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One: Draco – Reluctance
Draco's first complaint about mediwizard Potter was that he was his mediwizard at all.
“No, no no,” Draco said, shaking his head. “Absolutely not.”
“Auror Malfoy,” Healer Bradford's voice, tight and high-pitched, echoed in Draco's mind, a sharp pang shooting through the front of his head at the intrusion of her thoughts, projected into his mind through Legilimency. Her lips moved with the thought-projection as she spoke for Potter’s benefit.
She was heavy-handed with the spell and forced her thoughts into Draco's mind with little warning or caution. Wincing, Draco ran his fingers across his forehead.
He loathed having to leave cracks in his Occlumency to be able to communicate with others. He risked a novice Legilimens barging into his mind and leaving behind a headache from their lack of control, like Bradford, or an expert taking the opportunity to rummage through his thoughts and memories. He hated that it left him at the mercy of others, and needed to find other means of communication. Quickly.
Healer Bradford's face contorted into a grimace. “Sorry,” she thought-projected, an only slightly milder invasion than before.
Draco rolled his eyes. She really ought to be a better Legilimens by now, given her job. Or she could at least learn a different way to communicate with him if she had reached her peak with Legilimency.
Healer Bradford stepped closer, a hand squeezing none too gently at Draco's shoulder. “Mediwizard Potter is one of few specialist audiology medics we have. Permanent cases like yours are rare, and he is best placed to give you the care you need.”
Draco slumped back into his headboard, eyes trailing to the green-eyed saviour. He stood between Draco's bed and the hospital’s canted bay windows; the midday sun cast a shadow on one side of his face while illuminating the other, skin velvety smooth and golden brown. Loose curls fell into Potter’s downcast eyes, clipboard in one hand as he insistently clicked a muggle pen with the other. Draco was sure the sound of it would be three times as aggravating as the sight of it; only, he could not make it out amongst the silence that had taken root in his ears since the incident a month prior.
“Fine,” Draco said.
Potter lifted his head, eyes wide. A small smile graced his full lips.
Draco remembered the assignment that led to the incident: he was Lead Auror for the Cursed Artefacts Auror Unit, and he and his team had been investigating black market trinkets that were being sold to unsuspecting muggles. Clues had led them to an abandoned warehouse in the middle of nowhere in Rainham, London. His memory of the raid was a blur – only moments of it flashed before his mind's eye, before a sharp pain pierced through his head. He remembered an ambush, cursed objects launching at him, a barrel of curses, and excruciating pain before he’d succumbed to oblivion.
He’d woken up in St Mungo's Intensive Care Unit a week later, the world in total darkness despite him blinking with wide, panicked eyes. He’d been unable to hear anything, only making out a high-pitched ringing his injured mind made up to fill the silence.
His vision had returned over the following two weeks, the world slowly sharpening into vivid focus. The silence, however, only grew louder, a permanent fixture from the damage to his auditory cortex that resisted any treatment, magical or otherwise.
At least the culprits had been apprehended. At least he had completed his mission.
“Draco, are you listening?” Healer Bradford sounded exasperated, her voice bouncing in his mind like a hammer to the skull. It clearly wasn’t the first time she'd asked the question, her annoyance bumbling through his mind.
“Yes,” Draco said.
“Right. Well, I'll leave you to get reacquainted. I’ll be back with your discharge plan and homecare documents.” Healer Bradford hurried out, lime-green robes trailing behind like a cape.
Draco's eyes trailed back to Potter, his graphic tee and blue jeans a stark contrast to the crisp, sterile walls of the hospital room.
Draco tensed as Potter reached for his wand, though he merely pointed it at himself and made a series of movements, lips forming words Draco could not read.
Draco marvelled as letters shimmered into existence in the air between him and Potter, font bold and large.
“Hi Malfoy. I thought I could communicate with you through writing, if you’re okay with that? I know how invasive Legilimency can feel. And painful, if someone isn't very used to thought-projection,” they read.
Draco's brows shot high, soft creases forming on his forehead in his surprise at Potter's consideration. His shoulders relaxed as he closed the gaps in his Occlumency, glad to be able to retain the privacy he thought he'd lost along with his hearing. He considered Potter, and supposed he might do for a mediwizard after all.
Two: Harry – Resurgence
“Have you ever considered that you are just a terrible teacher, Potter? It’s been weeks, and nothing is happening,” Malfoy said.
It wasn't the first complaint Malfoy had made about him in the two months he'd been his mediwizard. Heck, it wasn't even the first in the last ten minutes as they sat facing each other on the beige leather couch in Draco’s sunlit living room.
