FEST FIC: Phantom
Title: Phantom
Author: sashaminx
Prompt: #178 by lomonaaeren
Summary: Draco has never told anyone why he dropped out of his Healer trainee-ship, instead becoming the DMLE Medic, but he is about to be faced with his worst fears.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco
Warnings: Disturbing imagery, off-stage violence, and gore. Implied child abuse.
Word Count: ~5,000
Author's Notes: Thanks to the lovely sirona_gs for the speedy beta. I've mucked about with it since, so yeah... don't blame her. I hope this is something like what you wanted, lomonaaeren. It's a little intimidating writing for someone who writes so much quality fic for the fandom! Thanks everso to the mods for letting me procrastinate, as always :P
Phantom
Draco thrust open the door to Harry’s office and swept in uninvited.
“Even the incredibly busy and important Head Auror, Harry Potter, has to report for clearance after wands are drawn!"
Of course, Potter knew this.
The fact that DMLE now had their own on-staff Medic, the position Draco currently filled, had been his brainchild. Years of experience in the field had taught Potter that Aurors returned from on-the-job confrontations with varying degrees of injuries, the majority of which could be fixed relatively quickly in the magical world with first aid. But the Ministry, being the bureaucratic nightmare it was, demanded that it had to be done by a qualified medical practitioner who also had the authorisation to clear the Aurors for duty again.
In the past, the healers at St. Mungo's were assigned the task, and that presented two main problems - not only was it a diabolical waste of the affected Auror's time when they had to wait around for hours just for the equivalent of a band-aid to get clearance, but it also encouraged certain individuals (namely, one Harry Potter) to not report their injuries at all. He wasn't the only one who did it, of course, and he could identify the probable risk of something serious being overlooked - so when he had been made Head, he had petitioned for an office to be set aside within the department for a Medic, and had veritably bullied Draco into the position the minute he found out he had dropped out of Healer training.
But as was Potter's wont, he still acted as though the rules didn't apply to him.
He slowly looked up at Draco from where he was sat behind his. “We’ve discussed this, Malfoy."
“Yes, we have, and yet it looks as though we’ll be discussing it yet again. What is that?" Draco stopped in his tracks and stared pointedly at the half-empty vial of brown, viscous looking fluid Harry had in hand.
Potter held his gaze. “It’s Pepper-up Potion."
“No, it’s not. It looks like Achy-Breaky Potion." Draco was met with silence. He narrowed his eyes. “It is, isn’t it."
Potter paused. “I have a headache."
Draco’s experienced gaze quickly scanned over the Head Auror, taking in the small crease between Potter’s brows, his blotchy cheeks, and unusually pale lips set in a grim line. His Auror robes seemed to hang strangely as he slumped in them, and upon closer inspection, Draco realised the arm that held the potion was also actually cradling Potter's stomach protectively.
Draco leaned a little to the left and angled his head. A small snitch-sized hole, which Potter had been trying to conceal, was melted into the front panel.
Draco hissed angrily. “Stand up!"
Draco was a long way from the skinny kid he had been in Hogwarts; his shoulders were square and strong, his body lithe yet well muscled, and he stood a head taller than most, and when he used that particular tone of voice, the burliest of Aurors did as they were told - but Potter didn’t move, just clenched the fist that was propped on the desk in front of him until his knuckles were white.
Fury, mixed with a good dose of disappointment, surged through Draco. Three years he'd been working with the department, and Potter still didn't trust him enough to come to him, whatever the circumstances.
Draco gritted his teeth. “You can’t, can you - you complete arse!" He stalked forward, dropping his green Medic bag onto the desk as Harry avoided his gaze.
He rounded Potter's desk and turned his chair slightly, dropping to his knees between Potter's legs. He plucked the over-the-counter medicine designed for children impatiently from the other man’s grip and tossed it into the bin at his feet.
“Do you know what you were hit with?" Draco asked as he carefully moved the robes aside. The undershirt was melted, too, and part of it was stuck to Harry’s skin. Traces of a tar-like substance usually associated with dark curses lingered on the burnt clothing. Since it was clearly a burn, he was going to have to separate the fabric from the damaged skin without using a numbing salve to get a proper look at the wound. He hoped that the charred threads would mostly disintegrate as it was lifted off the skin, thereby not proving too painful or troublesome.
He murmured a disinfectant charm on his hands and grabbed the unsoiled section of white cotton, ready to begin the process of peeling back the shirt, as Harry shook his head in a subdued manner. “It was some sort of booby-trap … I think … I don’t know …"
Draco looked up at the vague answer, his eyes searching Harry’s face. “You remember no incantation at all?"
Harry sighed resignedly. “No."
Draco hesitated, his pulse increasing markedly as he refocused on the wound. He was a capable Medic - but he was no Healer, and he secretly dreaded a situation that would expose the reason he had dropped out of Healer training. Unfortunately, it was likely to reveal itself in all its shameful glory under the circumstances. Plus he loathed dealing with mystery curses that could act in any number of unpredictable ways.
The charred cotton fell away, for the most part, as he eased it free of the skin. Even then, Potter’s stomach and chest flinched several times, indicating the severity of the wound. The last segment, however, right over the centre of the scarring, clung to the skin as if glued there with a permanent sticking charm. As he tugged gently at it, Harry's breath hitched, so in the end he resorted to slicing off the surrounding section of shirt so it wasn't pulling on the sensitive skin, and left it there.
“You should have gone straight to St. Mungo's," Draco said, wrapping the pieces of shirt into a ball and pushing them into the bin.
“I can't." Potter said quietly. “I need this, Malfoy."
It was as close to a plea as Draco had ever heard from Potter, but it was difficult to take it in properly as he scanned what he could see of the wound, running his wand above it carefully so as not to make any contact with it. The area was shadowed, stuck behind Harry's desk as they were, but even in the dull light he could see the flesh was raw and sloughing away in places.
“We’ve been trying to pin this bastard down for years. They’re gathering the Wizengamot as we speak, and I don’t have to tell you how rare that is." A set of figures formed along the side of Draco’s wand as Potter spoke. The colour at the tip fluctuated wildly, causing him to frown. Shaking it clear, he performed the scan again.
