is this about Mr. Gaunt or your methods? Because if it's Gaunt," she glanced at him meaningfully, "I wouldn't mind a date or two for myself."

Harry sighed miserably, still not getting up.

"What did you want? From what you said: tall, handsome, secretive, as focused on his work as you are - totally your type."

"You're not helping!"

"Obviously."

Hermione hummed, pleased with herself, and beckoned the waiter, ordering for two.

"He's not that secretive," Harry grumbled.

"Oh, he is. It's just that you know him better."

"I don't—" Harry stammered. He still wasn't ready for this. Probably never will be.

Suddenly he remembered their school days. Their acquaintance. He'd been sobbing in the loo, terrified of the Slytherin seniors who'd met him, when some unscrupulous girl had barged into the gents. She'd been completely ridiculous at the time. Curly-haired, with crooked teeth and a squinting gaze - Harry had thought she'd come to mock him too. But she'd done something else, something completely Slytherin, she'd reported the incident to the Dean immediately, and just half an hour later, those same bullies were apologising to him in the Headmaster's office. From that moment on, she'd decided that they were now friends.

And, no matter how it looked, Hermione wouldn't do anything to harm him, no, it wasn't in her principles.

He pushed himself away from the table, levelling himself, and folded his palms in front of him. The left one on top.

Hermione reached for his hand, in support and the slight smile still roaming across her face slowly slid away.

"This—" she wheezed, "is that what I think it is?"

The sun was beating straight through the window, allowing Hermione to see in great detail the consequences of Harry's decisions. After a little while, she did take his hand, scrutinising the metal.

"О Merlin." Hermione said clearly. "Are you to be congratulated yet?"

Harry jerked his hand free, but she dug her nails into the soft flesh near his thumb.

He was beginning to regret that he had dared to do this. No! Hermione wouldn't even think of anything rebellious, but— They had a different approach to problem solving.

"You don't think— I'm just a little— It's unexpected." Startled, she continued to twist Harry's palm, examining the ring in detail.

"It's not like that," he finally managed to free his hand, hiding it in his sleeves. As if that would change the fact that the ring was already on him.

Hermione, the clever girl, instead of oohs and ahs, fixed her attentive gaze on him. Even the completely uninitiated would have noticed - slumped shoulders and a general depressed look were clearly not signs of great happiness.

"It has something to do with his treatment," she suggested cautiously. Good girl.

Bound by his vows, Harry could only nod.

"And you— didn't plan this?"

‘Yes. No. I don't know.’

Harry grimaced. The ritual had intended consequences, but definitely not of this magnitude.

Across the table from them, a few kids were scuffling.

"I'm starting to regret choosing this place," Hermione muttered unhappily, glancing around.

Harry turned there. Three kids, one a little older, all covered in ice cream, and stubbornly intent on getting their neighbour even dirtier. The blonde-haired man next to them, probably their father, was trying to reduce the scale of the disaster with napkins, and couldn't stop smiling. Judging by the pulled back chair, the other parent had recently moved away.

"Hey," Hermione called out, noticing her friend's condition. "We'll figure it out." She gave him a reassuring smile. "At least it's not Goyle after all."

They grimaced at the same time, and then burst into laughter.

"Oh well, how bad are we doing?" Hermione decided not to show off.

"On what scale?"

"Are you just fascinated or are you already in his pants?"

"Mione!" A stern look from the receptionist who had come to break up the row next door kept Harry from throwing potatoes at his friend.

Despite Hermione's outward determination, he was sure she wouldn't push. She knew how important it could be to him. They'd even had a conversation once - about bedroom matters, and how Harry didn't see the point in them.

And now there was Marvolo living in Harry's house. And not that it had awakened his libido, which was in a coma, but who knew? He was comfortable. Interesting. And though unpleasant circumstances had initiated their cohabitation, Harry realised with a hidden horror that he wouldn't mind continuing this strange coexistence, when he came out of his laboratory late at night, and instead of a grumbling houseelf and a lean salad, Marvolo was waiting for him with his understanding smile, a hearty dinner with wine and fascinating discussions on a variety of topics.

He could live like that. It would give him pleasure.

Startled by his own impulse, Harry shook his head:

"It doesn't matter."

"Well, yes, and the ring is just for beauty, too."

He had a conscience to blush.

"You're not going to tell me." She knew better than anyone else - he wouldn't.

"Even if I wanted to—" he wiggled his shoulder awkwardly.