Focusing on his already active Written-Thoughts enchantment, Harry’s response filtered from his thoughts and appeared as floating words in front of him. “Have you ever thought that maybe you are just a bad student?” After several seconds, the letters dissolved into the air.
Malfoy scoffed. “Oh, please. Pansy said it took her five sessions in your family and friends communication class before you were able to teach her the Transcription spell. And Mother was only marginally faster.” He looked at Harry pointedly. “The common denominator here, Potter, is you.”
“Another common denominator, Malfoy, is that you were all Slytherins. Maybe you guys aren’t as smart as you like to think.” Harry offered his best mischievous grin as his response appeared.
Malfoy sat up, shoulders square. “Oh really?” he said. The twinkle in his eyes belied his defensive posture.
Harry nodded. A smirk played on his lips.
“Demonstrate it just once more, Potter,” Malfoy demanded, “and I will show you exactly how smart I am.”
“THAT’S THE SPIRIT!” Harry’s exclamation appeared capitalised to signify the increase in volume, as he intended. “Right, the incantation for the Written-Thoughts enhancement is Cogitare Verbis . It is for transforming selected thoughts into a written form.
Unlike the Transcription enhancement, you do not have to verbalise what you want transcribed, but you do have to pay close attention to which thoughts you want to appear, or what comes out will be a jumbled mess, or nothing at all.
You can use Written-Thoughts in lieu of or with your voice and Transcription for reading what others are saying.”
“Yes, yes. I got that, Potter,” Malfoy said, standing. “Just show me the wand movements again.”
Harry rolled his eyes. With a flick of his wand, he said, “Finite Incantatem,” ending the current Written-Thoughts spell, then, “ Cogitare Verbis. ” He moved his wand in two small circles towards himself, followed by an outward, upward flick. “Now you try,” his instruction took shape in the air.
Malfoy repeated the incantation and movements. He stared expectedly ahead and punched the air as “Draco dormiens Dra—” materialised in slanted font in front of him, followed by “YES! I DID IT!”
“You did do it!” popped up Harry’s delighted response.
Malfoy shone with excitement, and Harry’s heart melted at the sight, a feeling he was getting scarily accustomed to. It had been easier when Malfoy could barely look at him without huffing and puffing. Now, Malfoy smiled at him when he opened his door to him, Draco’s fingers lingered on Harry's as he passed him a book, knees brushed as they sat cross-legged on the floor, chatting way past the scheduled one-and-a-half hour time slot for his weekly home visit.
The last time he'd seen Malfoy before St Mungo's had been at his trial after the war. Harry had heard from the grapevine (read: found out by asking insistently around) that Malfoy spent his twelve-month house arrest after the trial completing his NEWTS. He’d trained the three years after that as an Auror in France and two more years specialising in cursed objects.
Harry remembered where he had been when he’d heard that Malfoy had returned to England a year ago: at The Burrow, surrounded by a chorus of “No, Harry, not again” from Ron, Ginny, and Hermione when he'd mentioned the front headline of The Prophet: Draco Malfoy Sighted in Auror Robes: Redemption or Ploy?
He hadn’t known what that reception had been about until seeing Malfoy in St Mungo's re-ignited deep-seated obsessions with silver-grey eyes and white-blond hair, each day in his presence since then adding fuel to the fire as his obsessions grew into something that felt all-consuming.
Don't be an idiot, Potter, remember professionalism, he thought, careful not to feed that into the Written-Thoughts spell. He shook his head, and transformed, “Okay, shall we try the Transcription spell, too? You could be on a lucky streak” into written words.
“No luck here, Potter. Just pure talent.” Twirling his wand, Malfoy sat back down. He seemed to be getting used to Written-Thoughts, his last few words appearing bolder.
Harry rolled his eyes. “Course. Why don’t you show me that talent of yours then and complete the Transcription spell.”
“That a challenge, Potter?”
“Always.”
Malfoy smirked. He closed his Written-Thoughts spell with a quiet, “Finite Incantatem.”
Harry did the same.
Malfoy took a deep breath and said, “Dicta Scribere.” With his wand, he made a small, anti-clockwise circle in Harry’s direction, ending with a straight horizontal line.
“Okay, say something,” Malfoy said.
“Hello. My name is Harry Potter.” Faint, wispy letters appeared as Harry spoke, though only for a second before melting away.
Draco groaned and fell back into his chair.
Harry ended the spell and re-instated Written-Thoughts on himself. “That was better than before. Try again, this time make the straight line with a sharper movement and focus your mind on me.”
