Chapter 42:

Harry just laughed, playing his first card.

For all Draco had promised to give Harry pureblood lessons, they usually never got around to that. They would just sit, and play cards, and talk; about quidditch, about school, about the future. Harry had told Draco things he hadn't even told Ron and Hermione. Draco didn't judge when Harry said something selfish, or a little bit cruel. It was… nice, not having to guard his language like that. "So what do healers do, anyway?" he asked, remembering what Draco had said last time they'd met. Everyone expected him to become a Potions Master, but he wanted to be a healer when he grew up.

"They heal people, Potter," Draco replied with a roll of his eyes. Harry shot him a chastising look.

"I figured that. I just meant — muggles have loads of different types of doctors that specialise in different things. So, like, one doctor would just be for kids. Or just a brain doctor, or a stomach doctor, or whatever. They have GPs — all-round doctors, who help diagnose when people need to see a specialist doctor — but then mostly it's all split up. Surely a healer can't heal everything?"

"For the most part, yes. They have their strengths; St Mungo's is split into different wards — spell damage, illness, physical injury, all that stuff. But a good healer should be able to deal with just about anything they come across."

"What kind of healer would you want to be?" Harry was curious. Draco swore as he saw the card Harry played, glancing down at his own hand. He bit his lip as he thought about his next move, and Harry couldn't tear his eyes away from the reddening flesh. Draco played his card, snapping Harry out of his daze. "As long as I'm good at it, I don't really care," was Draco's dismissive reply. "I'd probably specialise in spell damage. Counter-curses are always fascinating to me, and I bet there'd be lots of challenging cases. I wouldn't like to end up delivering babies all day or something."

Harry made a face; he couldn't see Draco delivering babies, either. Not that he was completely sure how that all worked, but he couldn't see Draco doing it.

"Well, at least you'll get plenty of practice, when we're older," he declared. "I'm in the Hospital Wing all the time. I think Madam Pomfrey is considering giving me my own personal bed." With a snort, Draco played the card that won him the round, triumph shining in his silver eyes. "It'll be a while yet before I know the spells to put your sorry arse back together again. Do try not to get yourself killed before then."

"Alright, I'll wait," Harry agreed. He glanced down at his watch; it was getting late, and tomorrow would be a big day. "We should go to bed. I want to be at the top of my game on the pitch tomorrow."

"Damn right you do, if you've got any chance of beating me," Draco agreed, sending the cards into their box with a wave of his wand. Before he left, he paused, looking back at Harry. A stray lock of blond hair fell into his eyes, and Harry was struck with the strangest urge to push it aside. "Just… be careful tomorrow, Harry. The Slytherins really want to win this."

Harry, who had been fending off low-level attacks from Slytherins for the last two week, gave Draco a deadpan look. "Y'know, I'd figured that out." Hurt flashed in Draco's eyes, and Harry softened. "I know. I'll be careful. I'm used to having snakes out for my blood," he added dryly. "No hard feelings, whatever happens, yeah?"

He held out a hand, and Draco shook it. "No hard feelings when my team crushes yours to dust," he agreed, yelping when Harry made to jab him in the side. "You're a barbarian, Potter."

"That's what I've got you for; keep me civilised," Harry retorted teasingly. Draco huffed, scowling one last time, then disappeared from the classroom. Throwing his cloak over his shoulders, Harry followed after a few minutes, making the short trek back to Gryffindor Tower.

The light from the half-moon streamed through the large windows, guiding his way back. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry caught a flash of movement, and froze.

Down in the grass, skirting the edge of the Forbidden Forest, was an animal. Harry's heart leapt into his throat — not the Grim, not now, not tonight — but it was much too small a form for that. He stepped closer to the window, squinting to get a better look. The moonlight passed over dark ginger fur. Crookshanks. Relief flooding through his form, Harry made to turn away, only… Crookshanks wasn't alone. A huge, shaggy black dog trotted across the lawn, approaching Crookshanks. It pressed its nose briefly against his, then turned back towards the forest, Crookshanks following close behind. Harry watched until the pair were no longer visible.

What on Earth did that mean? Could it really be an omen of death, if Crookshanks could see it too? Maybe it was just a regular dog after all. Or maybe Crookshanks could see death omens too, and this quidditch match was about to be Harry's last.

He forced himself away from the window, wiping his clammy hands on his trousers. It was probably nothing. Cats couldn't see Grims, even cats as smart as Crookshanks seemed to be. There were all sorts of creatures living in the forest, why couldn't there be a dog, too?

They'd done it. Gryffindor had won the Quidditch Cup.

Harry didn't think he'd ever stop grinning, the joy bubbling in his chest and threatening to burst out at any moment. He felt a little bad for the smallest moment when he'd seen how heartbroken Draco looked when the Slytherin team landed, but the blond had caught his eye for a second, just long enough to flash half a smile in congratulations. No hard feelings. Lying in bed now, the celebration party finally dispersed, Harry could feel the bruises on his ribs and shoulders from the Slytherins' more underhanded tactics. Draco had played a fairly clean game, but the rest of his team hadn't been quite so courteous. Harry didn't care. Bruises would fade. They were champions. Even the knowledge that he'd be getting his exam timetable in the morning couldn't dampen his spirits. They'd won the cup, and he would get through his exams, and the school year would be over — maybe if Sirius Black was still loose, he'd be able to stay in Diagon Alley again, if being at the Dursleys' was dangerous. They couldn't exactly station dementors in Little Whinging.

A dreamy smile crossed his face at the thought. Maybe, if he was lucky, he'd get his wish.

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