Reunion
Timeskip
The healer’s lounge was quiet, save for the hum of distant footsteps. Draco Malfoy sat in his corner, meticulously organizing his potion notes. St. Mungo’s rarely gave him downtime, and he preferred to spend it productively—or at least that’s what he told himself.
“Malfoy,” a colleague called from the door, interrupting his solitude. “Emergency case coming in. Aurors involved.”
Draco barely glanced up. “And?”
The words hadn’t left her mouth before chaos erupted in the hallway. Shouts, hurried footsteps, and the distinct sound of stretchers being levitated through the air filled the space.
Draco sighed, pocketing his wand as he stepped out. “Let’s see what idiotic hero has landed themselves in—”
And then he saw the stretcher.
“Bloody hell,” Draco whispered.
Harry Potter was splayed across it, grimacing in pain, dirt smeared across his face, his arm bent at a horrifying angle. A jagged wound ran down his shoulder, the blood seeping through hastily cast bandages.
Draco forced himself to stay professional.
“Move,” he barked, shoving through the crowd of Aurors. “Unless one of you has healer credentials, clear out of my way!”
Harry stirred at the sound of Draco’s voice. He blinked up groggily, his glasses missing.
“Malfoy?”
“That’s Healer Malfoy to you, Potter,” Draco snapped, grabbing the stretcher and pushing it toward the nearest private room.
Harry attempted a smirk but winced. “Still bossy. Nice to see some things never change.”
The door slammed shut, cutting off the Aurors’ muttering. Draco set his wand to work, muttering diagnostic spells. He could feel Harry watching him, his green eyes hazy but alert enough to be annoying.
“Why are you staring at me, Potter?” Draco asked without looking up.
“Just didn’t think I’d see you again like this,” Harry said.
Draco snorted. “What? Bleeding out on my table?”
Harry gave a weak laugh. “No, I mean… You’ve changed.”
Draco paused for a fraction of a second before continuing his spellwork. “People do that, Potter. Hold still, or I’ll let your arm stay crooked.”
“I missed this,” Harry murmured.
Draco’s wand froze mid-air. “Missed what?”
“You,” Harry said, barely audible. “I missed you.”
Draco’s heart gave an uncomfortable lurch, but he forced his voice to stay even. “You’re delirious. Save your sentimental rubbish for someone who cares.”
But long after Harry had fallen unconscious, Draco couldn’t shake the warmth of those words.
The next morning, Draco was met with the sight of Pansy Parkinson, Theodore Nott, and Blaise Zabini lounging in the healer’s lounge, sipping tea like they owned the place.
“What are you three doing here?” Draco asked, exasperated.
“Supporting you,” Pansy said sweetly.
“And gathering gossip,” Blaise added.
“Potter’s here, isn’t he?” Theo asked, smirking.
Draco groaned. “Don’t you people have lives?”
“Not as interesting as yours, darling,” Pansy said. “Now, spill. How was the reunion?”
“It wasn’t a reunion,” Draco snapped. “It was me doing my job while Potter made idiotic comments.”
Theo grinned. “Ah, so he hasn’t changed.”
“You’re all insufferable,” Draco muttered, collapsing into a chair.
Meanwhile, at Grimmauld Place
Harry’s recovery took longer than expected, and Hermione insisted he recuperate at Grimmauld Place, much to Harry’s dismay.
“I don’t need babysitting,” Harry grumbled as Ron helped him up the stairs.
“You literally fell over trying to put on your socks this morning,” Ron said.
Hermione ignored them, her wand flicking to set fresh linens on the bed. “And Draco said you’re not fully healed yet. He gave very specific instructions.”
Harry stilled.
“Malfoy gave you instructions?”
“Yes,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. “Honestly, Harry, he’s a professional. You should be grateful he saved your life.”
Harry muttered something unintelligible, his mind drifting back to Draco’s sharp, determined gaze as he worked.
A few days later, Draco arrived unannounced at Grimmauld Place, ostensibly to check on Harry’s progress.
“Malfoy,” Ron said, blinking as he opened the door. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Ensuring Potter hasn’t undone all my hard work,” Draco said, breezing past him.
Harry was sitting on the couch, startled to see Draco but secretly pleased. “Malfoy.”
“Potter,” Draco said, dropping a bag of potions on the table. “Drink those. All of them.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “No bedside manner, I see.”
Draco smirked. “You’re lucky you have any bedside at all, Potter.”
The banter continued, but this time, there was a softness to it—a tentative warmth neither of them was ready to acknowledge.
Later that evening, as the house quieted, Harry found Draco in the kitchen, sipping tea.
“You didn’t have to come all the way here,” Harry said, leaning against the counter.
Draco shrugged. “Couldn’t risk you being an idiot and dying on my watch.”
Harry chuckled. “You’re terrible at admitting you care.”
Draco set his cup down, his expression serious. “And you’re terrible at seeing what’s right in front of you.”
Harry blinked, caught off guard.
“Do you even realize,” Draco said quietly, “how much I—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “Never mind.”
But Harry stepped closer. “How much you what?”
Draco looked at him, his walls crumbling. “How much I’ve missed you, you stupid asshole.”
For a moment, neither spoke. Then Harry smiled, stepping even closer. “Funny. I’ve been thinking the same thing.”
The distance between them disappeared, and for the first time, they let themselves hope.