FIC: No Time Like Christmas [Harry/Draco - PG]
Title: No Time Like Christmas
Author: eidheann_writes
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco
Prompt: 104 (2013)
Word Count: ~3500
Rating: PG
Contains: Mentioned blood, but primarily large doses of holiday fluff.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Dear fantasyfiend09, I strayed a bit from the prompt specifics but I think I was true to the spirit. I hope you enjoy. ♥ Massive loves to C and S for cheerleading and beta reading-- as always, I am a continual poker, any mistakes are entirely my own.
Summary: How can you have a happy Christmas when you're stuck in St Mungo's?
Draco hates hospitals. It seems an odd thing, as he's nearly a decade out of Healer training and spends entirely too much of his waking time in St Mungo's, but something about them always sets his teeth on edge.
It isn't just St Mungo's, either. After the war, his mother had deemed it prudent to finish his schooling in France, so after finishing his NEWTS at Beauxbatons, he was accepted to Université de Médecine Magique in Paris.
He hates French hospitals, too. Maybe it's the antiseptic smell of the cleaning charms, or the bright lighting that leaves him stuck choosing between a headache or a pain potion after the first four hours. Or maybe it's that he just looks horrible in lime green.
What Draco doesn't hate, though he will threaten to Avada Kedavra anyone who mentions it, are the children. Oh, he says the part he likes the most is the challenge; being faced with the sheer variety of complications the little hellions can get themselves into, each day is something new, never boring, etc. But even if he does nothing but administer Pepper-Up (which always seems to happen the week before Christmas when the Hogwarts Express rumbles back into London bringing the plaguerats home to their families) he has a soft spot in his heart for the little buggers.
Which is why he's not too bothered when on Christmas Eve, he's still on the Pediatric Ward thirty minutes later than his planned shift lets out and he's free through Boxing Day. He isn't bothered when thirty stretches to forty stretches to almost an hour, and he's just getting to his office and peeling off the lime green robes, feeling the sudden rush of exhaustion from nearly thirteen hours rushing about with only a pair of tea breaks and a dreary cafeteria sandwich to keep him standing, when he hears the alert ringing through the halls with the hospital's modified Sonorus.
"All on-duty healers, please report to Spell Damage."
Pulling his robes back on, he mentally prepares a list of apologies to Harry. He knows it will do no good: had he left an hour ago at the end of his shift, he wouldn't still be here to hear that bint from reception put out the all-call he now has to answer. And Harry knows him well enough to know it, too. Buggery.
Jogging to the lifts, he exchanges a nod with Healer Abramson, who always reminds him of Professor McGonagall, were she cursed with Snape's nose, and who rules the second floor with a velvet glove barely covering the iron fist, and they wait impatiently for the doors to slide open. There is a ding and the doors open with a shiver and rattle, and both Healers rush inside and he presses the button marked Floor 4.
Spell Damage always tends towards the chaotic, but the rush and yelling that greets them when the doors open again is unusual for mid-evening on Christmas Eve. The prevalence of red robes in amidst the green causes his breath to catch and his stomach to sink rapidly. Aurors.
He is stepping forward to follow Abramson off the lift when the sight of hair, as red as the robes, causes him to stumble as the familiar feeling of panic rises within him.
"Weasley!" He credits their time at Hogwarts for knowing the exact tone to use to catch Weasley's attention, even across the frantically busy hospital ward. Sure enough Weasley turns, and the expression on his face, something between relief and dread, causes the nascent panic to take firmer root. Draco runs to him, experience lending the ability to dodge in and out of the rush without slowing or bashing into anyone, and takes stock automatically. The first thing he notices is the blood darkening Weasley's robes. It is concentrated on his right arm, but not linked to any major veins or arteries-- not his, then. Otherwise, there is a nasty cut above his left eyebrow that is already starting to clot, and something about the way Weasley is standing indicates there may be a cracked rib.
Draco doesn't care about any of that. "Where's Potter?" It's Potter now. Auror Potter and Healer Malfoy whenever one of them is on the job. One of the first agreements they made when they started this thing.
"Malfoy, calm down."
Those three words have the opposite effect, and Draco grabs Weasley by the robes. "Fuck calming down! Where the hell is your fucking partner?"
Weasley's glance behind him, further into the ward and into the tightest hub of activity, tells Draco all he needs to know, and he dashes past him.
It doesn't take long. The second knot of roiling lime green surrounds a gurney covered in red; so much red. Red robes, red blood, Harry. He feels the tingling in his extremities and greying of his vision that tells him he needs to do something before he loses consciousness at the sight, but Abramson, in the way she always seems to know everything, bellows, "Malfoy, get the fuck to the waiting room! You were off duty an hour ago!"
