Harry Potter 1. Chapter 1

**AN: **Hi guys. Welcome to the plot bunny that I've been resisting for a really long time. I hope you enjoy your stay. This is mostly me wanting to have a story where people aren't so serious all the time. But you know, they'll probably end up being all srs business anyway. :/

**Warnings: **This story is slash.

**Disclaimer: **I'm not making any money off of this. I don't own the characters, etc. etc.

**Summary**: When Draco is hit with a mysterious curse, he must look to none other than Cursebreaker Potter to find the cure. And then it gets all slashy and fun. You know, Harry is all trying to find out whodunnit and how and Draco's curse is getting way worse and meanwhile they both realize that they might have something that ought to be explored and perhaps pervy nasty naughtiness may ensue. It's a mystery! An adventure! Slightly romantic! I don't feel like writing a summary, can you tell?

* * *

"I can't feel my hands," Draco said suddenly, rubbing his fingers together with a confused expression.

"Have you been sitting on them, or something?" Pansy asked, absently flipping through the newest issue of Witch Weekly.

"No, I have not been sitting on them. Why would I be sitting on them?" Draco snapped, now wringing his wrists in an attempt to get his blood moving to his fingers. When had his blood decided to stop moving there in the first place?

"Well, I dunno, give yourself a stranger and whatnot…"

"_Pansy!" _Draco said between his teeth, "Really. Here, in front of you? What do you think I am, some kind of animal?"

Pansy merely waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Draco sighed, rolling his eyes. "Keep your pervy naughty nastiness to yourself, please," he huffed, now flopping his hands uselessly against the sofa.

Pansy grabbed his wrist, holding it down against the couch. "Draco, cut it out with the crazy or I'm going to have to hit you. I'm trying to read."

Draco stared at her hand on his wrist, going a little pale. "I can't feel that…" he said, just as the mediwizard opened the door to the waiting room and ushered Pansy in for her appointment.

"Well, this is my stop," Pansy said, heaving her very pregnant self off the couch. "You just take the crazy train back down the hall and set up your own appointment, or quit freaking out. My kid can hear you, you know," she said, rubbing her belly tenderly. "thanks for waiting with me, anyway. Blaise can be such a prick."

"Language, Parkinson. Your kid can hear you," Draco said before taking her advice and heading back down the hall. Not to make an appointment, though- just to leave. St. Mungo's gave him the willies worse than a graveyard on Halloween after a scary movie.

He wasn't that concerned about his hands, not yet. It was probably just the way he was sitting. Or maybe it was colder in the waiting room than he realized. It wouldn't be a problem unless the numbness kept on spreading, he reasoned, fumbling with the door out of St. Mungo's.

And so it wasn't a problem for at least another fifteen minutes, when he suddenly could not feel his robes brushing against his elbows. Draco stopped. He had, by then, made it to the apparition point and was now securely in his own living room where he was sure that the temperature was completely perfect. He was not sitting down. He wasn't doing anything at all that would have logically caused this numbness. He fumbled in his robe pocket for his wand and came up empty handed. Swearing, he moved into the light and peered into his pocket (why did it have to be so deep!?), visually locating his wand before negotiating his numb fingers towards it.

Once he had it in his grasp, he cast a warming charm at his left hand. Nothing.

He went on to try several charms and spells, everything from scourgify to ennervate, which made his fingers twitch but caused no feeling whatsoever. Frustrated, he cast a stinging hex at his left hand. Nothing.

"Damn," Draco said, and apparated back to St. Mungo's.

This was annoying. A little weird and kind of eerie, but mostly it was annoying. Spending the day at St. Mungo's… he shivered. So many sick and injured people… it was like the war here, almost. It _was _a war here. A war against dying.

"Can I help you, sir?" asked the irritable looking witch at the front desk.

"Yes, I'm here for treatment. My hands are-"

"Spell damage? Magical malady? Artifact accident? Creature induced?"

"I'm not sure, exactly-"

"Pain and swelling? Tingling? Uncontrollable urge to hit small children?"

"No—What?—No, none of that. I can't feel anything," Draco said before the witch could interrupt, "Completely numb," he added, wiggling his fingers.