Draco followed Harry’s instruction and jumped up as, “Hello. My name is Harry Potter,” appeared in time with the movement of Harry’s lips, the words lingering in the air.
“Told you I’m amazing,” Malfoy said, eyes wide.
“I think the word you used was ‘talented’,” appeared as Harry said it.
“Same difference.” Malfoy winked and got up, bare feet padding on a plush cream rug as he made his way to the kitchen. He twisted around to catch Harry's eyes. “Time for a tea break. Coming, Potter?”
Harry bolted upright on unsteady feet and followed closely behind, eyes trained on Malfoy's swaying hips.
Three: Harry – Dismay
It was a year after Draco's reintroduction into his life that Harry received his first written complaint from the blond.
Harry had assisted in an emergency surgery that morning and was two hours late for his weekly home visit with Malfoy. He came out of the operation theatre, haggard and hungry, to Draco's snowy owl, Falco, perching on his office window. Falco hooted angrily and extended her leg with a rolled-up note towards Harry, yellow eyes glowering.
Harry took the hint and retrieved the note. Potter, you're late. The complaint was written in red ink, smooth, flowing strokes against thick parchment. Underneath it, with hesitant etchings and a smaller font, Malfoy's note read, I could really use your help right now.
Harry wondered how long Falco had been waiting for him, how long Draco had been waiting. Hunger and exhaustion forgotten, he grabbed his leather satchel and scurried towards St Mungo's Apparition point.
A shrieking scream welcomed him into the foyer of Draco's small townhouse. It pierced his ears as soon as he landed, accompanied by a barrage of harsh drums that seemed to hold no particular rhythm, a booming blast of bass chords, and aggressive electric riffs. The cacophony of sounds reverberated through the whole house, into his skull and ribcage.
Harry threw his bag aside and hurried past the double mahogany doors to find the living room in disarray. Pieces of broken ceramic vases were scattered on hardwood floors. A trail of cotton batting led to shredded decorative cushions, one of them hand-embroidered with golden snitches, a gift from Narcissa. Draco was kneeling beside the large muggle speaker he'd bought last month when he discovered he could enjoy music with a loud bass through its vibrations, an ear and both palms pressed flush against the towering box.
Harry walked tentatively towards him, steps light and careful. Draco's eyes were bloodshot and swollen, cheeks tear-streaked. He didn't move a muscle as Harry kneeled in front of him.
Harry's eyes widened, and he chewed at the corner of his mouth. He cast Written-Thoughts on himself and, “Draco, what happened?” materialised.
Draco crumbled into him, tears soaking into Harry's white t-shirt. Harry grabbed the sides of Draco's head and pulled him back to look at his red and blotchy face.
Draco's lips quivered. “I just want to hear something,” he whispered, voice faltering. “I can't even hear myself.”
Harry gathered Draco in his arms and held him through his sobs. “I know. I’m here,” he said, “I'm here,” for his own benefit more than Draco's. They stayed there for a long time, the vibrations of the song seeming to lull Draco to sleep.
Four: Draco – Realisation
Draco's eyes opened a few hours later to his bedroom ceiling, an eggshell canvas of intricate carvings depicting dragons, ice, and fire. Draco could barely see them, the room only lit by the moon. Its faint glow filtered through grand floor-to-ceiling windows, fashioning soft shadows that swayed across metallic wallpaper, stretched over antique furniture, and pooled in dark corners. His eyes landed on Potter, sitting in an armchair in one such corner, doused in darkness, one long leg crossed over the other, face buried in a book Draco could not identify from his distance.
Draco, body aching as if trampled on by a thousand hippogriffs, turned on his side in Potter's direction. He curled into himself and melted into the linen bedding.
“What are you doing in my bedroom, Potter?” he thought-projected, too tired to speak, too tired to use Written-Thoughts. Even his complaint lacked its usual fervour.
Harry had given him blanket permission to use thought-projection months ago. He rarely did, preferring his voice when he'd gone so long without it in the war, even when he’d had to spend a long time getting used to the disconcerting feeling of not being able to hear himself. Written-Thoughts worked well enough whenever he hadn’t wanted to speak, or found it too unnerving not hearing himself, so using thought-projection seemed redundant, especially with its accompanying pain and confusion.
So, it was a surprise to find Potter's mind a welcomed podium for his thoughts. He could still sense Potter's Occlumency. Except, it felt adjusted, the impenetrable buzz of protective magic altered to let Draco into Potter's mind like it was his own home. It made sending thought-projections so much easier, felt like a hug, rather than a punch to the head, made it so he only had to think in Potter's direction for Potter to hear him.
