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Heal My Wounds	By : FalsettoSlumber Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 1360 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter, and the characters in this story are not mine, and are owned by JK Rowling & Warner Bros. I am making no profit from this work.

Chapter List
- 1-A Familiar Face
- 2-Relating
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- 2
“Hannah! Any updates on Mr Tunbridge today?” He sidles into the nurse’s station, as Hannah blinks blearily at her. Her hair is askew, her robes stained with something suspiciously green, and her eyes struggle to focus.
“Long shift?” He raises an eyebrow at her, she nods.
“I’ve, aah, been here since five this morning.” She yawns widely, and stretches back, bones cracking. Smiling grimly, Draco grabs his stuff from behind the counter, preparing to start the day.
This morning had been a hectic rush; Alice had been over to talk things through with his mother, there had been an unfortunate incident in the drive involving her and a particularly vicious peacock, and consequently, he had arrived at work slightly late, after repairing the nasty nip that had somehow gone through all three layers of the healer’s robes.
“Last I saw of Mr Tunbridge, he was getting ready to leave, muttering about half brained fools, and ill-employed Death Eaters.”
“Oh goody, that means he’s going to be gone soon. I’ll go and give him a cheery send off, thanks Hannah.” Glaring in the direction of Mr Tunbridge’s bed, he clatters the man’s notes down on the side table, noting how he’s just sitting in his bed, clothes ready, arms crossed, glare laid with solid foundations.
“Am I to leave, now, Mr Malfoy?” Draco grins despite everything, and hands the man his discharge papers.
“I think you’ll find that’s Healer Malfoy to you, and yes, here you go, get out of my sight and please, try to stay out. No more fighting with angry garden gnomes.” Mr Tunbridge lets out an unexpected grin, takes the discharge papers, and rushes from the ward, leaving Draco shaking his head, bemused.
Time to see my other patient, he thinks morosely. He should be discharging Potter today; the detoxification medicine should have run its course now, and though the man would be tired, there would be no more actual illness, which means he can free a bed up.
He is somewhat reluctant to see him go though. It’s been an interesting case, and one that Draco doesn’t feel is quite finished yet.
He walks down the corridor slowly, avoiding the midday rush as his coworkers head down to the canteen for some over cooked, slightly grey lunch.
“Mr Potter, it’s time for you to go home.” Draco steps agilely through the door to Potter’s cubicle, noting with frustration that the man is still bundled under his covers. A low mumble sounds from within the blankets, and Draco sighs, placing his clipboard of notes on the side.
“Mr Potter, we need to give this bed to other patients.”
No response. He peers over the side of the gurney and looks at his patient; the man is glowering at him from under the crook of his arm, his hair askew, his expression murderous.
“Potter, you have one hour. If I come back and you’re still not dressed – and in clean clothes, I might add – I am dragging you out myself.” Spinning on his heel, he grabs his clipboard, and the door swings shut violently behind him.

“Potter, as your healer and current carer, I demand you get yourself out of this bed and free up the use of hospital services.” Draco had returned to Potter’s room one hour later, after attempting to eat a suspiciously weird tasting jacket potato in the canteen, only to find Potter still in bed, still not dressed, and still wearing the same clothes had had arrived in.
“I’ll pay for the bloody bed if I have to.” Potter pulls himself into a sitting position in bed, drawing the covers up to his chin rather forlornly.
“What? Potter, you have a perfectly good home to go back to, please get yourself dressed. You have been wearing the same shirt for the last two days, and no matter how strong my cleaning charms are, you are starting to smell.” The other man sniffs at himself, barely disguising the wrinkle of his nose as he realizes that Draco is, of course, correct.
“Fine, just… give me a minute, yeah?” He sounds resigned, and Draco nods, stepping through the door and turning away.
“Alright. One minute. Sixty seconds, capiche?”