“I’m the only witness who can place him at the scene ... If I can just make it through the preliminary hearing..." Potter’s voice was sounding more and more strained, and when a similar set of alarming figures appeared once more along Draco’s wand, Draco swore.
His movements suddenly sped up. Holstering his wand, he reached for his bag, dragging it from the desk and placing on the floor by him before rummaging around in it anxiously.
“In a moment, I’m going to knock you out with an anaesthetic and have you transported to St. Mungo’s. Time is of the essence here-"
Potter jerked suddenly and then grunted in pain, and Draco immediately reached out to steady him. The Auror scrubbed a weary hand over his face and added, “It’s Usama, Malfoy. I know it is."
Draco stilled. Usama.
There were Wanted posters plastered all over the Auror department walls; a stream of different identities surrounding a faceless silhouette and the man's self-proclaimed code name ‘Usama’, which meant ‘feline predator’, in bold lettering beneath. The man was the worst kind of criminal; he traded in people. He sold them as slaves, as novelties, and he was only interested in a certain type of person - children with magic.
Out of the eleven children who had disappeared, only one had ever been recovered. Alive, anyway. And for a long time Magical Law Enforcement had virtually nothing to go on except what the recovered child was able to tell them.
He had reported the children were kept in cages, or specially made enclosures, and for those that were suitable - the ones that were so terrified that he found them easy to control, they were sold and bonded into slavery to the more sinister magical creatures, such as Vampires, to live out their lives as something worse than maltreated house-elves. The others Usama would actually release - then charge huge sums of money to individuals for the privileged of hunting them down for sport. Miraculously, this child had escaped.
They had pictures of Usama, numerous ones from witnesses’ memories; unfortunately, the faces were either never the same, or they were of people who couldn’t possibly have committed the crime - a guardian, a close relative, or even in two cases, a parent.
It was assumed that Polyjuice Potion was involved, at first. The methods and mannerisms of the kidnapper were similar for each case, but there were just too many untraceable people involved - faces nobody could place or identify.
Usama became more and more infamous the harder he was to trace, and the Auror Department grew more and more frustrated and frantic as children continued to go missing.
It had been Potter who had eventually twigged to what was really happening.
Draco growled in frustration. He understood what this meant to Potter, not just as Head Auror, and he wasn’t alone, either. After seeing photo evidence of the condition the two bodies that were recovered were in, Draco would have happily removed the man's head from the rest of his body himself. But after the readings he just took, Potter wasn't going to last long enough for the Wizengamot to convene. Most of them were what you would call aged, and some of them were positively doddering about with one foot in the grave. Who knew how long it would take them to assemble at this time of night when most of them would be safely tucked up at home in their flannelette jahmies cradling mugs of Horlicks.
“The wound is aggressive, Potter." Draco countered, irritable with worry. “The flesh around the point of contact is already festering with dark magic." He snaked an arm around Potter and eased him up gently, supporting most of Potter's weight as he hissed painfully. “You can't give evidence if you're dead."
“I'll last," he said as Draco slowly walked him around the desk. “You can keep me on my feet until I’ve testified."
“I’m not a Healer, Potter. You need someone better."
Potter huffed sharply, trying to catch his breath. “I trust you."
Draco might have felt a tingle of pleasure at Harry's words, but he was too concerned about him for it to properly register. Moving him was obviously causing him a lot of pain, but he couldn't have stayed in the chair for much longer, either. “I can't believe I'm going to say this, but you overestimate my abilities, Potter."
“I know what you can do..."
“It's what I can't do that's the issue here!" Draco hadn't meant to snap, but really, Potter had no idea about Draco's limitations. He set Potter down on the scruffy old couch he kept in his office to sleep on during difficult cases. He had no doubt Usama himself had been responsible for many a night the Auror spent here.
Kneeling down, he slipped Potter's robes, and the severed remains of his shirt, off his shoulders without jostling him overly, and then helped him lay back before summoning his bag. The stabilising spells ensured it remained upright as it sped across the room, and the handle glided smoothly into his hand. He set it on the scratched and ring-marked coffee table next to him and fished out a vial of milky fluid containing much needed relief for his pain-racked patient. There were more suitable painkillers for the job, but Medics were not licensed to carry anything above level two opiates, whose effects, though strong, were quickly overridden by the presence of persistent, severe pain. Which was just another reason why Potter should be at St. Mungo's already.
Once he had located a syringe, he pierced the needle through the protective shield on the vial and drew out the liquid. Harry shot him a wary glance. His eyes were creased and his teeth gritted firmly against the pain, and Draco sighed. “It won't put you to sleep, it's for the pain. You might feel a bit drowsy, but it wont be strong enough to knock you - of all people - out."
Potter breathed out heavily and nodded, and Draco cast the tourniquet charm on his upper arm, and then quickly applied a local disinfectant charm. He traced his fingers along the inside of the elbow, feeling for a vein, and as soon as it was pumped up enough, he pierced the skin. Harry hissed and winced, looking away as the needle slid in. Draco was surprised he even felt it considering the pain that must be radiating from the curse.
“It's not that bad. Don't be such a baby." Draco said, drawing back the plunger and some of Harry's blood with it.
“And you would know, being on the blunt end," Potter drawled.
Draco eased the fluid into Harry, releasing the tourniquet charm with a murmur so the drug could circulate. When he had drained the syringe, he placed a temporary pressure charm over the point of entry and withdrew the needle.
“Mmmm … ohhhh, that's good," Harry slurred, body relaxing as the full effects hit him.
“It might make you feel better, but it doesn't actually help in any way," Draco admonished, disposing of the empty vial and syringe.
Harry rolled his head languidly on the arm of the couch, meeting Draco's gaze with glazed eyes and a small smile tugging at his lips. “Ohhh, it helps." His eyelids blinked in slow motion as he stared at Draco, frowning thoughtfully. “Did you know ... you're all bright and shiny and white, kinda like an angel…"
Draco raised a brow in amusement. “Feeling good, are we?"
“Mmmm," he grinned, his voice sinful as he closed his eyes. “I said you could do it. You have the Healing touch, Malfoy."