“Don't you have a home to return to?” he projected, already addicted to the cosy embrace of Potter's mind. It felt like a sanctuary, like being bathed in sunbeams from the inside out.
Potter placed his book on the side table. He made his way to Draco, wand in hand as he cast Written-Thoughts on himself. “Want me to thought-project, too?” appeared as Potter reached him.
“Yes,” Draco cracked open a window through his Occlumency as Potter took a seat on his bed, curious to find out if Potter in his mind would feel just as good as he felt in Potter’s.
“You had me worried there, Draco. How are you feeling?”
Draco’s eyes widened. Rather than the normal impact on his skull he felt from Legilimency, Potter’s words filtered in like a cool summer breeze, subtle and soothing in all the best ways.
He had to blink a few times to clear his head, mind hazy from how good it felt. “I’m perfectly fine.” Memories of desperation and anger bubbled to the surface, of broken vases and unheard screams. He grimaced.
Potter gave him a disbelieving look, eyes narrowed.
“Rough, but better,” Draco tried again.
Potter hummed. Brows pinched as he searched Draco’s face, Potter reached up to trail his fingers through Draco's hair, back and forth. He pushed several strands from Draco's forehead, fingers heated against his skin.
Draco felt his heartbeat through his chest, swore he could feel his ribs shifting at the force of it. Potter letting him into his mind so freely, Potter’s voice streaming through his mind like it belonged there, Potter's use of his first name, Potter's hand in his hair, Potter's caring eyes trained on him as if he was the only thing that existed, his pouting lips, his perfect fucking face. The world tilted off balance, its centre of gravity slipping away, away, and Harry, right there, to hold it all together.
“You okay? You're getting a bit warm.” Harry placed his palm against Draco's forehead.
Draco leaned into the touch. A murmur escaped his lips. “Yes, fine. Just need a shower.” His mouth felt dry, mind whirling in a frenzy.
“Okay. Why don't you do that? Come down when you're done. I got started on dinner earlier. Should be ready when you're finished.” Harry gave him a lingering look before leaving Draco in his room, a herd of elephants in his stomach for company.
Five: Draco – Acceptance
Draco went down for dinner after his shower that night, hair dripping water onto exposed shoulders, to Harry waiting for him with coconut curry, the living room perfectly in order as though Draco hadn't caused carnage on it hours prior. Harry wrapped a warm hand around Draco's wrist, the other cradled around the back of his neck as he pulled him into a hug. He held Draco in his arms as he told him that it would get better, that he felt he was adjusting to hearing loss didn’t mean he couldn't get off days, that he wasn't weak for struggling, that he wasn't alone.
Draco tried to believe him, arms around Harry's waist as he nuzzled into his neck. He smelt of lavender, of spice and thunder. Draco melted into him. Squeezed him tighter. “Thanks for being here, Harry,” he thought-projected.
On Saturday night, Harry tumbled through Draco's floo and declared that Draco needed a weekend visit, too. He didn't give a reason. Draco didn't ask for one, though they both knew Harry didn't work on weekends. Harry brushed past Draco, bags full of Draco's favourites from the Indian takeaway down the road, and made his way into the living room. They ate on the floor, legs spread wide on a picnic blanket over Draco's rug, thought-projected jibes, laughter, and the smell of curry filtering between them.
Harry returned the following Saturday, and the following, and the following, until they were way in over their heads into this ritual that neither of them dared to break. Sometimes they would venture out, to a cafe, pub night with both their friends, and even once to Malfoy Manor for afternoon tea. Draco did his best to ignore the knowing looks from Granger and his mother.
He tried his best to shove aside whatever childish infatuations he seemed to have developed for Harry. He bundled them in ironclad chains and shoved them in the deepest corners of his mind… or his heart, he couldn't tell for all the avoiding he was doing.
Never mind that those feelings bubbled up inside his veins every second he spent in Harry's presence. He wasn't sure how he'd missed them. They were certainly fighting to be noticed now, every time Harry smiled at him, grabbed him by the waist as he squeezed past him, came in a second’s notice whenever Draco needed him, wanted him, called for him. Every time Draco's thoughts filtered into Harry’s mind unimpeded, so seamless that he'd lost the thread of where his thoughts ended and where Harry's began on more than one occasion.
He was being silly. Harry was his mediwizard, and he was Harry’s patient. He was Potter and Draco was Malfoy.
Except Potter was also Harry who looked the way Draco felt, like he saw everything he wanted right there in arm’s reach, but unsure whether he got to keep it. Draco couldn't risk it and created a deeper burying ground for the feelings in his chest.
