This work is part of the Seven Shades of Sin anthology, the first in a series of planned collaborative projects within the Seven Shades of Drarry collective. Each Sin has been written by a different author. Please see this account's Author Profile for more information on the anthology, the collective, and each individual author.

Summary: It's been ten years since that strange man with his strange condition showed up in Healer Potter's office, setting off a chain reaction none of them could've ever predicted. A getting-together story involving puzzling symptoms, inefficient coworkers and a life-altering turn of events that caught them both blind-sided.

Tags/Warnings: EWE, HP/DM, Healer Harry, Potioneer Draco, Fluff

Sloth — the absence of interest or habitual disinclination to exertion.

Author's notes:

Thank you, my brilliant Shady Ladies, for all that you are and all that you do. This fic wouldn't have been the same without you — or, rather, it never would've even existed if it weren't for you.

English is not my native language so please be kind if you find any errors I've missed. That said, I'll appreciate any feedback you're willing to give me — follows, favs and reviews are my primary life sources.

Disclaimer: All characters belong to — and are reverently borrowed from — JKR and associated publishers.

Sloth | Lazy Days

by Drarrelie

Chapter 1

Now

A soft ray of sunlight peeking through the gap in the curtains is what brings Harry awake this morning. Its warm tendrils brush gently over his skin, ghost over his eyelids and draw a content smile from his lips.

Harry can't even remember the last time he woke up like this; allowed a late morning lie-in without a care in the world. Months, surely, if not years. If it's not the buzz of an alarm spell rousing him for another workday, it's one of their kids craving attention or a neighbour bustling around at sunrise o'clock.

Today is different, though, Harry reminds himself — special. Just as it should be.

When Draco asked him what he wanted to do for their anniversary, this was what Harry wished for. Not a romantic weekend away at some luxury resort or a hip city on the continent; not tickets to a Quidditch game or a West End show; not a fancy dinner at any of those snazzy restaurants Draco always says he wants to take him to; not even a relaxed garden-party with their friends and family. Just this; them, alone. One day for just the two of them, as a break from the hectic chaos that is their ordinary family life.

They'll probably still end up going to one of those restaurants tonight — knowing Draco, he's probably booked the table already several weeks ago — but that's perfectly okay. It's called compromising. It's what you do in a marriage if you want it to work and last longer than a package of toilet rolls.

There's a blackbird singing in the birches outside, its cheerful song finding its way through the slightly ajar window. Without opening his eyes, Harry can feel the presence of his husband's body next to him, Draco's warmth reaching out to mingle with his own in the space between them.

Despite their many years together, Harry can attest mornings like these have been few and far between. He can't even remember the last time they woke up side by side, without one of them already up and about, preparing breakfast and entertaining the kids.

And honestly, waking up like this wasn't all that usual before the children either. Back in those days, they still slept entangled in one another's limbs, half on top of each other or spooning, and their morning routine almost always commenced with a rock-hard morning wood pressing against a hip or an arse cheek — or devoured by a hot hungry mouth.

They used to be insatiable then; almost incapable of keeping their hands off each other whenever they happened to be in the same room — even in the company of others, much to their friends' dismay. Harry can't help the grin from spreading across his face at the recollection, finally giving in to the urge to open his eyes and look at the man he loves.

Draco is lying on his side, his face close enough for Harry to see the familiar features clearly even without his glasses, and Harry's heart melts at the sight of ruffled blond hair, pillow-creases on a pale cheek, and rosy lips curved into a fond smile.

"Hi," Draco murmurs softly, his voice husky from sleep.

Harry shifts his gaze to meet his husband's warm grey eyes, currently sparkling with amusement.

"Mornin'," Harry says, clearing his throat to wake up his own vocal cords. "Watching me sleep, eh?"

"Maybe," Draco hums and lifts a hand to trace the length of Harry's arm before carding his slender fingers through Harry's unruly locks. "What were you thinking about just now? You were smiling like a loon."