"And you have no idea why," She said tiredly. It was a statement, not a question, so Draco didn't answer. "Spell damage, level 4," she pointed down the hall toward the lift. "Next!" she cried, and a woman with a large unicorn horn sprouting out of her forehead shoved past him.

"Weird," Draco mumbled to himself and rode the lift up to level four. Being in St. Mungo's gave him another reason to hate being in St. Mungo's, he thought. Coming here was hardly ever a good thing. Nor, he amended, a normal thing: sharing the lift with him was a man with huge elephant ears and a small boy with green oozing boils clinging to a mother who looked like she might vomit at any moment. Draco hastily shuffled away from them and waited impatiently for the doors to open to his level.

After they opened, he was ushered out by a frantic looking attendant and into the back of another line. Brilliant.

By the time he was halfway to the front, he was not sure whether he could feel his shoulders.

By the time he finally reached the desk, he was quite positive he could not feel his shoulders.

"And what seems to be the trouble, sir?" asked the mediwitch behind the desk, searching him in vain for a dog's tail or a parrot's beak or some other equally strange ailment.

"I can't feel my arms. They've gone completely numb."

"And what spell were you using?" She asked with a small smirk.

_Pervy nasty naughtiness,_ Draco thought bitterly before responding: "I didn't use any spell at all."

The mediwitch blinked up at him.

"You are aware, sir, that this level is for spell damage?"

"Yes, I am aware," said Draco with increasing frustration, "I've been waiting here for nearly an hour, you see, and the numbness is spreading. The witch at the entrance sent me to this level and I would like to see a healer _now,_ please."

"Very well, sir," she said tiredly, "Your name?"

"Draco Malfoy."

_That_ got him a second look, alright.

"To the left, room six," she said in a cooler tone than before.

"Thanks." He gave a deep, exaggerated bow and walked to his room.

It was maybe another twenty minutes before the healer entered. Luckily, the numbness seemed to be content now that it had taken his arms entirely and had stopped spreading. Draco was glad; he wasn't very interested in trying to walk on numb legs.

The healer that entered his room was a plump, elderly woman with a bun of frizzy gray hair and small blue eyes.

"Hello," she said in a light sing-song tone, "I'm Healer Nelson. What seems to be the problem, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco explained his problem for the third time, and Healer Nelson listened with rapt attention. She, at least, did not seem to suffer from the same prejudices as the last mediwitch.

"And you don't remember casting any spells?"

"None."

"Do you recall having a spell cast on you?"

"No."

"Very well. I beg your pardon, Mr. Malfoy," she said, before murmuring a spell that cast droplets of golden light towards Draco that seemed to wriggle under his skin. He could see them glowing as they zoomed through his veins to the tips of his fingers, where they seemed to exit under his finger nails and coagulate into a large golden ball with Healer Nelson caught in her outstretched hand.

After examining it, Healer Nelson sighed. "Well it's good news and it's bad news, I'm afraid."

"Good news first, please, I've had a rough day," Draco deadpanned.

"Well the good news is that it isn't a medical issue. Your body is fine. Which brings me to the bad news: You must have been hit with a spell or a curse. Since you say you cast no spell yourself, that means that someone has deliberately done this to you. It also means that we do not know what spell or potion might reverse this curious ailment, if it is reversible. I also do not know if the problem will worsen or if it has done what it intended to do."

"That's a whole lot of 'I don't know,'" Draco said (not nervously, mind you), "I mean, with that much I-don't-know, what happens next?"

"Well," said Healer Nelson with a sigh, "You can stay here for observation. We can try to learn more and treat the symptoms. Or of course, you can seek outside help from a cursebreaker. That's what I recommend, if you can spare the time."

Draco awkwardly flopped his right arm against his side. "I think I can spare the time."

"Very well," Said Healer Nelson, "I have a list of St. Mungo's recommended cursebreakers. Should you chose one, he or she should hopefully be able to identify the type of curse or spell used against you and devise some way to reverse it. I would recommend a cursebreaker who also has training as a mediwitch or wizard since we do not know how else you may be effected."

"Ok, I can do that," Draco said, "Just tell me the best cursebreaker you know."

Healer Nelson smiled, disbursing the golden ball of light into the air. "The best in the field is Cursebreaker Potter. Very busy man, in high demand. Unless someone up there likes you a whole lot, I'd say it's nearly impossible to get him on such short notice."