One thing he couldn't bear to deny himself, though, was the cocoon of Harry's mind. They did not talk about it, even as Draco began to almost exclusively communicate with Harry through thought-projection.
It was months into their Saturday meet-ups when Harry came with bags of produce and declared that Draco needed a home-cooked meal for all the late nights he'd been doing at work.
After his recovery, Draco had started working long hours with the Department of Mysteries to develop a Thought-Catcher, a device to receive thought-projections, which would then be transmitted into his mind. It took away the need to have his Occlumency down to communicate at work, or the splitting headache from an unskilled Legilimens bumbling into his mind.
He'd been given a secondment on his job as a Lead Auror to act as a Consultant with the Department of Mysteries to make it. Restless to get back into leading his team, he'd been doing long hours to get the Thought-Catcher approved. He knew he would have to adjust the way he worked when he returned to the Aurors, another mountain to climb since his hearing loss, but he wouldn't have to do it alone. He had his family and friends by his side, and, a thought that grew less and less bizarre by day, he had Harry, too.
Harry was also excited to get his hands on it for his godson Teddy, the reason he'd gone into mediwizard training. After eighth year at Hogwarts, Harry had gone to live with Teddy and his grandmother, feeling adrift and devoid of purpose. It had been during this time that Teddy was diagnosed with sensorineural hearing loss. Frustrated with the lack of medical support and advancements in long-term health conditions that were incurable by magic, Harry had gone into mediwizard training and specialised in audiology .
Granger, after years of hard work in the Wizengamot, spearheaded a bill for the Wizarding Disability Act that came with funding to create accessible schooling and working environments for wizards and witches living with disabilities and long-term health needs. It was the only reason Draco's project had been approved when he proposed his initial plans for the Thought-Catcher to the Department of Mysteries. They could hardly say no with a war hero in his corner, and Draco would be forever grateful for Granger and her Gryffindor stubbornness.
“How much longer until it's approved, do you think?” Potter thought-projected as he gathered finely chopped mushrooms into a bowl.
Draco jumped onto the kitchen counter, arse perched next to where Harry had now moved on to whisking eggs. Eager to talk about his project, he dived into his progress, hands gesturing wildly as he told Harry about expanding future updates of the device to catch the wearer's thoughts and vocalise it for those who chose not to, or could not, use their voice.
It was a while before he realised Harry hadn't said a word, only humming through his thought-projections as Draco monologued about work. It meant one of the few complaints he'd made about Potter outside of a weekday tumbled into Harry’s mind. “Are you even listening, Potter? ”
Harry turned from placing a circular tray into the oven and walked towards Draco, eyes soft. “Of course, you're very excited to be getting so close to the end product, and you're very excited you get to go back to your Auror work soon.”
“I never said that,” Draco objected, cheeks red. He crossed his hands on his chest, disgruntled to be read like an open book.
“You didn't have to.” Harry stepped closer, almost slotting into the space between Draco's spread legs, and tilted his head to the side as he regarded Draco. “You're very cute when you're blushing,” he thought-projected .
Draco gasped, mock-outraged. “You take that back at once. I am absolutely and resoundingly not cute!”
“Oh, you so are.”
“I am sophisticated, Potter. Smart. Elegance personified. Handsome, even,” Draco listed, “never cute.”
Harry smirked. “If you say so.”
Before Draco could respond in indignation, Harry stepped between his thighs. Draco widened them further to accommodate Harry’s brawny frame, so close that a shiver travelled down Draco’s neck from the warmth of Harry’s breath. Harry reached behind Draco, hand brushing against his thigh as he pulled back with a shopping bag in hand.
“How do you feel about brownies for dessert?” Harry thought-projected. He smiled innocently as if he didn’t know he'd sent Draco’s heart beating through his throat.
A couple of hours later found them splayed on Draco's couch, forgotten plates of half-eaten quiche on the side table, as they argued over which CD to play.
“I don't even know half of these songs,” Draco thought-projected, a finger trailing down the playlist on the back of one of the CDs.
“That's because that one is muggle. Though the shopkeeper said all the songs have a good bass.”
“Okay fine, just play this one.” Draco handed it to Harry.
“As your majesty desires.”
Draco smiled widely. “So glad you’ve learned your place, Harry,” he thought-projected. He received a hard glare for his efforts, though Harry did as he was told.
Draco closed his eyes and felt a low-frequency bass resonating through the room. Harry had helped him install subwoofers in the corners of his living room so he could enjoy music without physically touching his speakers. He could feel the vibrations in his chest as the sounds disrupted the air around him. The smooth, repetitive pattern of the reverberations shrouded the room in a cosy fog. He opened his eyes to Harry moving his hips in time with the slow tempo.
