Draco Malfoy Imagines

Healing Hands (sequel to Healer)

Summary: Draco arrives at the readers flat to build the bookshelves.

Warnings: a little bit steamy

Word count: 1.6k

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A knock on the door signals his arrival. The butterflies in your stomach haven't settled since you walked out of St Mungo's.

"I brought Chinese food," He says as way of greeting.

You groan, moving to the side to let him in, "My saviour. I am so hungry."

He places the food on the table, leaning against the kitchen counter as you grab the plates and cutlery. It all felt very domestic; having Draco in your kitchen, in your home. It felt right.

"How was work?" You ask him, grabbing the takeout boxes.

"It was long, but I had this one patient – hurt herself building a bookshelf, if you can believe it."

"She sounds like an independent woman," You state, raising an eyebrow as you lift a forkful of food to your mouth.

Draco swallows his mouthful, "I don't doubt it, but she was the highlight of my shift. It helped that she was cute."

"Was!?" You shout, affronted.

He laughs, hands up, relenting, "Okay, you're always cute."

You point your fork at him, "That is correct, Draco. I'm ridiculously cute."

Draco smiles; the kind of smile where his eyes crinkle and his teeth show. It makes him look so much younger and you wonder how long it has been since he's had evening like this.

"You didn't have to do this, Draco. I completely understand if you just wanted to go home and sleep."

"I want to do this. I want to spend more time with you," He says, honestly.

"You know Draco, I think you might be too good for this world."

"Don't be silly. Now hand me the instructions." Draco mutters, grabbing the instructions and holding the close to his face – an attempt to hide the blush you had so easily brought to his cheeks with a number of words.

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The bookshelves start to take shape in no time at all. Draco does most of the work, only accepting minimum work from you.

"Wouldn't want you to hurt yourself again," He says as if it's a good enough reason.

"Nonsense. Hand me the instructions, Malfoy, I am the resident expert on Ikea flatpack."

"I think the screwdriver begs to differ."

"Oh, we're making jokes now. We're joking about my injury?" You gasp, holding your injured hand to your heart, pouting at the blonde-haired man in front of you.

Draco laughs; the sound of it making its home in your heart. At Hogwarts, you never knew such a warm, luscious sound could fall from his mouth.

You remember your vow from earlier; determined to make that sound the soundtrack of the rest of your life.

Draco focuses on connecting the piece of wood that would make the back panel of the bookshelf. "How did you get into writing?"

"It was a coping mechanism after the war."

He nods silently, a sign for you to continue. "I picked up a pen one day and didn't stop until I had written my first book. It needed editing, desperately, so I did that. And then there were further revisions and such but after a couple of months, I had my first book, I sent it off to a publisher, and I was sleeping through the night again."