Hermione brushed non-existent dust off the sleeves of her top.

"You can handle it, can't you?" She asked hopefully.

Harry would like to think so. Hermione, a sympathetic soul, would go out of her way to help him if he asked for help. Even if it was too much. Even if the only way out was another marriage - to her.

The café began to empty, as did the street outside the window.

"Shouldn't you be going?" Harry nodded uncertainly to the side. "Your work."

Hermione continued to look straight at him, weighing something.

"No, Harry James Potter. You've taken on more than you're capable of, and I'm not going to let you handle this alone."

"This is different."

"Is it?"

Harry really wasn't sure. There in the residence now were Marvolo and Flimont, and perhaps a solution to their problem. But was it a problem? Fiercely convinced, his parents had deliberately missed the age when purebloods made alliances between offspring. Was this a good thing for Harry? His mum believes in real, not imposed love. Only— maybe he does need help with that. Maybe this is his chance.

Harry stood up from the table, firm in his intention to sort things out. Hermione caught up with him just outside the café doors.

"Harry—"

This conversation helped him, calming his frayed nerves. Pouring out his doubts made him feel much better. More confident in his abilities.

At the very least, luck was usually on his side.

"I won't tell him," and before Hermione could object again, "not yet."

"Harry."

"How do you see it? I'm sorry I accidentally got engaged to you, and yes, by the way, I like you."

"Well, I don't think it's that direct."

"Really say that? And that I'm thinking about him? That this could be irreversible? What—"

"Mr. Potter."

In the end, he didn't pay attention to Hermione's call. The panic on her face wasn't noticed by him either, nor was the fact that she had fallen behind him, another couple of steps back. They were already approaching the Leaky Cauldron, which meant they might run into someone from the magical part. Someone Harry would rather not run into just yet.

Chapter Text

He wasn't even surprised.

The voice sounded so close that Harry thought he should get his eyes checked if he was going to miss it.

He looked up at the mage standing in front of him. Two of them, to be exact. Marvolo, in the company of Lord Malfoy, came out of the pub, right in front of Harry and Hermione. They looked equally surprised to see each other. And Harry could have sworn they heard everything, unless they were under the curse of deafness.

In that second, he wished faintly that he could fall into a coma. To fall through his flesh, the paving stones of the street, an ephemeral substance flowing away through the filthy sewers. But right now that was absolutely impossible, so he pulled his professional smile onto his face with a Herculean effort and looked boldly into Marvolo's eyes.

Still, Hermione managed to come round first, acting proactively:

"It's a pleasure, Lord Gaunt. Hermione Granger." she took two steps forward and held out her palm.

Harry could only nod, trying to calculate escape routes.

"I've heard," Marvolo hesitated for a second before answering.

"Especially about your Education Decrees." Malfoy immediately decided to intervene. "The last one had made a lot of noise."

"Oh, you mean Specialisations for student organisations? I had a hard time choosing a specialisation in my day, and teachers often can't afford extracurriculars. I thought that introducing Masters into the process would create additional jobs and make life much easier for students."

Hermione, as she always did when it came to her job, rambled on, dragging Malfoy into a whirlwind of clerical terms.

Marvolo was a step behind them, glancing at Harry. Harry couldn't tell if he was angry or upset - there was only restrained curiosity on his face.

Shit.

"We were just finishing our walk," Harry interjected somewhat impolitely as Hermione paused for breath.

"Marvellous. We can continue in your manor," Malfoy said imperiously, making it clear that there would be no avoiding the conversation.

Pressing his lips together, Harry wrapped his arm around Hermione's shoulders and disappeared in a whirlwind of apparitions. That would give them a few minutes while the Lords reached the fireplace.

"Mylordgod" Hermione whispered as soon as they were in the living room. And added under her breath, "And why am I not surprised?"

Harry squatted down where he'd landed, running his fingers through his hair.

"Pull yourself together!" Hermione shouted at him.

"But—"

"You don't have time for hysterics."

At that, she didn't look any better herself.

"Get all that chaos you call your brain into one pile, and behave yourself." she tugged at the collar of his shirt, pulling him to his feet. Smoothing the fabric, she ran her fingers through his hair. "That's better."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can," and then she changed her tone to a more affectionate one, "you want to try, don't you? Maybe he'll be the one. You don't want to let him go, just out of uncertainty."

She cupped her hands around his face, forcing him to look into her eyes.

"And I'll be there for you." And with a snicker,"In case of emergency, I'll throw a Stupefy so you can get away in time."

