Foundations - chapter eight - by Sara's Girl
Disclaimer: see chapter one. This week, the fact that it's not mine is wounding me so much that... yes, I may have to finish the can of green Pringles by myself.
AN – If I could summarise this chapter in a word, it would be tension. So be warned. There are also more f-words in this chapter than are strictly decorous. Not an apology, just a head's up! Comments, as always, are loved.
A chapter for maenhi, who has devoured this story and Reparations in record time, left me many wonderful, inspiring comments, and seems to enjoy talking about Draco Malfoy as much as I do.
**~*~**
After leaving Clive, Narcissa, and Zeus to their game of something intriguing involving bubbles that he doesn't have time to ask about, Harry Apparates to the hallway just outside the wards of the East Wing lounge to save time. He wants to show his face but he's running late this afternoon; Reversals has been non-stop, and there's no way he's missing his shot at the Thursday Pity Flapjack.
Tradition is tradition, after all, regardless of fledgling rehab centres and new rotations and—
"Fuck!"
Approximately two paces inside the lounge, Harry's feet jerk from under him as the familiar sensation of a Trip Jinx catches him just below the knees and pitches him forward abruptly. Though his stomach swoops unpleasantly at the shock, Harry actually falls very well, having had plenty of practice during numerous duels, and he catches himself easily with just one hand and one knee meeting the floor.
Having noted only two occupants of the room before he started to fall, Harry makes a split-second educated guess as to the perpetrator and, without looking up, disarms Mephisto silently and without drawing his wand. The stinging smack of birch into his palm is satisfying, as is the expression of astonishment on the handsome face when Harry looks up and straight into coal-black eyes.
Heart racing, pleasure mixes with hot fury as Harry forces a grim smile.
"Marley... what the fuck was that for?" He gets to his feet, refusing the hand that's held out to him.
"Nothing special," Marley shrugs, flashing a sparkling smile. "Though I expected the Saviour of the Wizarding world to have a bit more awareness."
"Awareness?" Harry fumes, still gripping the birch wand tightly. "For god's sake, Marley! I shouldn't have to anticipate random attacks when I come here!"
Teeth gritted, he folds his arms, awaiting a response and wondering where the hell Draco is. After a moment or two of tense silence, Marley's features soften and he blinks slowly at Harry with what can only be described as a wounded puppy expression on his face.
The fact that Harry's anger with him starts to subside at the sight of it, paradoxically, just fuels his ire.
"I wasn't attacking you, Wonder Boy," Mephisto says softly, eyes appealing. "I was only playing."
Confused, Harry scrubs a hand over his face and sighs. For some reason, perhaps the expressive eyes, perhaps the fact that Draco has been friends with this prat for five years, Harry actually believes him. Believes that there's no malice behind his actions. And yet... wanker.
"Well... don't. And stop calling me Wonder Boy," he snaps, throwing Marley's wand back to him and stomping in the opposite direction across the lounge, which just happens to be toward Scary Craft Lady.
He can't say they've had many conversations; if he's honest she still freaks him out a little bit, but right now she's the lesser of two evils and Harry is determined not to just walk straight out following his exchange with Mephisto.
I'm not letting you win, Flo, he promises silently, and the memory of the man's ridiculous middle name almost raises a smile, as well as considerably undermining his smug, effortless cool.
"Hello, Harry." Scary Craft Lady removes a paintbrush from between her teeth and beams at him. She's sitting cross-legged atop the huge table and appears to be painting something abstract with lots of soft, calming colours; if it seems an awkward position for painting, Harry doesn't mention it; he knows bugger all about art. "Don't mind him, I think he's bored. You fall very well."
Amused and baffled, Harry nods carefully. "Thanks, Sc—Annette," he amends just in time.
She doesn't seem to notice, just continues with her painting, and Harry watches her, leaning against the table at her side. At somewhere in her mid-forties, Scary Craft Annette is by far the oldest member of the Foundations team and is, bizarrely, in charge of both creative and administrative duties. She reminds Harry of the art teacher he had at primary school and is all dungarees and dirty-blonde plaits and copper earrings shaped like chickens.
"Where's everyone else?" he asks at last.
She smudges powder blue paint across her canvas with a little sponge. "They went to Diagon Alley to buy bed linen for the patients' bedrooms."
Harry lifts an eyebrow, incredulous. "Draco, Ginny and Fyzal are shopping for bed linen? Together?"
Annette smiles serenely. "That's right."
Try as he might, Harry can't quite shake the image of the three of them arguing over thread counts, or spots versus stripes, and despite his earlier irritation, can't contain a tiny snort of laughter.
"Every time I think I've heard everything..." Harry sighs and stretches. "I can't stay. Please would you tell Draco I was here?"
"Mmhm." Annette nods but doesn't look up, and Harry lingers just long enough to see her scrawl a pale blue 'HARRY WAS HERE' with her paintbrush on a piece of old Daily Prophet.
**~*~**
"Move your arse, Harry," Cecile complains, as soon as he's within hearing range of their usual canteen table. "We had to start without you."
"You can't start without me!" Harry drops into his chair, shoots a covetous glance at the cinnamon-raisin flapjack in the centre of the table and a scandalised one at Cecile. "I'm an integral part of the flapjack ritual."
"You keep telling yourself that," Cecile returns, but she's grinning and Harry sticks out his tongue.
"Have you all been, then?" Harry barely restrains his pout and picks at the edge of his coffee cup.
"Sorry, Harry... we were all so hungry, and there's only so long you can stare at a flapjack without wanting to eat it," Eloise sighs.
"Terry's front-runner so far, with his 'Healer Gretagne is a sodding slave-driver and possibly a bit of a pervert', so let's have your best shot," Cecile adds, drawing a face in her cappuccino foam.
Harry exchanges an intrigued glance with Terry, who nods grimly and then flicks a brief smile, no doubt tasting victory. As he tries to cast his mind back over his shift, it becomes quickly apparent that Harry's head is full of nothing but Mephisto arsing Marley. Even as he sits there, looking into his steaming coffee, he can feel the as-yet-suppressed rant building in his throat, and it's going to have to come out.
"He bloody Trip Jinxed me," Harry blurts without pre-amble, and he barely registers the confused expressions of his three friends. "I just walked in the room, and he... for no reason! I don't think he wants to hurt me or anything but just... he's obviously got this problem with me and I don't know why. He keeps calling me Wonder Boy, for crying out loud..." Harry rests his elbows on the hard shiny tabletop and rakes both hands through his hair. "And he's all Irish and handsome and elegant and it's insane but I... I hate him. I fucking hate him."
Harry falls silent and chews on his lip; he feels infinitely calmer for the outburst and breathes deeply, slowly raising his eyes back to his friends when there's no response.
Cecile is sipping her coffee, green eyes pensive, and Eloise wrinkles her nose sympathetically.
"Who?" asks Terry, and Cecile groans and flicks him on the wrist.
"Mephisto 'Private joke, sorry' Marley," Harry supplies.
"The guy who's come over to... ah." Terry shifts in his seat, understanding, and sighs. "I never get to win, do I?"
With a rapid series of nods, the plate is pushed in Harry's direction and he bites half of it off in one go, cupping a hand under his chin to catch falling raisins and crumbs. "Nice one, Flo," he mumbles under his breath and licks cinnamon-sugar from his bottom lip.
"You know, this is sounding awfully familiar."
Frowning, Harry looks at Cecile, whose thoughtful expression has shifted into one of studied innocence. "What?"
"Well, you used to rant about Malfoy like this, and now you're shagging him."
Harry is so horrified that he spits his reply through his mouthful of flapjack. "Cecile. Fuck's sake. This 'snot th'same. I really do hate 'im."
"It's a fine line," Cecile insists, face perfectly straight.
Harry swallows the last of his mouthful and glares at her.
"Cecile, don't be horrible." Eloise toys with her teabag string and levels a glance at Cecile that's three parts disapproval and one part badly-concealed amusement.
"Yeah, Cecile, don't be horrible," Terry murmurs, dark eyes glowing as he leans back in his chair, and Harry is reminded once more of children in the playground; Terry might as well pull Cecile's hair and have done with it.
"Fine. On a serious note, I don't much care for people who hex my friends... other than me, of course." Cecile's smirk lights her whole face. "Let's think of something horrible you can do to him the next time you see him. Itching powder's always fun..."
Harry smiles. It's definitely not big or clever but he doesn't always feel like being a grown up, anyway.
"... nipple-twisting hex?" Eloise is saying at his side, wrapping a mousy curl around her finger.
Harry loves his friends.
**~*~**
Although Harry manages to resist twisting Marley's nipples or putting itching powder in his pants (just about), as the days wear on and the Open Day deadline looms ever closer, he is able to step back a little in order to figure out what's really bothering him about Mephisto.
In between gruelling shifts and meetings with Aquiline and ferrying Clive back and forth, Harry rolls up his sleeves and pitches in with the preparations and, as much of it is mindless spellwork or physical labour, he takes the opportunity to observe the Irishman in his interactions with Draco and the rest of the team. To be fair, Mephisto hasn't hexed Harry again and even seems to be keeping a somewhat wounded respectful distance where possible, but still.
"Draco, what is it with you and all this Muggle paraphernalia?" he teases, striding into the lounge with a stack of parchments under his arm and a handful of shiny silver paperclips. "Remember Ferdinand from Chem Dep...?"
"—Malfoy, real wizards use their wands!" Draco chimes in, turning from the fireplace where he's working alongside Harry, and he and Marley dissolve into laughter.
Harry fights down the lick of hot irritation inside him and sighs. That's what it is. Marley's known Draco as a friend for far longer than Harry has, and their conversation is full of reminiscences and playful insults that Harry hasn't a hope of understanding. Not only that, Marley delights in making fun of all the silly little things that Harry loves about Draco, like his stationery and his clothes and his enthusiasm for bizarre coffee syrups.
More often than not, Draco takes this in good humour and always gives as good as he gets—Marley's hair and accent and Durmstrang education all come under regular fire—but it irks Harry nevertheless.
Chewing his thumbnail down to the quick, Harry watches Draco step away from the fireplace to engage Mephisto in a debate that seems to involve a lot of hand-waving and exasperation on Draco's part and a good deal of sighing and arm-folding on Marley's.
The thing is, the adult part of him wants to get on with the man. In his own oft-repeated words, it matters to Draco, so it matters to him. Harry can't help thinking that, in hindsight, Narcissa Malfoy was a breeze.
"You're going to have no thumbnail left at all," Draco murmurs, returning to his side and pulling at his hand. "What's the matter?"
Harry meets searching grey eyes and sighs softly. "Nothing, I just... do you think we're done with this one?" he asks, changing tack and indicating at the restored fireplace.
He catches Draco's brief frown in his peripheral vision and holds his breath, but after a moment, his sleeve is released and Draco appears to let his anxiety slide for the time being.
"Yeah... looks good. We—"
"Finished!" cries Fyz from across the room, and they turn. "At long bloody last."
