Potter was sat on his sofa. What had the world become for Harry Potter – the Boy who Lived – the Chosen One – to be sat on Draco Malfoy's sofa?
Potter had casually discarded his wand onto the coffee table as he sat down. Whilst he could very easily reach for his wand, he sat there defenceless in Draco's home. Perhaps Potter regarded Draco as so little of a threat to him. After all, Potter was the saviour of the wizarding world, and Draco couldn't use magic. And even when Draco could use magic, as six years in school and one battle had proven, he was nothing compared to Potter. He still had the scars to prove it.
Trying to push those self-deprecating thoughts aside, Draco went to the bathroom to gather what he needed. He almost expected Potter to have disappeared when he returned. Yet, Draco found himself stood leaning against the doorframe, unnoticed, observing the still-present Potter.
Shoes discarded and now cross-legged on the sofa, Potter was taking in the surroundings. From the expression on his face, Draco knew that it wasn't what he expected. No objects of the Dark Arts, no Slytherin colours, nothing too expensive; Draco saw his living room through outsider eyes and realised how it must contradict a once nemesis's perception of him.
Before Potter could catch him watching, Draco stepped into the room. Potter turned towards him and gave a wide and slightly crooked smile, and for a second, Draco couldn't tell that his face was bloody and a few different colours. Draco faltered, but quickly recovered. He moved with determination and perched himself beside Potter on the sofa, dropping his supplies onto his lap.
"Remember that time you broke my nose? Look at us now," Potter said, his voice light, yet Draco stayed quiet, unwilling to think of that time in his life.
Draco soaked a cotton pad with water and took Potter's hands into his own, ignoring the tingling sensation where skin touched skin. He needed sleep, he thought. He could feel Potter's eyes on him, but he forced all of his concentration onto the hands that he held, using the cotton pad to gently clean his knuckles.
As he coated the damaged skin with an anti-septic salve, Draco heard Potter gasp. He looked up and saw Potter's face scrunched up in pain. He felt his heart lurch at the expression. Before he could process that, however, he noticed how close their faces actually were. Draco would only have to move an inch or two in order to kiss him.
Kiss? Potter?! Draco's head jerked back in shock. Potter opened his eyes to see what must have been a panicked expression on him.
Draco started to stand up. He needed space, or air, or just a moment without this man that was too much. But Potter grabbed his wrist and pulled, not very forcefully however with enough intention to make Draco forget about whatever thoughts existed before Potter touched him. The pair maintained eye contact, so close, so intense.
"I know that this doesn't make a lot of sense, but I promise it's going to be okay," Potter whispered.
Again. People telling him that it was going to be okay. Draco wasn't even sure what Potter was referring to. He swallowed and, like nothing had passed between the two, he took those hands back into his own and continued applying the salve. Potter didn't flinch again. Draco's laboured breathing, embarrassingly audible in the silence, was the only indication of anything more occurring beneath the surface.
As he finished with the last knuckle, he looked up into Potter's face again, this time carefully.
"There isn't much I can do about the black eye or the split lip."
"Well, actually, there is something else," Potter said slowly. He started lifting the bottom of his jumper, but before Draco could protest, he revealed a large gash across his lower abdomen oozing blood.
Draco stared. "Oh, just something small then?" he weakly joked.
"Exactly. Nothing too pathetic."
"Definitely…" He looked at the wound again, then said, "Yet, this is beyond my capabilities."
"Draco, please."
"Potter, you should see a professional healer."
"It's shallow. I'll be okay. I just need you to wash it and use some of that ointment and put a plaster on it."
"I seriously can't."
"Please. It hurts."
Draco let out a sigh. "Merlin's beard. Fine. But do not blame me when it gets infected, and you become septic, and you die."
"I promise," Potter said with relief.
Draco moved onto the very disgusting task of cleaning and dressing the cut. He hadn't expected the traumatic experiences that resulted in him learning these skills would one day lead to this strange healer fantasy with Harry Potter. Draco and his friends had been subject to frequent assaults from 'the good guys' after the war had ended. With their magic ban, they couldn't heal themselves, and they preferred to avoid the stares and muttered remarks and outright verbal abuse they would receive at St. Mungo's. So Draco had learnt Muggle first aid. Now here he was.
Once a dressing covered the now clean wound, Draco sat back slightly to observe his work. Of course, his eyes were drawn to the defined muscles and trail of dark hair beside his work. His hand reached forwards and he gently touched the skin around the dressing.
He felt Potter stiffen. Draco immediately did too, shocked at his own actions. Draco was touching Potter's stomach. The skin was so warm. They were alone in his house on a very comfortable sofa. And he was touching Potter's stomach. This was not any old pretty boy, but Harry fucking Potter.
"I think I should stop," Draco said. He took his hand away and shuffled to the side so that the whole middle seat of the sofa separated the two.
Silence, then, "What are you thinking?" Potter asked.
"I don't fucking know," he almost shouted, his voice bordering on hysteric.
"I wish I could explain what-"
"No see, that's wrong, you don't wish that you could explain anything to me. You don't wish helpful or good things for me. You hate me!"
"I don't hate you, Draco. I've never hated you." Draco stared at Potter until he corrected himself. "Okay, fine, maybe I hated you a little when we were kids, but I stopped hating you sometime around 6th year, I think." He smiled sadly to himself. "I nowhere near hate you anymore."
Abruptly, Draco said, "I need some tea. Do you want a cup?"
"Oh, okay. Sure. But Draco-"
Draco stood up and almost ran to the kitchen before Potter could finish his sentence. He then spent the next ten minutes fighting down a panic attack. His breathing exercises didn't help, so he focused on the spoon in his hand – the way it reflected the light, the way it felt in his hand, the curves, the coldness. It grounded him.
By the time he had made the tea and brought it back into the living room, Potter was asleep on his sofa.
Draco stared. He looked so peaceful. His lips had opened slightly and he was very softly snoring. Draco knew that he should wake him up and get him out of his house – out of his safe space – but against his better judgement, for no logical reason, he took the blanket from the other sofa and covered the sleeping man with it, careful not to jostle Potter's various injuries.
As the blanket fell over his legs, Draco had an idea. He moved the blanket slightly and reached into Potter's pocket, gently fishing. His fingers found what they were searching for. He took out the piece of paper and unfolded it.
As if the events of the day could make even less sense, Draco wondered why Potter had this in his pocket and why it had led him to the park. It was the front page of today's Daily Prophet, the actual article ripped off, leaving only 'DAILY PROPHET', the weather forecast and the date.
Draco carefully returned it and took the cups of tea into his room, drank them both, then tried to sleep.