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Summary
Ten years after the war, Draco Malfoy still hates who he used to be.
He hates the trials, the two years of house arrest, the six months of probation, the way the entire wizarding world still looks at him like he’s one bad day away from putting on a mask again. He hates that Harry Potter—bloody, perfect, insufferable Harry Potter—spoke for him and his mother at those trials. He hates that Potter saved his life (twice, maybe three times if he’s being honest).
Most of all, he hates that he doesn’t actually hate Potter at all.
Becoming a Healer was the most effective way Draco could think of to piss his father off and, just maybe, hate himself a fraction less. By day he is competent, clinical, and carefully professional. By night he is the opposite—anything, anyone, to keep a certain green-eyed git out of his head.
It still isn’t working.