“Potter, I’m fairly sure that sitting with your head in your hands, still dressed in the clothing you came in, does not constitute being able to leave.” Draco is frustrated, as he turns back into the room. Though Potter has at least made an attempt to leave the bed, he is still not dressed, and his defeated position makes Draco wring his hands in irritation. As he’s about to say something else, Potter stamps his feet, rather like a child having a tantrum, and glares up at Draco, his expression furious.
“I don’t want to go home, okay! Yeah, okay, I spent five months renovating the goddamn place, and what for? So I could have five empty bedrooms, a barely used lounge, and the majority of my kitchen cupboards empty?! I. Don’t. Want. To. Go. Home.”
The man’s outburst is bordering on hysterical, and if Draco didn’t know Potter better, he could swear he sees tears in his eyes. Surprised by the tone of his patient’s voice, he steps forward, almost pleadingly.
“Potter, please just get dressed, and we’ll talk about this like adults.”
“Fine. Can I just… go to the loo or something to change? Or shut the curtains and get you out of here?” Potter’s expression has changed; instead, he looks anxious, eyes darting between him, and Draco nervously.
“Why?” Narrowing his eyes, Draco steps closer, kneeling slightly as if trying to coerce a wounded animal.
“I don’t want to change in front of you.”
“Why? I’m a medical health professional, Mr Potter. You have nothing that I have not seen before.” Potter glares at him, crossing his arms tightly around his chest.
“I doubt that.”
“Why?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Draco looks at Potter, looks at the shirt on his back, and begins to piece two and two together.
“Potter, why have you been wearing the same long sleeved top for the last three days?” His hands stiffen, Draco notes, tight around his forearms.
“I like it.”
“Really? I was always sure that you much preferred the Holyhead Harpies.” Dark hair falls into Potter’s eyes, and Draco’s sure that he sees a flicker of… something… in those deep green eyes.
“What’s that got anything to do with anything?” His tone is defiant, almost nonchalant, though Draco can hear the anxiety straining at his voice.
“Take the shirt off, Potter.”
“Chatting me up now?” Draco blushes bright red, his cheeks hot. Scowling at his patient, he leans back against the door of the cubicle, barring anybody from getting in.
“This is no time for jokes. Take the damn shirt off.”
“I’d much rather go home, actually. Where are my jeans?” Draco feels like screaming in frustration at the stubbornness of Gryffindors, but keeps his composure, remembering his professional training Healing School.
“You’ve changed your tune. Unfortunately, until you cooperate, you are not discharged.” Potter laughs, throwing his head back. The noise sounds false, forced, and Draco flinches at the sound.
“Pretty sure I have the right to discharge myself, Malfoy. Move.” Smiling, Draco sees his opening, shaking his head at Potter in victory.
“Under normal circumstances, yes. However, as you are in our care for cerebral reasons, as opposed to physical reasons, you class as a ward of our care, and cannot legally – nor physically, I might add – leave this ward until I give the word. Which. I. Don’t.”
Potter gapes at him, looking as he had the previous day, carp like, though with far more anger than before. He narrows his eyes, throwing the bedding that he had been fisting at angrily aside.
“Fine! I’ll take the fucking shirt off!”
He stands roughly, and pulls at the shirt, lifting it over his head awkwardly. As the material shifts, Draco tries to ignore the smooth, toned planes of Potter’s abdomen and chest, tries to ignore the slightly tanned colour of his skin – Merlin knows how he’d managed that, being holed up in Grimmauld Place day in, day out – and feels the bottom drop out of his stomach as the shirt comes all the way off.
“Harry, I – Potter.” Potter’s arms are as tanned as his stomach, the muscles relaxed but still obvious under his skin. Any other day, any other man, Draco might have imagined being held in those arms, but it isn’t that that he’s paying attention to.
Running down from the tops of Potter’s shoulders, all the way to his wrists, the skin is marred with wounds; slashes of angry red skin, raised bumps, older, whiter lines. They ring around his arms, horizontally, and run down his arms vertically. They look sore, some swollen, some clearly worst for wear. It’s clear that Potter hasn’t been paying attention to the cuts, clear that he doesn’t care to prevent infection. One particularly violent cut, a deep one running from the crook of his elbow to his wrist, looks raised, the skin tinged slightly purple. Draco knows that if he touches the skin, it will feel hot and clammy under his fingers.
“You happy now?” Potter sounds vulnerable, small and scared as he stands before Draco. His voice wavers, despite his obvious wish to sound emotionless. Draco takes in a breath, before steeling himself.

“Those need dressing. That one looks infected. Lay there, and I’ll be right back with dressings and disinfectant. Don’t bother trying to leave, the door is warded.”

Five minutes later, Draco sits beside Potter’s bed, dapping wound cleaning potion into the cuts. The purple concoction sticks to the wounds, smoking slightly as they start to work. The man winces as Draco tends to the one on his forearm, biting his lip as the potion stings his flesh, and Draco knows it will.