"You," Harry says, reaching over to place a light kiss on the tip of Draco's nose. "Us."

"Yeah?"

The hand that's been entangled in Harry's hair travels further back to curl around the nape of his neck, keeping Harry close enough for Draco to press his soft lips to Harry's own. The kiss they share is slow and tender, affectionate and unhurried — so unlike those hungry desperate kisses they used to crave in the beginning.

Back then, every kiss was spiked with desire, ablaze with pent-up emotions from nearly two decades of charged confrontations and a magnetic pull none of them had been able to identify at the time. Back then, every touch was laced with the awe of something too good to be true, mixed with the fear of it suddenly coming to an end — of waking up one day, only to find it all being nothing but a dream.

Harry groans as Draco draws back, fluttering his eyes open as Draco cups his jaw and strokes the pad of his silky-smooth thumb over Harry's flushed cheek.

"So, what's the plan for today?" he says.

"No plan," Harry says, smiling as he watches the crease form between Draco's brows as he frowns. Draco always needs to have a plan, or he'll get restless and itchy. "Don't worry, love, I reckon we just do whatever the hell we want."

"And what do you want?"

"How about just staying in bed?"

Draco is awfully adorable when he's going for his incredulous look, with his bright eyes comically wide and those neat pale eyebrows raised halfway towards his hairline.

"You want us to lie here all day? You know sloth is a deadly sin, right?"

"So, let's sin," Harry grins, waggling his eyebrows as he wraps his arm around Draco's waist and pulls him closer. "Let's be slothy for a day, just you and me."

"Slothy?" Draco snorts, "I'm pretty sure that's not a word."

"So? It's not like we're playing Scrabble or anything." Harry chuckles, feeling rather pleased with himself as the corner of Draco's mouth twitches from repressed amusement. "Slothy, slothful, slothsome. I don't care what it's called — I want it. Besides—" Harry leans in, pressing another kiss on Draco's petulant lips, feeling them soften beneath his own before drawing back and giving Draco a mischievous wink. "Considering what finally brought us together, wouldn't sloth be just the perfect theme for our anniversary?"

Draco sighs and rolls his eyes, and Harry can only snicker at his husband's antics. He may be frustrating at times, if not downright annoying, and he's such a fucking drama queen. But, he's Harry's annoying drama queen, and no matter how much they bicker and banter, Harry wouldn't want him any other way.

— ¤ — ¤ —

Then

"Well, Mrs Jugson," Harry said, pinching the bridge of his nose, "I honestly don't know what to tell you."

"You don't—?" Piercing blue eyes stared back at him from under furrowed brows. "And you call yourself a Healer?"

"Yes," Harry said calmly, silently counting down from ten, "as a matter of fact, I do."

It wasn't the first time he'd been questioned in his profession, and while it used to bother him in the beginning, it didn't sting all that much anymore. Harry had been at St Mungo's for nearly a decade now; he knew he was good at what he did.

Also, he knew that look. It was not mistrust, but concern. Worry. Anxiety.

"So, why can't you tell me what's wrong with my husband?"

"Because we don't know yet," Harry answered honestly. "We're still waiting for the tests to come back from the lab."

He gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile before glancing over at Mr Jugson by her side. Just looking at him, you wouldn't suspect there was anything wrong with the man. He didn't seem to have any injuries, neither superficial nor internal, and the standard Diagnostic Spells hadn't given Harry much to work with either.

Except for the heart rate. The extremely low heart rate.

Any other patient with a heart rate that slow would've passed out a long time ago, and yet, curiously enough, this middle-aged man just sat there calmly in the visiting chair across from him, scratching his forearm as he looked at Harry expectantly.

"If you don't mind, Mr Jugson, I'd like to keep you overnight for observation. Just until we know what caused your current condition."

Mr Jugson blinked — slowly — before — slowly — nodding his consent.

