Potter's fifth year was not a good one.
He hurt himself trying to break the door down, shouted his throat hoarse, and Nigel, the painting in the corridor, rushed to find Draco. He ran in, Euodias hot on his heels, but Mother was already there, rocking Potter and stroking his hair.
Potter hadn't seen him at the door, so Draco quietly left. Mother smiled over the top of his head.
Things would get better.
He'd make sure of it.
To take Potter's mind off things, Draco took him onto the roof that night and quizzed him about simpler times.
"We learnt the usual stuff," Potter explained, hands clutching his Butterbeer. "You know, English, maths, PE, science, art—"
"You're an artist?"
Potter grinned. "You know how some people, they're like nine years old and really good at drawing and can like draw a lion just from their imagination?"
"Yeah?"
"Well that's so not me—I was rubbish at art! At primary school, you're just sticking down leaves you picked up from the playground, making collages from feathers, that sort of thing."
"How old were you when you started school?"
Harry pulled Draco's cloak against the mid-May wind. "I must've been four. Cos my birthday's in July."
Draco pointed his wand at a weed in the rose bed and it shot up into the air. "And how many went to your school?"
"Oh gosh, I dunno. There were a hundred and twenty in our year. So… maybe seven, eight hundred?"
"… Wow. Hogwarts must have felt like home."
Harry smiled wryly. "It did, but not the way you're thinking. We didn't live at school, just went for the day. They randomly assigned our houses, for you know, sports day and stuff." He hopped up onto the wall of the flower bed and tore the leaves off the weed's stem.
Draco turned to sit beside him and looked out over London.
"School was bloody miserable," Harry went on, "my cousin's gang would beat people up for being nice to me. Hogwarts was a dream. All that food! A nice bed. Nice people. Not too many who wanted to do me in," he said, jabbing Draco on the shoulder. "Still, if I hadn't gone to Hogwarts, I was looking forward to secondary school, Stonewall High… I thought I'd be an electrician or a fireman or something."
Draco shook his head, laughing. "You, of all people—"
"I know I was Head Auror," Potter said softly.
"I don't even want to know how you know that." He laughed and bowed at the waist with a flourish of his arm. "Our Most Revered Sir Saviour Head Auror had dreams of being an electrician!"
"Stop being a twat!"
Draco shook his head and got out a cigarette. "I don't believe you."
"Well, what did you want to be?"
"Easy!" Draco said around his fag, lighting it with the tip of his wand. "A professional Quidditch player."
"Our Most Revered Head of the Mind Healing Department had dreams of being a Quidditch star!"
"Don't be stupid," Draco said, lip curling. "I'm not revered."
Potter's smile turned wistful. "Things don't work out the way you plan."
"No," Draco said, blowing out smoke. "They don't."
Potter threw himself back into his exercise and saw his friends once or twice a week. Sometimes Weasley's parents or Hagrid came to visit on weekends.
He and Potter didn't get on particularly well in fifth year. Or sixth year. Or first year. Or second year. Or any year. Waiting for Potter to remember the defeat of the Dark Lord was excruciating, and even though Potter smiled, he still had a dead look in his eyes.
They still regularly went to their garden. Now that June rapidly approached, the sunset painted the sky at about half eight.
Draco couldn't quite remember what life was like before he sat up here talking rubbish, solving crossword clues, and teaching Potter how to smoke cigarettes.
"I know you're not supposed to tell me about the future," Harry said. "But I know I killed him."
They looked down at the Muggles, their elbows on the railing. Draco was conscious that the orange and pink rays from the setting sun made Potter glow, and he couldn't look at him properly.
Then, Potter rested his forehead on his palm, spectacles in hand, and said, "I know I killed Sirius, too. It's the only explanation."
Draco didn't know what to say.
"I wrote to him once, to tell him my scar was hurting," Potter continued. "He dropped everything, moved countries, risked his life to make sure I was okay. Sirius is the only one who cares about me, Draco, don't you see? He's not here. He's not come to see me. I've seen Hermione, Ron, Hagrid, Neville, Dean, even Lavender Brown, but Sirius is gone, and Hedwig is gone, and who fucking else is gone?" He straightened up, stared Draco in the eyes. "I know you know. I—"
Potter took a deep, shuddering breath. "Sorry. Tell me to shut up. I know you're doing me a favour bringing me here."