“I’m afraid, because they’re so infected, and because a lot of them are so deep, that these will scar. There’s not much I can do to prevent that.” Potter nods, almost to himself, brushing him off.”
“S’fine.” His jaw is set, and teeth clenched as Draco points his wand at the cuts, vanishing the torn, jagged skin until it forms into a multitude of raised, white scars.
“How did you… how did you manage this, Potter?” Draco isn’t sure he wants to know the answer, if he’s honest. The appearance of Potter’s cuts is making him feel somewhat ill, and it’s taking all of his energy not to run, screaming, from the room.
“Hmph. I dunno. A mix of things; classic hex work; one uncomfortable incident with my fire grate. The knife I inherited from my Godfather.” He looks down at his knees, eyes lowered in thought. Black’s knife, he thinks to himself. That must have hurt.
“They’re… they’re bad.” Potter’s eyes snap up to his, his expression irritated. He rolls his eyes, gesturing to his eyes. Not for the first time, Draco notices that he no longer wears glasses.
“I’m not blind. I got contacts.” Draco has no idea what “contacts” are, so just nods his head in agreement, not pushing the issue.
“I know,” he starts carefully. He carefully choose his next words, “we can help, Potter.”
“I don’t want help.” Draco lets out a groan of frustration, sighing at the stubborn man before him as he contemplates a particularly difficult wound at his shoulder.
“Be that as it may, you need it.” He looks pointedly at the cut beneath his wand, and Potter at least tries to look abashed.
“And what would you know about any of it, Mr Perfect Job Perfect Life?” The insult stings, and Draco feels his stomach clench as he considers his answer.
Sighing, he pushes the sleeves of his own robes up to his elbows, revealing the silver marks of old scars on his forearms. They’re older than Potter’s, far older. Better tended too, as well, he notes, pleased, as he sees how well the scars blend in with the creamy colour of his skin. Potter’s eyes widen, and his hand automatically moves to - what, touch Draco’s skin? He never finds out; the hand stops in midair, and the man pulls it back roughly.

“I know plenty.”

Half an hour later, Potter has finally accepted defeat, and has packed his things. He’s wearing clean clothes; a new, long-sleeved t-shirt that Draco had to run out and buy for him across the street, and his hoodie, freshly washed by laundry maintenance.

They’re sat in the canteen together; Draco has finally managed to sit down for a break after a ten-hour shift without pause, and is frankly not looking forward to the final hurdle of another six hours. Long days are his least favourite types of shift, and he cannot wait for this one to be over.
“So, what’s your story, Malfoy?” Potter raises an eyebrow, cradling a cup of lukewarm coffee in his hands. They’ve only just bought their drinks and food, but already, they’re losing heat, and what little taste they originally had.
“Well, first of all, don’t you think we should perhaps drop the surnames? I mean, as much as I’ve made peace with my family name, it’s a bit tiring to hear it all of the time.” Draco’s unsure of himself; even Blaise and Pansy still call him Malfoy more often than not, from force of habit.
To his surprise, Potter – Harry – seems relieved about the request. Smiling, he nods, sipping at the rank coffee before grimacing.
“Sure. That’s fine by me. So, Draco, what’s your story?” Draco’s name sounds strange on Harry’s lips, foreign, like he’s just testing out.
“I would have thought it would be obvious. I can’t say having the Dark Lord live in your house is particularly beneficial to a healthy mind. It was just an escape I suppose. If I could hurt myself worse than he hurt me, it wouldn’t be so bad. Unfortunately, not much holds its own against such spells as the Cruciatus curse, so whilst it was an excellent theory, it wasn’t so successful in practice.” Harry nods, understanding, as he tests the coffee once more, before giving up and pushing it away.
“Hermione and Ron… they don’t understand. They know about it, of course. It’s stupidly hard to hide anything from ‘Mione, and once she knows, Ron’s bound to. They try to, it’s not like they don’t care. They just…” He trails off, and Draco smiles sympathetically.
“I know.” Silence falls as they finish their food, and with a rough scrape of his chair, Draco stands up from the table.
“Well, I’ve got to get back to work. Can you promise me that you’ll stay out of my hospital for at least a month?” Harry laughs, nodding as he pushes his rucksack higher on his shoulder.
“I promise. Do I have to have any follow up stuff? Checkups, and things?” He looks worried, and Draco sighs.
“Well, I’ve put you through to the Department for Cerebral Healing. I’d like you to at least try some sessions with a healer there, just to see if it would help. I’ve also referred you to the dermatology team, to see if there’s anything we can do about that scarring.” He feels awkward, as if he’s gone back into healer mode. Harry smiles a small thanks, and leaves the canteen by himself, leaving Draco to throw the majority of his dead potato in the bin before heading back down to the ward for the rest of his shift.