And this was the symptom that currently had half of St Mungo's frowning in confusion. It was as if Mr Jugson were living in slow motion; as if he existed in a separate timeline of sorts — a timeline which ran at least ten times slower than the usual one. And Harry didn't know if he'd rather laugh at it all, or cry out in frustration — the only thing he knew was, he really shouldn't do either of the two.

Instead, he gave his patient a nod of approval before reaching for his quill and jotting down a short note for his colleagues to prepare a bed for the night. As it flew off towards the Mediwizards' station, Harry turned back to the worried woman in front of him.

"I'll let you know as soon as we have any news to share. We have yet to determine the reason for your husband's current state and—"

"You mean to tell me you don't even know what this is? Surely, there must be previous cases you could—"

"No, ma'am, I'm afraid there isn't."

Harry knew he was breaking one of the cardinal rules of his Healer code by telling her this — admitting lack of knowledge or uncertainty only tends to cause distress, for patients as well as next-of-kins — but the urge to tell this woman the truth was currently stronger than Harry's loyalty to his vocation.

"We have several people already searching for the root to your husband's condition as we speak, and the only thing I can say with certainty at this point is, there shouldn't be any cause for alarm; your husband's not ill or injured, nor is he suffering from his symptoms — he's just…"

"…slow."

"Exactly," Harry said, pleased to witness the tension draining from Mrs Jugson's shoulders. "In fact, if you don't mind, there's a way in which you could help the process along."

"How?" Mrs Jugson asked, her eyes widening as she leaned forward.

"To be able to discern how your husband became affected, it'd be helpful if you could provide information regarding your husband's last couple of days; his whereabouts, his doings, any unusual behaviour, his food intake, any people he's been in contact with, et cetera."

"But, of course," she said determined, "anything you need, Healer Potter."

"Thank you, Mrs Jugson, that'd be most appreciated. I'll have a Mediwizard come and go through it all with you in a few moments." Harry assembled Mr Jugson's file and rose from his chair. "If there's anything you need in the meantime, just tap your wand against my desk three times and someone will be with you shortly."

Harry managed to keep his professional face intact until he was out the door, hiding the emotional turmoil raging within. He took a deep breath, then another, before resolutely heading towards his Senior Healer's office.

— ¤ — ¤ —

Over his years in St Mungos, Harry had been approached by the board several times, their hands laden with offerings of higher management positions neatly wrapped up in glossy incentives and fancy ribbons of praise. He declined their offers every time, of course; partly because his Gringotts vault was loaded enough for him to not need any increases of salary, like, ever — or any salary at all, to be honest — and partly because he actually liked the practical aspects of his work. Mostly, though, it was because he didn't want anything to do with the politics and the bureaucracy, not to mention all those endless board meetings that'd inevitably come with a position like that.

No, the Management Team of St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries was not exactly lauded for their efficiency or decisiveness; rather the opposite, if truth be told. And today was apparently no exception to the rule, because evidently the hospital had no routines in place for handling yet-to-be-diagnosed patients.

So, since no one yet knew what had triggered Mr Jugson's current state, Harry's decision to keep him overnight for observation brought about a whole new level of confusion for his superiors. Seeing as the hospital usually categorised its patients by cause of condition, it took the executives a good while to finally come to a decision on which ward the poor man should best be admitted to.

Depending on the cause of this new mysterious condition — which Harry, unofficially, had started to refer to as Slowmongitis — Mr Jugson could've actually belonged to any one of the hospital's five wards: Potions and Plants, if provoked by something ingested; Artifact Accidents, if by contact with a cursed object; Magical Bugs, if it was due to an infection or virus of some sort; or, if his condition turned out to be a reaction to any form of spell-damage, even with Harry and his colleagues up here in the Janus Thickey Ward on fourth. The only ward left out of the equation, for the time being, was the "Dangerous" Dai Llewellyn Ward for Serious Bites, seeing as they only treated creature-induced injuries and Mr Jugson, at least from the looks of it, seemed to be physically unharmed.

