Foundations - chapter seven - by Sara's Girl

Disclaimer: see chapter one. I don't own Harry and Draco but it's not all bad. I own this rug I'm sitting on, and this cigarette in my hand, and this coffee pot just here. And the coffee in it. I also own a phone and a pizza menu, so I shan't starve, even though I'm not making any money from this story.

AN - There's quite a bit of time apart for Harry and Draco again in this chapter again, but there's also rimming, so... y'know, all things in balance. *smirks*

Reviews make me very happy, and quite often directly inspire the story, so do communicate with me! :)

**~*~**

It's almost dark outside when Harry slips out to collect Clive, some three hours later. He persuades Cecile to distract Tremellen with a Healing enquiry while he returns to the Manor.

"The things I do for you," she mutters, her long-suffering expression melting into one of false sweetness as she approaches the Department Head. "Do you have a minute, Healer Tremellen? There's something I'd like your opinion on..."

As he enters the house and hurriedly follows the sound of voices along a portrait-lined ground floor corridor, he muses on the importance of good friends, and just what favour Cecile plans to extract from him in return. He stops and pushes open the door of Narcissa's sun-room an inch or two.

The sight that greets him is nothing short of astonishing. The elegant blonde is leaning slightly forward in her chair next to the window, talking softly to Clive as he sits at her feet like some kind of royal subject, looking up at her with wide eyes and plucking experimentally at Zeus' tails. Zeus, for his part, doesn't appear to mind this treatment one bit, and is chewing on one of Clive's shoelaces.

"Zoos," he calls softly, glancing at the Crup before looking back up at Narcissa. "I'm not allowed a dog," he adds darkly.

"He's a Crup," she corrects gently. "A special kind of dog."

That's not what she said to me, Harry thinks petulantly, wondering where the hell Ginny is.

"He said she was coming back," he says to the empty hallway, not expecting a response.

"She did."

Harry jumps slightly and whips around to find himself looking into amused dark eyes. "Where is she, then?"

"Upstairs with Drake," Fyz replies, smirking. "She tried, they both did, but the kid wanted to stay with the Ice Queen and her mutt." He shrugs.

"Do you call her that to her face?"

"I haven't a death wish." Fyz turns his eyes back to the crack in the door and Harry does the same.

There's something captivating about the peaceful scene, and even though he knows that the longer he spends here, the more creative and painful a death Cecile will be plotting for him, he can't look away.

"Do you know why my mummy can't play with me?" Clive asks suddenly.

Narcissa's pale brow wrinkles and she sighs softly. "No, sweetheart. But I'm certain it's not because she doesn't want to."

Clive seems to consider this, wriggling on the large silk cushion he's sitting on. "Are you too old to play with me?"

Harry raises his eyebrows and waits with interest for the response. After a moment, Narcissa smiles, and the expression of genuine amusement transforms her haughty features. He doesn't catch her reply because he's so taken aback by the cautious warmth on her face; startled, he shoots out a hand and wraps his fingers around Fyzal's warm wrist.

Clive is laughing and trying to resist Zeus' sudden attempt to drag him across the room by his shoelace when Narcissa glances up and Harry steps back from the door, caught by the surprising feeling that he's intruding somehow.

Fyz smirks as Harry releases him. "Out of interest, who the hell did you think I was just then?"

Harry shoots him a look. "The hell person who was standing next to me when something fucking weird happened."

"Fair point. Draco says he hasn't seen her smile like that in years," Fyz concedes.

"I can believe that." Harry glances back at the door and listens to the excitable yapping now issuing from within. "Can you tell him thanks, and that I can't stay but I'll see him later?"

Fyz fires off a mock salute and Disapparates.

Reluctantly, Harry walks into the room and all three occupants look up at him in surprise.

"Time to go, mate," he says, holding out a hand to Clive. "Bet your mum's missing you."

The little boy's expression is torn, and he takes an inordinately long time to say goodbye to Zeus, stroking the white fur with careful little hands and whispering into the twitching ears. Narcissa watches him and oddly, doesn't correct him when he scrambles to his feet and solemnly says, "Bye, Mrs Mafloy."

"Goodbye, Clive." She turns to regard Harry as he scoops the child up for the walk back down the drive, pale eyes steady and almost sad.

"Thanks." Harry looks at her over the top of Clive's head, feeling a faint tug of warmth in his chest for her for the first time ever. "That's been a big help. Pera gratia," he adds, flashing a smile.

Narcissa lifts a pale eyebrow at the deliberate mistake and looks out of the window. The grounds are shrouded in darkness and the glass clearly reflects the tiny smile she's trying to hide.

**~*~**

The following day, Tuesday, is the big reveal for the trainees' new rotations, and there's a buzz of excitement in the corridor as the eight Healers wait for Tremellen to appear with his sheet of parchment. Though he's not really excited like the others, Harry can't help but be curious to find out which horrible assignment Tremellen has managed to land him with for the next four weeks.

"Your attention, Hatchlings."

The man has lost none of his sense of theatre, and the parchment he holds flies gracefully across the corridor to stick against the wall, but as the others race to look at it, Harry pauses and frowns at the dissatisfied expression on his mentor's face.

Interesting.

"Fuck me, you got Reversals!" Cecile cries, and it takes several seconds for Harry to realise she's speaking to him.

"What?"

"Modulate your language, Healer Mackenzie," Tremellen snaps, and she turns repentant green eyes to him for approximately half a second before looking back to Harry and grinning. "New assignments will commence this Monday, and I need not remind you that your performance evaluations will come directly to me."

The second he's gone, Harry turns back to Cecile, who's poking at him none-too-gently with her wand, trying to get his attention. She must be mistaken, of course. Tremellen would never give him Dark Arts Reversals in a million years. Tremellen hates him.

"I don't believe you," Harry says, ignoring her eye-roll and striding over to examine the parchment for himself. And there it is.

Healer H. PotterDark Arts Reversals. 2nd Floor.

Working Under: Healer L. Aquiline.

Surprise, confusion and pleasure twist together in his belly and he smiles, baffled. He scans the list for his friends' names and notes that Cecile is going to Spell Damage and Terry to Trauma; they seem satisfied enough when Harry turns to look at them, and he can understand that—both are interesting and challenging departments.

What he can't understand is what Tremellen is up to.

"Maybe he's had a bump to the head," Terry suggests, coming to stare at the parchment with Harry.

"Maybe he's up to something," Cecile adds, examining her wand at close range with narrowed eyes.

"Wouldn't surprise me."

"Maybe he was feeling sorry for you," offers Daisy uncertainly from across the hall. She rarely speaks to Harry, which is fine with him because she's extremely annoying, but now he turns and looks at her questioningly.

"I doubt that. Why would he feel sorry for me?"

Daisy tosses her blonde ponytail over her shoulder. "Haven't you seen the Prophet this morning?"

Harry's heart sinks. He hasn't; he and Draco were in a rush this morning, and after a cursory glance at the front page had dumped the paper on the kitchen table to look at later.

"No, but I can guarantee that there's nothing in there that could make Tremellen feel sorry for me," he replies, fixing Daisy with a steady look. "And I don't think that's quite how this works, anyway."

"I was only saying." She shrugs and turns away.

"That girl was in some other queue when they were handing out observation skills, wasn't she?" Cecile remarks, finally putting her wand away, seemingly satisfied.

"She passed training," Terry is saying, shaking his head slowly. "How did she pass training? The mind boggles."

Terry and Cecile are exchanging significant looks and Harry decides he doesn't want to hear the end of that thought process. Irritation spiking already, he heads for the nearest waiting room to find a copy of the Prophet.

Fortunately, the room is fairly quiet at this time in the morning and he soon unearths one, flicking through it until he finds a double page spread entitled: 'Malfoy Plot to Halt Potter Line – will Draco Malfoy stop at nothing to prevent our Saviour from producing an heir?'

Harry scans the article, fingers clenching the paper until it almost rips, headache blooming fiercely. Somewhere amongst his gritted teeth and desire to see Rita Skeeter's head on a stick, he's almost amused at the thought that this article would provoke sympathy from Tremellen; the bastard probably gets off on reading more made-up slurs about Draco.

"Who said I bloody wanted a Potter heir anyway?" he mutters to himself, and a patient sitting across the room looks up at him anxiously.

"Mr Renton?" Eloise calls from the doorway, and the man gets up, still staring at Harry.

"It's not true, you know!" Harry snaps, throwing the paper down on the table and turning on his heel.

"What's the matter?" Eloise whispers, catching him at the doorway, patient behind her.

"Where do you want me to start?" Harry mutters and stalks past her, robes flapping behind him as he puts as much distance between himself and that paper as possible.

Though reporters are still taking any opportunity to snap Harry and Draco together in public, for the most part, the scathing articles have decreased in frequency over the last few weeks. It's all too clear, though, that nasty speculation about Draco's intentions is still an effective way to sell papers.

By the time he's stomped all the way to Gen One, his irritation is rippling around him and on top of it, he's now feeling guilty for snapping at Eloise. Closing his eyes briefly, Harry drags his breathing into a controlled rhythm and Summons a stack of charts into his arms; he still has a job to do, after all. Whatever Tremellen's up to, and whatever the stupid media are doing.

He hopes Draco hasn't seen it. Ginny's proved herself pretty quick off the mark with an Incendio, especially when she has to work with Draco for the rest of the day, so there's a chance he hasn't.

His first patient is sleeping under a potion and he's grateful that he doesn't have to speak to her as he runs his checks and scowls.

"Bloody hell, cheer up, will you?"

Harry looks up to see Romilda, who had also been sleeping, now leaning up on her elbows and looking at him with her head on one side. He looks back to his patient, frown embedded in his forehead.

"Just give me a reason," he says sarcastically before he can stop himself.