Everyone abandons their work in various parts of the room to congregate behind Fyzal and his finally completed wall display.
Harry reflects that Fyzal is actually proving a surprisingly useful person to have around. Granted, he possesses a spectacular talent for saying the absolute worst thing in any given situation that no amount of rehab will ever squeeze out of him, and he attracts trouble to him like flies to sugar, but his boundless energy and exceptional Household Charm-work have so far proved invaluable. Even Ginny's had to eat her words.
"What do you think?" Fyzal asks the assembled team, garnering instant murmurs of approval and admiration.
Fyz's assessment that he was 'pants at Transfiguration' is frighteningly accurate, Harry thinks; the man couldn't make a pin into a needle if his life depended on it, but, after some creative consultation with Annette, he's spent the better part of two weeks casting and twisting a complex web of charms to create this impressive representation, in carved beech and wrought silver, of everything that Foundations stands for.
Though he's clearly taken his inspiration from Draco's Chem Dep original, the new display is larger, more imposing and glows with a newness and permanence that makes Harry feel like he's part of something huge.
Est. 1st March 2004, the silver letters along the bottom proclaim, somewhat optimistically.
"Brilliant, Fyz," Harry says, and means it.
"You're an artist," Scary Annette offers. "I knew you were."
"I'm impressed, Caruso," Ginny offers with a flickering smile, and Fyz turns to smirk at her, dark eyes glowing with pride.
Unsurprisingly, Fyz is waiting on Draco's opinion, but the man at Harry's side is uncharacteristically silent. Harry shoots him a sidelong glance and takes in the lips firmly pressed together, the eyebrows drawn down and the hand automatically lifting to push through his hair.
To an initiated observer, Draco radiates stern disapproval, but Harry knows better. He's standing close enough to hear the slight catch in Draco's breathing, to feel the tension in the hand that brushes his at his side and to see the flicker of unguarded emotion in the pale eyes.
At Fyzal's expectant look, Draco clears his throat and allows the smile to tug at his lips. "What they said. It's perfect, thank you." With what looks like some effort, Draco forces a rueful smirk. "No way we can miss our deadline now, is there?"
As warm, slightly nervous laughter ripples around the group, Harry catches and grips Draco's fingers. Just for a second or two, but the small, grateful smile he receives in return tells him all he needs to know. So, Marley shares a lot of things with Draco, but not this. Not this comfort in touch and this ability to communicate without words.
"Meus fabula and what now?" Mephisto says at last, brow furrowed, reading from the display in front of him.
Oh dear, Marley, Harry sighs silently, suppressing a smile. I thought all good purebloods knew their classical languages.
"It's Latin," Harry and Fyzal offer at exactly the same time, drawing a disconcerted look from Mephisto.
When the baffled man turns away, shaking his head, they exchange pleased grins, and Draco snorts, apparently amused. Harry doesn't want it to be a pissing contest, he really doesn't, but...
It's still nice to win one.
**~*~**
Lorne Aquiline is a morning person.
This suits Harry just fine, because he's one, too, and their early morning progress meetings in the second-floor office have quickly become his favourite part of the working day. Aquiline hadn't been exaggerating when she talked about her busy schedule, but she without fail clears a space for Harry first thing each day.
They soon develop a routine, which consists mainly of drinking Nurse Bates' excellent coffee and discussing Harry's most recent diagnoses and treatments. Aquiline encourages an open dialogue and pushes Harry to ask and answer his own questions just as often as she provides the solutions herself. Harry relishes the challenge and, for his own part, is learning to judge the humour of his new mentor by her position during meetings:
If she's sitting behind her desk, she's under pressure and the meeting will be short; if she's sitting on the edge of the desk, the dark, playful humour colours their exchanges, and if she's pacing back and forth between desk and bookcase, Harry braces himself to have questions fired at him from all angles.
Today is both a Wednesday and an edge-of-the-desk day.
Harry smiles discreetly as he takes his seat and shuffles the items in his hands: Romilda's case notes and the Retrievo-Box. He intends to spend part of today's meeting getting a little closer to an effective treatment for her, and knows he hasn't a hope of remembering everything Aquiline might say; her delivery is without exception rapid-fire, uncompromising and hesitation-free.
"I hope you don't mind," he says, holding up the case file and setting the box on the desk next to her. Carefully, he opens it. He's uncertain of the etiquette of using such a device, but it doesn't hurt to ask.
Aquiline's delighted smile startles him. She abandons her coffee and gazes at Harry, eyes alight with interest.
"May I?"
Harry nods, surprised, and she picks up the small box. She holds it up to her face and examines it from every angle, humming with approval. After a moment, she extends a bony finger and delicately prods at the pulsing silver-blue light, which immediately stills around the digit. Both Healers watch, transfixed, as the light performs an odd little shudder that makes Aquiline shiver, withdraw her finger, and emit a sharp bark of laughter.
Without a word, she holds out the box to Harry and raises dark eyebrows hopefully. Harry, secretly thrilled by this show of childlike curiosity from a woman he'd assumed was near-impossible to impress, realises that she's asking for a demonstration and desperately doesn't want to let her down.
Thinking carefully, he dips his fingertips into the light and grins at Healer Aquiline.
"Note to self," advises Harry's voice from the little box. "Stop thinking about obnoxious boardroom, and remember that not all board members are special evil subspecies of human being. Healer Aquiline, case in point, is very cool."
"I'm flattered, Healer Potter." Aquiline returns his smile, pointed teeth glinting in the silvery light. "That's a remarkable piece of equipment. Lovely charm work, isn't it? Didn't like me at all," she muses, examining her fingers.
"Thank you." Harry takes the box from her and rests it in his lap. "Well, I'm no expert, but I'm told it's supposed to respond to my magical signature and no one else's."
"That's right. Those are terribly rare, you know. Where on earth did you get it?"
Harry fidgets and gazes down at the box on his knee. He'd suspected as much, with, well, Draco being Draco, but even so, the implication warms him pleasantly.
"It was a Christmas gift," he says, looking up at Healer Aquiline.
Her eyes widen. "Quite some gift, that."
Harry nods, wondering what's coming. "Yes."
Aquiline holds out her hand for the case notes and scans Harry's most recent scribbles with an odd little smile on her face. "You're going to need more than three layers on that Containment Field." Harry nods and slips fingers into the box as she speaks. "The Unbroken Circle is very risky in her condition. Do you think Mr Malfoy would know where I could get hold of one of those?"
When Harry looks up, she's gazing wistfully over the top of the notes at the Retrievo-Box. He lifts an eyebrow, sighs, and resolves to give up his attempts to steer Aquiline's conversation away from Draco, because it clearly doesn't work.
"I can ask him, if you want."
"Marvellous. Now, this Stasis Charm you're talking about on the last page—have you thought about how it could react with a patient who is already unconscious eighty percent of the time?"
"Yes, but if you look—" Harry leans forward to point at a spot further down the page, "—I'm thinking of using that one to counter-balance, and at this point..."
"At this point?" Aquiline prods.
Harry drags in a lungful of musty air and grips the carved box, thinking of Romilda's continued deterioration over the last week. Those options he'd assured her of are closing down fast.
"At this point I think we need to just do something, anything." Harry meets Aquiline's steady gaze, both hoping for her approval and knowing he's right. "I think the risk is becoming insignificant compared to doing nothing."
"Good Healing is knowing when to take that risk, Healer Potter," she says with a brief nod. "And you won't always get it right."
The implication is not lost on Harry, and he commits his full focus to their subsequent discussion, fingertips transmitting every examined angle and idea and suggestion to the box for future reference.
Clever Draco.
It's with a head full of information that Harry rises, some half an hour later, and heads for the manic ward beyond the office door.
"By the way, Healer Potter, I will be there for your Open Day," Aquiline offers, indicating the square of parchment tacked to her notice board with what looks suspiciously like a claw of some kind; Harry dreads to think what it used to belong to. "A Saturday, isn't it?"
"Yes. It'll be great to have you there." Harry hesitates at the door and appeals to the humour once more flickering in the dark eyes. "I think Draco's a bit worried about who else might turn up from the hospital, since it's not exactly invitation only," he confesses, and Aquiline smirks.
"I'd like to say that Augustus wouldn't dare, but I've a feeling that he'll have to see it for himself to believe it," Aquiline says. "It won't surprise you a bit to know that he's been highly sceptical about the whole thing."
Harry grants her a wry smile and wraps his arms around Romilda's case notes. "So was Draco. He once said that the day he opens a treatment centre is the day Healer Tremellen comes to work in drag," he confides before he can stop himself.
Horrified by his lack of self-restraint, he clamps his mouth shut as soon as the words are out and closes his eyes briefly, but Aquiline only laughs.
"You know," she muses, mouth still twitching, "I believe that Augustus and your Mr Malfoy have something in common... I think they'd both dearly love to... and here's a little phrase I've picked up from Nurse Bates—" Aquiline pauses and meets Harry's eyes, "—get one over on each other."
"I dare say you're right," Harry manages, just about managing to keep a straight face. "Thanks for your help, Healer Aquiline."
He's still struggling with a smile when he enters his first patient's room a little later than usual, and when the impatient curse victim does indeed spit messily over the front of his robes, he's inexplicably amused. His grin prompts the patient to sulk visibly and ask if he can't have a sane Healer.
Grin widening, Harry draws his wand, begins his usual battery of spells and shakes his head. "I'm not sure there are any, Mr Magellan."
**~*~**
Romilda is sleeping when Harry goes to collect Clive for their now-daily trip to the Manor.
The little boy had been watching her in silence from his chair but looks up when Harry approaches the bed and beams.
"Mrs Mafloy said I could teach Zoos some tricks today," he informs Harry, eyes bright with excitement.
"Did she now?" Harry murmurs distractedly, glancing at his unconscious patient with a knot in his stomach. He's not looking forward to the conversation about risky treatment options he knows is coming, but Clive doesn't need to know that. The little boy displays an acceptance and adaptability toward his odd temporary lifestyle that seems to Harry to be unique to small children, and not all of them at that, and he doesn't want to disturb it.
"She did, Harry." Clive's expression is reproachful, and Harry smiles at him.
As they set out together on the familiar journey, Harry reflects that, despite what Draco might have to say on the subject, it's unlikely to ever stop amusing him that the only names Clive appears to struggle with are those of the Malfoys. He's fine with Harry, Ginny, Annette and Fyz. He's even had a good stab at Mephisto. And yet, to Draco's exasperation and Narcissa's calm amusement, 'Drake' and 'Mrs Mafloy' have stubbornly stuck.
When he sets Clive down, Narcissa hands over a small bag of duck-flavoured treats and the little boy looks up at Harry as if to say 'I told you, see?' and drags Zeus, with some effort, into a corner of the sun-room to commence the serious matter of Crup Training.
Narcissa watches the pair from her chair for a moment before turning to Harry. "I finished the book, Mr Potter."
"Oh?"