True to their reputation, the Ward Managers ended up spending no less than six hours in the boardroom discussing this issue, throwing Mr Jugson's case back and forth between them like a hot potato about to explode. None of them felt obliged to take responsibility for the care of a yet-to-be-diagnosed patient — not to mention the trials and tribulations associated with the researching, identifying, and recording of a previously unknown disease.

Ultimately, the fate of Mr Jugson was dropped right back into Harry's lap as his boss, Senior Healer Codswallop, drew the short straw between them. And that, only because they all agreed — lo and behold! — Mr Jugson should be kept separate, due to risk of contagion, and their ward was the only one with a spare room to offer.

If it could even count as a room.

Harry muttered every non-magical curse he could come up with as he drew his wand and started transfiguring the former supply cupboard into something a little more fitting to accommodate the new patient and his enigmatic condition. Harry was a Healer, damn it, and a bloody good one, too — not a member of the Maintenance staff. He shouldn't have had to spend his time prepping rooms; he should've been taking care of his patients. But what else was there to do when the Maintenance Department insisted every request for their services be submitted in writing by way of a ten-page form, in triplicate? And even if you, by some miraculous serendipity, managed to fill out their form to their liking, there was still an expected two-week turnaround regardless of the level of urgency. So, if you ever wanted anything done in this place, you'd just have to do it yourself.

Half an hour later, after several extension charms, a couple of colouring charms, and countless cleaning charms, the room looked nearly habitable. Harry's entire body ached when he cast the final enchantment at the far wall, creating the illusion of a large window providing the room with a warm afternoon glow.

Harry slumped down on the edge of a rickety chair and let out an audible sigh as he tilted his head from side to side, working out the kinks in his tense neck. His shift had ended several hours ago and yet, here he was again, missing out on another dinner with his friends, thanks to his superiors' complete lack of efficiency and respect for their patients and personnel. Hell, how hard could it possibly be? One patient, five wards. Even a group of assorted Pygmy Puffs would've been able to come to a decision in under thirty minutes. If push came to shove, you could even draw lots, or roll a die, or why not execute the good old eeny meeny miny moe? Instead, they'd kept Harry and his patient waiting for hours on end — hours Harry would never get back.

As if you would've done anything productive with those hours even if you did get them back, said a snide nagging voice in his head — that voice, which sounded so much like Aunt Petunia. (And also, to be honest, a little bit like Hermione.)

Harry snorted, watching the dust particles dance in his conjured ray of sunlight. It wasn't like he needed someone telling him he didn't have a life outside of the hospital. He knew. He knew he spent too much time wrapped up in his work. He knew he never went out anymore. He knew he spent too much of his spare time alone in his flat. He knew he'd never find his Someone Special this way.

He knew; because Ron and Hermione always made sure to remind him of it every chance they got.

And it wasn't like he didn't want to go out; to meet up with old friends or to make new ones. It wasn't like he didn't want to find someone to share his life with. Because he did. He really, really did. Especially every time he witnessed the love between his two best friends. He wanted that. He wanted what they had. He wanted it so desperately. It was just—

Too much. Too hard. Too bothersome.

Putting yourself out there, exposing yourself to people who thought they knew you, but didn't. People who thought they were going out on a date with a hero, a somebody — only to end up across the table from a disappointingly ordinary anybody. Harry had long since lost count of how many blind dates his friends had set him up with through the years; had long since lost the will to agree to another one ever again.

And it was easy for Ron and Hermione to tell him not to give up, to say it would be worth it. They, who had fallen in love with their best friend before they had even been out of school. Harry couldn't think of anyone who'd ever know him that way, who'd ever know him well enough to see him for him — Harry. Not Harry Potter; the Chosen One; the fucking Saviour; the bloody Boy Who Lived.