"Shut up," Draco said fondly. He thwacked Potter on the shoulder and passed him a hazelnut swirl.
"Thanks," he muttered.
"Have you finished having your little breakdown?"
Potter's lips twisted. "I'm not very good company, am I. It's a wonder you put up with me."
"Agreed."
Draco followed him to the bench and they sat down.
"No matter what shitty mood I'm in, fresh air and Quidditch makes everything better. I wish I could fly," Potter said.
"Oh, not this again. This falls firmly into the category of 'annoying Draco' and 'being poor company'."
Harry snorted, swung his legs up onto the bench and faced Draco.
"What?" Draco asked.
Potter stared.
"None of this feels real," he said. "But you are."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You look a lot like him. But you're… different."
Draco heaved a tremendous sigh, but it changed into a yawn part way through.
"I think you work too hard," Potter said.
"You think a lot of absolute rubbish. Don't you support the Cannons?"
"No."
"You've got pictures of them."
"Yeah, well, Ron supports them, not me."
"Why? They're appalling."
Potter shrugged. "He's from a village near Chudley. And you never know…" He grinned. "They could win the League."
"Never!"
Potter took off his knitted jumper, and whilst he couldn't see, Draco took a moment to ogle him.
It was just a crush—a mild one at that. He was sure it'd go away.
They sat in silence for a while, watching the sky change from orange to red.
"I remembered the Inquisitorial Squad, you know."
"Can't vanish the past," Draco said around a cigarette. He lit it and offered one to Potter, who shook his head. "Wish I could."
"Do you still use the M-word?"
Draco glanced sharply at him. "I assure you, I'm quite reformed."
"I didn't think Malfoy could be reformed."
He blew out a puff of smoke. "Well. You thought wrong."
Potter sat up properly so he could elbow Draco in the ribs.
"Any more of that and I'm taking back my mother," Draco said.
"You wouldn't!"
"I'm highly sadistic, Potter."
"You're a bloody Healer for crying out loud."
Draco grinned out into the sky. "Precisely. Catch them unawares."
Potter rolled his eyes. "You're so full of shit, you know that?"
He snuck Potter back into his room. When Potter said "Goodnight" and studied him with such warmth in his eyes, Draco's stomach lurched. He forgot what the appropriate response was, so just nodded and left.
"Good-day to you, young sire," Sir Kildwick said. He was visiting Nigel's painting.
Finding his tongue, Draco said, "Good-day, Sir John, Nigel," with a nod.
"Thou must kneel in hope that thy constancy will cease," Sir Kildwick advised. The other wizard nodded in agreement.
"I have no idea what you're talking about." The painting narrowed his eyes and puffed on his pipe. "And stop looking at me like that. It's rude."
He strolled off but heard Nigel say, "Leave him be, man."
The next morning, he was called away from his ward round to help yet another idiot who had used counterfeit Floo powder. For Merlin's sake—a scoop was only two Sickles! Since the Duty Healer was busy tending to an emergency, he stayed to sort out the poor lad who had been bitten in the eye by a diseased Doxy.
Draco then finished his ward round and worked steadily through his paperwork. Besides the usual rubbish, he needed to write a report for the Aurors for an attempted murder, a patient assessment regarding domestic violence, and reply to his third cousin asking whether their daughter could shadow him for a week to get work experience.
There was no chance of seeing Harry before the end of the day, what with the teaching seminar and the Mortality Report due this afternoon. But Mother came in with news and a very welcome lunch.
"Thank you, this looks lovely," Draco said. She'd brought a salad of beetroot, black fig, pickled walnuts and goat's curd, as well as a pear and frangipane tart topped with almonds.
"You're welcome, my darling."
"What happened?"
She gestured to the food and didn't say a word. It was family policy not to give bad news until after one had eaten.