Surprised, Harry meets her calm gaze and takes a step closer to her, waiting, and for the very first time during these exchanges, Narcissa invites him to sit. Or, perhaps, 'invites' is the wrong word, because what actually happens is the careless flick of a wand before the chair Harry has just edged past slides forward and nudges sharply at the backs of his knees until he folds into it, startled.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, as he sits obediently and stares at Narcissa, is the memory of Draco pulling a very similar move. He wonders which of them it belongs to.
She rests pale hands in her lap. "I was wondering which of many, many possible points you were attempting to make this time."
Harry glances out of the window at the wintry grounds and takes a deep breath. A conversation is never just a conversation with this woman, but there's a good chance that he's not helping matters with his book choices. "Perhaps I wasn't trying to make a point," he says at last.
Narcissa's grimly amused exhalation speaks volumes. "'All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others'," she quotes. "Is this how you believe I think of the world?"
Harry pauses, nervousness speeding his pulse. "Should I?" he asks boldly.
"I would never presume to tell you what to believe, Mr Potter. But... all people are not equal, however much you may wish it were so. However," she presses on, when Harry tries to interrupt, "I am not so naive nor so closed minded as to believe that such an assessment of value should be based on... solely on the purity of one's blood."
Surprised both by the directness and the sentiment itself, Harry frowns. "But..."
Narcissa glances over to the corner of the room, satisfying herself that Clive is otherwise occupied before continuing, voice lowered. "I was never a Death Eater, Mr Potter. Do you know that?"
"Yes," Harry almost whispers, stomach twisting. He had anticipated some carefully veiled debate about political corruption, perhaps even about power and about how even the most abhorrent regimes have their roots in something logical or essentially good, but once again this astute, composed woman has neatly outmanoeuvred him.
As he watches, she pointedly lifts a hand to sweep an unseen strand of blonde hair from her face, and allows the light silk sleeve to slide to her elbow. The fair skin is unblemished.
"I would always say that people like yourself did not understand our world," she says.
"I'm not Muggle-born, Mrs Malfoy," Harry points out, unsure quite what he's protesting about.
Narcissa lifts an eyebrow, looking mildly entertained. "I was at school with your father. I know this. But you were not raised with magic."
"But—"
"Allow me to finish. The world is different now, you understand." She turns to gaze out at the grounds again, and Harry takes the opportunity to study the smooth angles of her face, the slightly pointed nose and the faint lines around her eyes that he'd never really noticed before. Into his mind flashes the knowledge that his mother, had she been alive, would have been a similar age, and as a little pang of longing grips him, he wonders where exactly that thought came from.
"It is not the world I grew up in," she continues, and something in her voice strikes Harry. "Being pureblood used to be something to be proud of; now there is almost a shame attached to it. I cannot understand."
Harry shifts in his chair and tries not to pick at his nails. He wonders if she knows about the aggressively pro-Muggle-born recruitment policies adopted by the Ministry and other large employers after the war. He's never really allowed himself to consider how the so-called positive discrimination might appear to people like Narcissa, but as she once more meets his gaze with eyes that are all unruffled challenge, there's nowhere to hide.
"I'm sorry you feel that way, Mrs Malfoy." Harry hesitates, unsure exactly how he should word his response. "I think your culture is very important, even if... I don't always understand it."
The blue eyes flicker with brief amusement, and Harry suspects she's thinking about wine and jam and well-intentioned attempts at Latin. And grateful handbags.
"I am enjoying Mr Orwell," she says suddenly, indicating the book in an abrupt change of tack. "Perhaps Draco is not completely wrong in his enthusiasm for all things Muggle. Though he doesn't need to know that."
Her tone is almost conspiratorial, and Harry's heart lifts with it. "I won't tell him."
Rising, she crosses the room and retrieves a well-worn Wizarding novel with moving, shimmering text on the cover and offers it to Harry. He takes it from her with a soft, puzzled, "Thank you."
"I suspect you'll enjoy this, Mr Potter. It's about a man who didn't know when to give up," Narcissa says, and she smiles.
Fighting down a daft grin, Harry gets up and wraps his arms around the book. "I suspect you're trying to make a point."
"Not at all," she demurs, eyes flashing warmth for a split second as she settles back into her chair.
"He doesn't want to roll over, Mrs Mafloy!" calls a frustrated little voice from the corner of the room, and they both turn to see an exasperated Clive standing over a joyful, tail-wagging, slightly puzzled-looking Zeus, who indeed doesn't appear inclined to roll over.
"That is my cue."
"Mine too, probably," Harry admits. He wants to see Draco before his lunch break is over, and wouldn't quite know how to explain to Draco that he'd run out of time because he was not-really-discussing-literature with his mother. "Thank you for the book," he adds, heading for the door. "Pera gratia."
"Reverto... pera gratia," comes the response, just before he closes the door.
Intriguing.
**~*~**
As he enters the main lounge, Harry's eyes fall immediately upon the little group around the vast table. Ginny and Annette are perching on the shiny surface and listening intently to Mephisto, who is sitting backwards, straddling a chair and explaining something which seems to require a lot of illustrative hand gestures. Edging closer, Harry realises he's talking about his experiences as a group leader in Dublin.
He's making a lot of sense, too, and Harry is grudgingly impressed. Though the man doesn't speak with the all-consuming passion that colours Draco's words whenever he talks about drug treatment, his understanding and competence is plain to see and he throws around terms like 'Cognitive-Behavioural Therapy' and 'Relapse Prevention' with an ease that makes Harry envious. More so.
Finally, Marley sees him and flashes his trademark grin. "Pull up a chair, Wonder Boy. I was just telling Gin and Annie how we do rehab in Ireland," he explains, accent thickening with each word.
If the girls mind the familiar takes on their names, they don't say so.
"Don't call me Wonder Boy," he says for perhaps the fiftieth time, wondering why he bothers.
Before Marley can respond, Fyz saunters over and jumps up on the table. "Were you in rehab in Ireland, too, then?"
Marley's handsome features flicker in mild annoyance. Harry knows he wasn't, and he suspects that Fyz does, too. Good old Fyz.
"No. I was a group leader for two years at Dublin's premier treatment facility. I have credentials, you know," he says, sounding offended.
"I don't doubt it," Fyz replies, grinning, and Marley looks utterly thrown off-balance.
His confusion helps Harry to grant him a genuine smile as he apologises and explains that he's short of time and needs to speak to Draco. As the conversation picks up once more, Harry turns to Fyz, who, as usual, looks extremely amused.
"Fyz... you know a bit of Latin, don't you? What's 'reverto'? Reversed?" he guesses.
Fyz shakes his head. "No. Reverto, literally, means 'I return'."
"Thanks, Fyz."
Harry shrinks down Narcissa's book and slips it into his pocket as he wanders through the East Wing to Draco's new office.
If someone had told him, three months ago, that he'd be grinning like an idiot because Narcissa Malfoy had told him that she returned his grateful handbag, he would've...
... well, something.
**~*~**
"Good of you to call in," Draco offers without looking up from his paperwork.
There's an edge to his tone that deflates Harry's good humour quite a bit. Suppressing a sigh, Harry leans on the doorframe and watches Draco in silence as he moves his quill across the page. An escaped swathe of blond hair obscures his eyes but there's a tension to his jaw that makes Harry's insides twist uneasily.
Just recently, that tight strain seems to be everywhere Harry looks. It's like a constant, low-level hum of friction that drapes around everything and wraps tight until it's an effort just to breathe easily, and Harry hates it. He wants to believe... he does believe... that Draco's stress isn't about him, just like his isn't about Draco, but he still wishes he could take it all away.
"I'm sorry. Can you stop doing that for a bit?" Harry requests, and Draco's quill stops mid-sentence, though he doesn't look up.
Draco's frantic preparations for both the Foundations open day and his and Hermione's impending presentation of their legislation reform paper have been helpfully supplemented this week by an avalanche of Ministry forms that need to be filled out immediately, and that apparently no one else can help him with.
"Draco," Harry tries again, closing the door and approaching the desk. Needing this, even if just for a minute or two, before he has to re-enter a world where Mephisto Marley exists and Romilda Vane is dying because he doesn't know how to help her.
The exhalation is long and ragged, and when Draco finally throws down his quill and raises his eyes to Harry's, the tempest of irritation swirling there strikes him hard.
"Tell me, because I think I'm losing my senses," he says, getting up and kicking his chair away with venom. "Tell me why the Ministry, in their wisdom, need to know what my ceilings are made out of? How wide are your doorways, Mr Malfoy? Who has used this room before, Mr Malfoy? Are you planning to breathe without our permission, Mr Malfoy?"
Grey eyes flash fury and Draco crosses his arms and stares at Harry, nostrils flaring. Oddly, Harry's relieved. Ranting is good. Ranting is much preferable to silent simmering any day.
"I don't know, Draco. But you already have your licence, remember. Come here." Harry draws him closer and guides him into a sitting position on the edge of the desk, ignoring his stiff posture and nudging his thighs apart to stand between them, hands resting on Draco's tense shoulders.
"I'm drowning in fucking red tape," Draco complains bitterly, resting his forehead against Harry's chest and muttering into it, arms still crossed.
Harry rests his chin on top of the blond head and sighs, wrapping his arms around his discontent partner and feeling some of the tension start to leech out of his body at the contact.
"You finished your office, though," he observes, looking around.
"Mm," Draco huffs, hot breath warming Harry's skin through his thin sweater. Slowly, his arms uncross and Harry feels cool hands creeping under his clothes to rest on his back.
It's odd, Harry thinks. This office contains all the same stuff as Draco's old one; the mahogany desk and the strange clock and the books and the rug with the snakes on it are all present, but it doesn't seem quite right somehow.
"It doesn't look right," he murmurs, mostly to himself, luxuriating in the light touch of fingertips on his skin.
"What's the matter with it?" Draco pulls back, indignant, to meet Harry's eyes, fingers now wrapping around Harry's hips as though he might escape before he's explained himself.
"I don't know. It's different." Harry hesitates, reluctant to share too much of his deep-rooted need for consistency; Draco really doesn't need to think he's any odder than he already does.
"Change is OK," Draco offers with a speculative smile, and Harry lifts an eyebrow.
As Draco's thumbs hook into his trouser pockets, though, he remembers something that sparks an inspired smile. He's been carrying it around for weeks now, and... yes.
"I've got an office warming gift for you... sort of," Harry says, digging a hand into his pocket and extracting a folded-up bit of parchment.
Draco takes it from him, puzzled, and smoothes out the creases with his fingers.
'Knock and WAIT.'
He says nothing for long seconds and then meets Harry's eyes with a soft, pleased smirk. "You've been stealing from Chem Dep."
Harry shifts impossibly closer into Draco's warmth and shrugs. "Again, not stealing. This was yours," he elaborates, plucking the notice from Draco's hands and setting it down so he can lace their fingers together against the desk. "And now I'm returning it to you. And your new office."