Harry shuddered at the loathed epithets as they echoed through his mind. He'd never asked for any of it, had never wanted to be anyone's hero. And yet, that's what he'd become.

And if you thought the hero was bound to get his Happily Ever After at the end of the line, you'd better think again. Apparently, Lonely Ever After was more like it.

— ¤ — ¤ —

Two weeks later, there was still no answer in sight regarding Mr Jugson's peculiar condition. In fact, Harry wouldn't be surprised if everyone but himself had forgotten all about his case by now, or at least shelved it since there weren't any life-threatening symptoms to speed up the process. Whenever Harry got down to the lab to check for updates, they only shrugged at him, muttering and frowning as they attempted to analyse the various tests they had Harry perform on his poor patient. Or rather, patients.

Because, during the last fortnight, no less than eleven people had shown up to join Mr Jugson in Harry's new Slowmongitis ward. Just one more, and Harry would have an entire baker's dozen of slow-motioned patients to attend to, and he feared their number would only increase if he didn't find a solution to this conundrum soon.

The once-upon-a-time cupboard had endured so many extension charms lately that it was threatening to collapse completely from the strain of holding itself together, and the pile of patient files on Harry's desk only seemed to grow higher by the minute. Apart from his own diagnostics results and observations records, there were also research journals from the lab and meticulous notes from the statements Harry had persuaded his patients' friends and relatives to give. Together, all these documents made up a confusing puzzle. A puzzle Harry was dying to solve.

He had no idea how many extra hours he'd spent in his office these last couple of weeks, going through the documents over and over again in search of an answer. Harry had never had any reason to mistrust his gut feeling before — quite the contrary, his hunches had saved lives many times over — so why start questioning it now? He just knew the solution to this case was buried somewhere deep within all those seemingly disconnected facts and figures. He just needed to find it.

— ¤ — ¤ —

It took another week before anything happened — another week of incompetent lab workers, lackadaisical executives, and trance-like movements driving Harry half-insane — before the executive board finally deigned to consider the fate of his Slowmongitis patients.

The reason; the Chief Healer's son was infected.

And in a flash, all of St Mungo's were in a tizzy, everyone all but frantic in their desire to find both cause and cure for the perplexing symptoms of Mr Jugson and his fellows up in Harry's makeshift ward. Although relieved to finally gain management's attention to his case, Harry was nevertheless tempted to march straight into the Chief Healer's office and point out the inappropriateness of the board's sudden change of mind.

Instead, he bit his tongue and went to his ward to care for his patients. With the addition of Chief Healer Hinmity's kid, there were now a total of twenty-three unfortunate souls occupying the former supply cupboard. And even though there wasn't much he could do to actually help, Harry had spent enough time with them during the last month for all of them to have earned a special place in his heart.

Plus, being in the presence of his dear slow-mos actually helped to soothe his frazzled nerves. Despite the frustration of wanting but not knowing how to heal them, Harry found being surrounded by people living their lives in slow-motion had a pleasantly relaxing effect — as if his body was inspired by them and wanted to adjust to the moderate pace of their doings.

Channelling this inner peace was the only thing keeping Harry calm the next morning.

He had but reached the fourth-floor landing as the bright blue memo had come flying towards him and nearly hit him in the eye. And people keep saying I should get rid of my glasses, Harry had muttered as he'd unfolded the plane-shaped parchment projectile and skimmed its content.

Chief Healer Hinmity had called for an emergency meeting, summoning all Ward Managers to his gaudy boardroom for an update on the Slowmongitis issue. Despite these gatherings ordinarily being exclusive to the higher-ups, Harry hadn't been too surprised to learn his boss required his presence for the hearing. It was no secret among the staff that Senior Healer Codswallop never had a clue about anything going on — in his ward, or elsewhere. Surely, he had anticipated a myriad of questions about Harry's patients during this meeting — questions he would've never been able to answer — and by bringing Harry along, he had assured himself a safe spot out of the line of fire.

