Chapter Text
Draco arrived at St. Mungos precisely seven minutes late, carrying a headache that pulsed in slow, meaningful throbs behind his eyes, and the weight of a good morning already gone. He walked out of the lift, steps measured.
The sixth floor was awake in the way emergencies learned to be; quiet, efficient, and simmering. Spells whispered throughout the air, the wards adjusted themselves in soft, habitual increments. He removed his cloak, folding it over his arm, his Healer’s badge catching in the light.
Chief Healer-In-Charge.
Intense Spell Damage and Dark Artifact Incidents.
The titles didn’t impress him anymore. They merely reminded him of the responsibility.
“Draco,”
He paused, turning around with an arched brow. Senior Healer Wilkes stood a few steps strides back, his expression carefully neutral.
“Yes?” Draco said.
“There’s a patient,” Wilkes began, “In room one-four-three.”
“That ward isn’t assigned to me today.” Draco interrupted, to which Wilkes silenced him with a look.
“I’m aware.” he said, Draco studied him for a moment further before nodding once. Wilkes continued, “He arrived late last night. Extensive spell damage, possible dark artifact exposure. Conscious, stable for now. Yet refusing treatment,”
Draco turned back around, huffing. “Neither my novel nor my problem.”
“He’s refusing treatment from everyone,” Wilkes said, keeping pace. “Won’t allow diagnostic charms. Won’t allow physical contact. He’s been… specific.”
“Specific how?”
Wilkes exhaled, “He’s been asking for you.”
Draco slowed.
“I don’t take personal requests. I’m a healer, not a celebrity,” he sighed.
Wilkes arched a brow, “You’re both. And, yes. Which is why this is a problem,” he murmured, voice low.
“You haven’t told me who this is.”
“We aren’t permitted to.” Wilkes sighed, frustrated.
“That’s unacceptable.”
Wilkes meets his gaze, “He’s Ministry.”
Draco closes his eyes, his headache spiking as he nodded once. “Very well. I’ll assist him. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Senior Wilkes sighs, “Thank you, finally,” his relief too quick to hide.
Draco nods again, walking faster.
Room 143 was at the end of the corridor, ministry wards layered elegantly over the hospital’s spellwork, Draco could see it was thorough. He hums, impressed and curious.
He paused right outside the door, hand resting against the wood.
There was a familiar feeling in the air, one which he hadn’t felt in years. He twists the doorknob, blinking.
Harry Potter was sitting near the edge of the bed. He was injured enough for it to be alarming, and upright enough that it was worse. The blood darkened the fabric of his shirt and the sheets around him, his hands slightly trembling where they twisted with the comforter.
Draco took it all in clinically. Bleeding. Curse residue. Clear magical instability coiling beneath the skin.
Then, Harry looked up at him.
Time didn’t stop. Draco didn’t believe in that type of thing anymore. But something shifted—quietly.
Potter’s eyes were sharper than he remembered. Older. Tired in the way that made his heart thump a bit faster than normal.
“Draco,” he said, voice rough. Draco looked away, stepping closer as he closed the door behind him with deliberate care.
He stepped closer, gripping his wand tighter than he normally did. “You’ve refused treatment,”
“I have.”
“Explain.”
“Didn’t trust anyone else.” Potter rasped.
Draco sighed, “You are bleeding. Experiencing tremors consistent with curse backlash.” he said, voice firm.
Potter blinked. “I.. don’t know what that means,”
Draco hesitated, just enough for the space between them to matter.
He reached out. Harry flinched—Draco’s hand stilled in mid-air.
“I haven’t touched you yet,” he said quietly.
“I know,” Harry replied. His jaw tightened. “Sorry. Reflex.”
Draco began the diagnostic charm. Warmth traced the lines of Harry’s magic, revealing damage layered old over new, some healed imperfectly, some never addressed at all.
“You should have come sooner,” Draco said.
Harry gave a weak smile. “Occupational hazard.”
Draco did not return it.
“Ten years,” he said instead, voice low, measured. “And you still insist on enduring injuries you could avoid.”
Harry watched him carefully, murmuring. “You still insist on fixing them.”
Draco met his gaze.
“That,” he said, “is my job.”
Draco continued the diagnostic charm, eyes silently tracking the way Potter’s magic reacted. uneven, strained, and something else that did not belong to him.
