HD 'Green…and Pink'
"I'm here."
That was Potter's voice.
"I'm sorry, Malfoy—you do know that, don't you? That I'm sorry. I didn't realize…I mean to say, I didn't intend to hurt you that badly."
Potter's voice was just as odd as laying in a bed in Pomfrey's lair was: neither fit in with what Draco was expecting. Draco had been last in the Girls' Lav and Myrtle had been there, too. Something was terribly wrong here.
"It was an accident and Snape's spelled you better, and the dittany—well, Madame Pomfrey says you'll be alright in a little while. If you rest. Snape talked to her—no one will know, alright? The Unforgiveable you cast and then what I did…"
Potter couldn't give a damn what happened to one Draco Malfoy. Draco knew that, as he knew the sun rose every morning. These things were immutable.
"I didn't mean it," Potter said again, his voice just above a whisper. The room was chilly; the Infirmary always was, at night. "Just so you know. I didn't realize it would do that. I'm really sorry, Malfoy—really."
"Potter?" Draco croaked, solely to make certain he was, in fact, hallucinating. It was obviously quite late at night; he was obviously healing from some major injury, and this must be another one of those nightmares, albeit a weirder one than usual. Potter didn't just up and hand out apologies—not to him.
Besides, he didn't deserve it. If he remembered correctly, that was.
Draco winced, and shivered a bit under the thin coverlet. The Infirmary really was cold this evening. He wondered why Madame kept it that way—was it really a sound idea, exposing the already ill to every errant breeze?
A warm, square hand wrapped around his where it lay limp on the coverlet, quite suddenly. He could feel the scratch of quick-bitten nails against his skin, the weight of bones and sinew. Without thinking, Draco turned his wrist on the rough cotton beneath him, and thrust his fingers up just that littlest bit, enough to interlace them with Potter's.
It was what he needed, and Draco was exhausted, and oh, so achy, even with the dittany and whatever else Snape had done to him. Potter's fingers chased away the fuzzy shadows that seemed to be creeping round the outer edges of his vision, the feeling that he was all alone, and hopeless. The dark itself was a shade less frightening; the cool atmosphere of the Infirmary a degree warmer.
"I'm truly sorry, Malfoy. I am. Please, please believe me."
Draco slept, and healed.
*
"Alright?"
That was twice now that Potter had done that: stopping him in the corridors of Hogwarts with a hand laid on his forearm and a searching look. He'd come to a halt, not speaking, a frown worrying away at his still pale brow, and hadn't known then, the first time, any more than now, this moment, quite what to do about this entirely unexpected development.
"Look, let me get that." Potter had his book bag in hand before Draco could do more than hiss.
"Potter! Stop that! Do you want everyone to know?"
There was that quick flashing grin—the one that said they had a secret, just the two of them—and then Potter swung into step beside Draco on the way to the Potions classroom.
"Not the details, no," he smiled. "But anything else? Sure. What do I care, anyway?"
Draco snorted. He trusted Potter as far as he could toss him—no, cancel that. He trusted Potter not at all, and especially not after he'd been nearly killed by Potter's fuck up.
"Look, just bugger off, Potty. I don't require your misplaced symp—"
Potter bumped him—hard—on the shoulder. And then again, using his weight and the unwieldy bookbags he carried to knock Draco off his balance—and right up against the wall of the corridor. The quiet, unpopulated corridor. Draco was struggling to make Potions on time, still weak as a kitten two days after Potter cursed him, and he was late enough as it was, lugging a knapsack that seemed to weigh more with every step. His skin hurt where the scars stretched; his mind's eye saw blood red as claret and yet more blood—his own!—every time he fucking well blinked, and Potty—blasted Potty!—was up Draco's nose, barmy arsehole, every chance he got!
"S'not sympathy, Malfoy. Not pity, either."