Draco snorts, but his eyes are full of sceptical humour and Harry knows that the choking tension has, at least for this little moment, been chased away. He releases a relieved, purifying breath and closes the short distance between them with an insistent kiss that is returned without a moment's hesitation and tastes like all the familiarity that Harry needs.
"You just operate on a logic all of your own, don't you?" Draco murmurs against his lips, tipping his head back and dragging Harry closer with a firm hand in his hair and another in his back pocket.
"What part of that is news to you?" Harry returns breathlessly, searching out the soft, hot slide of Draco's tongue and wondering distractedly if he'll ever get bored of kissing this man.
"Do you ever... shut up?" Draco manages, deepening the kiss until Harry's attempted response is reduced to a muffled whimper sighed into his mouth.
This heat is not a violent explosion as it often is, but a steady ache that curls so slowly around them as they caress each other's mouths that Harry is almost surprised to feel the firm press of Draco's arousal against his thigh and it takes him a moment to register that he's just as hard.
The faint little voice in his head insisting it's not the time or the place is silenced; he pushes himself against Draco, mumbling his approval as those thighs part and grip around his hips, allowing them to slide cloth-covered erections together.
Draco's breath catches and he pulls back, staring straight into Harry's eyes, feet sliding on the rug as he leans back, his hand in Harry's pocket gripping painfully at his arse and urging him into a slow, undulating rhythm of pressure and friction that feels so fucking good that his chest fills and hurts with the need to love and complete and give everything that is openly demanded of him by those eyes. Sharp, clever grey eyes that soften and darken like this for him. Only for him.
Mine, insists Harry's subconscious. I love you. Mine.
Draco arches up into him with a whisper of his name that rips through Harry and encourages him deeper into their rhythm; he braces one hand against the hard grain of the desk and presses his mouth against the soft, warm skin under Draco's ear. He doesn't know who is the aggressor here, or if it even matters, but the sudden slash of possessiveness drives him.
For whatever reason, it drives him to make it last, and he slows, dragging a groan from Draco that he feels hot against his ear as he drags the tip of his tongue over Draco's salty-fragrant fluttering pulse.
"Are you trying to drive me mad?"
"Maybe." An agonising push forward, a whisper, and that pulse jumps against his mouth.
"Maybe yes," Draco rasps, and then two things happen in quick succession.
There's a sharp rap at the door, making them both freeze in place.
And then the door flies open, admitting Ginny, Fyzal and Marley.
"Draco, can you help us settle an argument, please?" demands Ginny. "We—oh."
Mortified, Harry steps back from the desk, stumbling when Draco's hand gets momentarily caught in his back pocket, flicking rapid glances between Draco, who is sitting perfectly still with his eyes closed, skin flushed, and an air of resignation, and the three barely contained expressions of glee in the doorway.
"Fuck's sake," is all Harry's short-circuited brain can supply, and it definitely comes out as more of a distressed whimper than an admonishment.
"Well, almost, by the looks of it," Fyz offers with a smirk that just makes Harry want to cover his face.
Something makes Harry look at Marley, but the dark eyes are inscrutable and the usual smirk gives nothing away, either. Ginny, for her part, has never looked so amused.
Eventually, after a good few moments' of wordless snickering, Draco sighs, opens his eyes and pushes his hair out of his face. He doesn't turn around, merely fixes Harry with weary, frustrated grey eyes and says: "Whatever it is, ask me now and then bugger off before I kill you all. Slowly."
Marley speaks up this time, and Harry is barely listening as the enquiry is issued and tersely resolved and the three interlopers withdraw, grinning, from the office.
When the door clicks shut, Harry groans and rubs his eyes. Despite the almost painful fizz of unresolved arousal, he's no longer tempted to finish what they started, and he pushes a stack of parchment out of the way to drop down on the desk beside Draco.
"I honestly don't know why we bother," Draco says crossly, folding his arms again in a gesture completely at odds with his well-shagged appearance. "Offices are clearly a bad idea."
Harry laughs and picks up the forgotten 'Knock and WAIT' sign. "And that is exactly why you need this."
Draco smiles reluctantly and glances back at his unfinished Ministry paperwork with a pained sigh. Harry thinks about the smirking faces on the other side of the door, and decides that he'll just Apparate straight back to work from here.
**~*~**
"Seventeen," says Romilda, as Harry walks into her room early on Sunday morning. She's lying flat on her back and dangling the parchment right in front of her eyes. "That nurse with the purple hair thinks you have a nice bottom."
Harry's anxiety at the conversation he's about to have temporarily dissolves as he takes in Romilda's unexpected words. "Does she? How do you know?" Baffled, he perches on the end of her bed at her silent invitation and suddenly frowns. "Anyway, I hadn't even said a word, what makes you think I'm in a bad mood?"
Romilda drops the list and turns weary eyes to his. "That's a lot of questions." She doesn't—or can't—lift her hand now but she extends fingers against the sheets as she answers each one. "Yes, she does. I know because I heard her talking to another nurse in here... it's amazing what people will say when they think you're unconscious. And I think you're in a bad mood because you've been here all night and honestly, I'm tired just thinking about it."
You're always tired, Harry thinks grimly but manages a smile for her as he fiddles with the case file on his knee. This file contains all of the theories and ideas that he and Aquiline have discussed and tried and discarded over the last two weeks, as well as the treatment he's about to pitch to Romilda. He doesn't really need the file, he's been over it so many times in his head that he knows the words like poetry, but he likes to have something tangible to hold onto, especially when the solution itself is so flimsy.
'Solution' is also probably an optimistic term for the combination of complex Containment and Energy Charms he and Aquiline have been referring to as 'Plan B'.
"Plan Buy-Us-Some-Time," Aquiline had elaborated grimly as she paced the office. "It's not going to fix her, but it might give us a little while longer to work on it."
"You look terrible," Romilda observes, dragging him out of his thoughts with a jolt. "Do you need another?" She eyes the list and Harry shakes his head.
Clive's soft muttering from the other side of the room snatches his attention. The little boy is sprawling out on the floor and drawing a picture of what looks like himself and a familiar white not-dog.
"OK. Here's what we want to do," he begins, wrapping his fingers around the file as he begins to explain the theory behind Plan B.
Romilda listens carefully and nods and stays with him despite the threat of losing consciousness that constantly hovers over her. She watches as Harry pulls out his pencil and draws a rough diagram on the back of the file to show her how the spells will form a sort of net to hold the malevolent magic together.
"Do it," she says before he's finished, and he stops, pencil still in hand.
"It's risky," he admits. "We've never done it before."
Those words, he'll admit, are not very confidence inspiring, but both Aquiline and Cecile had agreed that this had to be the patient's choice, and as such, the patient should be fully informed of the risks. Aquiline's expertise is beyond reproach, and Harry trusts Cecile as a colleague above all others, though unsurprisingly her approach to Healing errs on the side of aggressive risk-taking.
She sighs and glances over at her son, who's completely oblivious and absorbed in his creative task.
"I'm not stupid, Harry. Tell me what other choice I have right now."
Harry swallows hard, just for a fleeting moment recalling Draco's lies about not becoming attached to one's patients. Wishing pointlessly that such detachment was a) possible or b) in his nature.
"You can wait." He pauses. Rephrases. "You can choose to wait."
"Wait to die? No."
Her slow blinking is a sure sign she's losing her grip on consciousness, but the dark eyes are lucid enough to burn. Satisfied, if that's the best word, Harry hands her a pen and flips the file open to the relevant page.
"When?" she asks, frowning as the pen slips from her weakened fingers three times before she manages to sign her name on the line.
"First thing tomorrow."
She nods, allowing her eyes to close. "I saw your flyer, y'know," she murmurs as he rises from the bed and closes the file, "for your open day. Bet Clive'd love that."
"Don't worry, he's invited," Harry assures, and she smiles. "So are you. It's still two weeks away."
"Never know," she mumbles, and falls silent.
Harry exhales slowly and walks out of the hushed room. Nurse Bates isn't on shift, but he doesn't think she'll mind if he dips into her coffee stash before he Apparates over to the Manor. He has a nice bottom, after all.
Apparently.
**~*~**
He's barely had time to swing by the sun-room to say hello to Narcissa and scratch Zeus' belly, accept a cup of tea from Flimby, greet Draco and take off his coat before he starts to suspect that coming here after a sixteen-hour double shift and no sleep wasn't the best idea he's ever had.
In the back of his mind, someone who sounds like a disturbing hybrid of Cecile and Hermione can be heard to point out that there are plenty of contenders for that prize, and Harry's discontent only deepens.
Standing just inside the East Wing lounge, Harry stares, sighs, and then sighs some more.
He's already the woolly kind of tired that only lazy sex and a lot of sleep can fix, and the kind of anxious about Romilda that only Draco and his magic hands can fix, but really... that is just pushing it.
It's Sunday. It's Sunday morning, and open day or no open day, he can see no good reason for that to be sitting on one of Draco's 'wonky sofa things', the one that forms a squashy taupe L-shape around the second fireplace, drinking tea with fucking lemon in it and reading, of all things, Harry's copy of 'Brown's Healing Essentials'. The one he'd lent to Draco because he'd found it so fascinating that he'd spent two hours reading it instead of... well, just reading it.
There's no need for that to be reading my book, Harry thinks, sipping viciously at his tea.
And he knows, watching the other man—oblivious to the eyes on him—put his booted feet up on the sofa cushions, he knows that Mephisto Marley is not a 'that', but he doesn't care. He's fed up and scared and he's sick of the handsome Irish tosser being there every time he turns around.
He doesn't know where Draco has disappeared to, but no matter. Harry abandons his cup on the table and stalks over to throw himself on the other end of the wonky sofa. Marley looks up, surprised.
"This your book, Wonder Boy? It's most enlightening." His automatic smile fades as he catches Harry's expression. "You look exhausted. Want a cup of tea?"
Marley flicks his wand and sends the tea tray skittering toward Harry. Shaking his head, Harry groans inwardly and hopes that the odd expression in the black eyes isn't concern.
Don't be nice to me. I can't stand you, his mind beseeches, and he knows it makes no sense at all.
"Why are you here?" he asks baldly, slumping against the cushions. The fact that he refrains from adding, 'Have you no home to go to?', he counts as a triumph.
"There are tradespeople at my new flat," Marley confides over the top of the book. "I find them a bit disturbing, so Draco said I could hide out here while they did... whatever it is they do. Make it look pretty, hopefully."
"Tradespeople," Harry echoes faintly, noting the slight wrinkle of Marley's nose. Bloody snob. "Where the hell has Draco got to?"
"He went out," Marley says, returning his attention to the book and stretching out luxuriously on the sofa until his boots are almost in Harry's lap.
"What do you mean he went out? Where did he go?"
"To collect those books... you know." Marley waves a dismissive hand and doesn't look up. "Dragon Alley, or whatever."
Harry sits up straight and digs his nails into the soft suede cushions, hot irritation prickling behind his eyes and in the pit of his stomach. "Why didn't he tell me?"
Marley lifts his eyes to Harry's very slowly. "He did."
