A familiar Return
The students in Harry Potter’s Defense Against the Dark Arts class had been sparring, practicing their defensive spells against one another. It was meant to be a controlled exercise, but, as always, some students took it a step too far.
A sudden burst of uncontrolled magic erupted between two students—Clara Westwood and Emily Pierce. The spell, a misfire of defensive and offensive magic colliding, sent a shockwave through the classroom. Without thinking, Harry reacted on instinct, stepping between them and raising his wand.
"Protego Maxima!"
The shield absorbed most of the blast, but the impact was still powerful. Clara was thrown back, unconscious before she hit the floor.
The classroom fell silent.
"Class dismissed," Harry said firmly, already moving towards Clara. The students hesitated before scrambling out, murmuring among themselves. He scooped Clara up carefully and rushed her to the Hospital Wing, heart pounding.
But when he arrived, instead of the ever-reliable Madam Pomfrey, he was met with a nervous-looking young woman in healer robes—the intern, assigned to cover while Pomfrey was away on a much-needed vacation. Her wide eyes darted between Harry and the unconscious girl in his arms.
"I—um—I don’t—"
Harry clenched his jaw. "We need a proper healer. Now. Call St. Mungo’s."
Draco Malfoy had been finishing up his rounds at St. Mungo’s when an urgent request arrived. A Hogwarts student had been hit with an unknown magical impact, and the on-duty healer was unable to identify the effects.
He barely had time to process the surprise of hearing "Hogwarts" before he was grabbing his bag and motioning to his assistant. "Come on. We’re going to the castle."
When Draco arrived at the Hospital Wing, his sharp gaze immediately found Harry. The man stood stiffly beside the unconscious student, his face set in a rare display of open concern. His green eyes flickered with frustration and something else—something protective.
For a moment, Draco felt something stir deep within him. Something old, something familiar. He pushed it aside.
"Potter," he greeted coolly, stepping forward and rolling up his sleeves. "Let’s see what we’re dealing with."
Harry barely acknowledged him, too focused on Clara. Draco got to work without further comment. He checked her vitals, examined the magical traces in her system, and mixed a few necessary potions with steady hands.
After several tense minutes, he finally exhaled and turned to Harry. "She’s stable. The magic she was hit with isn’t immediately life-threatening, but it’s lingering in her system. I’ll need to extract it carefully over the next day or two."
Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. "You’re sure?"
Draco met his gaze, and for a second, something passed between them. "I don’t make guesses when it comes to my patients, Potter." The sharpness in his own voice surprised him, but he disliked having his abilities questioned. He opened his mouth to apologize—perhaps out of professionalism, or something else—but before he could, the door to the infirmary swung open, revealing Professor McGonagall. Her sharp eyes swept over the room before settling on Draco. Then, to Harry’s mild surprise, she smiled.
"Draco, it’s good to see you back at Hogwarts. I assume you’ll be staying until the girl recovers?"
Draco nodded. "Yes. I need to monitor her."
McGonagall’s smile widened slightly. "Excellent. You can stay in the professors’ quarters. Harry will show you the way."
Harry blinked. "What?"
Draco smirked, collecting his things. "Lead the way, Potter."
—
Harry walked through the dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts, leading Draco towards the professors' quarters at the far end of the castle. The journey was longer than expected, given that the temporary accommodations assigned to Draco were tucked away in an old tower, far from the main halls. As they walked, a few students they passed stopped to ask about Clara, their faces filled with concern.
“She’ll be fine,” Harry assured them, offering a small smile. “Healer Malfoy is taking care of her.”
The students seemed reassured, nodding before scurrying off. Draco, however, watched the interaction with quiet surprise. The way the students treated Harry—like he was truly theirs, someone they trusted without hesitation—was unlike anything he had expected. And even more striking was how Harry responded, addressing them with a kind of warmth and familiarity that made Draco’s stomach twist in ways he didn’t fully understand.
They finally reached the tower. Harry pushed open the heavy wooden door, stepping aside so Draco could take in his temporary quarters. The space was divided into sections, each with three bedrooms to host three professors though only one of them was ocupy. Draco asummed it was Harry's. Along with that there was a small but well-equipped kitchen—though Draco doubted it was used much with the castle’s house-elves providing meals—and a lounge area with a grand fireplace crackling softly in the dim light.
Draco turned to say something—an apology, perhaps. He hadn’t meant to snap at Harry earlier, and he wasn’t someone who normally let his emotions slip so easily. He took a breath, ready to speak—
But Harry was already gone.
Draco exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. Typical.
The next morning, Draco left his room early, planning to head straight to the infirmary. What he didn’t expect, however, was the sight that greeted him when he stepped into the common area.
Harry stood in front of the small kitchen stove, his shirt only half-buttoned, his sleeves rolled up as he lazily warmed a kettle. The morning light filtered through the windows, casting a soft glow over his tousled hair and the bare sliver of chest visible between the undone buttons. But that wasn’t what made Draco freeze in place—no, it was the faint lines of ink that peeked through the open collar. Tattoos.
Draco was staring. He knew he was staring. But his body refused to move, his brain momentarily blank.
Something must have given him away—a shift in breath, the creak of a floorboard—because Harry turned around abruptly, green eyes meeting Draco’s with a mix of surprise and easy warmth.
“Morning,” Harry said, oblivious to Draco’s inner turmoil. “Tea?”
For a split second, Draco couldn’t answer. His mind was still catching up, still fixated on the ink curling over golden skin. But then his instincts kicked in, and without a word, he grabbed his outer robes from the nearby chair and bolted from the room.
Harry blinked after him, baffled. He had been hoping for another chance to apologize for questioning Draco’s abilities the night before. He hadn’t even realized at the time—too caught up in worry for his student—but that didn’t make it right. He had spent the night thinking about it, resolving to make amends.
But now Draco was gone. And for the life of him, Harry couldn’t figure out why.