Then Smythe, his formerly-favorite orderly, has his arm in a surprisingly firm grip, and he is marched to the lift and gently shoved inside. Smythe gives a sympathetic smile. "Get some tea. I promise to come get you as soon as anything happens." Then he punches the 5, sending Draco up to the cafeteria to pretend St Mungo's overly-stewed tea is enough to distract him from what is going on below.
He really hates hospitals.
-:- -:-
It isn't Smythe who finds him later, hunched over his cold tea, but Granger. She plops down across from him, sliding over a large paper cup of that Muggle coffee that is mostly sugar and cream and chocolate and peppermint that Harry gets him addicted to every December, only to pine away when they stop making it after the New Year.
Part of him wants to thank her, but right now it just makes him remember the blood. He isn't usually squeamish; he thought he'd lost his aversion to blood and everything else in his first year training, but the sight of Harry pale and still, and with all the red, he can't even remember if they had cut his robes off yet.
"You need to drink that. It's hot and full of caffeine and sugar. You're going into shock."
"I think I'm the medical professional here, Granger." It still causes his shoulders to tighten in irritation when she goes all know-it-all on him. But the irritation allows him to push the image of Harry away and he takes a long sip, knowing she is right.
She just smiles blandly in reply, sipping from her own cup. "Ron floo'd me and told me what happened. And that he saw you being strong-armed off the ward."
"Smythe was my friend." And he knows he's whinging, but it's almost midnight, almost Christmas, and he is feeling too raw to care.
"It was a Diffindo." Her words are as calm as her presentations to the Wizengamot. "Bad that it seemed to hit an artery, but not anything I would imagine causing complications after the initial patch-up."
He gapes at her, his mind racing through potential outcomes. He is relieved to know something, anything, and the Harry in his head is no longer bleeding out as the Healers scramble about, attempting to locate a suitably esoteric countercurse to whatever hit Harry. He is bleeding, but the chaos surrounding him is controlled; pressure and bandaging and salves, then a Blood Replenishing potion and a few days observation, which is really just Healer-speak for "don't go off and do something stupid for at least a few days."
He takes the first real breath he thinks he's had in hours and smiles at Granger. "Well. I would like to state for the record that I've Christmas off, so my spending this one here is entirely his fault."
"Leave me out of your games; there are some things about your sex life no one needs to know."
-:- -:-
Ron joins them before Draco's coffee is half-gone. His robes are held over his arm, hiding the blood, and his white button-down is open at the neck and untucked. He busses Hermione on the cheek and slides another chair to the small table, the scrape echoing in the otherwise empty room. He looks as worn as Draco feels, and he steals Hermione's cup and takes a large gulp.
"All patched, then? How's the rib?"
"If I didn't know that you didn't care, I would point out what a shit thing it is that you knew I had a bruised rib and ignored me completely. But I'm inclined to grant you extenuating circumstances in this case."
"Appreciated, Weasley." Draco toasts him with his cup.
Hermione makes a low sound of disapproval and runs her hand along Weasley's side. "I'm fine, I'm fine." He grabs her hand and kisses it, smiling at her in that besotted way he has. "All patched up."
"I know. They wouldn't let you off the ward otherwise, but--"
"Healer!"
Draco looks up and sees Smythe standing at the lift, and he stands so quickly his chair tips over with a crash.
"Go."
Hermione's words barely register, and he hurries around the table and across to where Smythe is waiting. "He's stable?"
Smythe nods as the lift dings open. "Regained consciousness and is asking for you."
"Oh thank Merlin." He doesn't even mind the hand Smythe claps around his shoulder.
-:- -:-
He ignores Harry's hopeful face as he rushes into the small white room. He also ignores the relieved, "Draco!" and begins waving his wand in the standard set of scans he would use on any other patient. They've cleaned up the blood already, leaving Harry looking washed-out in the pale blue hospital robe. "Oy! Malfoy!"
He gives Harry a fierce frown, unwilling to give up the frustration that he feels is all that's keeping him standing. "What?"
"Good to see you, too."
"Yes, I'm so glad you're alive and not bleeding out in St Mungo's on Christmas Eve."
Harry winces, then his expression shifts; pathetic with big eyes. "Happy Christmas, Draco."
Draco sighs and gives up his scans; they're all showing what he'd expect anyway. He slumps down on the bed beside Harry, running his fingers through the tangled mess of black hair. "Happy Christmas. Why the hell do you want to spend the holiday in St Mungo's anyway?"