“Don't count your chickens, Potter. And I haven't actually done anything yet." Draco said quietly. “I have no idea how to treat your wound, and without knowing the incantation I can't lift the curse - or even slow it. The painkiller is no where near strong enough, and will be swamped before you know it; and likely, after I've done what little I can, you may still not be able to stand on your own two feet."
It was a wonder how Potter could think he was equipped to deal with this. Yes, sometimes Draco had had to perform some pretty fancy spell-work (because Potter was a stubborn bastard who detested losing time waiting around at St. Mungo's), but this was different. Curses like this needed hospitalisation, or you died.
Draco swallowed down his nerves and turned back to the wound.
He wanted to just refuse. Or sneakily inject Potter with an anaesthetic so that he was unconscious before he could even realise what was going on. But in reality, he knew that Potter would never forgive him if he did. More importantly - he would never trust him again, and Draco wanted his trust. Now that he finally had it.
He steeled himself to remove the remains of fabric still melted to the wound, disinfecting it first and cringing slightly; the acidic sting on that damaged flesh had to be agonising, and when Harry growled, Draco muttered a muted apology. He reached forward and gingerly began separating the remaining scrap of fabric from the now oozing flesh.
Potter gasped and panted as his stomach flinched, and it made Draco faintly nauseous, knowing he was inflicting the pain. To cover his discomfort, Draco muttered that it was Potter's own fault for not going straight to St. Mungo's when strongly advised to do so. By the time he managed to work it free, Potter was trembling. And then so was Draco, when the wound was finally fully exposed and he could see the messy hole in Potter's stomach.
The skin around it was mottled and burnt, some parts black and crusty, others glistening with sticky dark magic residue; and as Draco forced himself to lean closer to inspect it, it sent a chill straight up his spine. Past the jagged meat and membrane the hole was disturbingly deep.
Draco wiped at his mouth with the back of his shaky hand. He was in way over his head on this one, and his Medic brain screamed at him to ignore Harry's request and just put him under so he could ship him off to hospital without further ado. Harry was wrong about him; he couldn't handle something like this. This is why he had quit Healer training. The theory he'd had no trouble with at all; in fact, he'd excelled at it - studying well beyond the first year’s required curriculum. It wasn't until he had been faced with his first lot of cadavers, laid out in various states of dissection, that he had hit a wall. Up until then he had only had to deal with relatively minor wounds, but being presented with the putrid gore of mutilated, cold and clammy dead bodies had sent him careening for the bathroom with a fistful of his own puke.
No matter how many times he went back and tried to perform the necessary autopsy work, he ended up spending 90% of the class in the toilets. Even when he made sure not to eat beforehand, all he could do was dry heave until he ached.
Head Healers Purcell, had tentatively suggested that he might be overly sensitive to the presence of a corpse, given his past, and not wanting to dismiss his outstanding results in other areas, he had been willing to overlook completion of that particular unit in favour of moving on to real life actual patients. It had gone swimmingly, until one day, about three months into his PRAC he was called in to assist in an emergency. Apparently, a potions lab had exploded, and more than a dozen people were being brought in. It was all hands on deck, and Draco was keen to help.
The first two patients were dead on arrival, and Draco had backed away from them, shaken; phantoms of the past, images of dead muggles, flashed before him. Moments later he was flooded with a deluge of distraught relatives and it was as if someone had pulled a plug somewhere on his person and every bit of strength he possessed had just drained out of him. He was left a sweating, quaking mess, struggling to hold his composure under the onslaught.
He had somehow stumbled through the rest of the afternoon, assisting with some of the remaining emergency patients who typically had horrific burns, and the odd missing limb, but he had been a fraction of the use he should have been. He had managed to prevent a major disaster when one of the other trainees had mistakenly retrieved the wrong intravenous injection that would have killed the woman if Draco hadn't recognised the mistake and stopped him in time, but he had been unable to administer the correct medication himself because his hands had been shaking so much.
He had lost all confidence in his ability that night, coming away with the knowledge he wasn't cut from the same cloth as the other Healers, or even his fellow students. He had quit the next day. His disappointment and shame had been palpable, and he taken to consoling himself with large amounts of alcohol. It had been a month a later that Potter had turned up at his door. Even the bleary eyed, stubble ridden, crumpled mess that Draco presented hadn't deterred the newly appointed Head Auror from offering him a job, and though a surly Draco had tried to refuse, Potter wouldn't take no for an answer. Potter had been pushing Draco's limits ever since. He couldn't have known why Draco had failed at being a Healer though, and therefore had no idea just how wrong he was in entrusting Draco with something as important as this.
“I-I can't do this, Potter." Draco stuttered, staring at a freckle on the unmarred, healthy part of Potter's belly. “I could make it that much worse if I try. You need a hospital-“
“He's killing children, Malfoy."
Potter's sombre voice gave Draco pause.
Potter took his chance. “Usama is a metamorphmagus," he pressed, and as he leant up, his eyes squinted in pain. “He's … he's one slippery bastard, and if he gets away this time, we may never catch him again."
Draco was shaking his head. “They can hold him until you can testify. For dark curses like this it's only a couple of days healing in a magical coma, another twelve hours for obs, and you’d be out."
“We can't legally hold him for longer than twenty-four hours, Malfoy." He let out a jagged breath. “The DMLE will be forced to release him without my testimony. We both know he'll disappear the minute he's set free..." His arm came out and his hand wrapped around Draco's wrist, squeezing it meaningfully. “We can't let that happen. He needs to be kept under guard so we can interrogate him and find the other kids. Before it's too late. If his accomplices get wind of his arrest..."
And that was the clincher. Draco knew exactly what would happen to those kids if the bastards holding them started panicking. But...
His jaw clenched, his teeth mashing together. “You could die..."
“Better me than another child," Potter said bluntly. His head fell back, not having the strength to hold it up any longer, but his hand slipped down to squeeze Draco's hand, making Draco meet his gaze. “Anyway, I'm not going to die. You'll get me through this."
Draco stared a Potter a moment. There was a plea in the glassy stare that met his gaze and Draco realised that he wasn't going to say no; he was going to everything he could to halt the spread of the curse eating through Potter, and he was going to get him on his feet and keep him there until the Auror had done what he had to. This was Harry Potter, and there wasn't really a choice.
