Chapter Text
Draco Malfoy had never imagined he’d find himself standing on the edge of a Quidditch pitch - much less as the official travelling healer for Puddlemere United during the World Cup season.
Yet, here he was.
The smell of freshly cut grass mingled with the faint metallic tang of Quaffles and Bludgers, the roar of an expectant crowd thrumming in the background. Draco adjusted his sharp, tailored coat and resisted the urge to smooth down his immaculate hair for the fifth time in as many minutes.
Sports medicine was his domain, his passion, and frankly, his pride. He had carved a reputation as the best, not only in diagnosis and treatment but in the subtleties of physiotherapy, ensuring injured athletes didn’t just recover, but came back better, faster, stronger. His clinic in London was a sanctuary of healing and exacting professionalism, a place he rarely left except under exceptional circumstances.
Which, apparently, included an offer to become Puddlemere United’s travelling healer.
The pay had been more than tempting- it was obscene. And with the sheer volume of injuries the team seemed to rack up during matches and practice, the need was undeniable. Yet, Draco had been reluctant to leave his clinic, his carefully calibrated routine, and the quiet control of his work behind.
But the contract had won out.
Now, as he took his first tentative steps onto the pitch, Draco resigned himself to what he assumed would be weeks of watching sweaty, burly men chase balls through the air- and then, inevitably, trail back to him, clutching limbs and whining like overgrown children.
At least the pay was good, he thought, making his way into the imposing building.
Draco perched on the edge of an uncomfortably stiff leather chair, hands folded neatly in his lap, feeling the fabric of his white healer’s coat taut against his wrists. He pressed his lips together, unwilling to make any comment at all about Gerald Udderson, who, for all his size and broadness, had a remarkably gentle way of speaking. It was the sort of voice that contradicted his appearance so thoroughly that it left Draco slightly disarmed.
Gerald was a mountain of a man: broad-shouldered, with a jawline that could have been carved from granite and a chest so wide it looked like it could take on a team of bludgers without breaking a sweat. Yet his tone was soft, almost conspiratorial.
“Doctor Malfoy, honestly, having you on board is more than we could’ve hoped for,” Gerald said, smiling warmly. “The lads will be back any minute. After practice. Best you get to know everyone, make yourself familiar.”
Draco nodded, his smile measured, the corners of his mouth tight. He smoothed the front of his coat with a fingertip, trying to quell the faint flutter in his stomach that had nothing to do with nerves.
Because really, how often did you get to watch a team of burly, sweaty men tear about on broomsticks, and not just try to avoid the flying balls but actually treat them when they inevitably broke their bones or tore their muscles? He was going to have to keep a professional distance. Absolutely professional.
The door swung open with a bang, and in thundered eleven men, voices overlapping in a cacophony of greetings, laughter, and casual insults. Draco’s nose wrinkled involuntarily at the hit of sweat and unwashed hair.
He set his jaw, giving a polite smile as players introduced themselves- some with firm handshakes, others with clumsy pats on the back. Most were decent enough, cordial if a bit boisterous. A few clearly hadn’t read the memo on professionalism, offering half-grins and blurting out, “Oi, Doc, that coat of yours looks real official, yeah? Fancy as.”
Draco’s eye twitched. Brilliant.
As the last player stepped out, Draco counted heads- ten. Gerald looked around, his brows knitting together briefly, then brightened suddenly.
“Ah, that’ll be our seeker,” he said, nodding towards the door. “Always late, that one. But a good lad. You two went to school together, didn’t you?”
Draco groaned silently. Of all the ways to make a grand first impression on the job, a Hogwarts reunion wasn’t exactly at the top of his list. He forced his face into something that passed for a pleasant smile.
Before he could muster a reply, the door burst open again, and in came Harry Potter, hair tousled and wild as ever, cheeks flushed from running, eyes bright and sparkling with that infuriating, almost smug sort of enthusiasm.
Merlin’s beard.
Draco’s cheeks betrayed him, colouring an inconvenient shade of rose. Potter had shot up nearly half a foot since graduation, now just taller than Draco. His shoulders were broad, but not bulky- lean and taut like a perfect athlete, just the shape and build a Seeker should be.
His eyes roved over Draco with a look that was impossibly pleased, as if Harry had been waiting for this moment, this reunion, for years.
“Malf- uh, Doctor Malfoy,” Harry said, grinning, the nickname catching slightly in his throat. He extended a large, rough hand, sun-kissed from outdoor practice. “Good to see you again.”
Draco blinked, gathering himself. “Likewise… Potter.” He took the offered hand and gave a firm, deliberate shake, though he fought the urge to linger- Harry’s grip was warm and confident, fingers just a shade tighter than necessary, sending a spark of something unfamiliar up Draco’s arm.
Gerald clapped Harry on the back with a booming laugh, breaking the moment. Draco dropped Harry’s hand quickly, clearing his throat.
“This one will need your services the most, I’d say, Draco,” Gerald said with a wink. “He’s a walking medical malady.”
Harry shrugged, flashing that cocky grin. “Don’t hear you complaining when I get the snitch.”
Draco resisted the sharp impulse to roll his eyes. Clearly, some things never changed.
Gerald laughed heartily. “You’ve got me there, mate." He turned to Draco, his expression cheerful. "We’re heading out for drinks now, would you like to join?”
Draco forced another polite smile and shook his head. “I should be getting back to prepare for tomorrow.” It was the first day of the championship, England V Ireland, hosted in Dublin.
He nodded. "Ah, that's right. Lots to do?"
"Somewhat. I just need to sort some details with the local office."
Harry’s eyes lingered on Draco a moment longer than felt comfortable, a knowing gleam there.