Harry reached out his arms towards Draco. “Come on then, come dance with me.”
“I wouldn't call what you're doing dancing.”
Harry laughed, loud and free. Draco didn't hear it but could see it in the crinkles around Harry's eyes, opened lips, and the subtle flush high on his cheekbones. He laced his fingers through Draco's and pulled him up. “Why don't you show me how it's done?”
“If I must.” Draco caged Harry's head between his arms, Harry's hands on his lower back. He dropped his head in the nook of Harry's neck and swayed them to the beat for a while.
The vibrations slowed, now barely perceptible against Draco's chest as they shifted into a new song.
He lifted his head to find Harry's eyes trained on him, green irises barely visible at the edges of darkened pupils. Draco's breath caught; he could feel the last remnants of control slipping away, his lungs falling into his stomach to make space for all the feelings he'd kept locked away for so long. He felt them bleeding out of his heart, felt them fill the spaces between his ribs.
Out of their own accord, his fingers laced through the fine hairs at the base of Harry's neck, eyes trailing between Harry's eyes and lips.
Harry's eyes softened, brows pinched in the middle with a look so full of yearning that they pulled Draco even closer. Harry's lips were right there to catch him in a kiss, soft and warm and everything he hadn't let himself dream. A groan escaped him as he melted, convinced that his ribs might crack open from how full of love they were.
It all came crashing down as Harry pulled back, eyes wide in shock. His hands gripped Draco painfully at the shoulders, putting space between them.
“Fuck, Draco, I'm sorry.” His apology felt like ice water over Draco's head. “I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have done that. Not like this.”
That night, Harry left early. He forgot his bag, and Draco did not get to have chocolate brownies for dessert.
Plus One. Harry – Understanding
Harry had made countless complaints about Draco Malfoy since being assigned as his mediwizard nearly two years ago.
He'd complained directly to him about how insufferable the permanent smug smirk plastered on his face could be, complained about his prickly nature, jamming insults down the throats of anyone who looked at him a second too long, complained about how white his hair was, it really was not normal. It surely must have been a family curse.
He'd also complained insistently behind Draco's back, to anyone who would listen, about Draco's distractingly beautiful face, all high cheekbones and sharp jaw, and with polished steel for eyes. He could gaze into them for hours, get lost in the comforting rain-soaked horizons of them.
Fuck, he was getting distracted, the image of Draco's eyes clouded over in a haze as they'd kissed flooding his mind.
All that to say, he'd complained a lot, but none of those complaints rang as desperately from his lips as: “I can’t be his mediwizard anymore, Nessa, I have to hand over his case.”
Eyes darting to the office doors Harry had just barged through, Healer Vanessa Bradford sat up in her chair. She sighed and pushed up her wire-frame glasses with her pinky. “Why don't you come in, Harry?” she said, gesturing to the chair on the other side of her paper-scattered desk.
At risk of professional disciplinary action, Harry told Nessa of his feelings for Draco, and about the kiss. He'd already been reprimanded to an inch of his life by Hermione for the rest of the weekend when he'd flooed into her and Ron's home after the kiss in a panic, and so could hardly stand Nessa’s disappointed eyes. The only things that saved him from being fired was Nessa’s awareness of his and Draco's history, that she knew Harry was good at his job, that this wasn't a patterned behaviour of crossing professional boundaries, and that Harry reported the kiss as soon as he could after it had happened.
He was, however, suspended for a week without pay.
The review of Draco’s case file with Nessa made it clear that Harry’s weekly home visits had been excessive for a while, to say the least. Draco no longer required intensive mediwizard input; along with his six-monthly medical reviews with Nessa, a social worker was better suited to provide the required adjustment support. Nessa could not be too mad at Harry for that overstep, as they had only hired a social worker in the last two months, their team growing as financing for long-term health conditions and disability services increased, a result of the Wizarding Disability Act. They now had specific funding to facilitate the emotional and social adjustment to hearing loss, rather than relying on an overly medical approach or on medics stretching themselves to meet all aspects of patients' needs.
Draco would therefore be assigned to Leslie, their new social worker, and Harry was under strict instruction not to contact Draco until the handover was completed.
“You risk an escalation to HR if you contact him before he's formally off your caseload,” Nessa told him sternly. “I will send him the appointment details for the handover and I will be present to facilitate between you two and Leslie.”
