Heaven Through a Window • Drarry •

Chapter Seven: When You're Home, You Can Fly

"Healer Clearwater, might I have a private audience?"

She followed Draco out into the corridor, and he told her, "Mr Potter is no longer under your caseload. He is now solely under my care."

Penny blinked. "Oh. Why?"

"Orders from up top, I'm afraid." He clapped her on the shoulder.

"That Mr Crocus, I swear..." Penny rolled her eyes and went back into the ward.

When he'd got back to the office, he paused by Anne's desk. "I am now Mr Potter's Key Healer," he snapped. "Send me his admission notes."

Draco used the next five minutes to compose tomorrow's surprise neuroanatomy test for the trainees before Anne returned with the records.

Now that he was taking over Potter's care, he reviewed and rechecked all the investigations. A reformed Malfoy had no room for error.

Blood, urine and tear analysis—normal.

Heart rate, blood pressure, blood oxygen—normal.

He had no detectable curses or poisons.

Allergies/adverse potion reactions: Nil. Mood Enhancement Potion—acute distress.

Of note, Dr Ubbly's Oblivious Unction had no effect.

In the loose filing section were reams and reams of drawings. Some pages were coloured red and labelled 'blood'. There were crude sketches of motorbikes, owls, woodland animals. More disturbing than this, however, were Potter's dream diaries:

I remember seeing goblin blood flowing like a waterfall, some snapped wands, the smell of rotting bodies, the taste of sick in my mouth. I didn't mind, because I was unable to feel any pain.

All around me was the smell of fear, and I just knew that I was going to die.

The dreams were many and varied.

Potter had chronicled bursts of green light, a flying car, a rat strangling him. Sleeping in a palatial bedchamber, seeing through the eyes of a great snake, murdering an old man. Flying across a tremendous black ocean, a woman screaming, a schoolgirl with bushy hair lying dead.

I dreamt of World War Two, of being hungry for death. Maybe I'm dying? Is that why I'm here?

And another:

Last night I dreamt that I met Death. He didn't speak, but I could read his mind. He said he had a job for me to do, and it would be quicker and easier than falling asleep. I woke up before he told me what I needed to do to get better.

Draco skimmed through mentions of tortured children, a howling wolf outside a giant castle, of having a family who loved and cared about him, and as much food as he could eat.

I dreamt that I had friends.

Merlin, at least something was positive.

When he was ten, Draco's dreams would have been similar. He'd never thought of himself as having anything at all in common with Potter.

On review of his older healing notes, Potter was no stranger to St Mungo's. Draco had avoided gossip by simply never entering the staffroom. It seemed he'd missed out on a great deal. Potter had suffered two head injuries in the past and got caught with some nasty hexes. It was a rather impressive record for the Head of the Auror Office. Half of his hair had been regrown after it was flayed off his scalp, he'd survived a Blood-Curdling Curse and Draco remembered patching Potter up after someone had cast a Bombarda just inches from him.