By the time his shift is finished, Draco is exhausted, and it takes everything he has to manage the floo home, not in the mood for a walk down the drive. Collapsing into an armchair by the fireplace the second he arrives back at the manor, he pulls a hand through his hair. It feels rough, and after a second he remembers an episode earlier, when Mrs Pertrow in bed seven projectile vomited all over him.
Sighing, he drags himself to his feet once more, desperate for a shower. As he exits the room, he sees his mother walking down the corridor towards him, her gracefulness carrying into her walk.
“Draco. How was work today?” He attempts to dislodge a lump of what he suspects is more of Mrs Pertrow’s vomit, possibly her breakfast from the day before. Shuddering he turns to Narcissa, smiling grimly.
“The usual. Gross, stressful, and weirdly rewarding. You won’t be able to guess who I had to look after for the last two days.” She frowns momentarily, before shaking her head, hair tumbling over her shoulders in evening disarray.
“None other than Harry Potter himself.” His mother’s eyes widen momentarily, before she shakes her head, bemused.
“I cannot say I am surprised.” He frowns, his expression questioning.
“I have heard tell that Mr Potter is not in the best of ways as of late. Call it whispers on the grapevine, if you will.” Draco snorts. Why is he not surprised that the entirety of the wizarding world, including his own mother, seems to know more about Harry Potter than him?
“Anyway, Mother, I am off to remove these suspicious lumps of body fluids from my hair. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” He heads off up the stairs, struggling with the top layer of his robes as he goes.
Reaching his chambers, Draco discards his disgusting work uniform, leaving it on the rail for the house elves to take care of. His view on house elves may have changed; he occasionally makes his own breakfast to give them a small amount of relief, but he’ll be damned if he’s washing that disgusting pile of filth.
Turning the shower on as hot as he can, he plunges himself under the deluge of water, feeling the heat scorch his back in a way that feels almost pleasant. Sighing, he leans back against the cool tiles of the shower wall, watching as water rolls down his skin, to disappear down the drain.
He wonders what Harry is doing at the moment, and squints his eyes shut, shaking his head. He hasn’t stopped thinking about the bloody man all day, and Draco is not about to let him ruin his shower, the best part of his day so far. Soaping his hair with his favourite citrus scent, he rubs soap suds to scourge the disgusting scent of vomit and bodily fluids from his skin.
Sighing, he leans into the water, feeling the droplets run down his face. As the pressure of the water hits his back, he feels his muscles begin to unwind, and he slowly inches a hand downwards, gripping himself in the heat of the shower. Merlin knows, he rarely has time for himself anymore. Who would have known healing would be such intense, demanding work?
Stroking himself in strong, languid movements, he leans his head back, allowing the water to plunge down onto his face and chest. Groaning, he moves his hand quicker, leaning against the marble tiles with his other hand. Heat begins to pool in his stomach, and, unbidden, a face swims lazily into his imagination, green eyes blinking softly, dark hair flopping messily into them. Gasping, Draco opens his eyes as the heat peaks, and he comes against the shower wall.
“Shit.” Staggering back, he watches as his seed disappears down the drain with that water, and wonders where the hell that thought came from.
Stumbling out into the bathroom, he gropes against the sink, staring at himself in the mirror, wide eyed and heart thudding.
There are still soapsuds in his fringe as it flops into his eyes, and he pushes it back from his forehead, running a hand down his face. Draco’s skin is pale in the bathroom’s lighting, and the tension in his shoulder muscles has almost immediately returned.
Splashing his face with cold water, he pauses as he hears something from his bedchambers.
Cautiously moving back into the room, being careful not to drip all over the expensive cream carpet, he sees an owl tapping impatiently against the balcony windows.
Grumbling, he wraps a towel about his waist, going to let the owl in. It’s a pretty thing, a female tawny with large, golden eyes and a good strong wingspan.
“You’re a pretty girl, aren’t you? Whom do you belong to?” He sees a small scroll attached to the owl’s left leg, and, being wary in case she’s a biter, unravels it from her. She barely blinks, and he rummages in a side drawer for an owl treat.
She takes it from his hand with barely a nip, and he smiles at her, stroking her soft-feathered head.
“Good girl. You have a lucky master.” She gives a low hoot, then takes off back out into the night, her wings catching the moonlight as she flies low
Chuckling, Draco unrolls the parchment, heart thumping.
Draco
I don’t want to see a healer about this. I can’t face talking to somebody else about everything.
Draco curses, about to throw the parchment away in frustration, when he realizes there’s more to the note.
Could you possibly see me some time next week? I think I trust you.
Harry
Eyes wide, Draco quickly scrawls a response, and clicks his tongue out of the window. Immediately, his imposing eagle owl lands heavily on the balcony railings, preening his feathers as Draco attaches the reply to his leg. Throwing him a small treat, Amadeus takes flight once more, following Harry’s owl into the darkness.
Throwing himself back onto the bed, Draco’s sighs once more, staring up at the ceiling, deep in thought.
“Fucking Harry Potter.”
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Heal My Wounds