*
Leaning against the wall, Draco watched intently from just inside the doorway as Potter stood in front of the assembled crowd. He had held up through his account of the night’s proceedings, and was currently being questioned further as the legal department gave statements and recommendations. A light sheen had broken out on his upper lip and across his brow, and it hadn't escaped Draco's notice that Potter was slightly hunched over as well. His skin was definitely paler than it had been when they'd first entered, and it was clear it was taking everything Potter had just to keep standing.
The painkiller would be wearing off rapidly under the pressure, and as Draco watched, a tremor began to develop in Potter's hand. He looked ready to fall over, and Draco was chomping at the bit to get to him before he dropped. In the meantime, the decrepit old members of the Wizengamot kept raising wobbly hands of their own trying to clarify this point or that. They couldn't seem to resist exchanging pleasantries with one another when they caught a fellow member’s eye, either, drawing out the proceedings even more. One gent had a hacking cough that kept disrupting the proceedings, and Draco had been certain at one point that he was breathing his last; but all of the noise hadn't been enough to stir the little old dear in the third row who had dropped off and was snoring lightly.
When Potter suddenly swayed dangerously, Draco thought ‘to hell with it’ and stalked over to him, plunging the hearing into silence as he placed steadying hands on the Aurors shoulders. If he wasn't mistaken, there was a slow blooming patch of red on the new scarlet robes Potter wore, right where the bandages covered the wound. Draco turned to the Minister.
“Auror Potter sustained an injury during the apprehension of the suspect," he explained. A murmur went through the crowd and Potter's Auror team looked equally stunned and concerned as he continued. “You have his testimony. He must be allowed to leave for St. Mungo's immediately."
Potter protested, frowning in obvious concentration as beads of sweat trickled down the side of his face, insisting he stay until they had ruled on a decision. Although Draco was tempted to drag him out of there in front of the Minister himself, he knew Potter would fight him the whole way, so he stood at Potter's shoulder and waited.
There was much deliberation in the Wizengamot as they discussed the case, and Draco was almost ready to strangle someone, when suddenly Potter swayed forward heavily again. The action caught pretty much everyone's attention in the chamber. Hooley and Fotheringham rushed forward to help hold him up as a sudden, urgent muttering swept through the crowd. Many heads nodded quickly and a delegate finally stood up to address the Minister.
“We of the 451st panel of the British Wizengamot, serving Minister Linklater, the Ministry of Magic, and the people it represents, do hereby acknowledge special circumstances are required in dealing with prisoner U887-6750H. Due to flight-risk, and the extent of his crimes, we hereby authorise said prisoner to be held in the highest level security block in Azkaban until such a time as a court date is set and Head Auror Potter is fit to give evidence."
“Panel adjourned!" The Minister announced with a smack of his gavel.
Potter turned to Draco, gave a small, satisfied smile, and collapsed.
“All right, Potter," Draco soothed, catching him. “You got him. It's done." Hooley and Fotheringham stepped back hastily as Draco pulled out the emergency portkey he usually carried in his Medic bag, and was swept away to St. Mungo's, clutching Potter’s body as tightly as he dared.
*
“... that way you can continue with your trainee-ship without changing your current circumstances. It would work rather well, I think."
Draco nodded in agreement with Healer Purcell, but retained his general air of non-committal. It wouldn't do to show how pleased he was at the man's offer of his old trainee-ship back. A murmur came from the hospital bed, and Draco crossed his arms over his chest, schooling his features in preparation.
“I'll leave you to it then, Medic Malfoy. By the way, that really was a very clever bit of spellwork." As Purcell wandered out of the room, Draco could hear him muttering, “Very clever, indeed, with quite fascinating results ..."
“Malfoy?" Potter opened his eyes, blinking at the sudden brightness, and Draco turned the lights down with a word. The Auror's eyes sought and eventually landed on him, but Draco remained rigidly in place.
“If you ever delay reporting to me again when you're wounded, Potter, I swear, when you least expect it, I will remove one of your testicles." Potter's eyes went wide for a moment, before a smile crept across his lips.
“I was right to trust you," he said, ignoring the threat.
Now that there was no sense of impending doom to distract Draco, he felt the full impact of those words, and it sucked the indignation right out of his sails. He moved closer to the bed and leaned over Potter with the pretence of checking his temperature, placing his palm on the cool forehead.
Their faces were mere inches apart; Potter was staring at him openly, and somewhat nervously, when his tongue suddenly darted out to moisten his lips. Draco's eyes followed the movement before meeting Potter's gaze again.
“What if I was to tell you," Potter began, his voice somewhat croaky and subsequently coming out more as a whisper, his eyes wide and vulnerable, “that there is nothing I want more right now than for you to kiss me?"
“Then I'd say you are probably still delirious from the drugs." Draco closed the gap between them and took Potter's lips, gently. He felt somewhat overwhelmed by the man's proximity - his body-heat, his scent, the soft warm touch of his lips. He took the time to explore the sensation slowly, savouring the fact that Potter seemed in no hurry to part from him, either. When he did finally draw back, he kept his hand where it had ended up, on the pillow beside Potter's cheek, his thumb caressing the side of his face.
Draco couldn't help but feel mildly bereft at the loss of sensation; the touch, the click of moisture, the gentle puffs of breath, and the ultimately intimate nature of the moment. The strength of his feelings surprised him.
“It seems it might be in my best interest to let you hang on to both of your balls, after all."
Potter grinned widely.
Just then, Ron Weasley burst through the door, looking mildly panicked. “Harry!" He took in the scene before him and flicked his chin knowingly. “'Bout fucking time," he announced, hands on hips. “You two move slower than a pair of flobberworms."
They glanced at each other, bewildered.
“Anyway, good to see ya looking all right," he aimed at Potter, beginning to back out of the room. “Bloody good collar, mate. Wish I'd been there! Drinks tonight, if you’re up for it." He waggled his brows suggestively, “Nice one Malfoy," he said, flashing a look Draco's way before he turned and fled.
Draco frowned, nose wrinkling. “How is it possible the most oblivious man in the world knew about us before we did?"
the end
.