"He fucking didn't," Harry says, wondering why he's wasting his energy having this conversation and wishing he'd just gone home.
A tiny frown creases Marley's features but Harry's sure he doesn't imagine the flicker of amusement as he says, "He did, Wonder Boy. I was sitting right here when he told you. He said he'd be back in half an hour, you said OK, and then you stood there for about five minutes sighing to yourself and muttering before you came over here and threw yourself down on this couch like a sack of potatoes. You might not have been listening, but I was."
Harry stares at the stupid refined face of the man with his feet up on Draco's sofa. Hard. If he's honest, he can't remember what Draco had said to him as he'd entered the lounge, and that just makes it worse.
"Good to know," he mutters and drags himself to his feet before he can say something really rude. "'Scuse me."
Walking quickly, he makes his way out into the grounds and stomps across the grass, thinking darkly that Evil Peacock ought to know better than to even try anything today. Nevertheless, he glances around once or twice on his path down to the pond. Just in case.
It's a beautiful spot, especially now that the frosts have melted away with the coming Spring and the lawn is bright green and vibrant, almost right up to the edges of the water. It's not the first time that Harry has drifted down here to think, but it is the first time that he's... stormed off down here in a huff, he supposes. He hopes Narcissa isn't looking out of the window.
He gulps cool, clear air and turns his face into the fresh breeze that ripples his shirt closer to his torso and lifts his dishevelled fringe from his forehead. Drops to the grass by the edge of the huge pond and sits, arms wrapped around his knees, watching the gentle shifts of silvery Ghost Koi in the water.
Resting his chin on his knees, he makes himself as small as possible and tries to separate the tangled strands of crackling, static bullshit that are making him feel like his head and heart are about to explode.
Tries, fails, and shuts his eyes. Hoping, like he used to do as a child, that doing so would make the whole world go away until he was ready to rejoin it. If ever.
"Marley said you'd be down here."
Harry lifts his head at Draco's even tone but doesn't turn.
"And how would he know that?"
"I assume you've been here before. He doesn't miss much," Draco offers, drawing level with Harry but remaining upright.
Harry looks at the wet blades of grass sticking to his immaculate shoes. "He wouldn't, would he? He practically lives here," he snaps, far too quickly to self-censor.
"I knew you had a problem with him," Draco says, an odd, jagged note creeping into his voice. "I knew you did. But you say everything's fine, what am I supposed to do?"
Harry says nothing and stubbornly refuses to look up, but he can see Draco's rippled reflection in the pond's surface, can see him cross his arms and look down at the ground.
"I haven't got time for this, you know," Draco continues, strained. "Now I've finished all that ridiculous Ministry bureaucracy, I'm spending so much time on your friend's fucking legal stuff that in less than two weeks I'm going to make a complete arse of myself in front of half of the luminaries of the Wizarding community, not to mention the Daily sodding Prophet who have invited themselves along, by holding an open day for a treatment centre that's not fucking finished."
The indirect slight against Hermione stirs Harry's petulant apathy into fury and he scrambles to his feet, turning to face Draco.
"This isn't Hermione's fault—you offered to help her. And I can't help you if you don't fucking communicate with me, Draco! You're a martyr, do you know that? You don't want to be helped," Harry retorts, breathing hard, tension cold and metallic in his mouth.
He watches Draco's eyes flare as the accusation hits home, and for a split second Harry wants to take the words back. And then:
"As though you're any better," Draco shoots back. "Half the time I think you're too frightened of upsetting me to tell me what's bothering you!"
Stung by the raw truth of those words, Harry stands rooted to the spot, hands clenched into fists at his sides. The sudden rage in his chest halts and he drops his eyes to the trampled grass. "Well. I..." he sighs.
"What do you think I'm going to do? Why are you so afraid of making me angry? I get angry all the time, it's not like I fly off the handle or anything," Draco insists, face tight and arms still tightly crossed.
"No, you're just passive fucking aggressive, and that's much better," Harry snipes, and god, he's so tired. He wants to spell his own mouth shut so that this can end, and he can wrap his arms around Draco and calm both of them down. So he can just Apparate straight into their bedroom at Grimmauld Place and forget about all of this stupid crap that's making them lash out at each other.
But when he blinks, he's still here and so's Draco, standing on the edge of the pond with the wind whipping up and stirring hair and clothes and tempers.
Draco uncrosses his arms, hurt and anger darkening his eyes, and shoves his hands in his pockets in a gesture that Harry absently recognises as his own.
"Oh..." Draco sighs. Glares. "Fuck off."
And it's possibly the least eloquent argument Draco Malfoy has ever made, but something about it snaps Harry's frayed last nerve and before he knows what he's doing, something supremely childish is rising up inside him and he's reaching out with a quick palm and pushing Draco into the pond.
Grey eyes widen for half a second as their owner realises what's happening, far too late. Cold water splashes up against Harry's skin at the moment of impact, simultaneously bringing him to his senses and calming him to a point where he's able to step right up to the water's edge and chew on his lip speculatively.
The water is not particularly deep but it's definitely cold, and he watches Draco break the surface with morbid fascination, heart hammering, knowing he's going to be seriously pissed off.
Wading over to the edge of the pond through water that barely reaches his shoulders, Draco raises his head, folds his arms wetly and attempts to glare up at Harry, but through the dripping blond hair, he looks more like a bedraggled, disgruntled kitten trying to look frightening.
He spits out a mouthful of pond water and scowls. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Slowly, Harry crouches by the edge of the water and meets his eyes. "My hand slipped. Sorry."
"You will be," Draco assures him. "How old are you?!"
In spite of himself, and Draco's wet, prickly ire, and their stupid argument, Harry's amused. And, not that he wants to admit it, weirdly aroused.
"Old enough," he offers, and for some reason that he'll regret later, he smiles at Draco.
Who reaches out, grabs his shirt, and pulls hard.
As he hits the—yep, absolutely freezing cold—water almost face first, Harry's last coherent thought is that he really should have seen it coming. And then it's little more than fuck, cold, fuck, can't breathe, what the hell was that against my leg?! ...until he's struggling to his feet, hampered by waterlogged clothes and not helped by Draco one little bit, which he supposes he deserves.
He snorts water painfully from his nose and retrieves his glasses, which are miraculously floating on the surface of the pond. Swiping saturated hair from his face, he turns to regard Draco.
"Well... alright," he manages, before his mouth twists involuntarily. "This water tastes like mildew."
"You'd know," Draco says, lifting an eyebrow and looking absolutely ridiculous as he pretends not to shiver. That being said, the way his thin, drenched black sweater is being plastered to his slender frame is kind of...
"Oh god, what the hell is that?" Harry jumps as something that's definitely not Draco brushes against his calf.
"Mind my fucking fish," Draco snaps, peering into the water at the silvery carp, who seem completely unperturbed by their presence.
"I forgot about the fish," Harry mutters, starting to shiver. "Sorry."
"I'm not," Draco sniffs. "You pushed me, you psychotic wanker. You pushed me into my own pond."
Harry sighs and wraps his arms around himself awkwardly in an attempt to preserve body heat. He's not entirely sure which part Draco is most upset about: the pushing itself, or that fact that the act has taken place on his own property.
Either way, it doesn't matter because Draco is still folding his arms under the surface of the water and staring at Harry with eyes that express not just indignation, but confusion and something else that Harry can't place, but it makes him want to struggle closer and touch Draco, so he does.
"I'm still mad at you," Draco says, but he lifts a cold, wet hand to push Harry's hair off his forehead and doesn't protest as arms are slipped around his waist. The icy water ripples around their upper arms and unsettles Harry's balance; he clings to Draco, breathing, thinking, and not quite wanting to break the strange little moment just yet.
"I'm still mad at you, too," Harry replies.
"So long as we understand each other."
Draco's voice is formal and oddly strained and Harry's chest aches to hear it. He'd lied; he's not still mad. He's not mad at Draco, and he's not even mad at Marley, not really. He doesn't even care that he's standing in a pond in the middle of February; he just wants to hold his ridiculous blond idiot until he smiles again.
Draco looks down at the water and moves closer still until they are pressed together full length and Harry can feel the tiny amount of residual heat from Draco's body soaking through their saturated clothing and into his skin. The hand in Harry's hair slips down to slide chilled fingertips over his jaw and Harry turns his head until his cheek is pressed into Draco's palm, warming it.
"I'm hallucinating, aren't I?" Draco looks up at last, one grey eye visible through the bedraggled hair. "I'm not really standing in the middle of my fishpond. I can't be."
Harry can't help the tiny smile or the relief that corkscrews inside his ribcage when Draco returns it, looking like he doesn't really want to.
"I'd take 'I can't be' as a challenge, but you're already standing in your fishpond, and so am I, so..." Harry shrugs and rakes water-darkened blond hair from Draco's eyes, dripping pond-water all down his face as he does so. Draco says nothing, but shivers. His hot breath is a caress against Harry's wet skin.
"I'm so fucking cold," Draco whispers, but brushes his mouth against Harry's in an impulsive kiss.
Harry's sharp, surprised inhalation is lost to the deep, reclaiming exploration of his mouth, and within seconds he's forgotten about the cold water and the brushes of far-too-bold fish around his knees. Draco's fingers grip the back of his neck tightly and Harry throws himself open to the onslaught, eagerly accepting the cold lips against his and contrast of intense heat that mingles with his in unspoken reconciliation.
Cold noses rub briefly against each other as they withdraw, and then Draco is taking an unsteady step backwards, toward the edge of the pond.
"I don't like asking for help," he says obliquely.
"You don't say," Harry mutters under his breath, still off-balance from the strangest kiss in his recent memory, as he watches Draco haul himself, dripping, onto the grass on his hands and knees. The drenched black fabric of his sweater and trousers moulds flush to his body and Harry absently admires the strong, lean frame for a moment or two before shaking himself and wading over to the edge of the pond.
To his astonishment, Draco offers him a hand and he takes it, flopping down onto the lawn, flat on his back. After a moment's indecision, Draco sighs heavily and flops down beside him. The midday sun is gently warming now, but it doesn't stop Harry from shivering, and he can hear the slight tremulous hitching of Draco's breath in the peaceful silence.
"I don't mind helping her," Draco says at last.
Harry doesn't look away from the pale blue sky. "Hermione?"
"Yes. I just need more hours in the day."
"I know the feeling," Harry admits. Tentatively, he slides a hand over the soft grass and smiles when damp fingers tangle with his.
"That's why I don't ask you to help me. You have enough to do."
"And because you don't like to ask for help," Harry presses gently.
"That as well," Draco concedes, folding his free arm behind his head. "And I know Marley's a pain in the backside sometimes but I think he actually likes you."
Disbelief floods Harry and prompts a loud snort. "Right."
The urge to blurt out something stupid like, 'But he hexed me,' or 'I'm scared you like him better than you like me' claws at Harry but he draws on his self-control and reins in the childish whine before it can escape.