"They won't let me go home tonight under Healer supervision?" Harry fidgets with the sheet, his expression hopeful.
Draco wrinkles his nose, grabbing Harry's hand. "I'm not allowed to be your healer. Conflict of interest, remember? Don't trust us not to shag ourselves silly."
Harry lets out an amused bark of a laugh. "Shag? There's no privacy in these rooms."
Draco returns Harry's grin, feeling the last of the stress beginning to fall away. "All the more reason to not send you home with me. Besides, it wouldn't be the first time someone was caught shagging in the rooms."
Harry's eyebrows shoot up and his smile grows. "Oh? Do tell?"
"Not allowed." Draco smirks, squeezing Harry's fingers just to feel the return gesture. "Though I will say the threesome was most unexpected."
There is a quiet knock on the door and Draco cranes around to look, unwilling to move or release Harry's hand. Hermione's bushy head pokes through, and she smiles, stepping into the room with Ron following.
"Hello, Harry."
"Hey, mate."
"Hello!" Harry returns the hand squeeze and arm slap of greeting while Draco pretends he simply doesn't wish to move from where he's seated on Harry's bed, and the other three pretend they don't realize he's just too exhausted to do so. "Sorry to ruin your evening, it must be late."
"Well, most of the pubs closed a couple hours ago, and I suppose it's technically Christmas…"
Hermione silences Ron's teasing with a well-aimed elbow. "Happy Christmas, Harry. I received a memo just before Ron floo'd me that Marcus had been apprehended and was spending his holiday in a holding cell."
"This is her 'wait on backup' speech, again." Ron gives Harry a completely unsympathetic glance that Draco can't fault him for. He's often fought with Harry over his continuing habit of jumping into things without a plan or exit strategy, and he wishes Hermione better luck.
Draco gives up any pretense of appearing to follow the conversation, instead turning his focus back to Harry. He watches as his expression goes from a grimace to the stubborn jawset he's so familiar with, then to sheepish schoolboy, which hasn't worked on Draco for years, but Hermione still seems occasionally to be caught by. All the while, Hermione's soft voice rises and falls in soothing cadence.
-:- -:-
Draco wakes in the dim light of a St Mungo's room, dim in the way the charmed windows always seem to accurately capture the earliest early morning hours, and it is a moment before the evening catches up with him. Then he remembers: working late, the all-call, Harry. That sends a jolt of adrenaline through him and he sits up, looking around frantically before realizing the warmth and steady movement beside him is Harry, asleep and breathing under the blanket Draco's still on top of.
He realizes he must have nodded off while Ron and Hermione were here speaking to Harry. Normally, that would bother him, but he knows the feeling of less than three hours sleep and exhaustion continues to pull at him. Giving it up for lost, he stands just long enough to strip off his robes and shoes, then pull back the blanket to curl in behind Harry. He'll deal with tomorrow later.
-:- -:-
He awakens to the feeling of something tickling his nose. He swats at it, clenching his eyes tightly against the light outside them. When it happens again, he groans, rolling over and pulling the pillow over his head. The feeling against his face is stiff cotton over stiffer mattress, and he recognizes the familiar antiseptic smell of St Mungo's cleaning charms; the smell of hospital making sleep all the more tempting.
The tickling moves to the fine hair on his neck, and he swats blindly again mumbling, "If you don't stop that, Potter, I'm going to hex your hand off entirely."
"Oooo, he's feisty this morning." Harry's amused tone is familiar, though the quiet feminine giggle that follows is not.
Draco pushes the pillow off his head and looks around, blinking blearily in the brightness filling the room. He sees the pale violet of the Mediwitch robes, and chucks the pillow at it. "Sod off, he's fine."
He ignores the shocked, "Healer!" and flops back down, half-crawling until he's got his head buried again, this time under Harry's pillow.
"That's mine, you bastard." Harry's voice has mellowed, fondness weaving in amidst the amusement obvious in spite of the words used. "Never get him up now. He'll use a Sticking Charm to stay under there, just for sheer spite." Harry's hand returns, this time rubbing softly along his back, and Draco snuggles in closer, the same arm he'd been swatting at Harry with earlier now moving to wrap around him, almost clinging. He's vaguely aware of the Mediwitch still in the room, and of the battery of spells she performs, but Harry's pillow smells like him, even underneath. He holds tight, eyes closed, and breathes.
-:- -:-
It's the smell of bacon that finally pulls him out from under the pillow. Harry is grinning, attempting to hide the expression behind the bacon and the chewing, but failing utterly. He looks damnably chipper for being in a narrow hospital bed on Christmas day, instead of in their bed, or on the overstuffed couch in the library, wrapped in fluffy blankets and watching the fire.