Dark artifact exposure, certainly. But there was more. There always was, with Potter.
“You’re holding yourself upright by habit,” Draco said quietly, “Not strength. Habits fall eventually.”
Potter huffed, more a breath than a laugh, “You say that like you’ve tested it.”
Draco adjusted the spell, narrowing its focus. “Lie back.”
He hesitated, before shifting carefully onto the bed, jaw tightening as pain flared. Draco noted it without comment.
“Just there,” Draco murmured, “Don’t move.”
Harry complied.
The heavy silence stretched.
“You’re the Head Auror now,” Draco said at last, eyes still on the spellwork, refusing to look at Harry. “I’m assuming that explains the Ministry interference.”
“Yes.”
“You should not be field-operating alone.”
Harry’s gaze drifted to the ceiling. “I wasn’t.”
Draco paused, “Then where were they?”
“Busy.” Harry lied through gritted teeth. Then, after a moment, “I sent them away,” he mumbled, quieter.
Draco resumed the charm. “You have a distressing tendency toward martyrdom.”
“I prefer the term decisiveness.” he huffed.
Draco glanced at him. “You prefer being in control.”
Harry met his eyes, unflinching. “So do you.”
Draco sucked in a breath, redirecting his attention, mapping the damage more precisely now. The artifact—whatever it was—was faint but persistent, clinging to Harry’s magic like residue that refused to fade away.
“This is awfully recent.” he grimaced, ‘Within twenty-four hours,”
Harry nodded.
“You attempted containment rather than extraction.”
“Yes.”
“You succeeded,” Draco said. “Barely.”
Harry’s mouth curved faintly. “Still counts.”
“No,” Draco replied. “It does not.”
Draco lowered his wand and finally looked at him properly—not as a patient, but as the man he had not seen this close in ten years.
He looked older. Not dramatically or even visually so, but worn out in the places that mattered.
The ‘shine’ in his eyes had dimmed, most probably the result of too many sleepless nights, too many decisions under pressure. His magic, once bright and reckless, now burned steadier. Contained, held back and controlled.
“You should have told me.” Draco said.
Harry’s brows furrowed slightly, “Told you what?”
“That you were coming,” Draco clarified. “That you were injured. That you—” He stopped.
That you were still alive but not in the ways that mattered.
Harry watched him carefully. “I didn’t think you’d want to know.”
Draco’s expression remained composed, heart thumping in his chest. “That is not your decision to make.” he said, setting his wand aside momentarily, beginning to prepare a stabilizing draught, movements precise and practiced.
He did not look at Harry as he spoke, voice surprisingly calm.
“You refused treatment because you were afraid someone would mishandle it,” Draco said, “Or was it because you were afraid they’d see something you didn’t want explained?”
Harry was quiet for a long moment. “Both,” he mumbled.
Draco handed him the draught, “Drink.” he ordered.
Harry complied, grimacing as he downed the entire thing in two swallows. “Still depressingly terrible,” he coughed.
Draco bit back a smile.
“I didn’t ask for you because I wanted special treatment,” Harry said after a while, “I asked because you wouldn’t lie to me.”
Draco quirked a brow.
“I would,” he said carefully, “if it were medically unnecessary.”
Harry’s gaze didn’t waver. “You wouldn’t lie about this.”
Draco met his eyes then, something sharp and unresolved passing between them silently.
“No, I wouldn’t.” he says.
Draco resumed his work, bottom lip in-between his teeth like it always was when he focused. He couldn’t ignore the knot in his stomach as he felt Harry’s gaze on it.
“This will take time,” he said sternly, “You’ll remain here overnight, at minimum.”
Harry nodded, “Okay.”
“When I am.. unavailable,” Draco continued, “You’ll allow the rest of the healers to assist you in your recovery.”
Harry hesitated, “You won’t—”
“I won’t disappear,” Draco said. “But I also won’t compromise or pause my duties for your peace of mind.”
“That’s.. fair.”
Draco adjusted the blankets around him with careful, impersonally gentle hands. As he straightened up, Harry spoke again.
“Draco?” he met his gaze, silver staring into the green.
“Thank you. For coming,”
Draco’s lips curved in a soft, slight smile. “You didn’t give me much of a choice.”