Author: sashaminx
Prompt: #178 by lomonaaeren
Summary: Draco has never told anyone why he dropped out of his Healer trainee-ship, instead becoming the DMLE Medic, but he is about to be faced with his worst fears.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco
Warnings: Disturbing imagery, off-stage violence, and gore. Implied child abuse.
Word Count: ~5,000
Author's Notes: Thanks to the lovely sirona_gs for the speedy beta. I've mucked about with it since, so yeah... don't blame her. I hope this is something like what you wanted, lomonaaeren. It's a little intimidating writing for someone who writes so much quality fic for the fandom! Thanks everso to the mods for letting me procrastinate, as always :P
Phantom
Draco thrust open the door to Harry’s office and swept in uninvited.
“Even the incredibly busy and important Head Auror, Harry Potter, has to report for clearance after wands are drawn!"
Of course, Potter knew this.
The fact that DMLE now had their own on-staff Medic, the position Draco currently filled, had been his brainchild. Years of experience in the field had taught Potter that Aurors returned from on-the-job confrontations with varying degrees of injuries, the majority of which could be fixed relatively quickly in the magical world with first aid. But the Ministry, being the bureaucratic nightmare it was, demanded that it had to be done by a qualified medical practitioner who also had the authorisation to clear the Aurors for duty again.
In the past, the healers at St. Mungo's were assigned the task, and that presented two main problems - not only was it a diabolical waste of the affected Auror's time when they had to wait around for hours just for the equivalent of a band-aid to get clearance, but it also encouraged certain individuals (namely, one Harry Potter) to not report their injuries at all. He wasn't the only one who did it, of course, and he could identify the probable risk of something serious being overlooked - so when he had been made Head, he had petitioned for an office to be set aside within the department for a Medic, and had veritably bullied Draco into the position the minute he found out he had dropped out of Healer training.
But as was Potter's wont, he still acted as though the rules didn't apply to him.
He slowly looked up at Draco from where he was sat behind his. “We’ve discussed this, Malfoy."
“Yes, we have, and yet it looks as though we’ll be discussing it yet again. What is that?" Draco stopped in his tracks and stared pointedly at the half-empty vial of brown, viscous looking fluid Harry had in hand.
Potter held his gaze. “It’s Pepper-up Potion."
“No, it’s not. It looks like Achy-Breaky Potion." Draco was met with silence. He narrowed his eyes. “It is, isn’t it."
Potter paused. “I have a headache."
Draco’s experienced gaze quickly scanned over the Head Auror, taking in the small crease between Potter’s brows, his blotchy cheeks, and unusually pale lips set in a grim line. His Auror robes seemed to hang strangely as he slumped in them, and upon closer inspection, Draco realised the arm that held the potion was also actually cradling Potter's stomach protectively.
Draco leaned a little to the left and angled his head. A small snitch-sized hole, which Potter had been trying to conceal, was melted into the front panel.
Draco hissed angrily. “Stand up!"
Draco was a long way from the skinny kid he had been in Hogwarts; his shoulders were square and strong, his body lithe yet well muscled, and he stood a head taller than most, and when he used that particular tone of voice, the burliest of Aurors did as they were told - but Potter didn’t move, just clenched the fist that was propped on the desk in front of him until his knuckles were white.
Fury, mixed with a good dose of disappointment, surged through Draco. Three years he'd been working with the department, and Potter still didn't trust him enough to come to him, whatever the circumstances.
Draco gritted his teeth. “You can’t, can you - you complete arse!" He stalked forward, dropping his green Medic bag onto the desk as Harry avoided his gaze.
He rounded Potter's desk and turned his chair slightly, dropping to his knees between Potter's legs. He plucked the over-the-counter medicine designed for children impatiently from the other man’s grip and tossed it into the bin at his feet.
“Do you know what you were hit with?" Draco asked as he carefully moved the robes aside. The undershirt was melted, too, and part of it was stuck to Harry’s skin. Traces of a tar-like substance usually associated with dark curses lingered on the burnt clothing. Since it was clearly a burn, he was going to have to separate the fabric from the damaged skin without using a numbing salve to get a proper look at the wound. He hoped that the charred threads would mostly disintegrate as it was lifted off the skin, thereby not proving too painful or troublesome.
He murmured a disinfectant charm on his hands and grabbed the unsoiled section of white cotton, ready to begin the process of peeling back the shirt, as Harry shook his head in a subdued manner. “It was some sort of booby-trap … I think … I don’t know …"
Draco looked up at the vague answer, his eyes searching Harry’s face. “You remember no incantation at all?"
Harry sighed resignedly. “No."
Draco hesitated, his pulse increasing markedly as he refocused on the wound. He was a capable Medic - but he was no Healer, and he secretly dreaded a situation that would expose the reason he had dropped out of Healer training. Unfortunately, it was likely to reveal itself in all its shameful glory under the circumstances. Plus he loathed dealing with mystery curses that could act in any number of unpredictable ways.
The charred cotton fell away, for the most part, as he eased it free of the skin. Even then, Potter’s stomach and chest flinched several times, indicating the severity of the wound. The last segment, however, right over the centre of the scarring, clung to the skin as if glued there with a permanent sticking charm. As he tugged gently at it, Harry's breath hitched, so in the end he resorted to slicing off the surrounding section of shirt so it wasn't pulling on the sensitive skin, and left it there.
“You should have gone straight to St. Mungo's," Draco said, wrapping the pieces of shirt into a ball and pushing them into the bin.
“I can't." Potter said quietly. “I need this, Malfoy."
It was as close to a plea as Draco had ever heard from Potter, but it was difficult to take it in properly as he scanned what he could see of the wound, running his wand above it carefully so as not to make any contact with it. The area was shadowed, stuck behind Harry's desk as they were, but even in the dull light he could see the flesh was raw and sloughing away in places.
“We’ve been trying to pin this bastard down for years. They’re gathering the Wizengamot as we speak, and I don’t have to tell you how rare that is." A set of figures formed along the side of Draco’s wand as Potter spoke. The colour at the tip fluctuated wildly, causing him to frown. Shaking it clear, he performed the scan again.