Harry spent the next week writing and re-writing unsent letters to Draco. His twitchy fingers crumbled up the parchments each time, just before he did something stupid. He felt desperate, felt starved of Draco, a relentless yearning growing, expanding, taking over his thoughts, his every waking moment. He could not even escape in sleep, white-blond hair and slender fingers plaguing his dreams each night.
The week after, the handover went as well as could be expected, and Harry waited for Draco in his kitchen while he walked Nessa and Leslie to the floo.
Draco returned, no longer Harry's patient, just a man with Harry's heart in his palm. He sat across from Harry, tension rolling off rigid shoulders in waves, his features all the more razor-sharp from the hollowed shadows carved into his porcelain face from the glaring overhead lights. The unforgiving brightness drained him of colour, his skin paper-white and bathed in an ethereal glow. Harry wanted to kiss away Draco's hurt, have his softened, velvety eyes trained on him again, rather than the cold, ashened orbs that stared right through him.
“Can I thought-project?” Draco asked through his Written-Thoughts, the spell still open from the handover meeting.
Harry's chest ached, Draco's uncertainty pulling at his heart. “Yes, of course,” he said, his words also appearing between them through his own Written-Thoughts spell.
“I wasn't sure it was still okay.” Draco's voice in his mind felt like a homecoming.
He felt his shoulders loosen, the calm of Draco’s magic seeping through him, a balm for the tension in his rigid body.
“It’s always okay,” Harry answered. Faltering, he added, “do you want… can I thought-project, too?” He wanted to reach further into the centre of Draco’s magic, feel it tingle on his skin, in his skull and engulf himself in the tranquillity of it.
“Yes.”
Harry ended his Written-Thoughts spell. “Thank you… I—”
“I—”
A brief smile appeared on Draco's face as they both chuckled. “You go first,” Draco thought-projected.
“I…” Harry didn't know where to start. “I don't know what Nessa told you before today?”
“She sent a letter.” Draco played with the button on the sleeve of his blue dress shirt. “She informed me that you told her about the kiss. Said I couldn't contact you until after the meeting today.”
“Draco, I’m sorry I left so abruptly. I was your me—”
“I just… if you didn't want to see me, if I made a mistake and got it wrong, why couldn't you just tell me? Why did you just leave? I—”
“Draco—” Harry reached across the table for the blond's hand. Draco pulled back.
“It was very cowardly of you to run. Not the standing pillar of Gryffindor's bravery after all, are you?” He smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes.
“I was just… I shouldn’t have kissed you then and I—”
“Yeah, you said that already.” Draco's brows furrowed. The hardness of his tone carried through the thought-projection.
“Draco, will you please just let me explain?”
Draco looked at him for several seconds. He nodded.
“When the kiss happened, I was just shocked, I hadn’t realised that you felt that way. I—”
“Potter, you really are dumb if you expect me to believe you didn't know how I felt.”
“What? You couldn’t have known about my feelings,” Harry thought-projected, arms coming to cross over his chest.
“Oh, I did.”
“What?”
“What do you mean, what? Do you spend your whole evening with all your patients when you make your home visits? Do you barge into the homes on your days off and use them as a tester for your recipes, do you carry them to bed because they fell asleep on the couch listening to you natter on and on, do you give them free rein to project wherever they want into your mind?” Draco raised his brows, arms’ posture mirroring Harry's as he crossed them over his chest.
“I… well… no.”
“I should hope not,” Draco grumbled.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Well… just because you have… feelings doesn't mean you could, doesn't mean you want…”
“I want.”
“What do you want?” Draco asked, eyes wide as they searched Harry's face.
“Whatever it is you are offering, Draco, I want it.” Harry reached for Draco's arms. He let him uncross them from his chest, he let Harry interlace their fingers atop the table, smooth palms flush against calloused ones. “ I’ve wanted it for a long time.”
“Well, you've had a funny way of showing it the last week,” Draco's tone was brightening, a deep flush bringing warmth to his face.
“Draco?”
Draco hummed, head bowed as he looked up at Harry through long lashes.
“Will you come sit beside me?”
Draco did, only letting go of one of Harry's hands as he walked around the table to sit thigh-to-thigh with Harry on the bench.
“I really am sorry for running away like that and I know I have a lot of making up to do. That night, when you kissed me, it was everything I wanted. But I couldn't stay, not at the risk of taking things further and breaking Merlin knows how many clauses in the professional code of conduct.” Harry cradled the side of Draco's face, his heart warming when Draco leaned into the touch.
“Since when did you care about the rules?” Draco thought-projected.