"Oooookay."

Her tone is part apologetic and part taken-aback, and Harry winces; there's no excuse for snapping at patients. Ever. He just really fucking hates being told to cheer up. Sliding eyes to her, he watches her reach out to stroke Clive's head as he sleeps at her side.

He sighs and completes his tests in silence. She doesn't speak to him again and the guilt he'd already been feeling blossoms into searing remorse. As he's preparing to leave the room, he hesitates at the end of her bed; she's still awake but determinedly not looking at him.

"I'm sorry, Romilda. It's not your fault, I shouldn't have snapped. It's just—"

"Mmhm. Have you got a bit of parchment?" she interrupts.

Harry frowns. "Er... yeah. Of course." He hands her a slightly ragged roll of parchment fished from the pocket of his robe, and she takes his spare pencil when he offers it.

"Don't worry," she says, tucking them under her pillow, turning dark eyes up to his at last, and then letting them fall closed.

Confusion washes over Harry, dampening his irritation, and he watches the sleeping pair for a moment or two before going to find—and apologise to—Eloise.

**~*~**

A relatively hassle-free morning restores his good humour somewhat, and it's a calmer, if still slightly touchy Harry that returns to Gen One after lunch. Romilda is the last patient on his afternoon round, and she sleeps as Clive leans over the arm of his chair and watches Harry wearily perform the usual checks.

The knowledge that he has less than a week left on this case before his new rotation does nothing to help his feeling of powerlessness; the last thing he wants to do is hand over a patient to another Healer with no useful diagnosis at all, but it looks as though that's exactly what's going to happen.

"What colour comes next?" he asks Clive, in an attempt to distract himself from that thought.

"The blue one," Clive says, arms dangling over the chair-arm. "Smells nice," he adds, having seen this progression of Diagnostic Charms many times before.

Harry smiles. "That's right. Do you know what it smells like?"

Clive shakes his head, chewing on his thumb.

"Lavender," Romilda murmurs, opening one eye. "Smells like old ladies."

Harry laughs. "Afternoon. How are you feeling?"

"Disgusting." She opens the other eye and gropes under her pillow. "I made a list."

"A list?"

"Mmhm. There's not a whole lot to do from this bed, and I was thinking about what you said. So..." She produces the parchment Harry had given her, and reads aloud. "Reason to be cheerful, number one: you are the only person I have seen throughout my entire time here who looks good in that horrible shade of green."

Harry laughs and glances down at his bright, lime-coloured robes. "Really? And that's a cause for celebration, is it?"

Romilda shrugs and tucks the list back under her pillow. "Well, you're smiling now, at least."

And he is, he can't argue with that. "What about the rest?"

"I'm not going to give them to you all at once. I'll wait until you're grumpy again."

Harry lifts an eyebrow and holds in his automatic protest that he doesn't get grumpy. Watching her energy levels flicker, he hastens to ask if it's OK to take Clive to the Manor again sometime before he loses her again.

"Are you kidding? All I've heard about since yesterday is about 'the big house', the naughty bird, 'Mrs Mafloy' and something or someone called 'Zoos'." Romilda closes her eyes and Harry flicks a glance at Clive, sitting silently in the chair. "I asked him if Zoos was a dog, and he was very firm that he wasn't."

Amused, Harry explains and she's smiling faintly as she loses consciousness.

"I'll see you in a little while," he says, and Clive nods solemnly, climbing up onto the bed next to his mum.

As he completes his checks and heads back out into the corridor, Harry feels lighter than he has all day.

"Did you know I look good in green?" he asks Cecile, approaching her with hands shoved in his robe pockets.

"Some days it's all I can think about," she sighs, her amused expression shifting into one of irritation as a harassed-looking nurse prods her down to one end of the nurses' station and out of the way. She stands there, muttering to herself, absorbed in some repetitive task.

Harry steps closer and grins, finally seeing what she's doing. Methodically, she strips the offending article out of the last three Daily Prophets on her stack and then flicks her wand and mumbles a complicated charm to send them flying, presumably back to the waiting rooms they came from. The action is smooth and suspiciously practised.

"Hey, do you—"

"When I have time, yes." Cecile squishes the removed pages into a haphazard ball and throws it to Harry, who catches it reflexively against his chest. "Don't mention it."

Harry wouldn't dream of it. As she allows him a ghost of a smirk and disappears into the nearest ward, he squashes the smudgy black and white crumple of lies until it's almost nothing.

Slytherins are useful things to have around.

**~*~**

By Friday, Clive has visited Malfoy Manor three times more, and has taken to staring down at Evil Peacock from the safety of Harry's arms with an imperious expression that he can only have learned from his unexpected babysitter, Narcissa.

For Harry's part, he's almost unconsciously instilling a healthy respect for tradition in his little charge, and he and Clive have found that yelling: "Naughty bird!" as one irks Evil Peacock something fierce. Harry hasn't been bitten since Monday, which is a new record.

Though he doesn't forget about his mother completely, the visits seem to act as an effective distraction for Clive and he seems perfectly content to pet Zeus, sit in Narcissa's sun-room or follow her around the Manor, looking at the portraits and hiding from Flimby. Fyz, Ginny, and Scary Craft Lady are each intrigued and drawn to the little boy in their own ways, but it's Narcissa that Clive clings to, and he stares up at the Malfoy matriarch as though she's the Queen of all creation.

Today, Harry's earlier than usual, and it's Draco that's waiting at the front of the house for them. He's leaning, as is his habit, against the stone pillar with irritating elegance, head tipped back as he looks at the grey sky. Harry's heart lifts at the sight of him, and Clive automatically twists around to see what he's grinning at.

"Drake," he says, and Harry smirks.

"She's in a fire-call with Madam Malkin," Draco says, pulling a face. "I find it's best not to ask."

"I won't, then." Harry sets Clive down and watches him step cautiously into the entrance hall, scanning for Zeus. "You look really good," he whispers, leaning in to slide his hand against Draco's cold cheek and draw him into a slow, soft kiss that they both draw back from before they're ready.

"Do I?" Draco stares at him, one hand still grasping the hem of Harry's sweater.

Harry nods. He does, especially now: pupils dilated, skin glowing, hair slightly dishevelled as though he's been thinking hard, which he no doubt has.

"Still yes," Draco mumbles, fighting a smile, and it's not a question.

"Of course still yes, idiot," Harry says. He brushes another kiss against the corner of that smile and suddenly doesn't feel the chill in the air at all.

"Staying for a while?"

"Half an hour or so," Harry says, composing himself with some effort and dragging Draco inside the house after Clive.

Flimby is summoned, and the three of them squash onto a soft, cream-coloured sofa in the sun-room to drink tea and juice, and wait for Narcissa to finish her argument and join them.

Draco's expression when Clive escapes from Harry and scrambles into his lap is a sight to behold. The child doesn't seem to stand on ceremony, and Harry suspects that the only reason Draco has escaped this close-up scrutiny so far is because he rarely sits still for long enough during the course of his work for anyone to sit on his lap.

At first, he barely seems to be breathing as Clive's round blue eyes sweep his face and clothing with careful absorption. Harry finds himself wondering if Draco has ever been this close to a child in his entire adult life; either way, he looks terrified, eyes flickering and lips pressed thin.

Biting his lip with empathy and amusement, Harry allows the arm he has draped along the back of the sofa to shift until his fingertips brush the back of Draco's neck in a reassuring caress.

"Oh," Clive says softly, surprised. Small, curious fingers trace the mark on Draco's arm. "What's it for?"

Grey eyes drop to follow the movement, and Draco clears his throat, eyebrows drawn down. Slowly, he looks up and meets Clive's inquisitive gaze, apparently searching for the right words.

Harry exhales carefully and slides his fingertips into Draco's hair discreetly. "It's a scar," he explains, noting Draco's relief as the blue eyes flit straight to him. "Like this one, see?"

Under Clive's watchful gaze, Harry lifts his messy fringe and exposes the faded jagged scar on his forehead. He nods slowly and seems satisfied with the explanation, until: "Where did you get it?"

Harry and Draco exchange split-second glances. "In a war," Harry says simply.

"Mummy says wars are bad." Clive frowns, still hanging onto Draco's arm. "I fell down in the park," he adds, holding out his palm for their perusal. Harry admires the faint silvery line crossing Clive's pale skin and nudges Draco with his knee until he nods his approval, too, still looking vaguely startled.

"Your mum's right," Draco adds after a moment, then falls silent, expression deeply pensive.

Clive shifts on his lap so that he can look out of the window at the peacocks on the lawn, and Harry takes the opportunity to brush blond strands behind Draco's ear and encourage eye contact.

"Amazing, isn't it," Draco whispers, leaning into the touch for a moment and then resting his head against the back of the sofa, "I'm holding a person who has never lived through a war. Who's never been alive while the Dark Lord has been alive."

"Yes," Harry whispers back. "Why are we whispering?"

"Mostly," whispers Draco, leaning close, "so that he doesn't hear me and ask who the Dark Lord is."

"Good point."

"I thought so."

"I'm beginning to think that Madam Malkin has no need for my custom," Narcissa says, looming into view around the edge of the sofa. "She behaves as though it's impossible to accommodate the simplest of requests."

She lifts an eyebrow, noting Harry and Draco's proximity on the sofa and the hand still threaded into her son's hair. Harry withdraws his hand but doesn't move away, and Draco mirrors his mother's expression, as though to express his disbelief that her request to poor Madam Malkin is anything but simple.

Clive jumps down and runs to her immediately, laughing as Zeus emerges from behind her robes and licks his face. There's a little bit of Harry, a bit that he wouldn't admit to out loud, that feels a little put out to have been so quickly usurped as Zeus' favourite person. He thinks he knows how Narcissa felt now.