"I know he's got a funny way of showing it," Draco adds.
There's a weary hopefulness in Draco's voice, and it's that rather than the statement itself—which is perhaps the understatement of the year—that urges Harry to grip those cold fingers tight, meet hopelessly sincere grey eyes for long, careful seconds, and then gaze back at the clear sky, feeling lighter.
"OK." OK, he's going to give Marley another chance. For Draco.
"Did you talk to her?" Draco asks, and Harry frowns, puzzled, before realising he's talking about Plan B.
"Yeah."
"Did she...?"
"Yeah."
"When?"
"Tomorrow morning."
There's a long silence. Harry swallows hard, tasting bitter pond water at the back of his throat.
"Don't doubt yourself," Draco says eventually, and the rub of wet string over the inside of Harry's wrist stems his hot flood of anxiety.
Harry nods. His wet clothes are clammy and uncomfortable now, and there are blades of grass prickling at his bare back where his shirt is riding up. And he's freezing. But he doesn't really want to move; he hasn't felt so calm in far too long, and discomfort is surely a small price to pay.
"I'm going to be late for Sunday lunch," he sighs regretfully.
Draco grips his cold, wet hand and continues to stare at the sky. He shivers. "Good."
**~*~**
By the time he does make it to the Burrow, he is late.
Lunch is over, but Molly's admonishments falter in her throat as she lays concerned eyes upon Harry's damp, dishevelled and somewhat muddy person.
"Good heavens, Harry, what happened to you? Are you alright?" Pausing in her expert levitation of dirty dishes from table to sink, Molly bustles to his side and grasps his arm. Anxious eyes sweep over Harry's face, demanding a response, and a good one at that.
"I'm fine, Molly, don't worry." Harry fights a smile. "I, erm... got a bit to close to a fishpond. It's a long story. Sorry I'm so late," he adds hurriedly, glancing at the remains of the roast.
"You're going to catch cold," she reproves, neatly sidestepping the fishpond issue. "Stay right there and I'll sort you out a plate of dinner, and then what you need is..."
Harry attempts a reassuring smile as she talks, mostly to herself, and moves around the kitchen assembling a huge plate of food. After what seems like a very long time, he steps, still nodding mutely, into the back garden with his plate. He has refused Molly's offer of clean clothes and a Drying Charm, but accepted the fluffy towel which now drapes over his head as he approaches the patio table containing his friends.
Ron, Hermione, Neville, and Ginny are grouped around the circular table, staving off the crispness of the bright February afternoon with mugs of hot tea and what feels like one of Hermione's trademark Warming Charms. Their laughter and chatter is laid-back, and they all look up to greet and make room for Harry around the table as he sits, sets down his plate and scrubs at his hair with the towel.
Despite one or two curious glances, Harry is allowed to eat most of his late lunch in peace while Neville finishes telling Hermione and Ron a story that Harry surmises is about a spectacularly gormless customer, a Venomous Tentacula and a tin of paint.
Finally, though, Harry looks up from his last two roast potatoes to find himself the focus of eight enquiring eyes, four blue and four brown.
"Just ask," Harry advises, dragging the towel off his head and ruffling still-damp hair with his fingers.
For a moment, no one says a word, and then Neville clears his throat.
"I will," he offers bravely, drumming fingers on the tabletop. "Why are you all wet?"
"And where have you been?" adds Ginny, leaning forward.
"And that as well, but I'm more curious about the wet thing," Nev admits.
Ron gulps noisily at his tea. "I'll give each of you ten Galleons if it's nothing to do with Malfoy."
Harry gnaws on his thumbnail and looks around the table at his friends' expectant faces, wondering if he'll ever persuade Draco to brave Weasley Sunday Lunches and what exactly might happen if he does.
"You can keep your money, Ron," he begins, eliciting a triumphant and yet resigned nod from his best friend. "It's like this..."
When Harry's related the—heavily edited—version of events, he falls silent and runs his finger around the edge of his plate, collecting leftover smudges of Molly's excellent gravy and lifting them to his mouth.
"Men," Hermione sighs after a moment, sounding utterly exasperated.
"Mm," Ginny agrees.
Harry and Ron's simultaneous protests fill the air not a second later: "Hey!" and "What's that supposed to mean?!"
Neville politically says nothing and continues to drink his tea.
"Oh, whatever," Hermione waves a dismissive hand. "It's just... you're a qualified Healer and he's about to open his own rehab... you're both intelligent, accomplished adults. And yet you solve your arguments by pushing each other into lakes? I just... men," she repeats.
"It was a pond," Harry mumbles moodily.
"What?"
"It was a pond, not a lake." He meets Hermione's eyes and dares her to dismiss this vital, relevant piece of information. He also tries to pretend that Neville isn't concealing laughter beside him.
"Well, that's alright then." Ginny smirks, blue eyes glowing with amusement. "If you're twelve," she adds, and Harry groans.
He pushes his plate away and props his weary head up in his hands. To his consternation, something in that pond water is making his hair feel crunchy as it dries. "Yeah, well. Sometimes he drives me fucking mad."
"Sometimes?" Hermione echoes, dubious.
"You know what I mean. It's like... he doesn't need a partner, he needs a fucking Legilimens."
"That bad?" Hermione prompts, and Harry notices that everyone else has fallen silent, presumably leaving the semi-serious stuff to the person who has, by her own admission, read every self-help title stocked by Flourish and Blotts, including the ones aimed at gay men.
"Don't you see it? You spend enough time with him," Harry offers, attempting to pull a strand of crunchy hair close enough to his nose to sniff at it.
Hermione wraps both hands around her steaming mug and wrinkles her brow in deep thought. "Well, I don't know. He can be a little bit oblique, can't he?"
"Meaning...?"
"I mean... that he doesn't always communicate in the most obvious way. The other day, for example, we were having lunch and I told him that I thought we made a good team, and I really appreciated all his hard work on the reform project," Hermione says, and Harry nods, with her so far. "Now, a normal person would say 'You're welcome'. Draco stared at me for a good ten seconds, then gave me half of his dessert and asked me if I thought plastic paperclips were better than metal ones. You have to sort of... interpret him, don't you?"
Harry regards his friend's earnest face and laughs softly, dropping his head into his hands. It's a distinct possibility, he realises in that moment, that the man he loves is completely barking. Which surely means he must be, too.
"Still, it's no excuse for solving your disputes like a couple of teenagers," Hermione continues, prodding Harry under the table with her foot.
"What should they have done?" Ron wonders aloud, and Harry suspects he's going to pay for that later.
"Talked," Hermione says slowly, spearing him with a look that Harry can fully imagine without having to glance up.
"We did talk," Harry protests into his hands.
"Mmhm. But how much time was spent actually talking, and how much time was spent doing things for which talking is used as a euphemism?" Hermione's tone is deceptively sweet and Harry raises his head to look at her.
Beside Harry, Neville is hiding his smile behind his hand, and across the table, Ron's ears turn pink. Ginny snickers and holds out an approving hand for Hermione to shake.
"When you've all quite finished... it was about half and half," Harry says with as much dignity as he can muster, and the snorts of amusement from the other four absolutely do not make him blush.
"Draco doesn't really do talking about feelings, anyway," advises Ginny.
"Maybe it's because he's an only child," Ron offers unexpectedly.
Harry is impressed at this show of insight for a moment before realisation dawns and suddenly he, Nev and Hermione are registering their protests and insisting that they, as only children, certainly know how to talk to their loved ones.
Even if Harry has definite doubts in his own case.
"Some people are better with actions than words," Neville says.
"Some people need to learn to communicate," Hermione adds darkly.
"Hey... when did this turn from 'why is Harry wet' to 'let's all analyse Harry's relationship'?" Harry wants to know, slightly stung. He blinks. "And thanks, Nev. I agree."
"It's better than talking about who would win in a duel between Kingsley Shacklebolt and Steve McFlea," Ginny says, exchanging a weary glance with Hermione.
"Steve McQueen," Ron corrects, the exasperated sigh lifting his red fringe clear of his forehead. "And I said a fight, not a duel. Steve McQueen didn't have a wand."
Something in Ron's face, something in the good-natured, insignificant seriousness of the expression, pushes Harry's stress into a tiny corner of his mind. Mischief sparks somewhere low down and Harry lifts an eyebrow at his friend across the table.
"What if he did have a wand?"
Ginny's head hits the table and Hermione pats her hair absently.
"That's assuming he'd know what to do with it," Neville points out.
"Now you're talking." Ron grins and leans forward on his elbows, picking up Harry's fork and waving it in the air. "Right, so if this is Kingsley..."
**~*~**
Harry returns to a dark, silent house. Though it's dark outside, it's barely nine thirty in the evening and he wonders where Draco can be. Tired and uncomfortable and still a bit damp, Harry frowns. The living room and kitchen are both empty, save for the smell of toast and an unlaced pair of shoes sitting next to the sofa.
"Draco?" he calls ahead as he drags himself up the stairs and along the landing, but there's no answer.
He can't help thinking that actually, if Draco has gone to bed without him, it's sort of a good sign; he must feel pretty comfortable and... stuff. Harry thinks it's been far too long since he last slept, and he also thinks that particular sentiment is becoming all too familiar.
Anyway. He rubs his eyes, yawns, and grabs the door handle, musing blurrily. They haven't talked more about the drawer and its inevitable significance, but Harry knows there are now several pairs of trousers, boxers, and socks in there, as well as an array of pastel and dark-coloured sweaters and assorted bits and pieces that only Draco understands.
He also knows that what he thinks of as Draco's wet-dream overcoat is hanging in his wardrobe, and he knows this because he has tried it on in front of the mirror and concluded that unfortunately, he can't pull it off.
He steps into the room and the soft blue light from his crackle-glass sphere immediately soothes his tired eyes. Draco is lying on top of the sheets with his head at the foot of the bed, his long, bare legs sprawled out across the pale linen, and his eyes closed. He's wearing his usual white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, arms stretched out at his sides in beautiful abandon and relaxed fingers curled ever-so-slightly toward his palms.
Harry stares, dry-mouthed, fighting the feeling that he's intruding in his own bedroom; he knows it's silly but he's never seen Draco so unguarded and he can't decide whether to admire him or love him or protect him but whichever way, it's as though a tiny sharp seed is being pressed into his heart, forcing everything to swell and hurt and ache around it.
And he's only lying there, Harry reasons from the doorway, but his eyes are closed and his breathing is soft and his hair is shiny and glowing almost silver in the blue light. That light is soft but does not forgive the many marks on Draco's skin or the faint, pale stubble on his chin. Not perfect. Thank god.
Taking one step into the room, Harry smiles as grey eyes open and Draco's nose wrinkles.
"No," he says flatly as Harry approaches the bed, and his heart sinks. "You smell like pond. And fish."
Harry has to concede that point, because even his average nose can pick out the mildewy smell of his skin and clothes. Draco doesn't move an inch, and Harry itches to touch him. "And when I don't?"
Draco smiles and closes his eyes again. "When you don't, you can come to bed."