“I didn’t want to get it wrong. Not with you.” Harry's hand trailed down to Draco's jaw, felt the anger and hurt bleeding out of Draco, his jaw unlocking under Harry's fingertips, teeth peeking through a growing smile. Harry wanted to taste it; he leaned forward and pressed his lips against Draco's.
Draco moaned. He buried a hand in Harry's hair and pulled him in deeper. He licked at the seams of Harry's lips, licked into his mouth as Harry let out a sigh. This, this was the kiss he had wanted.
Harry lost himself in it, found himself in a symphony of groans and gasps as Draco devoured him.
They pulled back, breathless, Draco's hand still in his hair as he brushed their noses together. Even his eyes were hungry, grey gaze pulling Harry in with its intensity. Harry was sure he'd have melted into a pool of liquid if it weren’t for Draco's other hand in his, keeping him grounded.
Draco broke the kiss and climbed on Harry's lap. Pulling at the elastic band at the bottom of Harry’s knitted hoodie, he asked, “ can I take this off?”
Harry nodded, movement sluggish and eyes heavy-lidded.
Draco lifted the hoodie over Harry's head and discarded it on the floor. Tangling his fingers in Harry's dark locks, he pulled Harry's head back, kissed along his jaw, down his neck, across his shoulders, all the while moaning into Harry’s sensitive skin.
Harry's breath hitched, hands finding purchase on Draco’s waist as the blond trailed fire across his body. “Fuck, Draco.”
Draco pulled back, a predatory smirk playing on his swollen lips. “If you like,” he thought-projected, grinding down against Harry.
“Fuck. Draco,” Harry repeated, eyes wide. His grip tightened on Draco's waist before getting up, trembling arms full of Draco. Knees wobbly from sheer need, he carried Draco up the stairs. He kicked the door closed behind him when they got to Draco's room, a resounding bang resonating through the otherwise silent house. He couldn’t care less as they fell onto the bed, lost in the bliss of each other.
Bonus Plus One. Draco – Openness
Draco woke up alone in bed, the smell of his milk and honey body wash filtering through the room from the open door of his en suite. He rolled onto his back and let himself bathe in the aftermath of the best sleep he'd had in years, muscles slack and mind clear as the sun laced through open curtains. He cast a Tempus and found that it was past noon.
Harry had stayed over after a night of very little sleep. They'd talked well into sunset. Sunrise found them still awake, tangled in a heap of limbs, cheeks and stomachs sore from laughter and wide smiles. They giggled like fifth-years as they asked each other questions like “when did you first realise you like, like me,” and they whimpered, needy and desperate as they demanded, “more” , “harder” and “please don't stop” as each conversation thread inevitably ended up heated. He grinned, wide and unencumbered, and sank deeper into the sheets, a warm flush spreading across his face as the lingering scent of Harry and the heady smell of sex filled his nostrils.
There was one thing missing though, something he'd thought about endlessly since he felt what it was like to be in Harry's head, his mental wards granting entry to Draco's thoughts and collecting them like rare jewels. He wanted to deepen that connection, have it go both ways, feel Harry's magic tangle in a dance with his own whenever he sent him a thought, all so he could have as much of Harry as he was allowed, to cherish as much of him as he could get.
He searched for traces of Harry's magical signature – tingling in his mind from their Legilimency connection, left open from this morning, still clinging to his skin from Harry’s wild magic, which had pulsed between them in moments of passion the night before. He fused the fragments together, forged them into a key, so the owner could seep through his fully intact Occlumency walls, a direct connection to his mind. The enchantment washed over him. It left him feeling raw and yet strangely unburdened, vulnerable to baring the deepest, most private parts of himself, while floored at his own ability to trust so deeply with all of himself.
Freshly washed, Harry jumped into bed with Draco. He straddled Draco's hips and dropped a kiss on the side of his lips.
“Been awake long?” Harry's eyes widened mid-sentence, staring at Draco in shock.
It was heaven, having Harry in his mind unencumbered. The warmth he’d felt, whenever Harry thought-projected in the past few months, intensified tenfold. It flooded his mind with dizzying euphoria as Harry’s magic reached into him, free, curious and gentle, always gentle, and lit Draco up from the inside.
He looked into Harry's eyes, bright green and wet with unleashed tears.
“Are you… are you sure?”
“I'm sure.”
Harry kissed him, hard and desperate, hands clamouring at any part of Draco's skin he could reach.
“Thank you.” Harry kissed him harder, melting into him.
Draco was sure his lips would be swollen red when Harry was done with him. He found himself unable to make a single complaint about it though, hands busy making their way south of Harry's body, mouth full of Harry's tongue, and mind full of Harry's groans, sighs and pleas for more.