Potter seemed far too smug for his own good, the miserable little beggar, considering he'd nearly offed Draco not even seventy-two hours previous. Draco swiftly drew back his arm and made to strike the annoying twat, wincing as he did so.
Potter foiled him, as always, muscling in before Draco could get enough 'oomph' into it, blocking his access, getting closer. So very near Draco they were literally chest-to-chest, robe buttons clicking as they meshed, and Draco could feel the git's heart beat, quite as rapid as his own.
"I just—" Potter said, when Draco was just parting his lips to spit out the required insults and urgent directives for the peckerhead to take himself far, far away, safely out of Draco's sight. "I only want to kiss it better...Malfoy."
"What?"
"You heard me, Malfoy," Potter sneered. Leered? Draco's jaw sagged a bit at that.
"Like this," Potter dropped both bags, and parted Draco's robes—and then his starched-up uniform shirt, all in the same smooth motion, sweeping a palm down the pearl buttons to pop them open. And then Potter fucking kissed—kissed!—Draco's one nipple, biting it hard, on exactly on the spot the Sectumsempra curse had sliced it open, where the shiny pink weal of newly healed skin tracked through the paler rose of the aureole.
"Glad you washed up," Potter observed, indistinctly, his mouth full of gathered flesh. "Dittany tastes foul, you know."
"No!"
Draco tried to jump back, but there was the unforgiving stone of the wall behind him. He couldn't slide sideways, either; Potter had his bloody hands propped against the wall on either side of Draco's head, caging him, and he was trapped, fair and square.
"Oh, no, no—none of that," Potter warned him, and nipped Draco's abused chest quite unnecessarily hard, right on the jutting bone of his clavicle.
Draco moaned. Couldn't prevent it; hadn't ever expected this to occur in a million millennia! It was—it was. It was fucking brilliant, what Potter was doing! Not exactly gentle, and the newly healed scars puckered painfully under Potter's lips, and Draco shivered under the press of Potter's tongue—but still really, really brilliant.
But he couldn't let this just happen to him! Draco Malfoy was no little girl, to be manhandled by a headstrong Gryffindor and molested by a reviled enemy!
Draco pried his hands off Potter's shoulders—how had they come to rest there?—and grabbed at Potter's unprotected throat, his thumbs forcing Potter's chin up. Green eyes glinted dangerously at him for a second—that was all Draco had time to see before he was snogging the living daylights out of the bloody git snogging him!
Brilliant—yes, brilliant. Certainly he'd kissed Pansy, and Blaise, along the way. A few others, Ravenclaws mostly, and a number of like-minded youths he met at his parent's social gatherings. Snogging was, in and of itself, a bloody awesome activity, even if the snoggee wasn't particularly attractive. Potter, for example, Draco reflected rather hazily, was fecking ugly—skinny, speccy, obnoxious, runty little git—but he sure as shite could use that tongue of his for more than mere random insults!
"Good," Potter muttered into his mouth, "Good, good, good, Malfoy—more." Demanding bastard, Draco thought, and quite agreed. 'More' was 'good'.
He cocked his head at the right angle, driving in with the full force of his tongue, scraping it across Potter's teeth, tangling 'round cushiony humps and ridges of smooth wet interior skin, digging into the arched roof of Potter's mouth, his flexing cheeks. Finding the wanker's bloody tonsils, practically, and jabbing at them. Potter matched him, enthusiastically, dueling back-and-forth across the barrier of wet lips smacked hard together, teeth that nipped when one least expected it, either opponent, and gradually seducing Draco's tongue into treacle-slow swipes and passes.
Potter's mouth was fucking heaven, or so Draco Malfoy divined. Salt and coffee and bacon. Spearmint. His broad chest—when did that get naked?—was hot and heaving, as they battled for breath through flared nostrils, and lips that sealed, and gaped at the edges, and sealed again, slantwise and crushing hard.