And even though it's not even ten o'clock yet, and it's his bed, and once again he's essentially being bossed around by a Malfoy, Harry hastens to comply. He leaves his dirty clothes on the bathroom floor, turns the squeaky dial in the shower to the hottest setting and scrubs himself all over, using a generous amount of Draco's fancy citrus-scented shampoo to cleanse the mysterious crunchiness out of his hair.
In a cloud of fragrant steam and a towel, Harry drifts back into the bedroom to find that Draco has not moved from his decadent sprawl. Warm and clean and sleepy, he's drifting in a delicious haze and could quite easily crawl between the sheets and pull Draco with him, but something about the day they've had makes him want to take just... something from this moment of fragile calm to keep with him.
Silently, he kneels by the foot of the bed and looks down at the pale eyelids and lashes until a water droplet splashes from his dripping hair onto Draco's skin and those eyes snap open. Slate warms to pewter as Draco regards him upside down, the rest of his face expressionless. Not that it matters; those eyes always tell him what Draco can't say.
"That better?"
"You smell like me," Draco observes.
"Better than pond and fish," Harry whispers, reaching out and sliding his hands up Draco's arms to his shoulders, damp palms dragging on smooth skin and soft cotton.
"Goes without saying."
Goes without saying, Harry thinks absently, should be Draco's motto.
The flickering blue light illuminates the brief flash of a smile and Harry suddenly has, right in front of him, what he's craved all day. Carefully, and with a tenderness that surprises him, he reaches out and cradles Draco's chin, tipping his head back and leaning down, dripping hair and all, to fit their mouths together in a slow, upside-down kiss.
The last thing he sees before he closes his eyes is the slide of blond strands across Draco's forehead as he lifts and arches against Harry's mouth. The angle is different and a little messy but not without merit, drawing a satisfied sound from both as lazy tongues flick together and bottom lips are enclosed and caressed at the same time.
For once, Harry doesn't know what he wants. His energy is somewhere on the floor with his discarded clothes, but he doesn't want to stop.
So he doesn't.
Pausing to lick warm shower-water from their lips, Harry once more dips into the hot mouth below his. He slides his free hand onto Draco's chest, fingers splayed over the strong, erratic heartbeat and immediately covered and held in place by a cool palm.
His thumb strokes under Draco's swollen lower lip and drags over saliva-slick points of fine stubble, not needing to demand the contact of Draco's mouth but doing so anyway, each smothered sigh and caught breath a balm against insecurities stretched thin and painful.
He kisses Draco until he's trembling and opening his eyes. Demanding more in a harsh whisper and submitting to only a minute or so of further unhurried kissing before he's rolling onto one side, hair everywhere and eyes burning. He hauls Harry onto the bed by his wrist, forcing him to scramble on his knees over the sheets to align their bodies, and immediately he reaches out for Draco's mouth, mumbling his hazy approval as a hand encloses both of them and all he has to do is keep breathing.
Harry's arousal is a slow, languorous hum in his veins, and the force of his release takes him by surprise; he spills himself with a gasp and a shudder over Draco's hand and forces his eyes open just in time to watch Draco's eyes as he loses control seconds later.
"You're a horrible tease," Draco whispers, as soon as he gets his breath back.
"No... I just like kissing you."
"Sap," Draco insists, with as much derision as he can muster. Which, Harry thinks, is not very much at all, considering the sleepy half-smile and the fingers tracing patterns on Harry's bare hip.
As soon as they curl together under the sheets—the right way up—Harry feels the heavy comfort of sleep at last begin to claim him.
"He's gone home now, you know," Draco offers into the back of Harry's neck.
"Hmm?"
"Marley. He's afraid of the painter and decorator. You've got to feel for someone who's afraid of a man with a paintbrush and a regional accent."
Harry smiles against his pillow. "'Night, Draco."
**~*~**
The next morning, with Aquiline's permission, Harry takes Clive over to the Manor before nine am. They have both agreed that it's best if he's not there during the experimental treatment; even though he's too young to understand the specifics of what's going on, the little boy has a tendency to pick up on distress and Harry thinks it's far better for all concerned if he spends the morning with Narcissa and Zeus.
Mrs Malfoy accepts this proposal with what Harry suspects is eagerness, but it's difficult to tell with her. Flimby is summoned and, as Harry leaves, he watches the blonde woman, the little boy and the rebellious not-dog sharing an impressive Continental breakfast, the likes of which Clive has never before seen if his wide eyes and stacked plate are anything to go by.
Aquiline's permission and a last-minute pep talk are about all Harry gets out of his in-demand mentor before she disappears into yet another meeting. She makes a fair point when she reminds Harry that the spells he's planning to cast are well within his abilities, and she's also uncomfortably close to the truth when she suggests that the reason Harry is so nervous about the whole thing is that he's had almost two months as Romilda's Healer and he's perhaps a little too invested in the outcome.
When Harry enters her room accompanied by Nurse Bates, Romilda is sleeping. She looks peaceful, fingers curled around the sheets and hair spilling over her face, and not only that, she doesn't need to be awake for this, so Harry makes the call to leave her be.
"Congelo Sedo, cast and hold," Harry instructs, turning to the nurse and she nods, wand drawn. "Please," he adds after a moment, and she smiles.
As soon as the stasis is in place and Nurse Bates' face is set in concentration, Harry does one last mental run-through of his casting sequence.
'Don't doubt yourself,' Draco's words echo inside his head, and Harry glances down at his wrist.
"OK. Here we go, then," he mutters to himself and sets to work.
**~*~**
Having completed the sequence and run his usual diagnostics twice over, just to check, Harry is encouraged that the spells are holding and allows himself to concentrate on his other patients. He plans to check back on Romilda as soon as morning rounds are completed, by which time he hopes she will be awake and able to tell him how she feels.
In the meantime, Nurse Bates has offered to check on her from time to time. Kelly's level of enthusiasm and gratitude to have been allowed to assist with 'proper Healer stuff' is humbling, and Harry is almost able to forget anything she may or may not think about his backside.
"I know it hurts, Mrs Moore, but if you can stay very still, I'll be finished a lot quicker," Harry advises his patient, as she twitches away from the healing but stinging touch of his wand. His brisk tone belies the inward wince that comes with each touch to her raw skin; he doesn't think he'll ever get used to causing pain, even when it's all for the patient's own good.
"Sorry... Healer." She grits her teeth and stills with some effort. "I'm trying."
"I know," he soothes. "Nearly done."
"Where do... these people learn... Dark spells?" she rasps, eyes tight shut. "In my day... in my day if you wanted to rob a shop you'd just... Incarcerous and a... M-memory Charm."
Harry pauses for a moment and she opens one bloodshot eye. She's trying to joke with him. Fucking hell. Admiration for the old battleaxe rises and Harry smiles at her as he attempts to finish the work as quickly as possible.
"Dark magic is everywhere, I'm afraid." Harry inhales the stale-sweat-pine-soft air of the ward, pensive. "At least we can—"
"Sorry to interrupt, Healer Potter," cuts in Nurse Bates from the door.
Conscious of Mrs Moore's discomfort, Harry doesn't stop healing the lesions in her skin but addresses the nurse without looking up. "What's the matter?"
"There's something wrong," she says, voice strained. "You need to examine Ms Vane as soon as you've got a minute, I just..." she trails off, clearly not wanting to say any more in front of another patient, and cold dread makes his heart hammer against his ribcage.
"Did you run the diagnostic sequence I showed you?" Harry asks, keeping his voice even with a massive effort, and focusing hard on the task in front of him. He can't leave in the middle of this, much as he wants to right now.
"Yes. Healer, I think the progression has been, um... encouraged."
Mrs Moore's squirming is almost non-existent and she's looking at Kelly over Harry's shoulder with interest. Horrified, Harry manages to heal the last two wounds in record time. He turns.
"Are you saying I've speeded it up?"
Kelly nods, anguished.
"Oh." Harry scrubs a hand over his face, fingers just about keeping in the 'Oh, fuck' that rises up in his throat. "Would you excuse me, Mrs Moore? I'll make sure someone comes back and checks on you very soon..."
He doesn't catch the affirmative response but is out into the corridor and slamming into Romilda's room before he knows what he's doing. She's still unconscious and looks otherwise perfectly fine, but as he furiously casts the well-worn charms he realises with a sickening jolt that the deterioration has indeed accelerated alarmingly and is continuing to do so.
"Can you get Healer Aquiline?" Harry asks the nurse in desperation.
She said she was busy this morning, but she also said he should fetch her if he needed her, and this definitely qualifies.
As he waits, fingers clenched around the cold metal of the foot-board, all he can think is that he did this. It's his fault. She was... well, she wasn't fine, but she was hanging on, until he came in with his experimental spells and now...
Harry stares at the flickering fields he's cast around her motionless body. She's dying.
Aquiline appears minutes later looking harassed but businesslike, and she fixes Harry with a steady, dark stare that reminds him to breathe.
Within seconds, she has assessed the situation and turned her eyes to Harry. "It appears that the curse itself has reacted unexpectedly to part of the treatment." She pauses, and when she speaks again, her words are pointed and deliberate. "This was the risk we took, Healer Potter. All of us. You and I, Nurse Bates, and the patient. Do you remember what I said to you about taking risks?"
Harry forces himself to hold eye contact and grips his wand tightly. "That I won't always get it right?"
"Yes. But this was not one of these times. Your choice was the correct one—even though you could not save your patient, you were giving her a fighting chance."
Throat constricted, Harry nods, not really hearing the words. He turns to watch the blue energy field as it twists and fades, and still she does not wake. She's dying. Kelly had suspected it, he had known it, and now Aquiline is confirming it but telling him it's not his fault. Harry finds that impossible to swallow; all he can see is the shadow of this horrible, twisted, desiccating curse racing down upon a person who's far too young to die, and there's nothing, fucking nothing he can do to get her out of the way.
Unless there is.
"Healer Aquiline, do you think we could try some..." Harry falls silent at her quelling expression.
"We have no known counter-curses. She has hours, that's all. She may have some conscious time left... I'd advise you not to waste it submitting her to pointless treatments."
"OK. God, I... alright." Harry nods briskly, hoping the stern Healer cannot see the way his hands are balled into painful fists beneath the cover of his long green sleeves. "I just... I thought this would work or not work, I suppose. I didn't think my treatment would..." he sighs.
Aquiline's eyes soften momentarily as she glances over at Romilda and then back to Harry. "The Dark Arts are, by nature, unpredictable. We don't always win. I believe that you did your best, Healer. I'm sorry about your patient. Truly."
"Thank you," he manages, and then with a final incline of the dark head, she's gone.
"Where's her son?" Kelly asks suddenly.
Stomach turning over, Harry glances at her; she's still hanging back in the doorway, purple streaks glowing under the harsh lighting.
Clive. Fucking hell.
"He's... I'm going to go and get him," Harry replies and Disapparates on the spot.