"Haven't you work to do, Draco?" she asks, turning as the odd little procession is halfway out into the corridor. "That lunatic asylum won't open itself now, will it?"

"It certainly will not, Mother," Draco sighs and turns back to Harry, grinning. "She thinks she's funny. That's the worrying part."

Harry smiles and slides down in his seat, letting his head rest on Draco's shoulder, and the midday sun attempts to punch through the grey clouds, scattering weak white light across his face. He thinks he's having another one of those little moments when he realises that his life is, in fact, beyond surreal. Closing his eyes, he mentally records it for posterity.

"Left bloody Retrievo-Box at work," he mumbles to himself.

"What do you need it for?"

"To remind myself that life is fucking weird," Harry sighs.

Draco snorts, amused. "I don't think you'll need it for that. You'll remember."

"There is that."

Harry stretches his legs out in front of him and sinks back into the sofa, absorbing the silence and the soft sunlight on his face before he has to return to the hospital for the afternoon.

Or at least, he does, until: "You know this scar?"

"What about it?" Harry doesn't open his eyes, but his heart rate accelerates. Something in Draco's tone tells him that he needs to add Ginny to his slow-and-painful-death list.

"Is it true?"

Harry opens his eyes reluctantly and turns his head to find himself gazing into silver-grey ones from just inches away. To his distress, he can't read Draco's expression at all and hot panic speeds his words.

"It's not weird or anything, I just—oh, fuck. I'm going to kill Ginny. And Hermione. And George..."

The hard kiss silences him effectively but he's still confused. Draco glances down at the black lines on his skin and then back up at Harry with a small, intriguing smile.

"No, you're not. We're going to go upstairs and you're going to use the last fifteen minutes of your lunch break to show me exactly how weird it is."

Harry blinks. Catches the flare of aroused curiosity in Draco's eyes. Exhales messily, flooded with relief and warm, prickling interest.

"That's a much better idea."

**~*~**

Harry's earlier shift means that he makes it back to Grimmauld Place first that day; Draco, who had planned to spend the afternoon making a dent in the bewildering array of complex wards required for the East Wing, won't be home for ages. He pauses, robes halfway over his head, as the thought echoes inside his head, and he wonders just when he started thinking of his place as Draco's home. He doubts that Draco does, even though he's here most nights.

"Better not say that out loud," he mumbles to himself, pulling his robes the rest of the way off and throwing them into the washing basket, which is full almost to overflowing.

Reluctantly, Harry picks up the basket and drags it upstairs, forcing himself to use this little bit of time to address his neglected domestic chores. The temptation to use Cleaning Spells for everything is huge, especially as he regards his clothing-strewn bedroom floor, but he knows it's not the same, and the image of Molly Weasley's disapproving pout quickly kills any remaining urge to be lazy.

He sighs, tucks the basket under his arm and works his way around the room, flinging things into the basket and humming absently under his breath, the song about a dragon that Clive was singing earlier.

"Fucking black boxers everywhere," he mutters, interrupting himself. He shakes his head as he picks up three more pairs and tosses them into the basket, and then stops.

The fabric is slightly different, and... some of these aren't his. Harry stares down into his basket and lifts an eyebrow, torn between indignation that he's apparently doing Draco's laundry, and amusement that Draco, in order to achieve this, must be leaving the house wearing either Harry's underwear, or no underwear at all. There's a thought. Amusement quickly wins out, and Harry smirks to himself.

He resumes his absent humming and picks up everything until he can see his bedroom floor once more; it's been a while, too. The last item he hooks a finger into, down by the side of the bed, is a pair of very high quality black trousers. Draco's trousers, no less, and now he's confused. There's no way he's been wearing Harry's pants—he doesn't have that many pairs and a quick check reveals they're all accounted for—and Harry likes to think he'd notice if Draco was leaving the house without any trousers on at all.

Frowning, Harry sets the basket down on the bed and wanders into his bathroom, unsure quite what he's looking for until he finds it.

He runs thoughtful fingers along the one white towel amongst all of his green ones, not one bit surprised that it's much softer to the touch than all of his green ones, too. Stepping closer to the shower, he picks up the bottle of clear, citrus-scented shampoo that he definitely didn't buy. There are two toothbrushes in the glass at the side of his sink, and he has no idea how he's never noticed that before, because he's watched Draco brush his teeth more times than he can count.

Harry leaves everything where it is and returns to the bedroom, a strange smile stealing across his face. There's a leather-bound notebook on his bedside table, with a yellow post-it note stuck to it, reading: 'Call Meph re. Chelsea flat. What is 'all mod cons'? Ask HG.'

The smile stretches into a grin, and Harry rubs his eyes with the flat of his hand, wondering how long Draco has been leaving his stuff all over the place without him noticing. When he thinks about it, it's a typically Draco expression of commitment; he's silently incorporating himself into Harry's house, and he wonders if Draco half-expects to get called out on it.

Harry smirks, picking up the washing basket again and stomping down the stairs. If that's the case, then Draco will be waiting a long time. Adding his own improvised words to the ones he can remember, Harry resumes the dragon song as he washes Draco's things along with his own and then clears out a drawer in the bedroom to put them in.

"A drawer," he tells his cupboard as he makes tea, noting the sugar jar he keeps filled even though he doesn't use it himself. "Truly, I am a grown-up."

The creak of the cupboard door is slow and almost sarcastic, and Harry withdraws his hand from the little bit of silver tinsel he'd decided to give in and remove at long last, changing his mind.

"Suit yourself." He takes his tea into the living room. "And it takes one to know one," he adds from the doorway.

Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps Draco does feel at home here after all. Sipping his tea and sprawling out untidily across the sofa, Harry wonders if he isn't supposed to feel scared and uncomfortable and stifled by that thought. After all, he remembers very clearly the months before Ron and Hermione first moved in together. He remembers Hermione's exasperation and Ron's disturbed mumblings about commitment and space and 'isn't this all a bit soon?'

They're fine now, of course, but the more Harry thinks about it, the more he's certain that some sort of panicking is indicated in a situation like this. If there's even a situation. And even if there is, he can't seem to muster any amount of dread or alarm; perhaps there's something wrong with him.

Really, he muses, kicking off his shoes and dangling his legs over the arm of the sofa, Draco practically lives here anyway; now that he's integrated himself into what he still refers to as 'Gryffindor Polyjuice Outings' he's here Friday nights, too, and Harry can't remember the last time they spent a night apart.

"And that's bad?" he wonders aloud, frowning at the ceiling. It doesn't feel bad; it feels warm. Good.

"I'm sure it's very, very bad, whatever it is," Draco offers, stepping out of the fireplace and leaning over the back of the sofa. He flashes a bright smile and rests his hands on the back cushions, waiting.

Harry gazes up at him from flat on his back and smiles lazily. He was right, it's warm. Warm, and a bit achy and fluttery, but there's no need to panic. "I don't know, I think maybe it's not bad at all."

Draco lifts an amused eyebrow. "Well, while it's good to see that you can have existential debates with an empty room, it's almost seven and as you can see, I am dressed and ready..." He indicates his smart outfit and dangles a single dark hair in Harry's face. "...and you are flat on your back and ready for nothing."

"I'm always ready," Harry protests, indignant. "And anyway, there are plenty of things I can do flat on my back."

Draco's smirk is instantly rewarding, and he leans right down until his mouth is a whisper away from Harry's, bringing with him the scent of leather and lemons and mints. "I don't doubt it."

Reaching up to grab him by his collar and hold him in place, Harry battles against the sudden heat rippling through him at the suggestion and the proximity. There are plenty of things he'd like to do right now but on balance, he doesn't much fancy Hermione's wrath if they're late. Awarding himself extra points for self control, he kisses Draco firmly but briefly and drags himself off the sofa.

"We should look into that later," he calls over his shoulder as he climbs the stairs.

"Sounds like a plan."

**~*~**

Harry's grudging self-control allows them to reach the restaurant just in time to avoid the rough edge of Hermione's tongue. Both she and Ron are in good spirits, Harry is relaxed and Draco is in heated-debate mode, so it's no surprise that it's after midnight by the time they return to Grimmauld Place.

Blinking sleepily in the brightly-lit bathroom, Harry rests his chin on Draco's bare shoulder and holds his hand out for the toothpaste tube that he knows will be passed to him; within seconds he's closing his fingers around smooth, squeezy plastic and thrusting bristles into his mouth, cleansing away the taste of garlic and Firewhisky.

He's not messily drunk but tired and pleasantly buzzed, choosing to lean on Draco, who's supporting himself with one hand wrapped around the edge of the sink unit. The smooth, bare skin of Draco's back feels good against his chest and Harry pauses in his brushing to gaze at their reflections in the mirror, deciding hazily that they look pretty good, too, pressed tightly together, stripped down to underwear, all lazy movements and absent-minded caresses.

Dark against light... beautiful. Harry drags the brush over his tongue and flattens his hand over Draco's belly, admiring in the mirror the difference in their skin tones. His little finger brushes the familiar black waistband and something pleasant washes around in his belly.

"I put your things in the third drawer down," Harry says lightly. Casually, he hopes.

Grey eyes meet his in the glass and hold, widening when Harry's fingertip dips below the waistband and comprehension dawns. For a second or two, Draco's brushing hand stills and he doesn't appear to breathe. Almost amused at his silent panic, Harry presses himself even closer and drops a messy kiss to his shoulder.

Draco blinks, nods just once and resumes his brushing. "That's a good drawer position," he says after a minute or two, eyes full of studied contemplation. "Accessible."

Harry nods gravely and slides his whole hand into Draco's boxers, searching out warm, quiescent flesh that eagerly begins to fill and harden at his touch. "I thought so, too," he mumbles, mouth still full of toothbrush.

