Chapter 3
Draco had just begun to enjoy the quiet of the morning as he descended the stairs, stretching his sore muscles and rolling out the stiffness in his shoulders. The scent of fresh coffee lingered in the air, which was odd because he hadn’t made any yet—
Then he saw him.
Harry bloody Potter, lounging on his sofa like he owned the place, one leg propped up on the other, sipping from a mug that Draco recognized as his own.
Draco startled so hard he nearly missed the last step. “What in Merlin’s name are you doing here?”
Harry looked up, completely unfazed. “Morning to you, too.” He took another sip of coffee. “I let myself in.”
Draco gaped at him. “You—you let yourself in?”
Harry set his mug down, looking far too at ease for someone who had clearly broken into Draco’s house. “I have to make sure you get to work in one piece,” he said matter-of-factly. “And given your track record of pushing limits, I figured you might try to sneak out early.”
Draco’s jaw tightened. “I don’t need an escort, Potter.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Tell that to the explosive curse that nearly killed you.”
Draco scowled, but he had no good rebuttal for that, so instead, he stormed past Harry toward the kitchen, muttering under his breath. He yanked open the cabinet for a coffee cup, only to find the entire set missing.
He turned back to see Harry taking another slow sip from his cup.
Draco inhaled sharply. “You used my coffee.”
Harry shrugged. “I made you a fresh pot. The least you could do is thank me.”
Draco narrowed his eyes but begrudgingly poured coffee into a random mug, deciding not to comment on how Potter had occupied his go-to cup. “You’re insufferable.”
Harry grinned. “You’ll get used to it.”
Draco took a long, slow sip of his coffee before setting it down with a sigh. “Let’s just get this over with.”
Harry stood, stretching. “Right. Ready to go?”
Draco reached for his wand. “I’ll Apparate myself.”
Harry simply held out his hand expectantly.
Draco groaned. “This again?”
Harry nodded. “This again.”
Draco pinched the bridge of his nose but eventually huffed out a breath, stepping forward. “Fine. But if you Splinch me—”
“I won’t,” Harry said, gripping Draco’s arm.
With a sharp crack, the house vanished around them.
The moment Draco and Harry appeared in the lobby of St. Mungo’s, Draco barely had time to step forward before a swarm of nurses and fellow Healers descended upon him.
“Draco! You’re back!”
“Merlin, we were worried about you.”
“How are you feeling? You look well enough, but you do have a tendency to pretend you’re fine when you’re not.”
Draco raised his hands in a futile attempt to calm the onslaught of concern. “Yes, yes, I’m alive—no thanks to whoever thought it wise to gift-wrap a bloody curse for me,” he said dryly.
The team chuckled, though concern still lingered in their expressions.
“Really, I’m fine,” he continued. “Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I do have work to get to.”
“Not so fast, Malfoy,” one of the senior nurses, Helen Fawcett, chimed in. “We just got you back. At least let us have a moment before you bury yourself in patient files.”
Draco sighed, but before he could respond, Helen’s gaze shifted past him to Harry, who was standing just behind him with his usual casual ease.
“Oh, and Potter,” she added with a teasing lilt. “So you’re the one playing bodyguard, then?”
Harry gave her a small grin. “That’s me.”
Helen smirked. “I suppose if Draco has to be saddled with someone, it could be worse.”
Another nurse, Anthony Goldstein, snorted. “Personally, I would have bet on Granger sticking him with a random , but—” his eyes flickered between them, amused “—this arrangement is much more interesting.”
Draco rolled his eyes exasperated, “Merlin, enough. I do not intend to be the source of your pointless gossip, no more comments, please.”
A younger Healer, Grace Wenlock, leaned toward Helen and whispered—loudly enough for Draco to hear—“He’s embarrassed.”
Draco pinched the bridge of his nose as the group chuckled.
Harry, unhelpful as ever, only smirked and patted Draco’s shoulder. “Looks like you’ve been missed.”
Draco batted his hand away. “Yes, well, that's one way to view it,” he muttered, before turning to Helen. “I assume my first round is still on the third floor?”
Helen nodded, still smirking. “Go on, then. But don’t overdo it, Malfoy. We don’t want you back as a patient anytime soon.”
With a final huff, Draco strode down the hall toward his office, fully aware that Harry was following just behind him. It had been barely five minutes, and he was already exhausted.
All he has to do is focus on getting through one day at a time.
Draco walked briskly down the familiar halls of St. Mungo’s, the soft click of his polished boots echoing against the floor. His office was just ahead, and he was eager—desperate, really—to get back into his practiced routine.
Unfortunately, normalcy was proving elusive, as he could still feel Harry’s presence trailing behind him like an unwanted shadow.
Draco stopped abruptly in front of his office door, turning on his heel so quickly that Harry nearly bumped into him. “Potter,” he said, folding his arms, “are you planning on following me everywhere?”
Harry leaned casually against the wall, unfazed. “Yes.”
Draco exhaled sharply. “Keep some space if you wouldn't mind.”
Harry smirked. “You never know what could happen.”
Draco groaned, rubbing his temple. “Potter, I have patients. Do you intend to hover while I work? What, are you going to shield me from rogue potion spills and dangerous clipboards?”
Harry shrugged. “If necessary.”
Draco turned to open his door. “This is ridiculous.”
Before Harry could respond, the door to the adjacent office opened, and Healer Davenport, one of Draco’s colleagues, stepped out, pausing when she spotted them. Her gaze flicked between them, curiosity dancing in her sharp blue eyes.
