Draco was just rubbing his temples at his desk the next morning when his son barged in.
"What are you doing here? Is everything all right?" he asked.
Scorpius handed him a packet with the words 'MARS' written on the top. "What's this?"
"Nice to see you too," Scorpius said. "That's chocolate, because it's Good Friday," he said, nodding to the packet. "Grandmama went out."
Draco hugged him and said, "This is a staff-only area! How did you—never mind, don't tell me." He held Scorpius at arms length and appraised him. "What on earth are you wearing?"
"They call them hoodies. All the cool people wear Muggle clothes now," Scorpius explained.
"I don't want you spending time with Muggles."
"Why not?"
"Because you look ridiculous. And shouldn't be spending your pocket money on rubbish when you have so many robes. Why not buy sensible things, like school supplies, or Quidditch magazines?"
All of a sudden, he spotted Albus lingering by the door. As a rule, the Malfoys did not argue in the presence of others. "Come in. Are you having a nice time?" Draco asked.
His mind was still half on the document he had been completing.
"Oh, yes!" Albus said. "Can I see my dad?"
Draco leant back in his seat. "Fetch a pot of tea from the dumbwaiter, please," he said to his son. He drew up another chair from thin air. "Have a seat, Albus."
Albus dithered, then offered the new chair to Scorpius. It was velvet and had a squashy cushion.
The boy looked just like Potter, with the same stupid, wild hair. "When you come to stay this weekend, remind me to tell you about Sleekeazy's hair potion. Your great-grandparents invented the line."
"He means you have bad hair," Scorpius told Albus in a stage whisper.
"That's not what I said," Draco qualified.
Scorpius winked at his friend.
"I'm afraid this is not the best place for our conversation," Draco said. "But I'll be pleased to speak with you at Easter."
He thought of Harry alone downstairs. "I've not got long. I've got to see to a patient, then I'm in clinic all afternoon. How are you getting home? Please tell me you didn't ride in a motorcar!"
Albus produced three Pumpkin Pasties, and Draco spent a quarter of an hour with the boys before shooing them off. "And don't travel in aeroplanes, on bicycles, or anything that isn't magic. Muggles die every day using transport without magic."
"You're so embarrassing!"
Albus exchanged a mischievous look with his son and they left.
It couldn't be good.
Uneasiness was probably the reason Draco found himself walking past Potter's open door a couple of times per day, just to verify that all was well.
"… Draco?"
"Hmm?" He paused by the door and saw Potter pull out a crossword from one of his Muggle newspapers.
"You wouldn't happen to know the most northern one of the Orkney Islands?"
Draco checked his pocket watch. He still had twenty minutes before his three o'clock, so he sat by Potter's bed. "My grandfather used to breed cats and name them after various islands surrounding Great Britain, and Father continues the tradition. So I'm sure to know the answer." He pretended to think.
"I didn't know you had cats!" Potter cried. Why would he? "Tell me about them."
"They're all very fluffy and expensive. We've got Iona and Benbecula, the parents," Draco said, counting them off on his fingers, "as well as Westray, Alderney, Foulness—don't laugh, it's rude—Sheppey, North and South—short for North and South Ulst, obviously—then there's Jura, Barra, Lundy, Skye and Blue."
"Blue?" Harry squinted and offered Draco a Fudge Fly.
"I named that one. To buck the trend."
"We didn't do geography at Hogwarts."
Draco wrinkled his nose. "We went to a school for magic. Geography, languages, spelling, music, elocution, calligraphy and dance are all subjects to be learnt in the home."
"Oh," Potter said. He ran his finger down the crossword clues. "Well—nine down is two words. Second word is nine letters."
"Let me see," Draco said, nicking the paper. The answer was North Ronaldsay. "I haven't the foggiest." He got up and hesitated by the door. "I'll check a globe and return tomorrow. I have an appointment."
"See you soon!"
The stairwell was empty and Draco leant against the wall, sucking on his Fudge Fly.
"I hath heard about thine tragic case, young boy. Wilt thou weep for him? Wilt thou weep?" Sir Kildwick asked.
Draco gave him a sidelong glance.
"I'm thirty-one," he replied at last.
"He capers, he dances, has eyes of youth, speaks holiday and smells of springtime. It is a sad, sorry—"
"You're a painting. You don't know how he smells."
He went back up to his office to get his Healers Bag before clinic, and Anne cornered him. "Excuse me, Draco, Shaun wants to know if you're going to the 'Who said it: Nobby Leach or Greta Catchlove?' pub quiz on Thursday, they're need to book the table this afternoon—"
"Not for all the tea in China. Thank you."
He went down to see Potter after the Easter holiday and something was wrong.
Potter stood on his chair and didn't turn around. At first he thought Potter was staring out the window, but then Draco saw he was just resting his head against the glass.