When he'd finished, Mother said, "Harry has been asking after his godfather."
"Back to that are we?" Draco grimaced. "When did he…?"
"The summer that you took the Mark."
"How old does Potter think he is at the moment?"
"About fifteen, I believe. I put some Calming Draught in his tea."
"Thank you. How is he?"
"Upset. Mistrustful. Lonely," she said. "You should sit with him for a while. I think he needs to see someone his own age and the Weasleys are away in Spain."
He fiddled with his parrot quill, unsure of what to say. Draco felt exhausted all of a sudden.
"As his friend," she added. "Not his Healer."
Still, he said nothing.
Though Potter often smiled, the dream diary told a different tale. Draco noticed a strained look on his face when Potter thought he wasn't watching, and the smile didn't reach the windows of his soul.
Potter was having one of his pyjama days, which was never a good sign, and worked his way through about a thousand sudoku puzzles, resting them on the back of Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches. He answered Draco's questions about the date, who he was and where they were, as though he were some kind of puppet.
Draco sat in the chair next to his bed. "How have things been?"
"Fine. You?" He didn't need Legilimency to know that Potter was lying.
"Never better," he drawled. He leant back in his seat and crossed his arms. "Why don't you tell me the truth?"
"Why don't you tell me the truth?" Harry asked.
"Spit it out."
He threw his quill down on the puzzle. "I'm not getting better. I'm going to be stuck here forever, with the brain of a child, no magic, nothing to look forward to except breathing in the London air every few days for as long as you'll put up with me—"
"Potter. I do not put up with you. I do not take you there against my will. And the reason why you have no hold over me," Draco explained, "is because I am not one of your adoring fans."
Potter pursed his lips and squashed a smile. "We hate each other, right?"
"Something like that."
Potter tore out a completed sudoku and shredded the paper. He nodded slowly and said, "At least you treat me like I'm normal. I hate it when… people talk to me like I'm special for doing something when I was a baby."
It would get so much worse for Potter when he defeated the Dark Lord.
"They treat me like I'm a rock star or something," Potter went on.
"What's a rock star?"
"Never mind. The other Healers… Well, I prefer you." Potter frowned at the duvet cover. "… Though you only introduced yourself to me when you knew I was Harry Potter."
Draco had dreamt of being Potter's best friend for his entire childhood. "I was just being polite," he said.
Potter snorted. "Being Slytherin, you mean."
He leant forwards on his elbows and raised an eyebrow. "If you play your cards right, one can be both," he said. "Polite and Slytherin."
Potter grinned. "I suppose so." He stared into Draco's eyes for a bit too long without blinking, and then Draco got to his feet.
"Malfoy?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm an adult, I don't want to live here any more, I give up. How do I… leave? Where's my wand? I need my wand. Give me my wand."
The scraps of sudoku puzzle swirled around above his bed like they were in a tiny tornado.
"Calm down."
He stared unseeingly at the paper, and he gripped his biceps. "I can't take it any more. I need to leave."
"You're making progress—"
"I'm not!"
"Nonsense," Draco said. "Every broomstick has two ends. You had the mind of a toddler eight months ago. Do I look like someone who puts time and energy into hopeless cases?"
"How can I trust you? How can I trust anyone?"
He heaved a great sigh. "I'll tell you if you just breathe for a moment and stop making an awful mess."
Draco swept his wand in an arc, and the pieces of paper landed neatly in a pile on Potter's bedside table.
When Potter looked calmer, he continued, "Back when you were admitted to St Mungo's, this note was stored with your personal effects." Draco reached into his inside pocket, found the folded scrap of parchment and stared at it. "It's written in your handwriting. The moment I found it, I took over your care." He passed it over. "Here. It's yours."
As Potter read it with raised eyebrows, Draco added, "I've been saving it for a moment like this. I knew you'd have a little breakdown sooner or later."
Draco had memorised it anyway.
"I trust you," Potter said, eyes on the parchment.
"Apparently, you did."
"No… I trust you now, as well. I don't remember writing this, but… the feeling is still inside me."