Harry forced out a weak smile.

"I'll do my best."

He covered his eyes and took a few breaths, trying to get his emotions under control.

Harry was just giving instructions to the houseelf for tea when Lord Malfoy and Marvolo came out of the fireplace, clearly lingering on the other side of the fireplace.

"Please come into the small drawing room," he made an inviting gesture, pointing down the corridor.

Malfoy followed forward as Marvolo stepped back:

"Before, I'll have a word with Mr Potter," it was to Hermione as well, who had almost left the room.

She turned around and nodded faintly, speaking with just her lips: I'm with you. Harry's chest warmed at such concern.

Marvolo took a few quiet steps forward, ending up neatly behind Harry.

"The study?" He asked quietly. The gesture made the hair on the back of Harry's neck stir.

He jumped forward and almost bumped into the chair next to him. Marvolo only grinned understandingly at that, pushing him towards the exit.

There was silence the whole time they walked.

To maintain a semblance of informal conversation, Harry offered to sit down on the couch, though it made him feel even more unsure.

"So," he decided to begin, "what were you and Fleamont talking about?"

Marvolo fidgeted for a moment before settling into a comfortable position.

"First, I'd like to apologise. I know that your contract with Mungo doesn't allow you to give up this case so easily, and I'm very grateful for all the things you've had to go through for my treatment."

His speech was soft and smooth, and Harry caught himself on the impulse to start apologising back.

"I also realise the consequences for you. That's why, not without Lucius' help, I've drawn up a document that absolves you of all responsibility for everything that happened within these walls, including when we were at my manor, under the pretext of necessity."

"It's—" Harry stared at the folded parchment held out to him.

"This is yours."

Harry wished he could take it back. They weren't true. Not completely. Yes, Harry had performed a ritual that wasn't the safest, but it was entirely his initiative. Yes, Marvolo had been silent about the core problems, but Harry had assured him himself then that it had nothing to do with his illness.

In the end, it was Harry's fault for falling for his patient, who was the same age as his deceased grandfather. Not Marvolo.

"Is it because of what you heard?" he would have had to bring it up anyway.

"Including," he'd better lie. He'd rather have said: Heard what? and raised a perplexed eyebrow. Anything would have been better.

For example, not having these conversations in the street, Harry reminded himself vindictively.

"I have some guesses, but I'd like to know what Grandad said first—" Harry began uncertainly.

"Your mistake wasn't there."

"You can't know!"

"I can."

Marvolo's gaze was direct and sure. Except that there was no anger or disappointment in it. For a second, Harry thought he might even enjoy his company, but he dismissed the thought.

"Fleamont explained the mechanisms of the ritual to me in detail," he said, just for a moment, the corner of his jaw twitching, "and from our summation, proper execution should not bind the participants. In a standard situation." he held up a palm, not letting Harry get a word in edgewise, "Neither should the wrong one. Neither factor can create a bond that will last that long after contact is broken."

"But it's there," Harry pointed out.

"Yeah, it's—" Marvolo didn't look the least bit puzzled. It was as if he hadn't realised that Harry had done it on purpose, that he might be interested in the wizard and taking advantage of the situation.

Somehow that didn't make it any easier.

"It was my fault, too."

Harry nodded slowly, trying to put a nonchalant look on his face.

"I didn't think it would cause any problems." His voice was a little unaccustomed. Tired. "Ah, that doesn't excuse me, though."

"It's okay," Harry smiled encouragingly. He really wanted to say something that would make things better.

"When you asked about the vows, I wasn't completely honest with you."

Harry noted with amazement that Marvolo was twiddling his fingers as if he were pawing at them.

"When I became Fleamont's debtor, he said he'd credit me if he gave me his offspring." Marvolo chuckled. His speech became more casual as he thought back on it. Comfortable. "I was at dinner right in this manor. We often met like that. Euphemia was comfortable with the idea at the time." he spoke of her with respect. "And here we are, waiting for your father, for the viewing, as he suddenly leaps into the drawing room and announces that he has proposed to the muggle-born Evans."

Harry jumped with surprise.

"I bet grandfather was furious."

"He was." Marvolo agreed. "Fleamont had a steely entrepreneurial acumen. Your father was lucky I wasn't so keen on marriage back then. So I remembered that the Evanses were once the second branch of the Burkes, and the ones on the side of the Blacks."

"Ancestral talents?" Harry guessed.