He turned on his heel and strode out of the office, forcing his mind away from the faint quickening of his pulse, the way Harry’s eyes had held him just a second too long, and the unmistakable warmth of that hand in his own.
Professional, he reminded himself firmly. Professional.
But before he could reach the door, Harry cocked his head, eyes gleaming with that infuriating mix of mischief and warmth.
“We’ll miss you there, Doctor,” he said, his voice dropping just low enough to make Draco’s skin prick.
Draco felt the faintest heat rise to his cheeks, a pink blooming that he refused to acknowledge. “Maybe next time,” he muttered, voice a shade too quick, too clipped.
Harry’s grin widened, but he said nothing more, and Draco could only nod awkwardly as he hurried out of the office, the weight of Harry’s gaze still heavy on his back.
His heart thumped loudly enough that he was certain Gerald Udderson could hear it from across the hall.
Shit, Draco thought, I should not have taken this sodding contract.
The clinic room was a modest affair, hastily set up in one corner of the visitor training grounds in Dublin. Draco had spent the morning arranging his equipment with precision: rolls of bandages neatly stacked, potions and ointments lined in tidy rows, and the exam table scrubbed spotless. The faint hum of the bustling city outside the building was a stark contrast to the calm order he sought inside these four walls.
He wasn’t used to Dublin’s slower rhythm after the constant buzz of London. Here, everything felt a little quieter, a little less frantic. Yet, it was good to be away from the chaos of his clinic for a while- though he’d never admit it aloud.
Just as he adjusted the height of his chair, faint thudding and voices drifted down the hallway. The team, no doubt, preparing for their morning run and stretches. Draco’s nose wrinkled at the distant sound of shouting- a mixture of banter and typical locker-room bravado.
Then, an unmistakable voice, a voice Draco could never confuse, called out hurriedly, “I’ll meet you outside, just need to sort something quick first!”
Before he could register what was happening, the door slammed open and slammed shut again. Harry Potter came sliding into the room, hair a tousled mess and chest heaving from whatever mad dash he’d just performed.
Is this boy ever not running somewhere? Draco thought, blinking in surprise.
“Can I help you?” Draco asked, trying to keep his voice steady while wondering just how long this would last.
Harry grinned, dropping himself into the chair opposite Draco’s desk as if they were about to have an important meeting. He immediately started fiddling with items on Draco’s desk- a pen here, a clipboard there. "You already are."
Draco pursed his lips, trying to conceal his irritation. He liked his things just so, thank you very much, especially not messed about by Harry Potter’s very large, very clumsy hands. Merlin. "Meaning?"
Harry shrugged lazily. “Meaning… I really don’t want to run twelve laps today. So I’m hiding out here until Gerald realises I'm not on the pitch.” He leaned back, breathing a little harder now, clearly worn out. “And… I thought I’d come say hi. It’s been a while.”
Draco nodded slowly. Saying they hadn’t gotten along well at school was the understatement of the century. They’d spent six years hexing each other back and forth like it was a sport, before things mellowed in their seventh year into mutual insults and bickering- a truce forged more out of their interlinking friendship groups than kindness.
Harry had slid effortlessly into the new dynamic of saving Draco an extra tart at dinner, walking him to classes, and subtle shared smirks. Draco, however, had been thoroughly confused by it all, avoiding Potter like the plague until graduation, when he’d practically run back to London.
Harry’s eyes then locked onto the bobblehead of Draco’s owl, Morgana, perched precariously on the edge of the desk. He poked it with a curious finger until it toppled over. Draco swiftly slapped Harry’s hand away as he moved to pick it up.
“Enough,” Draco snapped, clearing his throat. Politeness, he reminded himself. He refused to be fired because he couldn’t get along with the seeker.
Harry raised his hands in mock surrender. “Is it some kind of collectable?”
“No.”
“From a movie?”
“No.”
“So, are you going to tell me, or should I run through the whole alphabet to guess?”
Irritation flared up in Draco’s chest. “It’s none of your business, Potter. You should get back to training.”
Harry groaned, staring up at the ceiling, eyes scrunching shut. Draco noticed for the first time the dark circles under his eyes, the subtle slump of exhaustion in his shoulders.
“I’m exhausted. Barely slept all night. The last thing I want to do is run laps, as if that’s going to make me fly faster.”
Draco rolled his eyes but felt a flicker of sympathy. He knew what sleepless nights felt like, long nights twisting and turning, thoughts running wild. With a sigh, he rummaged through his personal box and finally pulled out a small tin of chamomile tea.
“Chalaming tea,” Harry read aloud, squinting at the label.
Draco looked horrified. “Do you need a stronger prescription? It says chamomile.”
Harry laughed, the sound catching in his throat. “No, I’m just tired, honestly.”
“Hence the tea,” Draco said, pointing at the tin. “A cup of this an hour before bed, no sugar, and you’ll be out like a light.”
Harry’s face brightened as if Draco had just handed him liquid gold. He examined the box closely. “This is… Muggle, isn’t it?”
“Indeed.”
“Huh.”
Draco chose to ignore the way Harry was staring at him, clearly impressed by the simplicity of the remedy. “Get back to your training, Potter,” he said, tone firm but not unkind. “I’m not in the habit of hiding professional seekers in my office, and I don’t intend to start now.”
Harry raised an eyebrow but stood up, his movement slow and deliberate.
“No?” His tone was awfully suggestive, and Draco felt the faintest heat creep up his neck.
“Goodbye,” Draco said pointedly, waving him toward the door.
As Harry left, Draco sat back down, heart thumping a little faster than it should. Merlin, what had he gotten himself into?