It was encouraging that his emotions were there, even if the memories weren't.
Draco's throat felt thick so he cleared it. "Yeah, well, that's all very well and good, but you'll probably forget tomorrow." He stood up. "Keep that note safe. Good-day, Potter."
All of this good progress was brought to a screeching halt one morning on one of Draco's rare days home. Nobody was ill or on annual leave, and after two night shifts he had a mandated rest day. Anne always filched him a Concentration Potion from the supply cupboard after double nights, so he didn't feel too bad.
The morning went like any other: he wrote to Scorpius who was in the throes of exams, practised the pianoforte, brushed his cat and groomed the horses. Then, the mobile hairdresser visited, and after a second bath, he flopped in the Orangery intending to read A Compendium of Unusual Memory Complaints but ended up dozing, his eyes unable to focus on the words.
Crack!
His book tumbled to the ground.
"Mr Malfoy, sir!" Winley cried.
"Yes? What is it?" Draco rubbed his eyes.
"It's an emergency with Mr Harry Potter, sir, they says—"
He sprang to his feet. "Fetch my robes."
Winley clapped her hands and his Healer's robes appeared in her arms, almost swamping her.
"Thank you. You're an angel."
Her eyes brimmed with tears and she picked up his book.
He jogged to the fire in the Entrance Hall, flung off his summer robes and put on his work ones. Flinging a handful of Floo powder from the trinket box on the chimneypiece, he shouted, "St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries!"
Miriam stopped wringing her hands and pacing. "Welcome back to work, sir! I'll brief you on the way."
They took the stairs three at a time. "You'd think they'd come up with a faster way of getting around, but no—" he complained, holding the stitch in his side.
"Potter received a package. Your secretary said she'd reviewed it and passed it to the Duty Healer—"
"Who's on duty?"
"Healer Devine, sir."
"Hurry!" a portrait called.
"Go on," Draco said.
"Mr Potter didn't open it straight away, and Healer Clearwater and Healer Pye are busy saving someone's life, and we're so short-staffed, sir, I'm so sorry to bother you on your rest day—"
"No matter. Tell me what happened."
"Potter just opened it, you see, no one was around—"
"Shit."
He burst into Potter's ward, wand aloft, to find Potter asleep.
"I sedated him, sir, and fetched you straight away."
Potter's jaw was slack and he drooled onto the pillow.
Draco ignored the racing of his own heart to peel back Potter's eyelids and check his pupillary light reflex. "And why didn't you call the Duty Healer? It's my day off."
"Er, sorry, sir, he'd gone home and it's just that it's Harry Potter, and he's your patient, and you did say I should—"
"It's fine. I wouldn't want anyone botching him up further. So long as you are aware of the standard operating procedure."
Miriam let out the breath she'd been holding in.
"What was in the package?" he asked, stethophone to Potter's chest.
"Photographs, sir," she whispered. "Hundreds of them. No note."
He looked at her sharply. "From recent years, I presume?"
She nodded towards the floor by the window. Draco finished listening to Potter's breathing, then knelt down to shift the pile around with the tip of his wand.
"He was screaming, sir," she said, "his magic was out of control, a ghost came to fetch me. I put out the fire and healed his vocal cords, but—anyway… I wrote it all up in his Healing Records…"
Draco stood, chest hurting, and glanced over the dose of the Sedating Draught. "Pull yourself together, woman—you're a Trainee Healer. Healers sort out emergencies."
He turned to look directly into her eyes.
"Go to the Floo and bring me Pansy Newell. She lives at Ringworth Estate. Don't speak of the situation in front of the portraits. Direct her up here, then finish your shift on the lower floors. Tell no one."
"Right away, sir."
He gathered the photographs back into their box, some of which were labelled in Potter's own handwriting, and banished them to his office. Then he looked back over the Healing Records, sat beside Potter, and waited.
If Pansy wasn't home, he'd have to go to the Ministry.
Would Potter remember anything at all when he woke? Would he die? Fear clamped his heart in an icy grip and it was hard for him to breathe.
Few patients had died on his watch.