"They were. The Blacks had a lot of things besides madness."

They looked at each other conspiratorially. They both knew that every kind of creature from veelas to mermaids had been in this family.

"So what's the bottom line?"

"I really didn't think magic would count for that promise. There was no special wording, no guarantees."

Harry bit down on a fingernail, staring thoughtfully at the wall.

"—Then, instead of an emotional connection, the magic took the path closer to her—"

"We came to the same conclusion," Marvolo nodded.

Harry continued to reason. It had been quite some time since he had come of age, as for a self-fulfilling vow. On the other hand, Fleamont had been alive at the birth of his grandson, which meant that magic already had a lead, waiting for the best moment to be fulfilled. Would any other incident have had the same result? What if he had tried to betroth someone else? That was worth pondering. Could it then be assumed that the Potters knew of the deal, and therefore avoided the marriage arrangements? Or was it the other way round, that magic itself was telling them not to create obstacles? Unclear.

"—arry. Harry." Marvolo's face was suddenly too close to his.

Confused, Harry froze in the same position. A little too close. They had been sitting in this position for quite some time now, but the serious conversation was allowing Harry to keep the situation under control. Until now. Involuntarily, his gaze slid over the face opposite, stroking the long lashes and sharp cheekbones, lingering on the plump lips. He could feel the warm breath on his face, smelling of tobacco and mint.

Perhaps this was how it was supposed to be?

They were silent for quite a long time, neither of them wanting to interrupt the moment of togetherness. Marvolo would have given a lot not to disturb the wizard sitting across from him in any way right now. Harry looked very vulnerable, and it seemed that a single breath would shatter the harmony in the air.

Driven by the moment, Harry barely moved forward, doing nothing. He had to realise, make up his mind, that he wasn't the only one caught up in all this. Marvolo's pupils dilated visibly. They both knew what was about to happen, but they were still procrastinating. Harry reached out his palm, fingertips touching his cheek. Just a moment more—

A hoarse cough made them recoil from each other like schoolboys caught indecent exposure in the corridor after lights out.

"Am I interrupting?" Fleamont grinned slyly into his moustache from his painting, clearly pleased with the effect.

Marvolo only snorted, not particularly upset.

Chapter Text

Harry sat with his face tucked into the palms of his hands, about to spend about an eternity like that.

It's unheard of!

All these things—. His worries, his fears, the monstrously nerve-wracking ritual that made him think of giving up his career, and all just for the sake of—

Harry let out an agonised groan.

Marvolo, sitting a little further away, did not interfere with his session of self-abuse yet, keeping his gaze on his dishevelled head. His thoughts were flowing in a slightly different direction. Specifically different. The way Harry's bitten lip had flushed as he listened to Fleamont's explanation, the unruly curls that Marvolo hadn't had time to run his fingers through to see if they were really as soft as they looked, the strip of flushed skin above his collar. The urge to put his lips to it was almost irresistible.

But between the two of them, Marvolo was the older one. And obviously more experienced, so it was quite clear who should have taken the initiative.

He took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts.

"Is everything all right?" He asked in a quiet tone. Trusting.

"Yeah! Yeah—" Harry rubbed his face vigorously and mumbled through his fingers, "It's just that it's—"

"Weird?" Marvolo suggested.

And really, he thought, you'd have to think of something like that.

"As my Master used to say, implausible."

"Even for the magical world?" Marvolo found his confusion rather endearing.

Harry turned towards him, meeting his darkened gaze. The tone, the intimate tone, should have made him feel uncomfortable, but it didn't. Somehow Marvolo's too-close presence only made him feel better, though just ten minutes ago he'd been torn between anger at his grandfather, at himself for being careless, a little at fate itself for such feints. And now a warm, firm thigh was pressed against his leg, and Harry was calmer than the Tibetan monks. Well, maybe still a little embarrassed.

"Still," he sighed. "This could only happen to me."

He glanced up in surprise when Marvolo let out a chuckle. The man shook his head, leaning back on the back of the couch relaxedly.

"Magic. "He said meaningfully. "Some things are still beyond our comprehension, Master Potter."

And then he became more serious, moving on to a topic of greater concern to him:

"We can start looking for a way to break the bond right now. If that's what you want. If she's a burden to you. Just say the word." he put his hand gently around Harry's wrist. "No matter how strong it is, nothing is perfect. But only if you really want it to be. I realise we don't know each other that well, and maybe you had some plans for this." he lied. Fleamont was happy to tell him about his grandson's career obsession, which might eventually end the Potter family's glorious lineage. "That I might not be interesting enough to you, with my aloofness and a ton of papers instead of hobbies. But I've learnt a little about you in the meantime. About you, your work and your outlook on life. I'm interested in you. And I really want to try."