There was saliva on Draco's chin, dripping. He slid the slime across Potter's determined jaw, gloating a bit as he did so—half-petty, half-tempting—and bit Potter's earlobe just before he thrust his tongue deep into the sensitive cavity of Potter's ear. The specs were knocked askew, but Potty wasn't fucking on him over that.
No—instead the dodgy feckwit took immediate advantage, gnawing on Draco's exposed throat, the hollow below his Adam's apple, his tickly nape, till Draco moaned again, and shoved his hips hard against his enemy's, forcing himself off the cold stone to do so. He had a bloody huge stiffie, bugger all, and this arsehole climbing down his windpipe was responsible!
"Get your fucking hand on me, git!" Draco ordered peremptorily, all business. "We're late enough as it is!"
"Temper, temper, Malfoy," Potter scolded, but the little prat was grinning, and Draco's flies were already open. His tailored trousers gaped, wide enough to admit a hand—one that knew what it was doing, damn it, and Draco's cock was already weeping in anticipation.
"Give me," he groaned, and groped at Potter's bits, fingers fumbling over sagging denim and a belt that was definitely second-hand and far too large for Potter's slender waist if Draco knew his men's wear. Which he did. But the state of Potty's garments didn't concern him much at the moment. There were more important things to grasp—and fondle.
"Ah!" Potter slammed his dick into Draco's palm, jerking, and squeezed the bloody shite out of Draco's own erection in reaction.
"Steady, steady!" Draco told him, and managed to get a better hold on the slippery length of throbbing flesh that was Potter's evident weakness. "Come on, Scarhead, ease up a bit. I can't do this if you fucking fight me!"
"Um," Potter stopped his unrelenting pressure and complied, and then adjusted his own handhold, releasing Draco's cock for a lonely second, long enough to lick his own palm.
"Fuck!" Draco exclaimed, when the spit-slick palm and fingers were back in business, sliding busily from his root to his swollen tip in a motion that sent a clarion call to every blood cell in his body and marched them off quick-step to his aching groin. "Fuck, Potty!"
"Yesss," Potter's voice was muffled—he was nibbling his merry way across the scars left from the Sectumsempra once more, and Draco arched his back into velvety tongue and deft hand, and felt oddly helpless under their determined ministrations. Potter bucked and rubbed against him like a wild animal, rocking on the balls of his feet.
"Thass' egg'sssellent, M'foy," Draco was informed. Potter's cheek burned where it lay against Draco's pecs. "Bloody, um, brilliant!"
"Faster!" Draco cried out, not caring a whit what Potty thought about all this. He was too caught up—hating Scarhead on general principle; contrarily adoring the git's broom-nimble hands—flyer's hands, they were; sure and steady, and knew their way about a Wizard's knob end—despising the fact that they were both spectacularly late to Potions and would absolutely be catching Hades for it from Professor Snape, and dizzy. Dizzy with want, and waves of narcotic lust pulsing and flowing between them, and the feel of that slippery tongue arrowing down the flinching tracks of his newest, most gruesome reminders of one Harry Potter, arch-nemesis.
"Gods! Malfoy!" Potter gasped, when Draco milked the tight, down-covered sacs that lay beneath the bastard's jutting prick. "Malfoy!"
No, rather a muffled scream, that, Draco decided, and then the arse came like a fucking fountain, spurting creamy gobs all over Draco's scarred ribs and abdomen, speckling all the raised edges of just-closed wounds Potter's searching mouth hadn't gotten to just yet.
"Uhhnnggh!" Draco groaned, and did the same, practically collapsing onto the smaller boy, knees wibbly and fingertips numb from gather-grasp-squeeze-twist, and his entire innards were afire, and blazing up hot and his brain was fried mush and bloody well useless. Luckily, Scarhead wasn't his usual useless self and managed to catch hold of Draco before he slid down the wall entirely, rucking his loosened robes up under his armpits.
