Feathers, Fire & Fate (Drarry)

Feathers, Fire & Fate

Draco Malfoy's peacock sanctuary had seen its fair share of strange patients, but the strangest so far was Harry Potter.

Dressing gown clutched around his thin frame, Draco had tugged open the Sanctuary's front door at midnight—equal parts concerned and infuriated by the incessant knocking—and found the Saviour of the Wizarding World slumped against the doorframe. He shook his head, the remnants of a strange dream fading rapidly away, along with the repeated words swallowed pride, a hand to take that had been circling through his mind ever since he woke, and startled into action.

The first words that came out of Draco's mouth were, "It's not that kind of Sanctuary, imbecile." And then he'd realised this was actually quite serious, blast it all, and tugged the feverish and delusional man inside. The second words he uttered were along the lines of oh fuck oh fuck shit shit shit but he couldn't quote them verbatim on account of the shock.

"Malfoy," Potter mumbled, grasping for Draco and succeeding in wrapping the gilded lines of his collar around feeble palms. "Help me... It... It burns."

Mind Healer Scottsbury had long since drilled into Draco's head that humour as a coping mechanism was rarely acceptable if one was in company, and yet it still took all of Draco's willpower not to make a dick joke. Not that Potter would likely have noticed; the man was barely coherent. Draco set to work making the living room habitable for the infirm, lighting a fire with his wand and setting the kettle boiling and an all-purpose tincture pouring with a few more well-placed flicks. He had no idea what Potter had done to himself, but if he'd come here instead of to St Mungo's, Draco's best bet was to get the man stabilised before deciding anything further.

Potter was an Unspeakable these days; who knew what nasty thing he'd become embroiled in? And what Draco had to do with it.

Fortunately, whatever malady Potter was suffering responded well to the gentle tincture made from helichrysum and asphodel, and Draco made a mental note that the herbs worked on humans as well as peafowl. That was good. He didn't want to be labelled responsible for poisoning as well as whatever had sent Potter to his door in the first place.

Now that the moaning had stopped, Draco seated himself in the armchair opposite the chaise longue, where he had deposited the Boy Who Lived so he might lie back to display the full dramatic effect of his dire illness, as he no doubt desired. Steepling his fingers, he regarded his charge for several moments, noting with appreciation that the fever sweat was already drying, thanks to the helichrysum, and the manic, pained look in his eyes had been replaced with a glazed appreciation of all things sensory. That was no doubt thanks to the asphodel, or perhaps the vodka the tincture had been steeped in.

"What burns, Potter?" Draco asked.

"My..." Potter's hand hovered over his thighs for a moment, and Draco collected all his willpower not to take the piss once again. Then the hand moved higher, over his chest. "My heart."

"Is it possible," Draco muttered dryly, "that you are experiencing indigestion?"

"Fuck off, Malfoy."

Draco's stomach pitched in relief that Potter was still normal underneath it all, although he did immediately wonder why he cared.

"One has to ask. I recall how you ate at Hogwarts."

"I recall how you sat," Potter mumbled, mopping the last of the sweat from his brow with his sleeve and closing his eyes. "Like you had a stick up your arse." He snapped his eyes open again. "Oh look, you're doing it now."

"Very funny."

"Nah, I can do better. Just gimme a sec."

"Potter," Draco interrupted. "Why are you here?"