Unlikely Shifts
Clara had been discharged two days ago, her energy restored and her curiosity intact—evident in the fact that she had left the infirmary only after asking Draco whether he and Professor Potter were *secretly dating*. He had rolled his eyes so hard it nearly counted as a medical emergency.
Just when Draco was finally getting ready to return to his own life and leave Hogwarts behind for good, Professor McGonagall intercepted him in the corridor with a look that could silence a Hippogriff.
“Mr. Malfoy,” she said crisply, “I have a proposition for you. Madam Pomfrey has taken an unexpected leave for the remainder of the week. You’re the only one qualified to step in.”
Draco blinked. “Headmistress, with all due respect, I’m not—”
“You’re already here, you know the infirmary, and frankly, I trust you with the students,” she interrupted. “I’ll take your silence as agreement.”
With a barely suppressed groan and a dramatic roll of his eyes, Draco accepted.
His first official day as temporary Medi-wizard of Hogwarts was less than magical. A second-year Hufflepuff had managed to splinter his own arm trying to reverse the effects of a potion gone wrong. Minutes later, Draco was sighing deeply while turning a panicked fourth-year back into a human—after the boy had accidentally transformed himself into a frog attempting a Transfiguration dare.
By the second night, Draco was reorganizing healing tinctures with mechanical movements, his jaw tight. He couldn’t stop thinking about Potter. The man had been acting like he was playing hide and seek with him—and annoyingly, Draco couldn’t decide whether he was irritated or entertained. Maybe both.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a blur of motion across the Quidditch pitch.
Harry. On his broom. Gliding under the moonlight like a scene straight out of a cheap romance novel.
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Draco muttered, grabbing a broom from the storage cabinet. A minute later, he was slicing through the air behind him.
Harry slowed when he noticed Draco.
“Didn’t think you were the spontaneous type,” he said.
“I’m not. You just fly like an idiot. Someone had to supervise.”
Harry grinned. “Worried I’d fall?”
“No,” Draco said evenly. “Worried you’d vanish and I wouldn’t get the satisfaction of hexing you for avoiding me all week.”
There was a pause, broken only by the sound of wind between them.
“I wasn’t avoiding you, and it hasn't been a week you dramatic” Harry said.
“Please. You practically darted into a closet yesterday when I turned the corner.”
Harry scratched the back of his neck. “Okay, maybe I was. I didn’t know what to say."
Draco hummed. “You could have started with ‘hello’.”
Harry laughed softly. “Yeah, I suppose I could’ve.”
Another beat of silence passed.
“I’m glad you’re still here,” Harry added.
Draco glanced at him. “Don’t get sentimental on me, Potter.”
“I’ll save it for when you save another frog-boy.”
They flew a little longer, shoulders brushing once or twice—not quite by accident. Neither noticed the curious eyes of a third-year Ravenclaw, half-hidden in the shadows of the castle, watching them from below.
The next morning brought the highly anticipated Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff. Harry and Draco entered the Great Hall together, laughing softly about a ridiculous sleeping charm incident from the previous night.
The hall fell into hushed murmurs. Dozens of heads turned. A few students stared outright.
“Subtle, aren’t they,” Draco said under his breath as they sat down side by side.
“Honestly, I think it’s impressive how loud silence can be,” Harry replied.
Later, as the game roared to life, the stadium buzzed with energy. The announcer, a Slytherin sixth-year named Max Avery, couldn’t resist stirring the cauldron.
“And the Quaffle’s in motion—Gryffindor’s Walker streaks past Hufflepuff’s Keeper—Merlin, she’s fast today… Faster than some people at catching feelings, apparently.”
There was a collective groan and a few giggles from the stands.
“Mr. Avery,” came McGonagall’s sharp voice over the enchanted mic. “Five points from Slytherin.”
Max just leaned closer to the mic and whispered, “Worth it.”
Suddenly, a Bludger broke free and smashed into a Chaser’s broom mid-turn. The student lost control, spiraling downward in a terrifying spin. Gasps echoed from every direction.
Harry didn’t wait.
While Draco was already moving toward the pitch, wand ready, Harry sprinted up the stands—fast, focused—and cast a wide-range "Arresto Momentum" over the entire airspace above the bleachers. It slowed debris, the collapsing broom fragments, and even the falling player just enough for Draco to reach her and safely levitate her down with precision.
The students burst into applause. Not for the game, but for them.
As the girl was carried into the infirmary between the two of them—Harry calming her, Draco already diagnosing the injury—there was a hum of admiration around the field.
“They’re like… the dream team,” someone whispered.
“No,” another corrected. “They’re the power couple.”
By dinner it was canon.