“I’m the only witness who can place him at the scene ... If I can just make it through the preliminary hearing..." Potter’s voice was sounding more and more strained, and when a similar set of alarming figures appeared once more along Draco’s wand, Draco swore.
His movements suddenly sped up. Holstering his wand, he reached for his bag, dragging it from the desk and placing on the floor by him before rummaging around in it anxiously.
“In a moment, I’m going to knock you out with an anaesthetic and have you transported to St. Mungo’s. Time is of the essence here-"
Potter jerked suddenly and then grunted in pain, and Draco immediately reached out to steady him. The Auror scrubbed a weary hand over his face and added, “It’s Usama, Malfoy. I know it is."
Draco stilled. Usama.
There were Wanted posters plastered all over the Auror department walls; a stream of different identities surrounding a faceless silhouette and the man's self-proclaimed code name ‘Usama’, which meant ‘feline predator’, in bold lettering beneath. The man was the worst kind of criminal; he traded in people. He sold them as slaves, as novelties, and he was only interested in a certain type of person - children with magic.
Out of the eleven children who had disappeared, only one had ever been recovered. Alive, anyway. And for a long time Magical Law Enforcement had virtually nothing to go on except what the recovered child was able to tell them.
He had reported the children were kept in cages, or specially made enclosures, and for those that were suitable - the ones that were so terrified that he found them easy to control, they were sold and bonded into slavery to the more sinister magical creatures, such as Vampires, to live out their lives as something worse than maltreated house-elves. The others Usama would actually release - then charge huge sums of money to individuals for the privileged of hunting them down for sport. Miraculously, this child had escaped.
They had pictures of Usama, numerous ones from witnesses’ memories; unfortunately, the faces were either never the same, or they were of people who couldn’t possibly have committed the crime - a guardian, a close relative, or even in two cases, a parent.
It was assumed that Polyjuice Potion was involved, at first. The methods and mannerisms of the kidnapper were similar for each case, but there were just too many untraceable people involved - faces nobody could place or identify.
Usama became more and more infamous the harder he was to trace, and the Auror Department grew more and more frustrated and frantic as children continued to go missing.
It had been Potter who had eventually twigged to what was really happening.
Draco growled in frustration. He understood what this meant to Potter, not just as Head Auror, and he wasn’t alone, either. After seeing photo evidence of the condition the two bodies that were recovered were in, Draco would have happily removed the man's head from the rest of his body himself. But after the readings he just took, Potter wasn't going to last long enough for the Wizengamot to convene. Most of them were what you would call aged, and some of them were positively doddering about with one foot in the grave. Who knew how long it would take them to assemble at this time of night when most of them would be safely tucked up at home in their flannelette jahmies cradling mugs of Horlicks.
“The wound is aggressive, Potter." Draco countered, irritable with worry. “The flesh around the point of contact is already festering with dark magic." He snaked an arm around Potter and eased him up gently, supporting most of Potter's weight as he hissed painfully. “You can't give evidence if you're dead."
“I'll last," he said as Draco slowly walked him around the desk. “You can keep me on my feet until I’ve testified."
“I’m not a Healer, Potter. You need someone better."
Potter huffed sharply, trying to catch his breath. “I trust you."
Draco might have felt a tingle of pleasure at Harry's words, but he was too concerned about him for it to properly register. Moving him was obviously causing him a lot of pain, but he couldn't have stayed in the chair for much longer, either. “I can't believe I'm going to say this, but you overestimate my abilities, Potter."
“I know what you can do..."
“It's what I can't do that's the issue here!" Draco hadn't meant to snap, but really, Potter had no idea about Draco's limitations. He set Potter down on the scruffy old couch he kept in his office to sleep on during difficult cases. He had no doubt Usama himself had been responsible for many a night the Auror spent here.
Kneeling down, he slipped Potter's robes, and the severed remains of his shirt, off his shoulders without jostling him overly, and then helped him lay back before summoning his bag. The stabilising spells ensured it remained upright as it sped across the room, and the handle glided smoothly into his hand. He set it on the scratched and ring-marked coffee table next to him and fished out a vial of milky fluid containing much needed relief for his pain-racked patient. There were more suitable painkillers for the job, but Medics were not licensed to carry anything above level two opiates, whose effects, though strong, were quickly overridden by the presence of persistent, severe pain. Which was just another reason why Potter should be at St. Mungo's already.
Once he had located a syringe, he pierced the needle through the protective shield on the vial and drew out the liquid. Harry shot him a wary glance. His eyes were creased and his teeth gritted firmly against the pain, and Draco sighed. “It won't put you to sleep, it's for the pain. You might feel a bit drowsy, but it wont be strong enough to knock you - of all people - out."
Potter breathed out heavily and nodded, and Draco cast the tourniquet charm on his upper arm, and then quickly applied a local disinfectant charm. He traced his fingers along the inside of the elbow, feeling for a vein, and as soon as it was pumped up enough, he pierced the skin. Harry hissed and winced, looking away as the needle slid in. Draco was surprised he even felt it considering the pain that must be radiating from the curse.
“It's not that bad. Don't be such a baby." Draco said, drawing back the plunger and some of Harry's blood with it.
“And you would know, being on the blunt end," Potter drawled.
Draco eased the fluid into Harry, releasing the tourniquet charm with a murmur so the drug could circulate. When he had drained the syringe, he placed a temporary pressure charm over the point of entry and withdrew the needle.
“Mmmm … ohhhh, that's good," Harry slurred, body relaxing as the full effects hit him.
“It might make you feel better, but it doesn't actually help in any way," Draco admonished, disposing of the empty vial and syringe.
Harry rolled his head languidly on the arm of the couch, meeting Draco's gaze with glazed eyes and a small smile tugging at his lips. “Ohhh, it helps." His eyelids blinked in slow motion as he stared at Draco, frowning thoughtfully. “Did you know ... you're all bright and shiny and white, kinda like an angel…"
Draco raised a brow in amusement. “Feeling good, are we?"
“Mmmm," he grinned, his voice sinful as he closed his eyes. “I said you could do it. You have the Healing touch, Malfoy."