He poured out all his doubts as honestly as he could, having hope in Harry's sentimentality and his respect for honesty. Maybe at least he wouldn't decide rashly.

Surprised, Harry bit down on his long-suffering lip again. Chewing on it for a bit before he offered:

"I'll— think about it." he glanced at his watch, noting only forty minutes since their return to the manor - though it felt like hours had passed, so much so that the conversation was proving difficult for Harry. "Hermione and Malfoy," he reminded him, "they're waiting."

At the very door to the drawing room they slowed down.

"—and that's with ABSOLUTELY every item on the application list!"

They've probably missed something rather entertaining. Very entertaining, judging by the wizards who were quiet in the paintings. At the same time, the argument seemed to be in full swing.

"They would not have been delayed if you had filled out the accompanying documentation correctly, so that the staff did not have to personally re-read all these volumes of yours, running with each of them to me for consultation!"

"If I had written them as they were, they would never have been accepted for review!"

"Then maybe my staff aren't the problem!"

Harry worried about how the conflict might not escalate into a battle of wands right in his small living room, obviously not suitable for this type of active pastime. Domestic stabbing, he would write in the report to the Auror's office, purely out of spite.

Marvolo, judging by the mocking look in his eyes, shared his thought. It was time to intervene if they didn't want any more trouble.

Before Harry reached the doorknob, Marvolo had time to pitch forward, and, straddling his neck for comfort, left a light kiss just above his temple. Afterwards, he put his free hand on the balloon, and pulled the door towards him.

The living room did indeed risk becoming a battlefield. A few cushions lay on the carpet in the distance, and the much-admired guests stood across from each other, ready to snap at any moment and go for their opponent's throat.

"Are we interrupting?" Marvolo chuckled. The slight irony brought Harry to his senses and he stepped forward, returning the cushions to their proper places with a wave of his wand.

And, while Hermione was the sort of person he brought to this state of mind on a regular basis, getting smacked in the neck for doing and not doing, Lord Malfoy's behaviour was something new to him. Like when one day it dawns on you that teachers are people too, not sexless creatures, and, oh Merlin, have personal lives: various hobbies, friends, sex. He tried not to think much about the last point, though.

"Not at all," Malfoy hissed, "we were just finishing up our discussion."

"Don't hold back - a healer is always at hand!" Marvolo continued, amused.

Kreacher, who had emerged in the silence, dutifully set down two more cup-saucer, bowed, and disappeared.

Harry muttered to himself, looking at this submissiveness:

"I wish it could always be like this."

Hermione sullenly sat back down on the sofa, only to throw a menacing glare already in Harry's direction.

"Are you finished?" She asked, and Harry felt an incredible need to stomp from foot to foot.

"Yeah, sort of."

"Pardon?"

She queried sceptically, still on edge.

"Some details have come out, so—"

"So basically we're engaged, and you can't spread this until it's officially announced." Marvolo finished confidently behind the faltering Harry.

Malfoy gave them an alternately attentive look, unsure of his conclusions.

"And since when—?"

"We've had time to get to know each other quite well," Marvolo replied streamlined.

Harry was busy avoiding his friend's scrutinising gaze. She was expressing her doubts about the adequacy of her surroundings, but to her credit she kept silent.

Hermione suddenly remembered that she was late for her date of a week ago, but Marvolo was in high spirits and promised to write Mrs Malfoy a letter stating that Lucius had a lover the same age as their son. Marvolo, being in high spirits, promised to write Mrs Malfoy a letter stating that Lucius had taken a lover the same age as their son - a little thrashing would distract him from the rest of his business for a while.

But Malfoy had left the last word to himself. Already clutching gunpowder in his fist, he turned round to face Marvolo and, with a mocking eyebrow, said:

"Still, congratulations My Lord, Mr Potter." He nodded to them in turn. "May Magic bless your union and grant strong heirs to the ancient Kindred."

Now that was a rather apt remark.

The fireplace flashed green and Harry groaned tiredly.

A bloody long day.

"Dinner?" he asked, turning round on his way out. "I just need to carve a chicken with extreme ferocity."

Marvolo didn't think to suggest alternatives.