Inhaling sharply, Draco leans back against Harry and levels an amused stare at him via the mirror. "Good grief, how fucking domestic is this?" he observes.

Uncertain, Harry concentrates very hard on his brushing and his stroking. "Is that a bad thing?"

"Did I say it was?"

"I can't always tell with you," Harry mutters, head drifting a bit now, and Draco just laughs, spitting toothpaste into the sink and reaching up to yank Harry's brush from his mouth.

"Spit," he instructs, and Harry does, startled.

Then, at Draco's small smile, he tightens his grip on the rapidly swelling cock in his hand, licks a fleck of minty paste from the corner of his mouth and notes Draco's soft groan with satisfaction. At the press of Harry's own growing erection against his arse, Draco turns his head, brushing their noses together and Harry lifts his free hand to pull him into a wet, minty, foamy kiss.

The angle is awkward but Harry doesn't care; he wraps strands of pale hair around his fingers and explores the cold, clean mouth until a firm hand curls around the back of his neck and a languid but insistent tongue chases his back into his mouth. Draco's breathing is shaky against his, catching with each long, unhurried stroke of Harry's hand and Harry is seized almost violently by the desire to make him feel good.

It's not that he doesn't always want that, but there's something unexpectedly vulnerable about Draco tonight; he doesn't know if it's the way he's just hanging onto the sink and pushing shamelessly into Harry's touch, or the way he's twisting around and allowing, matching, wanting those slow, uninhibited kisses, or his indirect acceptance over the drawer issue, but it's surprising and hopelessly erotic.

Harry is swept along in it, feeling suddenly more confident than he's ever felt about sex and planning to take every advantage of that fact. Pulling back from the kiss, Harry kisses Draco's neck and hooks his fingers under the black fabric, sliding the boxers down his hips, thighs, and to the floor, opening his eyes and looking at them both in the mirror.

"Oh," he whispers, startled by the hard rush of desire and the ache of warmth in his chest as he takes in the matching ruffled hair, flushed skin, kiss-grazed lips... Draco's head tipped back and his closed eyes, until Harry circles his thumb over the sticky tip of his cock and they snap open, grey irises impossibly dark and fastening on hungry green ones in their reflection.

"What happened to you being flat on your back?" Draco demands breathlessly.

"I don't know... do you want me to stop?"

Draco glances down, watching his erection sliding in and out of Harry's fist, and back up again, a tiny smirk curving his lips. "No."

"As I suspected," Harry mumbles against his neck. "I think you should just... stay right there."

"Might do," Draco says, flicking an eyebrow with what looks like some effort and Harry grins against his neck and falls in love with him just a little bit more.

He trails slow, warm kisses across the pale shoulderblades and down Draco's spine, flicking out his tongue to taste the skin, following the wet trail with the palm of his free hand and dropping to the cold bathroom floor with his nose pressed into the small of Draco's back.

He's not sure what makes him do it in the first place, but when Harry drags an experimental tongue lower and along the crack of his arse, the surprised "Fuck," from above and the jump of Draco's cock under his fingers sends a unique new thrill through him.

"Oh, I see," he whispers, mostly to himself as he reluctantly releases Draco's cock and grips the firm, pale flesh in front of him with both hands, the soft sound of protest quickly turning into something that sounds a lot like, "Ohfuckinggodyesdon'tstop," as he licks over the exposed puckered flesh with the flat of his tongue.

Encouraged, Harry spreads him wider and digs nails into Draco's skin, testing out slow, broad swipes, teasing, darting licks, and sealing his mouth over the twitching, saliva-slick hole and sucking gently until he wrenches an almost-sob from Draco.

It doesn't seem to matter that he's never done this before in his life; something about the soft cries and muttered strings of curses tell him he's doing something right. The sounds have a more insistent edge to them than usual, flooding Harry's overwhelmed senses and making him leak needily against his own stomach and straining underwear.

Harry presses the tip of his tongue inside, caught up in the dirty, shocking intimacy of the action and Draco's cracked, "Please," almost undoes him completely. He needs to be touched so much it almost hurts but needs more of this, more of Draco unravelled and pushing back against his tongue as he acquiesces and stabs in and out of him, over and over, feeling the tight channel start to give in to him. Tasting only vaguely over the tingle of mint, something warm and arousing that he wants more of.

More of any of it, really, anything Draco wants to give him. Pulling back, he watches the pale hands wrapped tightly around the edge of the sink, the tight shoulders and head bent forward, breathing laboured, before gazing, drunk with need, at his work; spit-shiny, open and ready. Harry licks his lips and slides his fingers between parted cheeks.

"Yes," Draco hisses. "Do something."

Smiling faintly, aware even through the thick haze of wanting that he's unlikely to get another 'please', Harry dips his head and pushes fingers inside that tight heat alongside his tongue, revelling in Draco's moan and the clatter as he knocks the toothbrush glass into the sink.

His legs are shaky as he gets to his feet, kicking off his boxers and groaning as he strokes his aching cock with a sticky-slippery hand. He reaches to enclose Draco's in his other hand and once again his eyes fly open at the touch; he looks more out of it than Harry has ever seen him and it's beautiful. Not for a second does he expect Draco to kiss him after... that, but he does, fingers grasping his hair and tangling their tongues together frantically, hot, filthy, close.

Breathless, Harry presses tighter against his back and glances once more into the mirror.

"Is bathroom sex really domestic, d'you think, or really... un-domestic?" he mumbles, thinking out loud.

"I don't know." Draco's mouth twitches at the corners and he drops his head back against Harry's shoulder, closing his eyes as an uncontrollable, inappropriate grin rips across his face and his sudden laughter echoes off the tiles. "I really don't know."

Catching the bubble of laughter in his chest, Harry snorts into Draco's hair, not forgetting for a second the need snapping both of their bodies tight, but just for a second, feeling so comfortably amused that his heart might burst.

"Doesn't matter," he whispers, still grinning as Draco catches his eyes in the mirror, bites his lip and draws a knee up onto the sink, leaning, inviting, stealing Harry's breath.

Harry leans with him, guiding himself inside and smothering his low whimper of pleasure and relief in sweat-damp blond hair. Draco's nod of encouragement comes quickly, neither of them wanting to wait, and he takes over lazily stroking his own cock; Harry braces both hands against the cool sink unit, mindlessly gripping and tangling with the fingers that reach for his.

He can't take his eyes away from their reflection in the mirror as they move together, and any embarrassment he thinks he should feel from looking at himself in this messy, needy, exposed state has evaporated because it isn't him, it's them, and it's fucking fantastic.

"You and me, isn't it?" he murmurs against hot, salty skin. "Yes."

Draco smiles, pushing back and exhaling roughly with every stroke inside him, flicking his tongue over dry lips as if he knows Harry is following it with his eyes. Slowly, he pulls his fingers away from Harry's and reaches back to wrap his arm around Harry's neck at an uncomfortable angle that can only be deliberate; grey eyes warm in the mirror and Harry's heart pounds gracelessly as he strokes into Draco harder, driving into that tight heat and pressing his mouth against the proffered marked skin. Knowing.

"Deviant," Draco whispers, letting his head fall back again, breath catching, chest and face and cock flushed; Harry knows he's close; they both are.

"Not 'til... not 'til I met you, I wasn't," he manages, skin hot and sweat-slick where they slide together.

"No ownership," Draco pants, fingers grasping at Harry's hair. "None... you're just... displacing... you... fuck, so close."

Swaying on the edge of his own release, Harry stares ahead hungrily, watching Draco's hand and his mouth and the strands of hair falling over closed eyes.

"You look beautiful when you come," Harry whispers against his ear, needing Draco to see what he sees. "Look. Just look."

With a broken sigh, intense, clouded eyes open and they both stare into the glass as Harry pushes hard, slow, once, twice, three times more and Draco gasps and shudders helplessly, biting his bottom lip and coming in long white strands against the mirror. Barely hanging on, Harry loses it immediately at the sight and empties himself inside Draco with a wave of pleasure/relief so powerful he can't keep his eyes open.

Very still, breathing hard, they come down together; Harry slides an arm around Draco's waist and feels every muscle in his body begin to relax.

"Good heavens, I've never seen anything like it," the startled voice of the mirror throws into the silence, making them both look up, startled. "I hope you're going to clean that up."

Draco snorts and slides his foot back down to the floor, wincing as they separate. Harry watches as he lifts an eyebrow and deliberately smears his sticky hand across the glass. The mirror shrieks.

Seemingly satisfied, Draco runs his hand under the tap and shakes it off, turning a speculative smile on Harry before kissing him quickly, intensely, and disappearing into the bedroom.

Harry wavers on shaky legs, looking into the sink at the spilled toothbrushes and the one white towel and Draco's fancy shampoo, then up at himself one more time. The smile that is reflected back to him is depraved, satisfied and incredibly content, and only widens helplessly when he rakes his fingers through hair that Draco has yanked all over the place.

"If you don't hurry up, I'll fall asleep all over the middle of the bed on purpose, and there will be no room for you at all," Draco calls from the bedroom.

'I don't want to fall asleep without you,' Harry translates silently, out loud replying: "You wouldn't dare."

A deep sigh issues from the bedroom, and then silence. Harry turns and reaches out to dispel the bathroom lights.

"Harry."

"Mm?"

"Come to bed."

**~*~**

Tap tap tap.

Harry frowns and turns over another page of 'Diagnosing the Undiagnosable: a Healer's Guide' which is propped up on his chest as he lies on the sofa, back supported by a pile of green cushions and feet in Draco's lap.

He doesn't usually relish sacrificing his Saturday supplements for dry Healing texts but he's determined to give Romilda one more shot before starting his new rotation on Monday and effectively leaving her at Tremellen's mercy.

Tap tap tap tap tap.