“Well, well,” she said, crossing her arms. “I see the rumors were true. You do have a personal Auror escort now, Malfoy.”
Draco scowled. “It’s not an escort, it’s an inconvenience.”
Harry, the absolute menace that he was, simply grinned and offered his hand. “Harry Potter. Nice to meet you.”
Davenport shook his hand, eyeing him with amusement. “Healer Davenport. I have to say, this is the most excitement St. Mungo’s has had in a while.” She turned back to Draco. “I assume this means we all have to behave now?”
Draco sighed dramatically. “Apparently so, but I wouldn't put it past the office staff to test their luck.”
Davenport chuckled. “Pity. Well, if you need me, you know where to find me. And Malfoy? Try not to give your bodyguard a heart attack on his first day.”
With that, she strolled off, leaving Draco rubbing his temples once more.
Harry chuckled. “She seems fun.”
Draco gave him a look. “Are you enjoying this?”
Harry grinned. “Immensely.”
Draco muttered something under his breath and pushed open his office door, stepping inside. “Fine. But if you insist on being here, sit there—” he pointed to the chair in the corner, far from his desk “—and do not interfere with my work.”
Harry plopped down in the chair with a satisfied sigh. “Deal.”
Draco didn’t believe that for a second.
Draco sat behind his desk, hands folded neatly, expression perfectly neutral as he listened to the reddening man pacing in front of him.
“This is ridiculous!” the patient snapped, throwing his hands in the air. “There’s nothing wrong with me!”
Draco remained calm, used to this sort of reaction. “Mr. Dawlish,” he said, voice measured, “your test results say otherwise. You have a curse infection—if left untreated, it will spread.”
Dawlish scoffed. “I feel fine. You must have misdiagnosed me.”
Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I did not.”
“I want a second opinion!”
“You already got one,” Draco said coolly. “Healer Singh confirmed my diagnosis this morning.”
Dawlish’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening. “This is some kind of scam, isn’t it?” he accused. “I knew it—just because you’re famous doesn’t mean you’re right! You just want more gold in your pocket!”
Draco sighed. He had heard it all before—distrust, skepticism, even outright insults. He had long since learned that being the best at his job didn’t mean people believed he was.
Dawlish took a step forward, his anger rising. “I won’t be tricked, Malfoy! I—”
Before he could get any closer, there was a sudden shift in the room. A new presence.
Draco had nearly forgotten about Harry, who had been silently sitting in the corner up until now, watching the exchange like a predator waiting to pounce. But now, Harry stood, his posture easy but unmistakably firm, his green eyes sharp.
“That’s Healer Malfoy,” Harry corrected, his voice calm but carrying undeniable authority. “And I'm going to need you to take a step back.”
Dawlish faltered, his eyes flicking toward Harry, finally seeming to register who he was dealing with. “Auror Potter?”
Harry didn’t respond, only holding Dawlish’s gaze with quiet intensity.
Dawlish swallowed.
Draco, not missing a beat, leaned forward, hands still folded. “Now, Mr. Dawlish,” he said smoothly, “if you’d like to continue this conversation in a civilized manner, I’d be happy to explain your treatment options. If not, I can have security escort you out.”
Dawlish’s shoulders tensed, but the fight in him had noticeably drained. His eyes darted once more to Harry, who hadn’t moved an inch.
Finally, Dawlish exhaled sharply, rubbing his face. “Fine,” he muttered. “What’s the treatment?”
Draco smirked slightly, retrieving the necessary paperwork. That’s what I thought.
Meanwhile, Harry sat back down, a satisfied look on his face.
Draco shot him a glance. Harry just shrugged, looking far too pleased with himself.
Draco resisted the urge to groan.
As soon as the door shut behind Dawlish, Draco let out a long sigh and let himself collapse forward, resting his forehead against the cool wood of his desk.
"Finally," he muttered. "That man was exhausting."
From the corner of his eye, he noticed Harry lingering near the desk, arms crossed, gaze still fixed on Draco like he was waiting for something.
Draco groaned and lifted his head just enough to look at him. "Potter, I'm fine. You can stop hovering."
Harry didn’t immediately respond. Instead, he studied Draco for a beat longer before arching an eyebrow. "You deal with people like that often?"
Draco huffed, straightening in his chair. "More often than I'd like. You’d be surprised how many people refuse to believe me despite the fact that I’m the best at what I do." He gestured vaguely toward the door. "Some patients deny, some get aggressive, and some—like Dawlish—think I’m just in it for the gold."
Harry’s expression didn’t change, but something in his posture shifted slightly, less casual and more considering. "That must be frustrating."
Draco scoffed. "Infuriating, actually." He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple. "But it's nothing I can't handle."
Harry didn't look entirely convinced, but he didn't argue. Instead, he reached over, plucked a quill off Draco’s desk, and twirled it between his fingers. "Still. You shouldn't have to deal with that alone."
Draco raised an eyebrow. "The hospital has security, you know. It’s not as though I let patients hex me."
Harry smirked. "No, but I’m guessing you don’t report half the incidents that happen here, do you?"
Draco clicked his tongue. "Minor Details."
Harry sighed, shaking his head, but there was amusement in his eyes. "You're impossible, you know that?"
Draco smirked. "And yet, you’re still here."
Harry chuckled, finally stepping back. "Unfortunately for you, yes."
Draco sighed dramatically. "Should I expect a bill for the therapy service as well?”
Harry grinned. "All part of the package."
Draco rolled his eyes but found himself fighting back a smirk. Maybe—just maybe—having Harry around wouldn't be entirely terrible.