"Nice day." Potter laughed humourlessly, his voice hoarse. "What d'you want?"
"Sit down and tell me what's wrong."
Potter turned, his jaw clenched, eyes smouldering in defiance. "You don't get to tell me what to do."
Draco sat in the visitor's chair, hand on the wand in his pocket.
"Please—sit down. It's a request, not an order."
"No," Potter whispered. An empty teacup rattled on the bedside table. "I don't have to do anything you say. Get out."
"For Merlin's sake, man, what is it?"
"Hagrid's my friend. I don't know how he can bear to look at you."
"Let me guess," Draco drawled, "you've remembered something heinous that I said or did." He got up. "I don't have time for this."
"It's your fault they executed Buckbeak."
"The Hippogriff? That's what this is about?" Draco barked a laugh. "Of all the things, that's what you—!"
"I bet you didn't lose a wink of sleep over him—"
"No, Potter, I did not," Draco said with relish.
His mouth opened in outrage, but before he could speak, Draco continued, "I was thirteen. I'm sure the death was swift, and it didn't see it coming. I can't believe—"
"All because you can't listen in Care of Magical Creatures and had Daddy to run to—"
"Don't you dare speak ill of my father," he hissed.
"Or what? You'll go running to him, will you? Shut up nasty little Harry?"
Draco strode out and slammed the door.
The next day, Draco asked his usual questions in a toneless voice and didn't look him in the eye.
"Ignoring me now, are you?" Potter spat.
Draco put away his quill. "I am not ignoring you, Mr Potter."
"Stop calling me that, it's so bloody fake. I hate it, it's like I'm in trouble at school. I hate this place. You're locking me up, you're keeping me here—"
"I'm not your enemy!"
"I want a different Healer."
"That's nice," Draco said loudly. "Thanks for telling me." He dropped a Chocolate Frog onto the bedside table. "Good-day."
"Wait—"
Draco left.
The following day, Potter was contrite.
"Um, I'm not sure if you're aware…" Potter rubbed his collarbone, gaze on the floorboards.
"Spit it out," Draco said. "I'm not a mind reader."
"Buckbeak. He wasn't executed."
"I know," Draco murmured. He approached Potter, and pressed on his shoulders so Potter sat on the bed, then took off his spectacles.
"Lumos." He shone his wand into Potter's eyes. "Look to the left, please."
"You should've told me," Potter said.
"I don't care a whit what you think of me," Draco murmured. "Look to the right."
"Malfoy would've cared," he muttered.
Draco put out his wand and said, "I am Malfoy. Follow my finger."
He watched Potter's green eyes track his finger.
"You look the same. But you're weird, different—"
"Not the horrible beast you knew, yes, what a revelation. I'm not very different. And don't judge a spellbook by its cover." Draco sat beside him on the bed, and listened to Potter's heartbeat with the stethophone.
"Grown up—" Potter continued.
"I'm thirty-one. I'm your Healer, for Merlin's sake. Surprise surprise, I don't act thirteen."
He went to write in Potter's Healing Records. But Potter wasn't done.
"Are we friends? When I grow up?"
"You are grown up."
"You know what I mean."
Draco looked at him properly, just then. He took time to look between each eye, as though considering what to say. But he didn't need to think about his answer.
"No," he said. "Not really."
Draco sent his mother into hospital with a copy of their family tree as a peace offering.
"He was delighted," Mother reported, "but I'm concerned about him. He ought to get some fresh air. It's not right for a young boy to be locked up."
"Quite right!" Dilys said. "Take him to the roof garden. It was lovely up there in my day. Superb views!"
"I didn't know we had access to the roof," Mother said.
"It's out of bounds," Draco said.
"Take him swimming in the Thames," Dilys continued, her silver ringlets shaking with every word. "A strapping young man like him ought to be out—"
"We do not take patients swimming in the Thames." Draco waved a hand.
"It's dirty, the Muggles have kept it filthy for a century," Mother added. "Surely you don't need permission to take him out for some fresh air, with your level of seniority?"
Draco grimaced. "Probably not. I'll think about it."
He had already been thinking about it.
Draco dropped in on Potter with Beating the Bludgers: A Study of Defensive Strategies in Quidditch by Kennilworthy Whisp. He nearly had a heart attack when he saw Potter, topless, sprinting on his running machinery. A few hours later he walked past Potter's ward, and Potter called him in to ask for more crossword help.
Potter had taken to doing that a lot lately, calling Draco in to help him with something, and then Draco would stay for a few minutes.
On days like today, he was less chatty.
"The weather looks nice," Harry whispered, arms around his knees. He was still in his pyjamas.
"If it's upsetting you, I can remove the fake window."
Potter shook his head. "I want to go outside."
Draco ran a hand through his hair. "Fine. Tonight."