Pointedly pretending he can't hear Draco's impatient pen-tapping, Harry keeps his place on the page with one finger and trails the fingertips of the other hand in the swirling blue light of the Retrievo-Box that sits on the edge of the sofa cushion next to him.

"Patient says she's feeling brittle... odd word, that. Brittle. Tired, and... brittle... worn, fragile?" his own voice muses softly from the box, and the blue light glows brightly.

Harry rubs his eyes and sighs heavily, turning over another page. Draco rubs a hand over his bare ankle, which feels good, but then continues to tap the chewed-up red pen against the newspaper in his hand, a sure sign that he's bored, or can't finish the crossword, or both. That he wants attention, that's for certain.

"Your turn to make tea," Harry says absently, stretching his legs out over Draco's lap and encouraging the caress but not looking away from his book.

"I can't believe you're studying on a Saturday."

Harry looks up over the top of the pages at last. "I'm not studying, I can't figure out what's wrong with my patient and it's driving me mad."

"Alright. Let me help."

The pale eyes are surprisingly sincere and Harry smiles.

"But you're not a Healer, Draco," slips out of his mouth before he can stop to realise exactly how it sounds; the second the words are out, Harry wants to pull the heavy book over his face and disappear.

Draco scowls, dropping the newspaper on top of Harry's feet and crossing his arms. "Yes, thank you. No need to slap me in the face with my shortcomings."

"Sorry, I didn't—"

"Think? Evidently."

Harry sighs and lets the book fall splayed open across his chest; he pushes himself up on his elbows with some difficulty and nudges Draco with his knee. "It's not a shortcoming, alright? It's a statement of fact. You are not a Healer. I am not an Auror. I'm not a group leader or an entrepreneur or a potion-inventor either, but that's just how things are."

"Hmm." Draco, slightly mollified, resumes his pen-tapping. "I could have been a Healer."

"I don't doubt it," Harry says, and he half-believes it. "Still want to help me? Patient's complaining of a—"

"I was listening before, you know," Draco sighs impatiently. "Maybe she's just getting old. How do you spell the name of the Muggle President's wife?" he tacks on, as if Harry somehow won't notice he's asking for help.

"L-A-U-R-A?" Harry offers distractedly, something nagging at the back of his head.

"No, not her. The English one."

"Prime Minister, you mean," Harry corrects. "C-H-E-R-I-E."

"That's it." Draco inks in the letters and smiles with satisfaction.

Harry dips a finger into the blue light again. 'Brittle. Tired. Worn out.' "What did you say?"

Draco frowns and looks up from the paper. "I said 'that's it'."

"No, before that. You were talking about my patient and you said... maybe she's getting old?"

"So?"

"Draco, she's twenty-two, remember, she..." Horrible inspiration hits Harry full force and he closes his eyes briefly. Idiot. Fucking idiot. "She's getting old. She's fucking well getting old!"

Lowering the newspaper, Draco sighs, eyebrows drawn down. "What?"

He sits up hurriedly, knocking everything to the floor and grabbing onto the back of the sofa for support. "I think... I think it's some kind of Ageing Spell. I think she's ageing, or at least her vital systems are, her magical energy and her organs."

"Wouldn't that have shown up on your tests?"

"No." Harry rubs at his face, exhilarated and horrified all at once. "No, not any of the tests we're using... it's obviously been modified somehow, anyway, but it's not strictly Dark magic so it wouldn't show up on any of their tests, either."

Draco lifts a disbelieving eyebrow. "Somebody wanted to rapidly age your patient from the inside?"

Harry screws up his nose in disgust, suppressing a shiver. "Apparently. That's... sick." It is, and Harry's money's on the psychotic ex-boyfriend, wherever he is, but that's not his concern, he supposes. "Well, possibly," he adds, suddenly plagued with doubt. "Can't know until I test, and can't find a counter-spell or treatment until I know."

He chews on a thumbnail and looks at Draco, waiting for a response. He's only half-dressed right now but is already calculating how long it'll take to make it to Gen One and find someone to distract Clive for a bit and run some new tests and...

"Go," Draco says, pulling Harry's hand away from his mouth and quirking a dry smile. "If I can't do the Quibbler one without your help then we have a real problem."

Harry can't help the smile in spite of his restless anxiety. "Be sure to owl me if that happens," he says, kisses the corner of Draco's mouth and jumps to his feet.

"I'd offer to go with you," Draco offers, settling into the spot against the pile of cushions that Harry has warmed, "but I can't vouch for what might happen to Augustus Tremellen if I see him."

Watching him get comfortable soothes Harry, and by the time he's dressed and ready to Disapparate, he feels almost calm.

**~*~**

Five hours later, there's not one shred of him that feels anything approaching calm.

It starts out well enough; he manages to locate a nice nurse that Clive knows and likes to keep him occupied while Harry runs a complex combination of new tests, at some points having to read the incantations straight out of the back of 'Diagnosing the Undiagnosable' and hoping for the best.

Eventually, he locates a fine, tightly meshed mix of seemingly innocuous charms wrapped around the magical core, which together seem to be creating what Harry can only describe as a rapid, inside-out ageing spell. Nothing whatsoever here that would jump out on standard diagnostic tests, or even not-quite-so-standard ones. This is deliberately nasty and determinedly almost traceless.

As he finally lifts a glowing yellow representation of the damage from Romilda's unconscious body, Harry is trembling with concentration and sticky with exertion, but he's done it. And without waking her, which is disturbing, now that he knows the reason for her constant exhaustion.

Still, he presses on, knowing it won't do any good to force her awake at this point, and anyway, they're both all-too-accustomed to tests and treatments being performed without her knowledge.

Book open on the end of the bed, wand gripped firmly, Harry painstakingly throws intricate counter-curse after counter-curse at the sleeping woman, lips moving continuously and eyes flitting between her face and the glowing, flickering tangle of yellow light hovering above her chest.

Nothing. Fucking. Works.

Swiping the sweaty hair out of his eyes and throwing his green robes on the chair at her bedside, Harry takes a deep breath and casts each one a second time, just in case. Halfway through this second run, the nurse who had taken Clive pops her head around the ward door and he spins around between casts, wild-eyed, aggravation evident in every line of his body, and shakes his head firmly. She holds up a hand and backs away, eyebrows in her hairline.

"Come on," Harry mutters into the crackling air. "Come on, Romilda." He grits his teeth. "Again."

But the yellow web glows, undisturbed, and Harry has to admit defeat; aching and drained, he sinks into Clive's chair, creasing his discarded robes into oblivion and caring even less than usual. He rakes tired fingers through his hair and gazes at the unlined, pale face on the pillow. Romilda is all sharp, dark eyebrows and strong chin and obvious youth. On the outside, at least.

Sighing, he drops his head into his hands.

Someone's cast this to kill her, or at least hurt her badly. A non-Dark collection of spells used in a decidedly Dark way. Pensive, Harry looks through the gaps in his fingers at the white bedsheets and wonders.

She's as stable as she can be for now, and one more day won't make a difference. Healer Aquiline is a reasonable woman... at least, he hopes she is.

"She'll know what to do, don't worry," Harry assures the sleeping woman and drags himself to his feet.

He walks out into the corridor with his creased robes dangling from his fist, looking for that nurse whose name he hasn't a hope of remembering. Blond Nurse with Nose-ring.

On Monday he's going to Dark Arts Reversals and, if he can help it, Romilda and Clive are coming with him.

**~*~**

"You are early, Healer Potter." Aquiline sits on the edge of her office desk and gestures for Harry to take a seat.

He is, too, by a whole ten minutes. Having realised that he's essentially beginning his Dark Arts rotation by asking Healer Aquiline for a favour, Harry has done his utmost to drag himself away from the warm, protesting body in his bed on time for once. He fiddles with the edge of his sleeve and glances around the large, book-lined office, and at the gruesome posters dotted around Aquiline's sepia-coloured walls.

"Only a little bit," he demurs, affecting nonchalance. "I honestly never thought I'd see this rotation so soon."

Aquiline looks amused. "Why?"

Harry hesitates, but something about her expression demands an answer, and an honest one at that. "Because it's the one everyone wants, and Healer Tremellen hates me?"

Aquiline's sharp bark of laughter startles him. Her thin lips draw back to expose slightly pointed canines and the intelligent dark eyes gleam. She's not a beautiful woman by any stretch of the imagination, but her features are striking and she nearly glows with natural authority. She is not, Harry suspects, someone to get on the wrong side of.

"Hate is a strong word, Healer Potter. I'd advise you not to take Augustus too personally. He did, after all, honour my request for you to be here now."

Harry stares. "Your request? You asked for me?"

Aquiline merely lifts a dark eyebrow while Harry fidgets horribly in his seat, and her commanding stillness reminds him instantly of Draco's composure in his therapy groups; he wishes he knew where they learned how to do that; Draco had been right when he'd observed that Harry was 'all nervous energy, all the time'.

"I was impressed by your performance at Christmas," she says simply, and Harry knows right away that he'll be lucky to get any more explanation than that. He supposes he can deal with that; at least it puts an end to his speculation about Tremellen's possible ulterior motives.

"Thank you."

There's another brief flash of those pointed teeth, and then: "We shall see if you're still feeling grateful at the end of this rotation; Reversals is far from an easy ride."

She and Harry exchange a long, significant glance, and he nods slowly. He doesn't need to tell her that he's had quite enough experience with the Dark Arts to figure that out for himself. After a moment, she makes to get to her feet and Harry opens his mouth hurriedly; if he's going to ask, he needs to ask right now.

"Healer Aquiline, I was wondering..."

"Ask it, Healer Potter, I can only refuse," she points out in the space his hesitation creates.

"OK. I have an unusual case I'd like to move to your department..." he begins.