Harry chuckled softly. “I know. Thank you, anyway.”
Draco turned back to his instruments, headache still pulsing, something else now threading beneath it—a feeling he thought was buried and forgotten long ago.
Ten years, he said internally.
Draco remained until Harry’s breathing evened out, the tremors subsiding beneath the stabilizing charms.
He documented everything with clinical precision. Artifact signature. Curse layering. Magical fatigue bordering on collapse. He omitted nothing relevant and everything personal.
When he finally stepped back, the room felt smaller. Or perhaps Draco had simply grown more aware of how little space remained between them.
Harry stirred faintly, “You’re still here,”
“I am.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know,” Draco said. “Be quiet.”
Harry obeyed, lips curving faintly before stilling again.
Draco dismissed the diagnostic spells one by one, leaving only the monitoring charms and the wards humming softly around the bed. He adjusted them himself, hands steady, movements deliberate.
He paused near the door when Harry spoke again, his eyes still closed.
“You’re different.”
Draco paused, “That tends to happen with time,”
“That’s not what I meant.” Harry murmured.
Draco briefly considered just opening the door and stepping out. Instead, he turned, giving Harry his full attention. “What did you mean, then?” he hummed.
Harry opened his eyes. They were clearer now, but no less exhausted. He studied Draco with an intensity that made something low and uncomfortable stir beneath Draco’s ribs.
“You don’t look like you’re waiting for something to go wrong.” Harry said, “Like you used to.”
Draco held his gaze. “Neither do you,”
Harry huffed softly, “I am.”
“Yes,” Draco agreed quietly, “But you no longer mistake it for bravery.”
Harry’s mouth twitched upward, “You always did hate that.”
“I hated inefficiency.” Draco corrected, “Pain without purpose is inefficient.”
Harry let out a slow breath, the tension easing from his shoulders in a way Draco pretended to not notice.
“I’ll be back later.” Draco said, turning towards the door again. “Try to sleep,” he said sternly, hand closed around the door handle.
“Draco?”
He paused, not turning around this time.
“If you hadn’t come,” Harry murmured, voice careful and honest. “I would’ve waited.”
Draco’s grip tightened.
“That would be unwise. Stupid, a better term,”
Harry huffed a short laugh, “Yes. But true,”
Draco opened the door after a few more beats, the corridor greeted him with its steady hum. He stepped out and closed the door behind him with a quiet click that felt louder than it was.
Wilkes was leaning against the wall, waiting and pretending he hadn’t been.
“How is he?” he asked.
“Stabilized.” Draco replied vaguely. “Alive. Cooperative, for now.” He hesitated, before adding, “A junior healer may attend him in an hour. Just a safety check, and no adjustments to the wards without my approval.”
Wilkes nodded, relief evident. “Understood.”
Draco didn’t linger. He resumed walking, his pace controlled and his posture unyielding. Only when he reached the far end of the corridor did he allow himself to slow.
Ten years.
He had spent the half decade learning how to live with the ghosts. How to file memories away until they dulled at the sharp, cruel edges.
He had done it well—professionally, thoroughly.
But some things refused to stay buried.
He stopped near the Floor terminals, gaze catching on a notice board newly refreshed with shiny parchment. One flyer in particular stood outcream-coloured, understated, enchanted just enough to draw the eye without demanding it.
HERMES HOUSE
A Delayed Correspondence Service
Letters delivered ten years from the date they are sent.
For what you can’t say yet.
For what deserves time, and patience.
Est. 1975
Draco stared at it for longer than necessary.
Ten years.
He scoffed at the sharp coincidence and turned away, resuming his walk with deliberate resolve. Coincidence, he told himself. Nothing more, nothing less. The universe enjoyed toying with him, today.
Draco didn’t look back. He reached his office, sealed the door, and leaned briefly against the wood, mind racing. Then he straightened, composed once more, and moved to his desk.
The day resumed around him. Reports waited. Consult requests chimed softly. St Mungos continued, relentless and precise.
Draco sat, closing his eyes.
Harry Potter lay three corridors away, breathing evenly now, and trusting Draco Malfoy to come back.
Draco exhaled, slow and controlled, then opened his eyes and returned to work.
The flyer near the Floo terminals remained where it was.
Patient.
Certain.
Waiting.