Harry's eyes lit up and Draco folded his arms.
"I have conditions. Number one: no more whinging about the window. I've got enough to do without listening to your non-stop whining." Harry nodded and bounced on the bed. "Number two: tell anyone and I'll kill you. Behave and don't do anything stupid."
"Yes! Great!" Harry punched the air.
"Be ready at nine. Dress appropriately for the outside."
Potter's eyes widened. "You're breaking me out?"
"This isn't a prison, Potter. I'm not breaking you out. I am merely taking you outside," he said. "Against regulations. And my better judgement."
"Why's it against regulations?"
"You're safest here. It could jeopardise your recovery if you ran into someone you haven't yet remembered. And the place I am taking you to is off-limits to everybody."
"Why?"
Draco was about to tell him to stop asking questions, but then remembered Potter's aunt and uncle. "Someone killed themselves. Nasty business. It was a very long time ago."
Potter nodded. He climbed onto the chair beneath the window, palms pressed against the glass. "I can't wait."
That evening, he Disillusioned Harry. The hospital was eerily quiet, and Draco cast a repelling charm on Potter's door to stop the Night Assistant coming in.
"Be as silent as a mouse," he murmured to Potter.
The corridor was empty except for an old snoring warlock in a painting. "Not a word, Nigel," he said. The wizard stopped pretending to sleep and winked at Draco. They ducked under the 'STAFF ONLY' sign and Draco pushed open the door marked 'DANGER. DO NOT ENTER'.
At the top of the stairs, Draco reversed the Disillusionment Charm and lit some floating candles.
Potter's face was beatific, his head flung back, mouth slack. He held his arms out and spun around.
He was speechless, but not for long. "It's so good to have the wind on my face. God I hope it rains!"
Potter rushed over to the roses and trailed his fingertips across the unopened buds, then ran them down the stems, weaving around the thorns.
Draco sat on the bench and contented himself with watching Harry. It reminded him of the first time his father returned from Azkaban and roamed around in the gardens with no shoes or socks.
They didn't speak of that time.
With a loud hoot, an owl swooped over their heads.
"There's another stairwell at the other end of the corridor and it leads up to the owlery," Draco explained. "Behind that wall."
"The Muggles don't notice the owls in central London?"
"The Ministry spread a rumour that some owl breeding programme had got out of hand."
Draco uncorked and passed a Butterbeer to Potter.
"Thank you," he said, eyes shining. "This is amazing. Is that the London Eye?" He pointed at a strange construction that glowed blue in the night sky.
"I've no idea," Draco said. "It doesn't look like an eye."
Potter joined him on the bench. "Hermione told me about it. You step into the booth-things and look out at the view."
"It looks horribly dangerous. I shouldn't like it much."
Potter grinned. "I shouldn't think you would, no." He sat back and sighed, listening to the traffic below and the cooing of pigeons. "What should we do when I get out of here?"
It was as though he'd been hit over the head when Potter said 'we'.
"Pub?" Draco replied, only half-joking.
Potter beamed and savoured his drink. "The Three Broomsticks. Warm crackling fire. Lots of laughing people. Madam Rosmerta." Draco stole Potter's beer. "Great tits—"
Draco's eyes bugged out of his head.
Potter burst out laughing, shook his head and said, "You should've seen the look on your face! Ron fancied her and Hermione was all jealous."
He quietened and frowned at the floor. "I wish she had more time to see me," Potter added.
"She's awfully busy. And she spends a lot of time researching your condition."
Potter's head jerked up. "She does? That's good."
He got up to lean over the railing, and Draco followed.
"Look at them… Everyone just going about their normal lives… And they have no idea about us."
They gazed down at the Muggles milling about on the street below. What level was Potter referring to—unaware of magic? Unaware that the Chosen One was locked above them in his ivory tower?
"If they looked, they'd see."
They were elbow to elbow. Potter took back the Butterbeer and had another swig.
"But they don't. They're always looking down, at where they're going or at their phones." He glanced at Draco. "It's hard to appreciate what's under your nose. You know what I mean?"
"Mmm."
He could see goosebumps on Potter's neck; the moron had only a thin jumper. "Here." Draco unclasped his travelling cloak and flung it over his shoulders.
"Thank you. For everything."
Draco sighed. "That's all right."
"I appreciate the effort. You know, in helping me."
Draco shrugged as though shaking off an insect. "It's nothing. The sooner you're better, the sooner you're discharged."
"Right. Yeah. Great."
"You don't sound very convinced," Draco said. "You're desperate to leave. That's why I dragged you here, to stop you whining so much."
Harry cleared his throat. "You're right."
"I know," Draco said. "I'm always right."
The next morning, Potter grinned at him as if they were old friends, and from then on Draco came back after dinner on Thursdays to take him up onto the roof.