She settles back on the heavy ebony desk and regards him, unblinking, as he outlines everything he's discovered about Romilda's illness and everything he has tried so far, unsuccessfully, to halt its progress. He hands her a detailed list he's compiled and she glances at it briefly.

"...so, it's not strictly Dark magic, but I thought the best chance for her, for both of them, was, well, with you. If it's not too presumptuous... Healer Aquiline," he adds, and holds his breath expectantly.

The Department Head remains silent for so long that Harry has to look away from her, focusing instead on the stacks of parchments on the desk behind her, the strange glowing instruments behind glass cases and the warm, musty smell in the air.

"Yes, Healer Potter," she says eventually. Harry snaps his eyes back to her. "I think it's a good call. She will remain your patient, your responsibility, but I am prepared to offer consultation and, of course, we have resources here that Gen One can only dream about."

She smirks, and Harry notes, not for the first time, the sense of 'my ward's better than your ward' that seems to exist even amongst Department Heads.

"Thank you."

"The Dark Arts are as much about intention as they are about the words used," she continues. "In my opinion, at least. It's a bit of a contentious issue, but I've never shied away from being a little bit controversial where necessary."

"I don't think I could have put it any better," Harry says honestly, and his damaged professional confidence begins, at last, to seep warmly back into his veins.

"Then we understand each other." Aquiline rises and turns away, sweeping folders and parchments into her arms. "I have a very busy schedule, you need to know that; I cannot follow you everywhere, but the nurses and other Healers will help you, and you will come here first thing every morning, and you will come for me if you need me," she instructs, turning once more to face him, and her tone brooks no argument.

"Will do, Healer Aquiline," Harry says quickly and she makes a small sound of satisfaction.

He hastens to follow her to the office door and out into the corridor. Once there, she Summons a stack of charts from somewhere behind Harry and thrusts them into his hands.

"And so we begin." She takes one step backwards and pauses, brushing a strand of dark hair back into place. "Do you drink canteen coffee, Healer Potter?"

Puzzled, Harry grips the charts and shrugs. "Where necessary."

Aquiline's sudden smile softens her severe features. "You are in Reversals, now, Healer. It is no longer necessary. Be kind to Nurse Bates, and she will make sure you are never without a cup of fresh filter."

At the sound of her name, a young nurse with purple streaks in her hair looks up and smiles at Harry; hurriedly, he smiles back, anxious to ingratiate himself with his new coffee-providing colleague.

When he looks back, Aquiline is gone, and he glances down at the charts in his hands.

"I'd start with him," the nurse advises, pointing at one of the charts. "When he gets impatient, he spits."

Harry stares at her. Apparently, she's not joking. Perhaps he'll see to this one before he moves Romilda...

"Milk and sugar?"

"Hm?"

"In your coffee. D'you take milk and sugar?"

Harry shakes his head slowly. He thinks he's going to like it here.

**~*~**

It's almost lunchtime by the time he gets to Romilda; Reversals is a chaotic, fast-paced department, and even with the help of two more experienced Healers and more nurses than he can remember, Harry can't help but feel he's been completely cast in at the deep end. He suspects that Aquiline knows exactly what she's doing, but that knowledge doesn't stop his head from spinning.

And now he has to tell Romilda exactly what's going on. He sighs, hesitating outside her Gen One room, pressing at his eyes behind his glasses. Essentially, he's telling her that he now knows what's wrong but that he doesn't yet know what to do about it, and he's not relishing the prospect.

He summons his professional 'trust me' smile and strides into the room with more confidence than he feels. Romilda is awake, but now that he's familiar with the nature of her illness, it's all too easy to see the stiffness and weakness of a much older woman in her posture and tired eyes. He swallows dryly.

"Oh, no," she offers, catching his eyes. "Serious face. Where were we up to?" Before he can stop her, she's groping under her pillow and retrieving her crumpled list. She squints hard at the words and Harry half-wonders if she can't see properly any more. "Reason to be cheerful, number nine, I think—"

"—Romilda..."

"...now, admittedly this is a bit of a variation on a theme, but still: You get to share a bed with Draco Malfoy." She looks up, checking that Clive isn't paying attention. "See, the funny thing is, it was always you at school, but Malfoy's really grown into a quite a... what?"

Harry's insides twist, knowing he has to ruin her good humour, and it's clearly evident on his face.

"I did some more tests this weekend. A lot of tests. I found the cause of your symptoms..." Harry winces inwardly at the flicker of fear in his patient's eyes, but forces himself to continue. "Multiple spells, almost traceless... I'm sorry we didn't catch them earlier. Essentially, they... it's a rapid internal ageing process, that's why you've been feeling so drained and frail."

"You can fix it, can't you?" she says in a small voice, fingers wrapped tightly around the sheets. "You can stop it, if you know what it is?"

Harry's stomach turns over. The urge to reassure is overwhelmingly strong but he fights it, knowing that a good Healer does not offer false promises. Knowing, but still.

His hesitation is too long, though, and he sees the exact moment that horror turns Romilda's dark eyes glossy. A rustle from the corner tells Harry that Clive has at last taken interest in the conversation and his timing couldn't be worse.

"I'm going to do my best," he attempts. "There are still some options left."

It's not a 'Yes, everything's going to be OK' though, and it's not even a 'Yes, it'll probably be OK', and she knows it. They have to find those options before her time literally runs out.

"We're going to do everything we can, Romilda, now we know what this is, we can at least try to..."

Harry is cut off by the sudden, unexpected sound of distress torn from his patient's throat as she brings her hands up to cover her face and turns onto her side with her back to him. She curls into herself protectively and soon all he can see is black hair and a lump under pristine white sheets.

"Mummy?" Clive attempts, scrambling down from his chair and patting the shape under the sheets.

"No," she snaps from behind her hands. "No. Leave me."

Clive returns to his chair and looks like he's about to cry.

Harry goes to his side and stretches out an awkward hand, which Clive takes immediately. Taking a deep breath, he tries again to reach this once-sunny woman who now won't even look at him.

"Come on, Romilda, don't give up on me. I've arranged with Healer Aquiline to have you transferred to Dark Arts Reversals... she's the best. We'll figure something out," he promises, abandoning his professional front for the need to comfort a patient—and a person—that he's come to care for.

"What's the matter with her?" Clive whispers, and Harry doesn't have an answer for that.

Still, she doesn't move. "Your son needs you," Harry tries, desperate now, and there's a tiny movement behind the curtain of hair. "And you know... I need someone to sort me out when I'm grumpy..."

A choked sound is the only response, but as Harry sighs heavily and moves to leave her be for the time being, one hand moves to curl around the piece of parchment and the same arm extends toward Clive, who scrambles onto the bed at the silent invitation and wraps little arms around his mum.

"I'll see you both upstairs," he offers into the silence and closes the door behind him.

Back on the second floor, Nurse Bates takes one look at his face and reaches for the coffee pot. Harry sips the fragrant liquid gratefully and leafs through the stack of folders she sends his way, acquainting himself with his next set of unfortunately afflicted patients.

"Gotta love Mondays," the nurse says to no one in particular, and Harry offers her a small snort of agreement.

He wonders how work is going at the Manor and, as he does, finds himself gripped by an urge to see Draco so powerful that it leaves his heart raw. The thing is, he knows that soon he can escape for lunch with his friends, sit in the canteen and rant all he wants about his patients and his frustrations, but that's no more than a temporary fix.

It's almost frightening to have come to rely on one person as his sole source of true comfort, especially when that person is Draco Malfoy. Draco never says that everything's OK; Draco never promises anything he shouldn't. But... perhaps that's the whole point. Draco's offers of solace come in the form of fingers in hair and under strings, lips against flesh, and strange little practical gestures. In warm, steady grey eyes and skin that always smells amazing and soft little insults that aren't really.

"Knut for 'em," says the nurse, and Harry glances up, smile tugging at his lips.

"What?"

"For your thoughts. Must've been pretty interesting, what you were thinking about." She smiles knowingly and looks down at her paperwork. "Or who you were thinking about."

It's impressive, Harry thinks. Draco doesn't even have to be in the same building to embarrass him.

"It was," he agrees, determinedly not blushing. "Very interesting."

**~*~**

Harry has been home all of two and a half minutes when Draco announces his presence with a low-level muttering from the living room. It's with a sense of foreboding that Harry walks out of the kitchen to greet him, and as he'd suspected, Draco looks thoroughly pissed off.

"Hi," he attempts, actually surprised when Draco's tightly curled fingers relax into his at the first attempt, and he allows Harry to pull him closer without protest. Perhaps it's not too serious after all.

"Hi." Draco scowls but allows himself to be kissed and melts just a fraction against Harry's lips. "I'm going to have Marley's bollocks when I see him, I swear."

Harry pulls back in order to meet Draco's eyes and heaves a long-suffering sigh. Bloody Marley again. "What does he want now?"

"He wants my admittedly not very expert opinion on rented accommodation in London. The sooner he gets his arse over here and just chooses somewhere, the better."

Lifting an eyebrow to acknowledge this ongoing property drama between Draco and his Dublin-based friend, Harry can't help asking the question that's been rattling around in his head for some weeks now. "If he annoys you this much, why do you bother with him? He clearly drives you mad."

Draco's eyes glint with amusement. "You drive me mad, too, but I still bother with you, don't I?"

"That's not very nice, Draco," Harry complains, torn between his instinctive smile and bristling at the implication that Draco places him in the same box as that self-centred Irish dilettante.

Draco drops heavily onto the sofa and Harry sits next to him. "The world isn't very nice, is it?" Draco offers disconsolately after a moment, and Harry starts to suspect that he's the one about to do the consoling here, but that's fine, because...