"Cursebreaker Potter. Not Harry Potter?" Draco asked, suddenly very disenchanted with the universe as a whole.

"Of course," Said Nelson.

_It bloody well would be._

_

* * *

AN: _My backspace button is squeaky. Anyways, please leave a review. I tend to start things and not finish them, but reviews help me want to finish them. And that helps you. See?


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: **hahaha. I really have nothing to say for myself. I'm pretty sure this has been written since last year. WELL BETTER LATE THAN NEVER. Looking to update my other stories too... east of the sun and probably masking dawn. ALRIGHT LETS GO

* * *

Once Draco was home again, the situation didn't seem nearly so serious as it had at St. Mungo's. So his arms were numb, so what? What's a little numbness between friends? He needn't leap to any conclusions, nor leap into treatment with any ex-school rivals turned sickeningly heroic and famous and (probably) filthy rich.

No, he could take time to research all alternatives extensively. His wand didn't care if his motions were floppy and awkward, and that's all that mattered. Well, mostly. _Not_ being floppy and awkward would be nice too, he thought with a sigh, and set to work.

He had the list of recommended cursebreakers from Healer Nelson, and he started there. He looked them up in libraries, checked their rankings in the wizarding classifieds, sent owls to trustworthy and knowledgeable witches and wizards he was acquaintances with. And to his disgust, every avenue he explored led him to the same result: Harry Potter. He was the best cursebreaker in modern history. It was sickening, but Draco had never settled for less than the best.

"Of course, there's a first time for everything, right?" He asked Pansy the next weekend. The Zabinis had been kind enough to invite him to dinner, despite the way his fork seemed to constantly miss his mouth ("It's harder than it looks," Draco had said testily).

"No, dear, there's only a first time for things worth trying," said Pansy in an all-suffering tone of voice. "It's great that you're trying to be less narrow-minded, branching out to second best and all, but I really don't think that now is the opportune time. This is your health, not a restaurant."

Draco wrinkled his nose, clearly more disconcerted by the thought of dining at a second-rate establishment than the thought of receiving second-rate treatment.

"Don't be an idiot, mate," said Blaise from the other side of the table, "He's the best and you're a Malfoy. There's really no other option here."

"Fine, I'll keep that in mind," Draco said, "But it's only affected my arms and it's been a week, so I think I have time to look into out-of-country treatment."

This last comment was met with a low groan from Pansy and the sound of Blaise's forehead meeting his palm. Draco, with an unwavering assurance that he was doing the right thing, doggedly plowed through the rest of his dinner. And he only missed his mouth twice.

He woke up the next morning with a renewed fervor, determined to search the whole of Europe. There was an excellent cursebreaker in France, he was sure he had heard, and the Malfoys did have their summer home in Chateauroux. It would be a wonderful vacation, even if only half of his limbs would be able to adequately enjoy it.

Frighteningly optimistic, Draco threw back his covers and got out of bed.

In a perfect world, he would have gracefully alighted on his feet and swept out the bedroom door, down the stairs, through the hall, and into the kitchen where there was assuredly a breakfast feast waiting for him.

But then again, in a perfect world, Draco would have always beat Potter at Quidditch, his father would not be in Azkaban, and Draco would have been able to feel his feet.

A perfect world would have been nice, but as it was, Draco had stumbled on what felt like nothing and was now being suffocated by the plush carpet on his bedroom floor.

He awkwardly hoisted himself into a sitting position, his legs straight in front of him and his arms hanging uselessly at his sides. No, _nononono _this could _not _be happening. Why now? It had been fine for a week. He hadn't gotten any worse and he'd been sure the numbness had stopped spreading. Why would it suddenly return, and why today? Just when he'd gotten his hopes back up.

He proceeded to try out an awkward feeling test. His fingers brushed the soles of his feet, and he felt nothing. It was like he was watching someone else do it, for all the good he felt. He poked his toes, and felt nothing. He touched the tops of his feet, and he felt _that_, but he had the feeling that it wasn't going to last long.

He hoisted himself upwards, using the bed to hold on to. His arms and legs _worked_ fine. His fingers curled into fists when he wanted them to and his feet could evidently carry his weight… the problem was not that they didn't work, it was that suddenly they didn't work the way that had for his whole life. Suddenly it was very different. He felt like a newborn trying to learn how to walk and grab and hold. And when he didn't _focus,_ he slipped up.

