Maria Drago

Harry’s eyes darted around the room, cataloguing the exits and potential threats. Draco knew, because he was doing the same thing. How nice, we have paranoias in common, what a lovely couple we make, he thought dryly.

He felt almost nostalgic looking at a furious Potter. It was nice knowing not everything had changed.

Draco could feel Potter’s magic as soon as he’d walked in the room, and by now thankfully his goosebumps were going down. It was stupid how powerful Potter was. He probably wasn’t even aware of it. His magic hung in the air around him, still but vibrating with potential, charged like the damp air before a storm. If Draco closed his eyes, he knew he would smell faint hints of wet earth and ozone, but he didn’t dare, locking away that area of perception deep in his brain.

Weasley turned back to Potter, with his hands held up in what might have been an appeasing gesture. “I’m sorry, mate. It’s true, he is the best at what he does. All the Healers on this floor recommended him. He’s in high demand, and we’re lucky he’s got the time to take on this case at all.”
Draco didn’t bother to mention that he’d already recommended all of his much less urgent patients to other Healers in order to free up said time. There was no way he was missing this.

Draco huffed. “Yes, yes, I was a prick, karma’s a bitch, and now I have to wear reading glasses at age twenty-five. Anything else we need to get out of the way before I can start working?” he asked, exasperated.
This apparently released some sort of tension in the room as the three Gryffindors broke into quiet giggles and looked at each other meaningfully. [...] The satisfaction of finally making these people laugh, even at his own expense, caused a warm feeling in his chest. Which was pathetic, he soon realized, and rearranged his face back to indifferent aristocrat post haste.

It was a creepy story, and unrealistic—that witch must have been truly senile to be overpowered and outwitted by two muggle children, but she was obviously barmy if she was trying to eat them anyway. Good riddance, Draco thought.

Draco could feel Harry’s fingers grazing the bottom of the Mark on his left arm, and he was too shocked to do anything but stare. His body was sweating and twitching through the effects of the potion—he knew the convulsions would start soon, he’d probably be incapacitated for the rest of the day.
He wondered what sort of trick Harry had planned now. If this was how the Aurors were arresting people, these days, maybe it wasn’t so bad. Harry’s hands were rough, but so gentle, and so warm.

But Harry shook his head, smirking, and raised his hand to his face. He tapped his forehead twice, crooking his finger with an invitation. Draco hoped he wasn’t blushing again.
“Such a Gryffindor,” he chastised, flustered. “We won’t go barging back in just like that. Finish your chocolate, we’ll do some more breathing first, then you can show me whatever you want to show me.”

“Of fucking course,” Draco snickered. “I don’t even doubt that, you know, I know it must be true, but it’s so… it’s of course, I shouldn’t have expected anything less from you. I’ll bet the tears came straight from the bird’s eyes. Please tell me the phoenix cried on you, Harry,” he implored, giggling helplessly, and Harry smiled at him as he nodded. Draco was fully laughing now.
“Typical,” he said, shaking his head.

Harry’s face was wet, too, and Draco knew he himself must look a right mess—he knew he got red and blotchy when he cried, Pansy had always told him it wasn’t a good look. But Harry looked like a tragic angel, because of course he did, the tosser.