...and that thought is dissolved as Draco shifts onto his back, resting his head on Harry's thighs and crossing his arms defensively across his chest. Harry stares down at him, astonished by this fully-clothed request—no, demand—for comfort, but quickly gets with it and relaxes, threading careful fingers through Draco's hair.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing, really. Well, apart from this morning, when I ventured out for some supplies and spent ten minutes being forced to listen to the old bat in the Apothecary telling me that I should break up with you and set you free, because someone else deserves a shot at the Boy Who Lived. Of course, when I dared to disagree with her, she spent another ten minutes assuring me that very soon you'll grow tired of this silliness and move onto... well, she said 'greener pastures' but I imagined she meant someone with more breasts and fewer skeletons in the closet."

Harry sighs and tries to catch Draco's gaze, but the grey eyes are fixed stubbornly upon the ceiling.

"I'm sorry, Draco," he offers pointlessly. "You know it's all bollocks, though, don't you?"

"Yeah, so you should be," Draco says, trying to smile. "And of course I do, but it doesn't mean I particularly care to hear it when I'm just trying to buy potion ingredients."

"I know," Harry almost whispers, and Draco tips his head back, at last allowing eye contact.

"Let's talk about something else. Tell me about Reversals. I think my mother missed Clive today, though she'd never admit it out loud," Draco says.

Harry hesitates, looking down and anchoring himself in sincere grey eyes until he finds what he needs there to recount the events of his day. He tells Draco about Aquiline, about Nurse Bates and her coffee, and about all of his new patients. When he gets to the part about upsetting Romilda, Draco says nothing, but he closes his eyes when Harry's fingers stiffen in his hair and turns his head to press parted lips against the inside of Harry's wrist, and it's enough.

Pacified, he Summons a footstool and gets as comfortable as he can without dislodging Draco; Harry can hardly believe he's still lying there, even if he does still have his eyes closed.

"She thinks you're hot, for what it's worth," Harry offers, and Draco's lips curve into a small smile.

"That so?" He stretches long arms above his head and rearranges himself with one arm dangling over the edge of the sofa and one draped over his own stomach. "Can't say I blame her."

Harry snorts softly, catching hold of the levity and holding on. "Mm. It was all about me at school, you know. I was there first."

"You know, I'm starting to think that you and Mephisto will get on very well," Draco muses, still not opening his eyes. "He's another supposedly gay man who gets far too much enjoyment out of women fawning all over him."

Offended, Harry flicks him under the chin, but doesn't stop sifting his fingers through the soft, blond hair. "I'm not going to dignify that with a response."

"Fine. Anyway, speaking of which, you still need to help me with this name thing."

Harry groans and struggles to his feet and into the kitchen, actually opting to displace Draco from his lap rather than suffer through this circuitous discussion even one more time; it's not that he doesn't want to help Draco find a name for his project, but having one's suggestions continuously ridiculed does tend to erode the creative spirit. Slowly, he makes tea and pulls faces at the tinsel-decked cupboard and hopes that Draco will have forgotten about it by the time he returns, cups in hands.

It was never going to be very likely, he knows that. Harry peers through the steam and over the back of the sofa into a face that is all studied innocence. Draco is propped up on his elbows, or at least he is until Harry sits down carefully, and then he resumes his previous position without a word.

"You need to help me," Draco says, as though there has been no break in the conversation. He takes a cup from Harry at an awkward angle. "Because, if you don't, Marley will turn up tomorrow with a list of truly abhorrent suggestions and I will end up using one of them out of desperation."

Harry rolls his eyes and gulps at his hot tea, recognising the manipulation and the unsaid 'Is that what you WANT?' that dangles in the air.

"I still think you should call it Malfoy Manor Chem Dep."

"Yes, well. I still think you need your head examining."

Harry just about resists the urge to balance his cup on top of Draco's head. "The Manor?" he tries wearily.

"I think we've had that one before," Draco points out, supporting his tea cup on his chest and turning unconsciously into the absent-minded hair stroking that Harry is barely aware of.

"And what was the matter with it? I thought it was classy."

"It doesn't mean anything."

"You know what, Draco? It'll be your own fault if it ends up being called 'Draco's Drying-out Den' or something," Harry says petulantly.

"Actually, that's quite—"

A stifled giggle from the other side of the room startles them both, and soon Hermione is gazing down at them from behind the sofa, brushing smoke and dust from her smart work clothes and grinning.

"Hey, 'Mione," Harry offers as Draco starts to withdraw from their casually intimate lounging position.

"Don't get up." She holds up a hand and Draco freezes, elbows digging into Harry's thighs. "You don't have to... you know. Anyway. You shouldn't leave your Floo open, Harry. I just came to tell Draco that we have a date for our initial presentation to the Vulnerable Wizards committee."

She grins triumphantly and Draco inhales sharply. "Seriously?"

"I'm always serious, Draco, you know that," she teases, levelling a secret glance at Draco that, just for a moment, makes Harry feel left out. "First step committee, next step Wizengamot, right?"

"And then the world?" Harry wonders aloud, caught up in their tentative excitement and needing to be included somehow.

"You never know," Draco concedes, tipping his head back to look at Harry and still leaning most of his weight on Harry's thighs. Harry hides his smile, somewhat unsuccessfully, in his cup.

"Listen, I... I'll see both of you on Friday anyway, I just..." Hermione fiddles with her overstuffed handbag, mouth twitching at the corners, and Harry both does and really does not want to know what she's thinking. He's surprised when she adds, uncertainly: "Maybe it should just be one word, you know, like those ones the celebrities go to. You know, like 'Promises' or 'Possibilities' or 'Foundations'."

Into the ensuing contemplative silence, Hermione flings a "See you soon, boys," and a bright smile for each of them before disappearing back into the fireplace in a whoosh of green flames.

Draco settles himself flat again, reclaiming his elbows, much to Harry's relief. His eyes and smile are impressively serene. "Well done that woman," he mumbles as he tries to suck tea into his mouth without lifting his head. "Why didn't I think of that?"

Harry regards him with a pleased smirk; he's never been able to resist an opportunity to wind Draco up, especially when one presents itself so plainly.

"You know," he says innocently, "you could have just asked her right at the beginning."

Draco's nostrils flare, and Harry hears the soft scrape of his nails on painted ceramic. "I hate you."

Harry rests his head against the back cushions of the sofa and strokes Draco's hair into his eyes on purpose. "Of course you do."

**~*~**

Lunchtime on Wednesday finds Harry wandering along the fifth floor corridor toward what used to be Chem Dep with an invitation for Shelagh Carmichael in one hand and a book for Narcissa Malfoy in the other.

He's planning to Apparate over to the Manor with Clive right after he's done here; Clive hasn't seen Zeus, Mrs Malfoy or any of the former Not-Malfoy Manor Chem Dep team since before the weekend, and is almost vibrating with excitement.

With a good deal of help from Aquiline and her library, Harry has been working carefully towards an effective treatment for Romilda, and though he's not there yet, his dogged insistence on talking away to her silent curtain of hair about their progress has, after almost two whole days, come through. As Harry had entered her new private room on Reversals that morning, she had struggled into a half-seated position, face grey but eyes blazing, and furnished him with reasons #10 and #11 from her list without even looking at it.

She had smiled—a brave-face smile that made Harry's chest ache, but a smile nonetheless—he had smiled back, and then she had passed out again.

Harry frowns and rounds the final corner; the familiar double doors loom into view and he stops.

They've done it, finally. The big, shiny, 'Department of Magical and Chemical Dependence' sign is missing from above the doorway and in its place are two smaller ones:

--- Conference Room

Ward 43: Assisted Detox ---

He stands there for long seconds before he suppresses with some effort the silly little twist of sadness and makes his way into the ward. The group room is empty and he can see the sleeping patients beyond the open doorway of Stage One... or should he say, Ward 43, as it is now.

"Healer Carmichael?" he calls.

After a moment, Shelagh emerges from what used to be Draco's office. "Yes? Oh, hello." She smiles at Harry, and then looks concerned. "What's the matter?"

"Oh... nothing. I..." Harry sighs, feeling ridiculous all of a sudden. "I saw the signs outside. They finished it, then?"

Shelagh nods, understanding, and he feels a little better. "They did. Want to see it?"

"No. Yes. Not really. But yeah."

Shelagh laughs kindly. "That's pretty much how I felt about it, too. Come and see."

Reluctantly, he trails behind her and, when she invites him to, opens the door that used to lead to Chem Dep's main lounge.

"Wow."

"Big change, isn't it?"

Harry suspects that big change might be an understatement. The clean, comfortable, slightly worn space he remembers has been transformed into an imposing board room. The floor sparkles underfoot and every surface seems swathed in heavy, jewel-coloured fabrics and polished dark wood. The space is dominated by the biggest mahogany table Harry has ever seen, and as he stands there he can almost see Tremellen and his slimy friends sitting around it, laughing about insignificant ex-Death Eater Draco Malfoy and his silly little department.

His fingers grip the door handle hard and it's an effort to think about Lorne Aquiline and remind himself that not all board members are evil. And that at least Draco doesn't have to see what they've done with his Chem Dep.

"It's..."

"Obnoxious?" Carmichael supplies, and Harry nods. "I know."

It's only when she tugs the door closed once more that he remembers why he came.

"Draco sends this, and his regards," he explains, handing over the postcard-sized piece of parchment covered in Scary-Craft-Annette's elegant calligraphy.

'Foundations' Therapeutic Community

Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire

Open Day, 1st March 2004

Refreshments, Tours, Exchange of Information!

"How very Draco," Shelagh observes with a smile. "Is he aware that this is less than a month away?"

Harry nods wearily. "Yes. In his infinite wisdom, he decided that what we all really needed was a deadline to work to," he explains. "And... that the deadline was only 'real' if we made sure that everyone knew about it, hence... this." He gestures at the parchment in Shelagh's hand.