"What are you so happy about?" Draco knows he sounds surly, his words clipped like they were back in Hogwarts. He also knows that nothing is more likely to get Harry's temper up, but at this moment he's too worn to care. He's been in this hospital for something approaching 24 hours, and it's Christmas.
Harry just continues to grin. "Oh I dunno, not too bad a day so far. Sleep in, even if someone did steal my pillow, breakfast in bed, your smiling face. What's wrong with it?"
"How about being at my fucking job that I spent all last week doing overtime to be able to have the fucking day off because you threw yourself into a bloody Diffindo? And it's Christmas? Ring any bells?"
"Yes. Happy Christmas, Draco." Draco can never stand that thing Harry does when he just ignores the bluster and attempts to bypass Draco's anger, and he's just winding up to tell him so when Harry leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before pulling back and stuffing a slice of bacon in Draco's mouth. "Bacon's good this morning. Must have Plinket in the kitchen today."
Draco chews, allowing the grease and salt to delay the yelling he's planning on doing. Harry's right; the bacon is good, tasting exactly like the bacon served every morning at Hogwarts. Plinket spent nearly forty years at Hogwarts before retiring to the relatively slower pace of St Mungo's, so Harry is likely correct about that, as well.
He takes another slice, eyeing Harry as he piles bacon and egg on a slice of buttered toast before shoving the entire thing in his mouth. Once Harry's mouth is overfull, he strikes. "So what could be so important as to send you into a situation without backup?"
"Mmm mmm mmff mm." Harry makes big innocent eyes at Draco, pointing at his exaggerated chewing.
"Yes, yes. You've more manners than Ron Weasley. But isn't it funny, backup was close enough that the villain in question was apprehended and you were brought to hospital before bleeding out from an artery strike? Almost as if you'd waited, oh, one minute maybe, we'd both be sitting in our kitchen right now."
Harry gives a large swallow. "But then we wouldn't have Plinket's bacon." He leans forward again, giving Draco a messy kiss on the cheek, leaving the feeling of crumbs and grease lingering there. "Don't worry, I asked Ron and Hermione to stop by and bring our presents before they go to the Burrow."
Draco nibbles his bacon. "Presents?"
"They'll be here at nine when visiting hours open."
-:- -:-
They aren't there at nine, instead rushing in a few minutes after with a bag full of shrunken boxes and smelling faintly of smoke.
Hermione dumps the pile on the bed. "Happy Christmas! Happy Christmas! Can't stay or Molly will have our heads. Need anything?"
Harry cuts in before Draco can think of something, just for the pleasure of making them run even later. "No, we're good! Happy Christmas!"
"We'll be by this evening, mate. Bring you some pie."
"Thanks Ron. Bye!"
The door closes with a bang. "Well. That was rather abrupt."
"Oh be nice. They brought us presents, didn't they?"
"And forgot to take theirs out of the pile…" Draco holds up a miniature box wrapped in Cannons-orange paper. "I hope they didn't smell like smoke because they burned our flat down."
Harry snickers. "That was the smell of Hermione's cookies. I recognized the combination of flaked coconut and forgotten oven timer."
Draco laughs as well, digging out his wand and resizing all the boxes. "Merlin, I'll always remember when Lovegood brought Scamander to dinner the first time, and she tried to do that tofu stir fry thing and set the stove on fire."
"Mmm, good thing everyone likes that Indian takeaway on the corner."
"A miracle Scamander came back for another dinner."
They share a grin before diving into the boxes. Soon the room is filled with scraps of paper, and a pile of open boxes totters precariously at the side of the bed. Draco is congratulating himself on his haul when Harry clears his throat, holding something out to him. It is a box; flat and about the size of his hand, simply wrapped in matte silver paper.
"What's this?"
"You missed one, you berk."
Draco frowns, certain the only way he could have missed it was if Harry had hidden it for some reason, but he rips the paper off, anyway. Inside is a plain white box, which he opens to reveal a silver pocket watch.
He lifts the watch from the matting, examining the engraving until an inscription catches his eye:For Draco, for all time
He blinks up at Harry, knowing his confusion is written on his face. "What's this?"
Redness is climbing Harry's neck, reaching across his ears and cheeks but his voice is steady. "You're a Healer, and I know you can't wear a ring." He smiles at Draco's gobsmacked expression. "Marry me."
"You fucking wanker." And the last thing he says before throwing himself across the pile of forgotten presents and snogging Harry silly is, "Yes."
