Where The Sun Drops | drarry post-war

eighteen | confessions

A rather sweet but rather starstruck apprentice Healer informed Harry the following morning that he might have been slightly concussed, but aside from that and a few bumps and scrapes here and there, he was largely unharmed from the incident.

"We'd just been monitoring you to check for secondhand drowning symptoms," she added rather shyly, blushing as she stowed her wand back in her pocket. "But you seem to have avoided that, Mr. Potter."

Harry bit back the urge to correct her formality with a "Just 'Harry' is fine, thanks," and instead smiled, thanked her, and asked about the next steps.

"Well, we'll keep you in until the afternoon and aim to discharge you around 2 o'clock, if that suits you," the young Healer replied with a smile.

Harry nodded.

"Of course, you can technically discharge yourself," she continued, "but I must let you know that it's really not advisable to try and travel after the Pain Draught we tried you on when you first came in- it's not the Disapparating that's the problem, of course, but rather the Apparating in the right place at the other side..."

"There'll be someone who can meet me," Harry said, cheeks flaring. He hated feeling like he wasn't capable. "I'll be fine. I'll get one of my friends to come up."

"I believe a Mrs Malfoy already identified herself as your next of kin on the payment form."

Harry was too stunned even to respond, and the young Healer regarded him with ill-concealed fascination. Why wouldn't she? His and Narcissa's names (his and Draco's, he thought, then wondered why his cheeks flared hot) were two of the most notorious ever to exist in the Wizarding World, and for them to be seen together...

He could read it in this young woman's eyes well enough. Intrigue, puzzlement, downright amazement ...What had changed Narcissa's mind - hadn't she been on the other side of the war? And hadn't her son infamously died to protect Potter and end it all, sending dozens of darker leaning Pureblood families into hiding?

"The Boy Who Couldn't Even Kill Himself," Malfoy scornfully observed, snapping Harry out of his thoughts and making him jump a little. He hadn't seen him re-emerge, and hated being snuck up on like that.

The Healer frowned slightly at the odd sudden movement, then caught herself, forced a breezy smile, and got to plumping up the pillows behind her patient, totally oblivious to the ghost's presence.

"I wasn't trying to kill myself," Harry muttered when the Healer left the room. "I just wanted to avoid you for a bit, alright? Didn't know if you could go in water."

"Christ, Potter, I died of a Hex, not rabies."

Harry frowned at him blankly.

"Rabies victims are aquaphobic," Malfoy sighed. "Do I have to explain everything to you?"

"A few things would be nice," Harry told him seriously. "For example, you could explain why I'm here and not at the bottom of the river? Or do I have to ask your mother?"

"She won't bloody know," Draco said scornfully. "And I don't know either. I assume you were lucky. Common theme for you, isn't it?"

"I suppose. Look, are you going to stay here for the next-" Harry glanced at the clock, "-four hours till your mother arrives? Or are you going to let me get some rest?"