**~*~**
He wavers for a moment outside the gate, having chosen Apparation on instinct, but wondering now if he should save ten minutes by Apparating back to the hospital and using the Floo, but then the gates slide open without a word and Harry makes a snap decision. He sets out down the drive at a brisk stomp and the cold wind whips through his hair and flaps his robes around his legs.
Sadness, disappointment and frustration combine to create this hard ball in his stomach and just this once, he wishes he had something to kick. He tells himself he was listening to Aquiline's words, at least he heard them, even if they didn't register, but he's still fucking furious with himself. He's lost patients before, but not like this. Not because of something he's done.
"Fuck it," he spits into the cold air of the empty grounds. "Fuck it... god!"
When he spies the slink of blue and green feathers in the middle distance, his heart lifts.
Come on then, he thinks, hands in pockets and head down. Come on. Just give me an excuse.
But his foot doesn't connect with Evil Peacock because, for reasons that Harry can't explain, the spiteful little bugger doesn't make any attempt to approach him. The off-kilter crest bobs as the bird tips its head on one side and regards Harry from across the lawn with tiny black eyes, but Evil Peacock stays exactly where he is, and it doesn't matter how many times Harry looks over his shoulder, he doesn't move from the spot.
Harry shakes his head, and it hurts. Scowling, he makes for the front of the house, where he's dismayed to see Fyzal, Marley and Draco standing out on the front steps. Fyz is smoking a cigarette and flinging his arms out to the sides in some kind of demonstration, Marley is laughing and prodding Draco in the ribs, and Draco is folding his arms and shaking his head, which is reassuring in its own little way.
Marley sees him first. He rakes a hand through his shiny hair and grins. Until he notices Harry's expression.
"Wow, who died?"
Harry closes his eyes briefly and when he opens them again, Draco has stepped closer and is searching his face intently, concern written all over his sharp features.
"Marley, don't be a prick," interrupts Fyz, grabbing the younger man's sleeve. "Someone probably did die," he adds helpfully, before shooting Harry a look and dragging a cringing Marley inside the house.
Harry watches them numbly, almost amused that Fyz, within weeks of meeting Marley, has managed to adopt this pseudo-parental role, even though Harry doubts if he has even five years on Marley.
"It didn't work," Draco surmises, keeping a careful, respectful distance. He leans against his favourite pillar and gazes at Harry. Waiting.
"No," Harry chokes, feeling silly and small and suddenly like he's trying not to cry in front of Draco. "It didn't. I made it worse. There's nothing... I need to get Clive now."
Because he's a professional. Not a very good one, apparently, but all the same. And his patient deserves to hold her son before... Harry swallows hard.
"Harry," Draco says, voice low.
Harry blinks hotly and watches Draco push a hand through his hair, and then reach out for a fraction of a second, dropping the outstretched hand to his side, grey eyes uncertain.
"I need to..." Harry points vaguely at the front doors.
Suddenly, Draco's expression snaps from hesitation to exasperation and he wraps cold fingers around Harry's wrist, draws him close without a word and leans back against the pillar with Harry pulled tightly against him. Harry protests against the strong arms wrapping around him for all of five seconds before he acquiesces and drops his head to Draco's shoulder, exhaling hard against the pale fabric and inhaling the comforting scent.
"Don't say anything," Harry pleads, and it's almost a whisper. He doesn't want to hear any reassuring words, were Draco inclined to begin offering them.
"What makes you think there's anything I could say?" Draco murmurs against his ear and holds him tighter.
"Just for a minute, then," he mumbles into warm cashmere, guilt-flooded even as he allows Draco to comfort him. The wind lifts his hair and stings his skin as it slants into the portico. Harsh.
"That's all you're getting, anyway. I don't want my staff thinking I've gone soft."
Harry laughs, and it hurts. He braces one hand against the cool stone and seeks out warm skin with the other.
Just one more minute.
**~*~**
"You're back soon, is my mummy better?" Clive asks, looking up from his spot on Narcissa's knee, picture book forgotten, when he spots Harry.
Harry stands frozen to the spot as every word in existence flies out of his head, perhaps never to return. In desperation, he catches Narcissa's eyes over the top of Clive's head, and silently pleads for help. Ice blue eyes widen in horror as the message hits home.
"When?" she whispers.
"Soon."
Narcissa smoothes the fine hair with gentle fingers. "Your mother needs to see you," she says simply.
After a moment, Clive seems to nod his assent, and he climbs down to the floor, allowing Harry to scoop him up easily.
"Thank you."
Narcissa inclines her head. Her sudden words stop Harry at the door. "Don't—don't lie to him. Mr Potter," she adds, and then falls silent.
Harry nods and leaves as quickly as possible, striding through the twisting corridors and out into the grounds. He crunches down the gravel path with Clive in his arms, head spinning.
"Is she better, Harry?" he asks again.
Harry sighs. He doesn't know how to talk to a child about death. Having seen an obscene number of people die in his relatively short life has done nothing to prepare him for the innocent question of a four-year-old boy who's worried about his mummy.
Don't lie. Keep walking.
"No, Clive, I'm afraid she's not. She's very ill and she needs you to be with her right now," he says.
Clive says nothing, but he turns his face into the shoulder of Harry's robes and takes small, snuffly breaths.
As the wind rips his face raw and threatens to blow his glasses off, Harry feels tempted to join him.
**~*~**
She doesn't cry when he tells her.
As Aquiline had predicted, Romilda does indeed regain consciousness halfway through the afternoon. He manages to pry a silent, clingy Clive away from her long enough to explain, haltingly, what has happened. That they have even used reverse-diagnostics to work out exactly which part of the original tangle of spells caused the reaction, though she waves away his pointless information, asks him how long, and then doesn't speak for a long time.
Eventually, he returns to his other patients, throwing himself into his work. Avoiding Kelly's sympathetic glances and accepting her endless cups of good, hot coffee.
"I'm sorry, Romilda," he keeps saying. Can't seem to stop saying it, in fact.
Funny, those words. 'I'm sorry.' It's what you're supposed to say when someone's loved one has died, or when you're just plain out of options. 'I'm sorry, there's nothing more we can do.' Harry's said that countless times before, but this is perhaps the first time he's meant it as an atonement as well as an expression of professional sympathy.
It's my fault, he wants to say. I'm sorry, Romilda. It's my fault. But he knows better than that. They had spent almost an entire day during their first week with the St Mungo's legal team, learning that above all else, Healers must never say 'It's my fault' to their patients.
He doesn't know if she blames him or not; she did sign the bit of parchment, after all. But he gave it to her, and he made it sound like a good idea. She trusted him. People always trust him, that's the problem, Harry thinks. It's with a mammoth effort that he pushes away the images of those lost in the war, those he tells himself could have been saved.
This, he tells himself firmly, is not the same. And even if it were, self-flagellation is hardly going to help.
When his shift ends, Harry hesitates only for a moment before slipping back into the room. Dragging his heavy robes over his head, he conjures a chair for himself and settles in it in his scruffy black trousers and thin t-shirt. Almost without thinking, he starts casting diagnostics and energy fields as he has done so many times before, and the familiar colours and scents are comforting.
"You still here?"
He startles, looking into pained dark eyes as they blink open. "I'm not leaving you."
"You're going to sit there until I die?" she says baldly, resting a possessive hand on Clive's head as he, quite miraculously, appears to be sleeping.
"If you want to put it like that."
She attempts a snort and then flickers out again. Harry leans back in his chair and fiddles with the string around his wrist, his own breathing seeming inappropriately loud in the small room.
After half an hour or so, Kelly pads into the room and hands Harry a fresh cup of coffee in silence. She looks at the sleeping pair and at Harry's crumpled robes on the floor beside him.
"Because there's no one else to wait," he says, answering her unvoiced question and lifting his head to meet her eyes through the coffee steam.
"You... you're a good person, Harry," she says eventually, and it's the first time she's dropped the formal address, even though he's asked her to on repeated occasions.
She leaves the room before he can respond.
"He said he wanted... he said he wanted us to grow old together." Harry looks up as the sudden words and their chilling meaning hit home. "And I wanted to have a life, so I left. I suppose he sort of got his way."
"You've got to tell me his name, Romilda. What if he does this to someone else?"
She sighs and stares at him for a long time before she gives in and supplies a name Harry has never heard before; he scribbles it on a bit of parchment and stuffs it in his pocket. Ron will know who to give it to, and Harry knows he'll be happy to use his influence as a head of division to speed things along.
When Clive snuffles awake, she lifts her head slightly and murmurs to him for a long time. Harry stares out of the window into the black night and feels like an intruder, but she doesn't ask him to go, nor does he really want to.
As he glances around the room, his eyes fall on two glossy brochures sitting on top of the bedside cabinet. They've been turned face down, away from curious little eyes, but Harry can read the upside-down writing on the spines well enough. They're Ministry publications—guides to children's homes and the adoption system. Harry's gut twists at the realisation that, if she's been doing research or making arrangements, she knew this was coming.
"Do you know how much I love you?" she whispers to her son, and Harry closes his eyes. Outside, the rain begins to fall.
It's after nine by the time Kelly reappears to tell Harry that she's going off shift and to ask him if he needs anything. He doesn't, but at Romilda's slurred request, she holds out her hand to Clive and takes him down the corridor to the bathroom.
He pulls his chair a little closer to the bed and suddenly she's gripping his wrist with a strength she hasn't had for weeks, and staring fiercely into his eyes.
"You didn't have any parents, did you? They died, didn't they?"
Heart pounding, Harry can't look away from her. "Erm, yeah, they did."
"So you understand... it's important. Harry..." She pauses, eyes burning, and then says something entirely unexpected: "Promise me you'll find a home for Clive."
"What?" Harry gapes. "I—"
She shakes her head against the pillow and those fingers only grip tighter. "Promise me. I know you have an important job, I'm not asking you to do it yourself, but I don't know what else to do. Please. Promise me you'll find him somewhere safe and comfortable to grow up, people that'll love him. Promise me. Now."
Harry swallows dryly, caught up in guilt and panic and the desperation in his patient's eyes. "If I can only..."
"Say, 'I promise, Romilda'."
The field around her glows intensely bright and Harry thinks his heart might explode. "I promise, Romilda," he whispers.
"I knew I could count on you," she mumbles with the ghost of a smile, and the bright field flickers and fades. Her eyes fall closed and the grip on Harry's arm falls away, leaving behind a warm, tight feeling around his wrist. When he glances down at it, there's a thin band of skin that's much paler than the rest, and that definitely hadn't been there before.
He doesn't have much time to think about it, though; the light is almost gone.
Harry leaps out of his chair, wand drawn. It's pure instinct by now to cast Ennervate, even though he knows it's no good. The glowing magical field that had been lighting the room dissolves completely, and he knows it's over.
Slowly, feeling heavy, he casts Tempus and gazes at the shimmering numbers as they light the face of a woman who once wanted him to fall in love with her. Silent. Still.
"Time of death," he says to the room. "Twenty-one sixteen."