Author: eidheann_writes
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco
Prompt: 104 (2013)
Word Count: ~3500
Rating: PG
Contains: Mentioned blood, but primarily large doses of holiday fluff.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Dear fantasyfiend09, I strayed a bit from the prompt specifics but I think I was true to the spirit. I hope you enjoy. ♥ Massive loves to C and S for cheerleading and beta reading-- as always, I am a continual poker, any mistakes are entirely my own.
Summary: How can you have a happy Christmas when you're stuck in St Mungo's?
Draco hates hospitals. It seems an odd thing, as he's nearly a decade out of Healer training and spends entirely too much of his waking time in St Mungo's, but something about them always sets his teeth on edge.
It isn't just St Mungo's, either. After the war, his mother had deemed it prudent to finish his schooling in France, so after finishing his NEWTS at Beauxbatons, he was accepted to Université de Médecine Magique in Paris.
He hates French hospitals, too. Maybe it's the antiseptic smell of the cleaning charms, or the bright lighting that leaves him stuck choosing between a headache or a pain potion after the first four hours. Or maybe it's that he just looks horrible in lime green.
What Draco doesn't hate, though he will threaten to Avada Kedavra anyone who mentions it, are the children. Oh, he says the part he likes the most is the challenge; being faced with the sheer variety of complications the little hellions can get themselves into, each day is something new, never boring, etc. But even if he does nothing but administer Pepper-Up (which always seems to happen the week before Christmas when the Hogwarts Express rumbles back into London bringing the plaguerats home to their families) he has a soft spot in his heart for the little buggers.
Which is why he's not too bothered when on Christmas Eve, he's still on the Pediatric Ward thirty minutes later than his planned shift lets out and he's free through Boxing Day. He isn't bothered when thirty stretches to forty stretches to almost an hour, and he's just getting to his office and peeling off the lime green robes, feeling the sudden rush of exhaustion from nearly thirteen hours rushing about with only a pair of tea breaks and a dreary cafeteria sandwich to keep him standing, when he hears the alert ringing through the halls with the hospital's modified Sonorus.
"All on-duty healers, please report to Spell Damage."
Pulling his robes back on, he mentally prepares a list of apologies to Harry. He knows it will do no good: had he left an hour ago at the end of his shift, he wouldn't still be here to hear that bint from reception put out the all-call he now has to answer. And Harry knows him well enough to know it, too. Buggery.
Jogging to the lifts, he exchanges a nod with Healer Abramson, who always reminds him of Professor McGonagall, were she cursed with Snape's nose, and who rules the second floor with a velvet glove barely covering the iron fist, and they wait impatiently for the doors to slide open. There is a ding and the doors open with a shiver and rattle, and both Healers rush inside and he presses the button marked Floor 4.
Spell Damage always tends towards the chaotic, but the rush and yelling that greets them when the doors open again is unusual for mid-evening on Christmas Eve. The prevalence of red robes in amidst the green causes his breath to catch and his stomach to sink rapidly. Aurors.
He is stepping forward to follow Abramson off the lift when the sight of hair, as red as the robes, causes him to stumble as the familiar feeling of panic rises within him.
"Weasley!" He credits their time at Hogwarts for knowing the exact tone to use to catch Weasley's attention, even across the frantically busy hospital ward. Sure enough Weasley turns, and the expression on his face, something between relief and dread, causes the nascent panic to take firmer root. Draco runs to him, experience lending the ability to dodge in and out of the rush without slowing or bashing into anyone, and takes stock automatically. The first thing he notices is the blood darkening Weasley's robes. It is concentrated on his right arm, but not linked to any major veins or arteries-- not his, then. Otherwise, there is a nasty cut above his left eyebrow that is already starting to clot, and something about the way Weasley is standing indicates there may be a cracked rib.
Draco doesn't care about any of that. "Where's Potter?" It's Potter now. Auror Potter and Healer Malfoy whenever one of them is on the job. One of the first agreements they made when they started this thing.
"Malfoy, calm down."
Those three words have the opposite effect, and Draco grabs Weasley by the robes. "Fuck calming down! Where the hell is your fucking partner?"
Weasley's glance behind him, further into the ward and into the tightest hub of activity, tells Draco all he needs to know, and he dashes past him.
It doesn't take long. The second knot of roiling lime green surrounds a gurney covered in red; so much red. Red robes, red blood, Harry. He feels the tingling in his extremities and greying of his vision that tells him he needs to do something before he loses consciousness at the sight, but Abramson, in the way she always seems to know everything, bellows, "Malfoy, get the fuck to the waiting room! You were off duty an hour ago!"