"You're going to be very busy." Shelagh frowns. "Aren't you in Dark Arts Reversals at the moment, too?"

"Yep."

"Good lord. And when on earth do you find time to read?" she asks, glancing at the copy of Animal Farm dangling from his right hand.

Harry laughs even at the thought of having time to read for pleasure. "I don't. This is for my... Narcissa Malfoy."

Shelagh's brows knit together and she scratches at her hairline with the tip of her wand. "I think... I think I'm not going to ask."

"Good call." Harry grins. "We'll see you on the first, Healer Carmichael."

**~*~**

"It was a very naughty bird today," Clive says solemnly as they walk down the long corridor in search of Narcissa.

"It certainly was," Harry agrees, feeling the sting on the back of his ankle with each step he takes. Perhaps growing wise, Evil Peacock has today succeeded in biting Harry for the first time in well over a week, swooping in silently from behind like some kind of feathered ninja. Harry's actually grudgingly impressed.

Narcissa is standing at the window, face turned into the midday sun, dressed beautifully in robes of pale lavender. Harry often wonders whether her robes, like almost everything else in the bits of the Manor he has seen, are without exception made in pale, soft colours because she prefers them that way, or because she knows about Draco's pathological aversion to harsh shades.

He suspects she'd tell him if he asked, but he's not going to. Any further speculation is interrupted by the noisy, enthusiastic collision of small boy and not-dog in the centre of the floor. Narcissa turns at the sound and observes the reunion; there's a tiny, controlled smile on her lips but the pale eyes glow with pleasure and Harry doesn't miss it.

"Hello, Mr Potter," she murmurs without looking at him.

"Mrs Mafloy!" Clive cries, tearing himself away from Zeus and scrambling to the feet of the elegant woman, and Harry half-wonders when anyone last looked so pleased to see her.

"Hello, sweetheart," she says, rearranging the caramel-coloured hair with pale fingers and finally sparing a glance for Harry. "Disconcerting, isn't it, to come second to an animal in someone's affections?"

Her dry tone and arched eyebrow draw Harry's smile from him effortlessly and he finds himself shrugging. "Depends on the animal, I suppose," he replies.

"Indeed," she says, and it's only then that Harry realises he's forgotten all of his pureblood manners and Narcissa has either failed to notice or failed to care.

Renewed hope blooms inside him and he offers the book, which she takes, expression speculative.

"I thought you might enjoy this." He pauses. Meets curious blue eyes. "I... well, you seemed to make your peace with the other one... eventually."

"This is the same writer," she observes, turning the book over to examine it.

Harry nods. "Yes. It's about... well, I'm sure you won't need my interpretation, although I'd..." Harry hesitates, glancing momentarily down at Clive, who's crouching down and scratching Zeus' belly. Oh, fuck it. "I'd be interested to hear what you make of it," he finishes.

The surprise is apparent on the fine-boned face for approximately half a second before it is neatly covered over with cool complacency. "Certainly, Mr Potter. Per gratia."

"Harry? There you are." Draco appears in the doorway of the sun room and glances around at the scene. "Hello, Clive."

"'Lo, Drake," Clive says, glancing up from his furry playmate.

Draco's pained expression is still far more amusing than it should be, and Harry fights to keep the smile from him face as he excuses himself and walks alongside Draco in the direction of the East Wing.

"It must be strange for her, you know."

"What must?"

"You," Draco clarifies, as though it's obvious. "This is probably the first time someone's trying to make friends with her... not just because of who she is."

Harry slows, frowning, resting a hand on Draco's wrist. "Draco, that's exactly why I'm trying to make friends with her."

"What?"

"Well, no offence, but... it's not because of her sparkling personality," Harry says. "It's because she's your mum."

"True," Draco concedes. "Though it's... well, it's almost as though you're courting my mother. It's disturbing."

Harry laughs softly at his tone, judiciously ignoring the implication. "Jealous?" Harry teases.

"I don't do jealousy," Draco says confidently. He glances over his shoulder at Harry as he flicks his wand over the newly-warded doors to the East Wing lounge, and his eyes defy Harry to disagree.

As they step into the room, Harry's response dies in his throat at the surreal scene laid out in front of him. Lively music swells and fills the cavernous space, and in the centre of the polished floor, in a gap between rugs, Ginny is laughing and being spun around by what can only be the elusive Mephisto Marley.

Draco steps into the room behind him and releases a long-suffering sigh, as though he expects nothing less. "I don't know if I even want to ask."

"She made the mistake of saying that no one is as good a dancer as Mephisto was insisting he was," Fyz puts in, lowering his wand from the wall display he's in the middle of creating. He lifts a dubious eyebrow. "I've only known the man twenty-four hours, but I'm not sure I'd have walked into that one."

"I never thought I'd say this, Fyzal, but that's because you have more sense," Draco sighs.

He is a good dancer, Harry has to give him that; he twirls Ginny back and forth as though she's weightless and seems possessed of this natural fucking grace that sometimes Harry thinks he's the only one without. Or perhaps not the only one, because Ginny stumbles once or twice as he watches her, but she's grinning and flushed and Harry only just stops himself from feeling indignant on Neville's behalf by reminding himself that Marley is gay.

Very, very gay, according to Draco. Harry wonders, if there really are levels, strata of gayness, where he himself would fall.

Beside him, Draco flicks his wand-arm and the music ceases. Finally, they appear to have Ginny and Marley's attention.

"Alright," he says, dipping Ginny low one final time and meeting Harry's eyes. Mephisto flashes a huge, white grin. "Wonder Boy's here."

Harry bristles, closing his eyes briefly against the prickle of irritation. It's not a good start.

"Don't start," Draco warns the grinning man; his tone is weary but the way he angles his body slightly in front of Harry—whether conscious or instinctive—is gratifying.

Ginny disentangles herself and shoots her dance partner a dark look before smiling apologetically at Draco and Harry and hurrying to return to her work at the large table under the windows. Mephisto holds up his hands in mock surrender and crosses the vast room towards them, finally allowing Harry to get a good look at him.

Tall and remarkably handsome with shoulder-length dark waves and equally dark eyes, he reminds Harry immediately and uncomfortably of a young Sirius Black and has, from what Harry can see, all of his late godfather's arrogant charm. His robes are clearly expensive and there's something about the way he carries himself that makes Harry suspect he's never done a day's hard work in his life.

Harry takes a deep breath and shakes the large hand that's held out to him. He returns Mephisto's bright smile with some effort and reminds himself over and over not to judge on first impressions. And more importantly, for whatever reason, this person is Draco's friend and colleague, and as such, he's going to make an effort if it kills him.

"Nice to meet you at last, Harry Potter," he says, releasing Harry's hand, and this time Harry just about picks out the light Irish lilt amongst the upper class tones. It's a nice, pleasant voice and he grudgingly slides some mental points back in Mephisto's direction.

"Likewise. I've heard a lot about you," Harry offers, and Draco snorts beside him.

Mephisto grins and then looks away from Harry, instead turning beseeching dark eyes upon Draco. "Why must you always ruin my fun, Draco?"

"Someone has to keep you under control."

Wounded, he folds his arms and sighs heavily. Draco merely lifts an eyebrow, unmoved.

Harry stands perfectly still and watches their silent exchange with interest until Draco caves and rewards Mephisto with a surprisingly warm smile, and Mephisto claps him on the shoulder, triumphant. Draco doesn't flinch.

The idea of jealousy that they'd so easily laughed off in the corridor suddenly seems less than amusing; now it yanks at Harry's insides like many tiny hooks, pulling and pulling at him until he's absolutely enraged that this attractive—and doesn't he bloody know it—man with an Irish accent and the ability to dance is touching Draco and making him smile and Draco is letting him.

It's ludicrous, of course it is, and Harry throws every bit of restraint he has into not letting this sudden, visceral reaction show on his face, but still... it unnerves him to see Draco so at ease with this person; after all, he still panics when Ginny hugs him, and Harry doesn't think he's even seen Narcissa touch her son in an affectionate way.

But it's fine. He's being ridiculous. You are being ridiculous, he reiterates firmly to himself as he stands there not hearing a word of their conversation.

Until he catches his own name, far too late to establish the context:

"...Harry did that," Draco is saying, and Harry glances at him, light with relief that the hand has left his shoulder but having no idea what Draco is talking about, or if a response is expected of him. "Didn't you?" Draco nudges him lightly and he curses his inattentiveness for the millionth time.

"Mm," Harry offers vaguely, but the grey eyes are so warm on his and Draco is smiling indulgently and there are cool fingertips grazing his wrist and sliding under the worn string in an achingly familiar gesture and it's alright.

"I'm impressed, Wonder Boy," Mephisto comments, and Harry doesn't even have to look at him.

"Marley." Draco's tone is a warning.

"It's a compliment," Mephisto insists.

Harry doesn't take his eyes off Draco, just listens carefully as the man gives up and strides across the room to speak to Ginny, sharp footsteps echoing off the hard floor.

Draco sighs. "You hate him."

Guilt-flooded suddenly, Harry bites his lip. What was it that Aquiline had said? "Hate is a very strong word," he offers eventually.

Draco releases his wrist and rakes through his own hair, lips curving into a wan smile. "Diplomat."

"Optimist."

"Idiot."

"Yes."

Draco laughs warmly, and Harry almost forgets all about Mephisto Marley and his white teeth and his posh Irish accent. "Yes," Draco whispers, and wanders off to look over Fyzal's shoulder at the work-in-progress wall display.

Rich laughter echoes across the room; Harry looks over just in time to see Ginny roll her eyes good-naturedly and shove Mephisto in the arm.

No, it's no good. Harry leans against the wall and shoves his hands in his pockets. He sighs, and wonders if it's alright to hate Mephisto just a little bit.