A/N: Dedicated to all my reviewers, except the ones that said "This is sort of interesting" and "It is almost very good so far". (Gee, you sure know how to compliment a girl!)

Oh, and it's also dedicated to anyone who loves a fluffy little pre-slashlet. And to Hayley, of course (get well soon, hon, if you're sick, and if you're not sick, just wagging… Ooh, naughty).

Hey, if you like it, I'll continue it.


Draco stared down at the two white pills in his palm and sighed.

He looked at the little bottle sitting on the table and sighed again.

Maybe this isn't such a good idea, he thought, pouring himself a glass of water.

"It's what the doctor ordered," he reprimanded himself loudly, his voice echoing around the empty bedroom, and he forced the pills down his throat.

He collapsed back into the pillows and immediately fell into a dreamless sleep. The only problem was, when he woke up, he was vomiting again.


"Mr. Malfoy, I honestly cannot understand this," the doctor said seriously, leaning back in his chair.

Draco looked around the tiny office, with its imitation pleather chairs and threadbare carpet.

"I didn't expect you to," he muttered, wrinkling his nose at the cheap red vase to his right, which was filled with dying flowers.

The doctor ignored him and said, "Really, if I wasn't quite sure that you were a man, I'd think you were pregnant."

Then he ducked as the vase shattered at a spot just above his head. Draco growled something incoherent and stormed out of the office, taking care to slam the door behind him.


"The nerve of some people!" Draco raged, slamming around his empty apartment. There was no more to it. He would have to go to St. Mungo's and see a healer, not the stupid Muggle doctors he had become accustomed to.

Ever since Voldemort had been defeated, Draco had melted into the Muggle world. The only wizard he kept regular contact with was Severus – Draco visited his grave every week. He sometimes saw Crabbe and Goyle there – well, their headstones, anyway.

All in all, it was a rather sad life. But at least he didn't have to see Pansy or Blaise (who had recently gotten married) or Weasley or Granger (who were currently dating) or God forbid – Draco shuddered – Potter.

Draco grabbed his wand from the bottom drawer and Apparated to St. Mungo's.

Well, really, if fourteen Muggles couldn't advise him on his health, then a Healer was his only option.


"Just take a seat," said the red-haired Welcome Witch, gesturing at an ugly orange chair. "A Healer will be with you shortly."

What was different between St. Mungo's and any Muggle doctor's office? Old magazines, uncomfortable chairs, faux-friendly receptionist, this place has the lot, Draco thought, throwing himself into a seat and thumbing through a dog-eared issue of Witch Weekly.

He came to an article entitled A Savior's Compassion. A sheepishly grinning Potter looked up at Draco from under the heading.

Savior-of-the-Wizarding-World, Boy-Who-Lived, hero, and Healer; the man famous for killing He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is now saving lives.

Draco's eyebrows disappeared into his blonde hair as he slammed the magazine shut and threw it onto the table, earning a few curious stares from some people.

"Malfoy, Draco," said a voice quizzically from behind him.

Draco turned and found himself looking up into the ever-green eyes of one Harry Potter.

"Oh, shit," he said, which pretty much summed up his present situation.