"I miss flying," Potter said, leaning over the railing. Wind whipped through his hair. "When can I fly?"
"As your Healer, I cannot in good conscience permit you to ride a racing broom."
"You could do an Undetectable Extension Charm to make an indoor pitch."
"I'm flattered," Draco said, hands wrapped around his teacup. "They're regulated. That spell can go horribly wrong."
Rain started to fall, so Potter retreated onto the covered bench, knees to his chest. Draco directed the candles so they hovered between them.
"Were you always this boring and old? Is that why we're not dating?"
Draco choked on his tea, so Potter patted him on the back.
"What?" Draco gasped.
"Well—things are obviously a bit weird. Did we fancy each other?"
Potter squeezed his eyes shut and put a hand over his face. "Oh my God… Do I have a boyfriend?"
"Funnily enough, I'm not intimately acquainted with your private life. And no, we did not fancy one another."
The next few weeks were not easy ones. Potter remembered the 'Potter Stinks' badges—not Draco's finest hour. Then he constantly asked about Sirius Black. Why hadn't he visited? Was he safe? Was he in gaol? There was only so long Potter would accept that Draco knew little about his hordes of admirers and their living situations.
Granger wrote to say that Potter had been angry with her and her husband, too. He hit his head on the window, angry that no one would tell him anything.
Mentally, Potter was halfway through fourth year. Recovery would be uphill from here.
Mercifully, the Ferret Incident didn't come up. Potter must be less of a dickhead than Draco once thought.
"I like you better now," Potter said, halving his custard tart. "Not once have you insulted my parents." He put Draco's portion on a saucer and handed it to him.
"Cheers," Draco said. "Forty-five percent of a custard tart and Prince Potter's approval. What more could a man want?"
Potter's mouth twisted. "Course, I probably said stupid stuff too…"
Draco cocked his head to the side. "Not really. Only in retaliation."
Harry bit his lower lip as he grinned. And it was very compelling. "I appreciate your honesty!" He mixed his gravy into the mashed potato. "The food's been good today."
Potter had low food standards.
Draco nicked Potter's spoon for his own packed lunch: buttered spinach, shallots, toasted almonds, and Dover sole à la meunière.
He didn't see Potter every day—after all, he didn't even work every day—but when he was home tending his horses, letting the sun warm his face in the Orangery, or fixing the grandfather clock in the fourth guest suite, his mind wasn't far from Potter.
Potter, any day now, would remember Diggory and the resurrection of the Dark Lord.
Father had described in great detail what had happened that night—the glory and power, and magic the likes of which had never been seen before. Horror thrummed in the depths of his mind.
Draco reflected on the exciting months after fourth year. The Dark Lord had risen! His family were jubilant to be on the winning side. They had held several summer balls and reunited many old friends. The Manor was abuzz with activity: Nogtail hunts, lawn games, drinking and smoking and cards, copious amounts of Elixir to Induce Euphoria, not to mention the quartets and dancing. And yet he dreaded the dead look it would bring to Potter's eyes, the dark circles under them, and the pain Draco now realised no child should face.
So when it finally happened, at least Draco was prepared.
Potter wouldn't get out of bed. His tired eyes darted around the room, red-rimmed.
"He won," Potter rasped. "That's why I'm locked up."
"He didn't win."
"You're lying," he said. "To make me feel better." Potter's lips were cracked, and he wasn't wearing his spectacles. "I don't believe you," he breathed. He squeezed his eyes shut. "Voldemort is alive. I saw him with my own eyes—"
"I believe you." Draco sat down on the bed. "Look at me. Put on your spectacles, sit up and stop moping like a child."
Potter scowled and put his spectacles on.
"So you've remembered the rebirth of the Dark Lord. Afterwards, people didn't believe you. They didn't want to believe it," Draco explained. "But my father was there, and it's been nearly twenty years."
Potter's brow furrowed. "So… I'm not locked up because Voldemort's—"
He flinched. "Do not speak his name!"
"I—" Potter reached out a hand and rested it on Draco's forearm. "I didn't mean to upset you. Sorry. Are you all right? You don't look well."
Draco swallowed, shook off Potter's hand and stood.
"You should draw. Write in your dream diary. Go running, lift weights, exercise. And speak to someone else. You'll feel better for it." He paused by the door. "It's a confusing time, and it'll get worse before it gets better."
"So… it gets better?"
"Yeah," Draco said, nodding. "It does."
Thanks to you.
Harry smiled weakly. "Oh. Good."
Later, Potter cried into Mother's arms for Cedric Diggory. The real Hogwarts champion, his mind unhelpfully supplied.
Once, Draco used to fantasise that he was the Hogwarts champion. He imagined holding the cup aloft, a thousand-Galleon money bag in hand, his parents cheering, everyone applauding him from the stands.
Would Potter have cried for him?