For instance, as soon as he stopped staring at his feet to assure himself that they were in fact on the ground and holding him up, his body lurched forward as if trying to compensate for something and he toppled over again.

It was like some strange sort of vertigo. And it made the trek to the breakfast table seem much, much longer and entirely not worth it. The stairs alone seemed like an impossible task.

Draco could feel his lungs slowly closing in around large wooshes of air as his heart rate went into double time. If he could feel his palms, they'd probably be sweaty. He was certainly feeling dizzy, and just a little bit _freaked out of his mind_.

"Calm down, calm down," he muttered to himself, "This isn't the worst thing that's happened to you." He clenched his eyes shut against the memories of the things that had been worse. Those were things that were to be forgotten, now that the war had ended.

But it was good to remember that he'd lived through them. And if he could live through that- torture, fear, malice- then he could live through anything. He was a _wizard_, after all, there had to be some sort of way to fix this.

But the only thing that came to mind was Harry Potter.

"It bloody well would be."

By the time Draco made it to the dining room, he was sure that more than half of his body was bruised, and he'd also decided that perhaps people living in small houses weren't insane- they just planned ahead.

If anyone ever planned on spontaneously losing feeling, that is.

He had been right in guessing the numbness would continue to spread- it was now to his ankles. It was like quicksand, only worse, because there was no crawling out of it.

He wasn't very hungry, but he stabbed at his breakfast anyway. He thought about stabbing himself in he arm too, just to see, but didn't want to risk the scarring.

Draco groaned. He was _going crazy._

And he realized that there was nothing to be done but to see Potter, and the fact that he accepted that only made him feel more crazy. He'd had values, once. He'd had _standards._

He'd had fully operational limbs, then, too. Things really do change, he thought bitterly, as he summoned a house elf to take down a letter. He didn't have the energy to attempt to write it himself.

The house-elf Lolly, scrawny even for an elf, appeared promptly with a quill already in hand. Draco had to stifle an odd burst of emotion in his chest- his elves knew him so well.

"Good morning, Master Malfoy. I can be writing a letter for you, yes?" she asked, procuring a smooth piece of parchment from seemingly nowhere.

"Yes, thank you, Lolly. Address it to Harry Potter."

Lolly nearly dropped the quill before regaining her composure. But her eyes had grown to the size of dinner plates. Fortunately house elves don't ask questions.

"Potter," Malfoy dictated, "I have learned… no. Scratch that, Lolly. Potter, it has come to my attention that…"

Draco trailed off, smoothing his hair in frustration. How exactly did one go about asking their old nemesis for help? Pride alone wouldn't let Draco sound too desperate, but courtesy dictated that Draco at least try to ingratiate himself with the man.

"Oh bollocks, it's not like it's going to matter once he sees who it's from anyway," Draco growled. "Alright Lolly, let's start over."

Harry leaned back in his desk, closing his eyes. It had been a long day, and it was still far from over. While in between clients, he liked to just relax and clear his mind.

He loved his work. Everyone had expected him to be an auror, surely, or a quidditch player, but the war had exhausted Harry's desire for active combat and he wanted no part of the fame that playing quidditch would add. Cursebreaking was perfect.

He was still helping people, but for once none of his successes could be attributed to sheer dumb luck. He could actually feel proud of what he accomplished.

But even though he loved what he did, it was a difficult profession full of headaches and dead ends and he had more clients then he knew what to do with. Peaceful moments were rare, which is why Harry was less than pleased when he heard the telltale clacking of an owl at the window.

He opened his eyes with a sigh and went to let the bird in. The owl was massive, with sleek and softly shining feathers. An elegant creature, and proud in a way that reminded him of Hedwig.

Definitely from a well to do household. Slightly curious, Harry untied the letter. He broke open the seal, which was a peacock and which he didn't recognize, to reveal precise script on thick parchment:

_Dear Potter,_

_I find myself in need of your services. _

_I would like to meet with you as soon as possible. I assure you I can make it worth your while. _

_Regards,_

_Draco Malfoy_

_

* * *

**AN: **There used to be a warning on my page about how bad I can be at updates. I should probably put it back up._


End file.

Harry Potter, Mystery