“Don't count your chickens, Potter. And I haven't actually done anything yet." Draco said quietly. “I have no idea how to treat your wound, and without knowing the incantation I can't lift the curse - or even slow it. The painkiller is no where near strong enough, and will be swamped before you know it; and likely, after I've done what little I can, you may still not be able to stand on your own two feet."
It was a wonder how Potter could think he was equipped to deal with this. Yes, sometimes Draco had had to perform some pretty fancy spell-work (because Potter was a stubborn bastard who detested losing time waiting around at St. Mungo's), but this was different. Curses like this needed hospitalisation, or you died.
Draco swallowed down his nerves and turned back to the wound.
He wanted to just refuse. Or sneakily inject Potter with an anaesthetic so that he was unconscious before he could even realise what was going on. But in reality, he knew that Potter would never forgive him if he did. More importantly - he would never trust him again, and Draco wanted his trust. Now that he finally had it.
He steeled himself to remove the remains of fabric still melted to the wound, disinfecting it first and cringing slightly; the acidic sting on that damaged flesh had to be agonising, and when Harry growled, Draco muttered a muted apology. He reached forward and gingerly began separating the remaining scrap of fabric from the now oozing flesh.
Potter gasped and panted as his stomach flinched, and it made Draco faintly nauseous, knowing he was inflicting the pain. To cover his discomfort, Draco muttered that it was Potter's own fault for not going straight to St. Mungo's when strongly advised to do so. By the time he managed to work it free, Potter was trembling. And then so was Draco, when the wound was finally fully exposed and he could see the messy hole in Potter's stomach.
The skin around it was mottled and burnt, some parts black and crusty, others glistening with sticky dark magic residue; and as Draco forced himself to lean closer to inspect it, it sent a chill straight up his spine. Past the jagged meat and membrane the hole was disturbingly deep.
Draco wiped at his mouth with the back of his shaky hand. He was in way over his head on this one, and his Medic brain screamed at him to ignore Harry's request and just put him under so he could ship him off to hospital without further ado. Harry was wrong about him; he couldn't handle something like this. This is why he had quit Healer training. The theory he'd had no trouble with at all; in fact, he'd excelled at it - studying well beyond the first year’s required curriculum. It wasn't until he had been faced with his first lot of cadavers, laid out in various states of dissection, that he had hit a wall. Up until then he had only had to deal with relatively minor wounds, but being presented with the putrid gore of mutilated, cold and clammy dead bodies had sent him careening for the bathroom with a fistful of his own puke.
No matter how many times he went back and tried to perform the necessary autopsy work, he ended up spending 90% of the class in the toilets. Even when he made sure not to eat beforehand, all he could do was dry heave until he ached.
Head Healers Purcell, had tentatively suggested that he might be overly sensitive to the presence of a corpse, given his past, and not wanting to dismiss his outstanding results in other areas, he had been willing to overlook completion of that particular unit in favour of moving on to real life actual patients. It had gone swimmingly, until one day, about three months into his PRAC he was called in to assist in an emergency. Apparently, a potions lab had exploded, and more than a dozen people were being brought in. It was all hands on deck, and Draco was keen to help.
The first two patients were dead on arrival, and Draco had backed away from them, shaken; phantoms of the past, images of dead muggles, flashed before him. Moments later he was flooded with a deluge of distraught relatives and it was as if someone had pulled a plug somewhere on his person and every bit of strength he possessed had just drained out of him. He was left a sweating, quaking mess, struggling to hold his composure under the onslaught.
He had somehow stumbled through the rest of the afternoon, assisting with some of the remaining emergency patients who typically had horrific burns, and the odd missing limb, but he had been a fraction of the use he should have been. He had managed to prevent a major disaster when one of the other trainees had mistakenly retrieved the wrong intravenous injection that would have killed the woman if Draco hadn't recognised the mistake and stopped him in time, but he had been unable to administer the correct medication himself because his hands had been shaking so much.
He had lost all confidence in his ability that night, coming away with the knowledge he wasn't cut from the same cloth as the other Healers, or even his fellow students. He had quit the next day. His disappointment and shame had been palpable, and he taken to consoling himself with large amounts of alcohol. It had been a month a later that Potter had turned up at his door. Even the bleary eyed, stubble ridden, crumpled mess that Draco presented hadn't deterred the newly appointed Head Auror from offering him a job, and though a surly Draco had tried to refuse, Potter wouldn't take no for an answer. Potter had been pushing Draco's limits ever since. He couldn't have known why Draco had failed at being a Healer though, and therefore had no idea just how wrong he was in entrusting Draco with something as important as this.
“I-I can't do this, Potter." Draco stuttered, staring at a freckle on the unmarred, healthy part of Potter's belly. “I could make it that much worse if I try. You need a hospital-“
“He's killing children, Malfoy."
Potter's sombre voice gave Draco pause.
Potter took his chance. “Usama is a metamorphmagus," he pressed, and as he leant up, his eyes squinted in pain. “He's … he's one slippery bastard, and if he gets away this time, we may never catch him again."
Draco was shaking his head. “They can hold him until you can testify. For dark curses like this it's only a couple of days healing in a magical coma, another twelve hours for obs, and you’d be out."
“We can't legally hold him for longer than twenty-four hours, Malfoy." He let out a jagged breath. “The DMLE will be forced to release him without my testimony. We both know he'll disappear the minute he's set free..." His arm came out and his hand wrapped around Draco's wrist, squeezing it meaningfully. “We can't let that happen. He needs to be kept under guard so we can interrogate him and find the other kids. Before it's too late. If his accomplices get wind of his arrest..."
And that was the clincher. Draco knew exactly what would happen to those kids if the bastards holding them started panicking. But...
His jaw clenched, his teeth mashing together. “You could die..."
“Better me than another child," Potter said bluntly. His head fell back, not having the strength to hold it up any longer, but his hand slipped down to squeeze Draco's hand, making Draco meet his gaze. “Anyway, I'm not going to die. You'll get me through this."
Draco stared a Potter a moment. There was a plea in the glassy stare that met his gaze and Draco realised that he wasn't going to say no; he was going to everything he could to halt the spread of the curse eating through Potter, and he was going to get him on his feet and keep him there until the Auror had done what he had to. This was Harry Potter, and there wasn't really a choice.