And so here Harry was, after nearly an hour and a half, still answering questions and listening to poorly made excuses instead of tending to his patients. So far, it had felt like he was the only one in the room wanting to find a solution, the rest more interested in defending their own arses and staying as far away as possible from anything remotely close to responsibility or compassion. Harry felt ready to explode from pent-up frustration and reminded himself to take deep, unhurried breaths as he turned to meet the watery eyes of the ancient manager of St Mungo's Hospital's Laboratory for Cures and Remedies.

"Healer Potter," she said, emphasising his low-rank title to stress her displeasure with his attendance in their lofty midst. "I want you to know that my team consists of some of the brightest and most accomplished potioneers, researchers, and analysts in the country — experts who've worked day and night for almost a month attempting to find both the cause and the cure for your patients' current condition."

"I'm sure they have, Senior Healer Sourpuss," Harry lied, his most friendly smile covering the disdain simmering under the surface. "Please, do tell. Have they come to any conclusions yet?"

"No, not yet." Her brusque tone and narrowed eyes clearly conveyed her opinion on Harry calling her out among her peers.

The following silence seemed to stretch forever before Chief Healer Hinmity cleared his throat, effectively drawing everyone's attention to where he was seated at the head of the long polished oak table.

"Grizelda," he said, addressing the lab manager, "I was just thinking… With your many many years in this profession and your long-time partaking in prestigious collaborations with your peers all over the continent, you must have an outstanding network of experts you'd be able to turn to for consultation?"

The wrinkles on Senior Healer Sourpuss's forehead deepened as the woman frowned, as if she were actually considering the request. They all stayed quiet as they waited for her answer. Apparently, she needed quite some time to skim through her vast mental catalogue of people she'd met through the years. When at last she spoke, it was with a wistful look in her eyes.

"Well, I met this wizard once… A Monsieur Lecurieu. We both attended the International Potion Research Congress in Marseilles in '74, and he was the most brilliant potioneer I've ever met. Dedicated his whole career to research, trying to find the ultimate process for affliction definition and classification."

Something light and fluttery surged in Harry's chest. It sounded exactly like what they needed, almost too good to be true. Which usually means it is, Harry reminded himself, as he quelled his premature hope in wait for the inevitable but.

"If there's anyone out there capable of solving your problem, it'd be Armand," Sourpuss mused.

'Your' problem? Harry bit his tongue to prevent himself from pointing out that the well-being of his patients was an issue for all of them; her, too.

"However…"

Ah, there it was; the fancy but.

"However?" prodded Senior Healer Codswallop, voicing the sentiment of everyone present. Harry startled at his boss's unexpected voice; he was fairly sure the man beside him had been more than half-asleep for at least three-quarters of an hour.

"Well… It must be over forty years since I last saw him. I don't even know if he's still alive…"

"Only one way to find out, right?" urged the Chief Healer, piercing her with a levelled look.

"Yes, I guess so," she agreed obediently before giving him a curt nod.

— ¤ — ¤ —

Maybe Harry should've seen it coming; should've predicted the impending end of his life as he knew it; should've sensed the sparks of destiny charging the air around him the moment Senior Healer Sourpuss's memo landed on his desk.

But he didn't.

Instead, he smiled as he skimmed the note, feelings of relief and hope surging through him at the prospect of finally being able to help his ever-growing group of slow-mos return to some resemblance of normalcy.

Monsieur Armand Lecurieu was indeed alive, thank Merlin, and while he'd respectfully declined to rush to their aid himself, he had agreed to send his most promising apprentice; the one wizard he'd taught everything he knew; the one and only wizard he was confident would be able to help them.

And this protege, this potioneer extraordinaire — Harry's knight in shining armour — would arrive as early as tomorrow morning.

When Harry headed home two hours later, it was with a spring in his step and a smile on his lips.

— ¤ — ¤ —