Then Smythe, his formerly-favorite orderly, has his arm in a surprisingly firm grip, and he is marched to the lift and gently shoved inside. Smythe gives a sympathetic smile. "Get some tea. I promise to come get you as soon as anything happens." Then he punches the 5, sending Draco up to the cafeteria to pretend St Mungo's overly-stewed tea is enough to distract him from what is going on below.
He really hates hospitals.
-:- -:-
It isn't Smythe who finds him later, hunched over his cold tea, but Granger. She plops down across from him, sliding over a large paper cup of that Muggle coffee that is mostly sugar and cream and chocolate and peppermint that Harry gets him addicted to every December, only to pine away when they stop making it after the New Year.
Part of him wants to thank her, but right now it just makes him remember the blood. He isn't usually squeamish; he thought he'd lost his aversion to blood and everything else in his first year training, but the sight of Harry pale and still, and with all the red, he can't even remember if they had cut his robes off yet.
"You need to drink that. It's hot and full of caffeine and sugar. You're going into shock."
"I think I'm the medical professional here, Granger." It still causes his shoulders to tighten in irritation when she goes all know-it-all on him. But the irritation allows him to push the image of Harry away and he takes a long sip, knowing she is right.
She just smiles blandly in reply, sipping from her own cup. "Ron floo'd me and told me what happened. And that he saw you being strong-armed off the ward."
"Smythe was my friend." And he knows he's whinging, but it's almost midnight, almost Christmas, and he is feeling too raw to care.
"It was a Diffindo." Her words are as calm as her presentations to the Wizengamot. "Bad that it seemed to hit an artery, but not anything I would imagine causing complications after the initial patch-up."
He gapes at her, his mind racing through potential outcomes. He is relieved to know something, anything, and the Harry in his head is no longer bleeding out as the Healers scramble about, attempting to locate a suitably esoteric countercurse to whatever hit Harry. He is bleeding, but the chaos surrounding him is controlled; pressure and bandaging and salves, then a Blood Replenishing potion and a few days observation, which is really just Healer-speak for "don't go off and do something stupid for at least a few days."
He takes the first real breath he thinks he's had in hours and smiles at Granger. "Well. I would like to state for the record that I've Christmas off, so my spending this one here is entirely his fault."
"Leave me out of your games; there are some things about your sex life no one needs to know."
-:- -:-
Ron joins them before Draco's coffee is half-gone. His robes are held over his arm, hiding the blood, and his white button-down is open at the neck and untucked. He busses Hermione on the cheek and slides another chair to the small table, the scrape echoing in the otherwise empty room. He looks as worn as Draco feels, and he steals Hermione's cup and takes a large gulp.
"All patched, then? How's the rib?"
"If I didn't know that you didn't care, I would point out what a shit thing it is that you knew I had a bruised rib and ignored me completely. But I'm inclined to grant you extenuating circumstances in this case."
"Appreciated, Weasley." Draco toasts him with his cup.
Hermione makes a low sound of disapproval and runs her hand along Weasley's side. "I'm fine, I'm fine." He grabs her hand and kisses it, smiling at her in that besotted way he has. "All patched up."
"I know. They wouldn't let you off the ward otherwise, but--"
"Healer!"
Draco looks up and sees Smythe standing at the lift, and he stands so quickly his chair tips over with a crash.
"Go."
Hermione's words barely register, and he hurries around the table and across to where Smythe is waiting. "He's stable?"
Smythe nods as the lift dings open. "Regained consciousness and is asking for you."
"Oh thank Merlin." He doesn't even mind the hand Smythe claps around his shoulder.
-:- -:-
He ignores Harry's hopeful face as he rushes into the small white room. He also ignores the relieved, "Draco!" and begins waving his wand in the standard set of scans he would use on any other patient. They've cleaned up the blood already, leaving Harry looking washed-out in the pale blue hospital robe. "Oy! Malfoy!"
He gives Harry a fierce frown, unwilling to give up the frustration that he feels is all that's keeping him standing. "What?"
"Good to see you, too."
"Yes, I'm so glad you're alive and not bleeding out in St Mungo's on Christmas Eve."
Harry winces, then his expression shifts; pathetic with big eyes. "Happy Christmas, Draco."
Draco sighs and gives up his scans; they're all showing what he'd expect anyway. He slumps down on the bed beside Harry, running his fingers through the tangled mess of black hair. "Happy Christmas. Why the hell do you want to spend the holiday in St Mungo's anyway?"