*
Leaning against the wall, Draco watched intently from just inside the doorway as Potter stood in front of the assembled crowd. He had held up through his account of the night’s proceedings, and was currently being questioned further as the legal department gave statements and recommendations. A light sheen had broken out on his upper lip and across his brow, and it hadn't escaped Draco's notice that Potter was slightly hunched over as well. His skin was definitely paler than it had been when they'd first entered, and it was clear it was taking everything Potter had just to keep standing.
The painkiller would be wearing off rapidly under the pressure, and as Draco watched, a tremor began to develop in Potter's hand. He looked ready to fall over, and Draco was chomping at the bit to get to him before he dropped. In the meantime, the decrepit old members of the Wizengamot kept raising wobbly hands of their own trying to clarify this point or that. They couldn't seem to resist exchanging pleasantries with one another when they caught a fellow member’s eye, either, drawing out the proceedings even more. One gent had a hacking cough that kept disrupting the proceedings, and Draco had been certain at one point that he was breathing his last; but all of the noise hadn't been enough to stir the little old dear in the third row who had dropped off and was snoring lightly.
When Potter suddenly swayed dangerously, Draco thought ‘to hell with it’ and stalked over to him, plunging the hearing into silence as he placed steadying hands on the Aurors shoulders. If he wasn't mistaken, there was a slow blooming patch of red on the new scarlet robes Potter wore, right where the bandages covered the wound. Draco turned to the Minister.
“Auror Potter sustained an injury during the apprehension of the suspect," he explained. A murmur went through the crowd and Potter's Auror team looked equally stunned and concerned as he continued. “You have his testimony. He must be allowed to leave for St. Mungo's immediately."
Potter protested, frowning in obvious concentration as beads of sweat trickled down the side of his face, insisting he stay until they had ruled on a decision. Although Draco was tempted to drag him out of there in front of the Minister himself, he knew Potter would fight him the whole way, so he stood at Potter's shoulder and waited.
There was much deliberation in the Wizengamot as they discussed the case, and Draco was almost ready to strangle someone, when suddenly Potter swayed forward heavily again. The action caught pretty much everyone's attention in the chamber. Hooley and Fotheringham rushed forward to help hold him up as a sudden, urgent muttering swept through the crowd. Many heads nodded quickly and a delegate finally stood up to address the Minister.
“We of the 451st panel of the British Wizengamot, serving Minister Linklater, the Ministry of Magic, and the people it represents, do hereby acknowledge special circumstances are required in dealing with prisoner U887-6750H. Due to flight-risk, and the extent of his crimes, we hereby authorise said prisoner to be held in the highest level security block in Azkaban until such a time as a court date is set and Head Auror Potter is fit to give evidence."
“Panel adjourned!" The Minister announced with a smack of his gavel.
Potter turned to Draco, gave a small, satisfied smile, and collapsed.
“All right, Potter," Draco soothed, catching him. “You got him. It's done." Hooley and Fotheringham stepped back hastily as Draco pulled out the emergency portkey he usually carried in his Medic bag, and was swept away to St. Mungo's, clutching Potter’s body as tightly as he dared.
*
“... that way you can continue with your trainee-ship without changing your current circumstances. It would work rather well, I think."
Draco nodded in agreement with Healer Purcell, but retained his general air of non-committal. It wouldn't do to show how pleased he was at the man's offer of his old trainee-ship back. A murmur came from the hospital bed, and Draco crossed his arms over his chest, schooling his features in preparation.
“I'll leave you to it then, Medic Malfoy. By the way, that really was a very clever bit of spellwork." As Purcell wandered out of the room, Draco could hear him muttering, “Very clever, indeed, with quite fascinating results ..."
“Malfoy?" Potter opened his eyes, blinking at the sudden brightness, and Draco turned the lights down with a word. The Auror's eyes sought and eventually landed on him, but Draco remained rigidly in place.
“If you ever delay reporting to me again when you're wounded, Potter, I swear, when you least expect it, I will remove one of your testicles." Potter's eyes went wide for a moment, before a smile crept across his lips.
“I was right to trust you," he said, ignoring the threat.
Now that there was no sense of impending doom to distract Draco, he felt the full impact of those words, and it sucked the indignation right out of his sails. He moved closer to the bed and leaned over Potter with the pretence of checking his temperature, placing his palm on the cool forehead.
Their faces were mere inches apart; Potter was staring at him openly, and somewhat nervously, when his tongue suddenly darted out to moisten his lips. Draco's eyes followed the movement before meeting Potter's gaze again.
“What if I was to tell you," Potter began, his voice somewhat croaky and subsequently coming out more as a whisper, his eyes wide and vulnerable, “that there is nothing I want more right now than for you to kiss me?"
“Then I'd say you are probably still delirious from the drugs." Draco closed the gap between them and took Potter's lips, gently. He felt somewhat overwhelmed by the man's proximity - his body-heat, his scent, the soft warm touch of his lips. He took the time to explore the sensation slowly, savouring the fact that Potter seemed in no hurry to part from him, either. When he did finally draw back, he kept his hand where it had ended up, on the pillow beside Potter's cheek, his thumb caressing the side of his face.
Draco couldn't help but feel mildly bereft at the loss of sensation; the touch, the click of moisture, the gentle puffs of breath, and the ultimately intimate nature of the moment. The strength of his feelings surprised him.
“It seems it might be in my best interest to let you hang on to both of your balls, after all."
Potter grinned widely.
Just then, Ron Weasley burst through the door, looking mildly panicked. “Harry!" He took in the scene before him and flicked his chin knowingly. “'Bout fucking time," he announced, hands on hips. “You two move slower than a pair of flobberworms."
They glanced at each other, bewildered.
“Anyway, good to see ya looking all right," he aimed at Potter, beginning to back out of the room. “Bloody good collar, mate. Wish I'd been there! Drinks tonight, if you’re up for it." He waggled his brows suggestively, “Nice one Malfoy," he said, flashing a look Draco's way before he turned and fled.
Draco frowned, nose wrinkling. “How is it possible the most oblivious man in the world knew about us before we did?"
the end
.