"I'll choose the wine."

In the kitchen, obviously equipped for mages-he'd never thought of it before-Harry immediately rattled through the doors, setting a cutting board and spice box on the countertop, ducking into a drawer for a knife. Behind an inconspicuous door by the cabinets was a cellar door, from which he emerged with a rather well-fed chicken carcass.

"Wine to the left and all the way down," he nodded toward the door.

The pan clinked on the hob and crackled quietly over the fire. A pot of potatoes was already standing next to it. Marvolo was also involved: slicing bread and setting the table. They exchanged jokes. "Lucius pissed you off that much?" At the methodically chopping meat. "Another extra hour and it wouldn't be a chicken thigh." Harry grinned slyly back. A surprising idyll. They spent a good ten minutes co-ordinating the spices - Marvolo couldn't stand ginger and Harry was sickened by the mere memory of the smell of turmeric. Chopped onions and carrots joined the already browned meat. Followed by blanched broccoli. The oil rumbled. Marvolo watched the mage dancing around the kitchen like a mesmerised man. As he said, he used no wand at all, doing absolutely everything with his hands. An incredible aroma spread through the room.

Harry smiled, gently stirring the food in the pan:

"Almost like magic, isn't it?"

"Yeah," he agreed. His gaze was fixed on the barely raised corners of his lips.

If Harry noticed, he chose not to emphasise it, equally taken by the atmosphere.

The dinner was excellent: the cream kept the meat from becoming dry, and there was just enough spice to not overpower the flavour of the meat, but to accentuate it with a little spice. The two of them, both having a great time, enjoyed the meal, looking forward to interesting conversations over a glass of wine.

Marvolo, delighted with the dish, couldn't stop complimenting Harry, groggy not so much from the alcohol but from the openness of the wizard across the table, who just half a day ago had seemed to run away and never appear in his life again.

Diverging from the very centre of his chest, the heat ran down his neck and cheeks, giving Harry a special fascination.

Neither of them noticed as they moved smoothly to the fireplace, sinking into the soft sofa. The flames danced, casting fanciful shadows on their faces.

"It's an amazing thing," Harry said quietly.

Marvolo nodded.

"Honestly," he continued to stare at the fire, "it's all so complicated for me. Frightening."

"Am I frightening you?"

The wine and the hearty dinner had done their magic and an absolute serenity settled on Harry's face.

"No, more like—" he pondered the answer.

Marvolo didn't need to rush him.

"When I saw my first patient, I knew I was ready. I had hundreds of medical books in my head, thousands of diseases and their symptoms. And I still felt nauseous at the thought of a door opening and a person walking through it."

"Did you make it?"

"Yes, of course I did. I remember it was just a simple split from the apparition. Still, my hands wouldn't stop shaking until I started working magic on the wound."

Marvolo gently put his arm around Harry's forearm, pulling quietly on it and meeting no resistance. He pulled back a little, resting his head on his thighs. And—

Oh, yes.

His hair was exactly as soft as it seemed from the outside. The coarse curls slid between his fingers like silk.

Harry hummed drunkenly, looking up at Marvolo.

"I can be quite unbearable," he admitted. "And I take up most of the bed when I sleep."

"Good."

"I literally live in my lab."

"Okay."

"I almost had an owl die because I just forgot it existed."

"I think I'll find a way to keep you busy."

"And I love pumpkin juice."

"Oh." Marvolo grimaced. "That's a game changer."

Harry laughed light-heartedly.

"And you?"

The tongues of flame reflected in his eyes, adding an ethereal appeal to the deep green hue.

"I think I might be able to take pumpkin juice after all. Eventually."

The crackling of the firewood lulled them both to sleep. Harry yawned once more, wrinkling his nose amusedly. Tired from the busy day, he turned around, snuggling into Marvolo's stomach and wrapping one arm around his waist. Literally a couple of minutes later, he was sniffling.

So warm. Desirable. Marvolo noted aloofly that it had nothing to do with physical desire. At least, not in the same way. He reached up, weightlessly tucking a strand behind Harry's ear, revealing a view of soft skin with a slight blush. So soft. He wanted so badly to lean over and run his lips over it, to bite into it, barely perceptibly. Not to hurt him, by any means, but to release the energy that was rushing through him, trying to find a way out.

And suddenly, looking at the wizard in his hands, Marvolo realised that everything would be fine. And if they weren't, well, they had an eternity ahead of them,— he hummed meaningfully,— to fix it.