"They won't let me go home tonight under Healer supervision?" Harry fidgets with the sheet, his expression hopeful.
Draco wrinkles his nose, grabbing Harry's hand. "I'm not allowed to be your healer. Conflict of interest, remember? Don't trust us not to shag ourselves silly."
Harry lets out an amused bark of a laugh. "Shag? There's no privacy in these rooms."
Draco returns Harry's grin, feeling the last of the stress beginning to fall away. "All the more reason to not send you home with me. Besides, it wouldn't be the first time someone was caught shagging in the rooms."
Harry's eyebrows shoot up and his smile grows. "Oh? Do tell?"
"Not allowed." Draco smirks, squeezing Harry's fingers just to feel the return gesture. "Though I will say the threesome was most unexpected."
There is a quiet knock on the door and Draco cranes around to look, unwilling to move or release Harry's hand. Hermione's bushy head pokes through, and she smiles, stepping into the room with Ron following.
"Hello, Harry."
"Hey, mate."
"Hello!" Harry returns the hand squeeze and arm slap of greeting while Draco pretends he simply doesn't wish to move from where he's seated on Harry's bed, and the other three pretend they don't realize he's just too exhausted to do so. "Sorry to ruin your evening, it must be late."
"Well, most of the pubs closed a couple hours ago, and I suppose it's technically Christmas…"
Hermione silences Ron's teasing with a well-aimed elbow. "Happy Christmas, Harry. I received a memo just before Ron floo'd me that Marcus had been apprehended and was spending his holiday in a holding cell."
"This is her 'wait on backup' speech, again." Ron gives Harry a completely unsympathetic glance that Draco can't fault him for. He's often fought with Harry over his continuing habit of jumping into things without a plan or exit strategy, and he wishes Hermione better luck.
Draco gives up any pretense of appearing to follow the conversation, instead turning his focus back to Harry. He watches as his expression goes from a grimace to the stubborn jawset he's so familiar with, then to sheepish schoolboy, which hasn't worked on Draco for years, but Hermione still seems occasionally to be caught by. All the while, Hermione's soft voice rises and falls in soothing cadence.
-:- -:-
Draco wakes in the dim light of a St Mungo's room, dim in the way the charmed windows always seem to accurately capture the earliest early morning hours, and it is a moment before the evening catches up with him. Then he remembers: working late, the all-call, Harry. That sends a jolt of adrenaline through him and he sits up, looking around frantically before realizing the warmth and steady movement beside him is Harry, asleep and breathing under the blanket Draco's still on top of.
He realizes he must have nodded off while Ron and Hermione were here speaking to Harry. Normally, that would bother him, but he knows the feeling of less than three hours sleep and exhaustion continues to pull at him. Giving it up for lost, he stands just long enough to strip off his robes and shoes, then pull back the blanket to curl in behind Harry. He'll deal with tomorrow later.
-:- -:-
He awakens to the feeling of something tickling his nose. He swats at it, clenching his eyes tightly against the light outside them. When it happens again, he groans, rolling over and pulling the pillow over his head. The feeling against his face is stiff cotton over stiffer mattress, and he recognizes the familiar antiseptic smell of St Mungo's cleaning charms; the smell of hospital making sleep all the more tempting.
The tickling moves to the fine hair on his neck, and he swats blindly again mumbling, "If you don't stop that, Potter, I'm going to hex your hand off entirely."
"Oooo, he's feisty this morning." Harry's amused tone is familiar, though the quiet feminine giggle that follows is not.
Draco pushes the pillow off his head and looks around, blinking blearily in the brightness filling the room. He sees the pale violet of the Mediwitch robes, and chucks the pillow at it. "Sod off, he's fine."
He ignores the shocked, "Healer!" and flops back down, half-crawling until he's got his head buried again, this time under Harry's pillow.
"That's mine, you bastard." Harry's voice has mellowed, fondness weaving in amidst the amusement obvious in spite of the words used. "Never get him up now. He'll use a Sticking Charm to stay under there, just for sheer spite." Harry's hand returns, this time rubbing softly along his back, and Draco snuggles in closer, the same arm he'd been swatting at Harry with earlier now moving to wrap around him, almost clinging. He's vaguely aware of the Mediwitch still in the room, and of the battery of spells she performs, but Harry's pillow smells like him, even underneath. He holds tight, eyes closed, and breathes.
-:- -:-
It's the smell of bacon that finally pulls him out from under the pillow. Harry is grinning, attempting to hide the expression behind the bacon and the chewing, but failing utterly. He looks damnably chipper for being in a narrow hospital bed on Christmas day, instead of in their bed, or on the overstuffed couch in the library, wrapped in fluffy blankets and watching the fire.
"What are you so happy about?" Draco knows he sounds surly, his words clipped like they were back in Hogwarts. He also knows that nothing is more likely to get Harry's temper up, but at this moment he's too worn to care. He's been in this hospital for something approaching 24 hours, and it's Christmas.
Harry just continues to grin. "Oh I dunno, not too bad a day so far. Sleep in, even if someone did steal my pillow, breakfast in bed, your smiling face. What's wrong with it?"
"How about being at my fucking job that I spent all last week doing overtime to be able to have the fucking day off because you threw yourself into a bloody Diffindo? And it's Christmas? Ring any bells?"
"Yes. Happy Christmas, Draco." Draco can never stand that thing Harry does when he just ignores the bluster and attempts to bypass Draco's anger, and he's just winding up to tell him so when Harry leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before pulling back and stuffing a slice of bacon in Draco's mouth. "Bacon's good this morning. Must have Plinket in the kitchen today."
Draco chews, allowing the grease and salt to delay the yelling he's planning on doing. Harry's right; the bacon is good, tasting exactly like the bacon served every morning at Hogwarts. Plinket spent nearly forty years at Hogwarts before retiring to the relatively slower pace of St Mungo's, so Harry is likely correct about that, as well.
He takes another slice, eyeing Harry as he piles bacon and egg on a slice of buttered toast before shoving the entire thing in his mouth. Once Harry's mouth is overfull, he strikes. "So what could be so important as to send you into a situation without backup?"
"Mmm mmm mmff mm." Harry makes big innocent eyes at Draco, pointing at his exaggerated chewing.
"Yes, yes. You've more manners than Ron Weasley. But isn't it funny, backup was close enough that the villain in question was apprehended and you were brought to hospital before bleeding out from an artery strike? Almost as if you'd waited, oh, one minute maybe, we'd both be sitting in our kitchen right now."
Harry gives a large swallow. "But then we wouldn't have Plinket's bacon." He leans forward again, giving Draco a messy kiss on the cheek, leaving the feeling of crumbs and grease lingering there. "Don't worry, I asked Ron and Hermione to stop by and bring our presents before they go to the Burrow."
Draco nibbles his bacon. "Presents?"
"They'll be here at nine when visiting hours open."
-:- -:-
They aren't there at nine, instead rushing in a few minutes after with a bag full of shrunken boxes and smelling faintly of smoke.
Hermione dumps the pile on the bed. "Happy Christmas! Happy Christmas! Can't stay or Molly will have our heads. Need anything?"
Harry cuts in before Draco can think of something, just for the pleasure of making them run even later. "No, we're good! Happy Christmas!"
"We'll be by this evening, mate. Bring you some pie."
"Thanks Ron. Bye!"
The door closes with a bang. "Well. That was rather abrupt."
"Oh be nice. They brought us presents, didn't they?"
"And forgot to take theirs out of the pile…" Draco holds up a miniature box wrapped in Cannons-orange paper. "I hope they didn't smell like smoke because they burned our flat down."
Harry snickers. "That was the smell of Hermione's cookies. I recognized the combination of flaked coconut and forgotten oven timer."
Draco laughs as well, digging out his wand and resizing all the boxes. "Merlin, I'll always remember when Lovegood brought Scamander to dinner the first time, and she tried to do that tofu stir fry thing and set the stove on fire."
"Mmm, good thing everyone likes that Indian takeaway on the corner."
"A miracle Scamander came back for another dinner."
They share a grin before diving into the boxes. Soon the room is filled with scraps of paper, and a pile of open boxes totters precariously at the side of the bed. Draco is congratulating himself on his haul when Harry clears his throat, holding something out to him. It is a box; flat and about the size of his hand, simply wrapped in matte silver paper.
"What's this?"
"You missed one, you berk."
Draco frowns, certain the only way he could have missed it was if Harry had hidden it for some reason, but he rips the paper off, anyway. Inside is a plain white box, which he opens to reveal a silver pocket watch.
He lifts the watch from the matting, examining the engraving until an inscription catches his eye:For Draco, for all time
He blinks up at Harry, knowing his confusion is written on his face. "What's this?"
Redness is climbing Harry's neck, reaching across his ears and cheeks but his voice is steady. "You're a Healer, and I know you can't wear a ring." He smiles at Draco's gobsmacked expression. "Marry me."
"You fucking wanker." And the last thing he says before throwing himself across the pile of forgotten presents and snogging Harry silly is, "Yes."