"Mmm," Potty hummed after another few seconds of panting silence. "That was a bit of an alright, Malfoy. We're bloody fucked for time, though. Come on—hurry it up with your britches, git. Snape'll surely half-kill us both as it is."
"Piss off, you weedy little peasant!"
Draco was not best pleased to be interrupted post-coital mental hols, and even less so when it was that imbecile headcase Potty that was the bloke bothering him with tiny, crucial details, such as scheduled lectures, and the current condition of partial skiving in relation to them. But the prat had a valid point: Snape was a right buggering arsehole about handing out evil-minded detentions, and they were practically signed up at this late point in the game for a stellar night spent together in the dusty Trophy Room, polishing till their respective fingers bled, as it lay.
"I don't know what the bloody fuck you think you were doing just now, Scarhead, but I'll never, ever forgive you for this—this unasked-for molestation!" Draco spat out through clenched teeth, setting himself to rights as he glared. "You're fucking mental!"
Potter laughed at him—bloody well roared, throwing his head back and setting that unruly black mop of his atremble, as if the ad hoc mutual wank session was all some huge godsdamned joke and Draco the butt of it.
"Nah, 'M not really, Malfoy," he snorted, his common, ugly face crinkled up with amusement. "Just kissing it all better, I was. Killing you with kindness, I guess—this time."
Funny, Draco thought, his grey eyes wary. Potty was giggling like loon, certainly, but maybe—just perhaps—it wasn't the mean chortle Draco had been expecting. He eyed the other boy askance as he scooped up his bookbag and slung it over his abused shoulder blade—buggering, poncy bastard had left a bite mark, the shite!
But something wasn't right here, all the same; the universe had altered. Draco remembered the warm hand just when he'd wanted one, and the sincere apology like a bolt out of the blue, and the quiet company whilst he lay recovering in the cool dark of his Infirmary bed. He'd tried his hardest not to dwell on that, but still—still.
"Yeah?"
It took a lot of effort, but Draco didn't snap as he wanted to. He watched the git's face instead, poised to attack if Potter was winding him up, certainly, but not going straight for Scarhead's jugular as perhaps he should've. They'd been at loggerheads for so very, very long. He'd almost forgotten he'd desperately wanted to befriend the git, years ago.
"Yeah," Potter smiled up at him, and no, it wasn't the tight-lipped, narrow-eyed challenge Draco was used to. Draco took a deep, sharp breath under the brilliance of that green, green gaze, and wavered just a bit, ready to bolt off down the hallway to the class he may as well cut, as he was guaranteed to be landed with an unearned detention no matter what happened next. Or maybe worse, since it was Potter.
Potter went up on tiptoe, and stuck a hand on Draco's arm, shoving him back with a tiny thump into the wall. There was a lightning-fast brush of lips across Draco's own parted ones—soft, firm, tasting of—tasting of, well, heaven—and then Potter was snagging up his own overfull bag, and nudging Draco's shoulder companionably.
"Come on," the barking little git urged. "It'll be best if we go. He'll still flay us alive, but not as badly."
"R-right," Draco agreed, and fell into step besides Potter—ickle, annoying Potty, of all people!—and hied his fully sexually satisfied person off to Potions, twenty minutes behind time, clamping his curious mouth shut on all the questions and further commentary that brangled in his brain after this most disturbing episode spent with Harry Potter—gods! Yes, perhaps it was best to let sleeping Gryffs lie, this time.
"See you after," Potty snogged him again, hard—suddenly! Just as every other event had been these last few momentous days in Draco Malfoy's young life—the very half-moment before he opened the door to their Snape-filled doom. "Draco."
"Potter!" Draco was enraged—properly maddened, fuck it!—and practically fell into the classroom still shrieking. "I'll get you for that, stupid Scarhead!"
"Detention, Mr. Malfoy," Snape's smooth, cold voice rolled over them both, an instant dampener of ruffled adolescent raging, "and Mr. Potter, naturally, as I'm certain this latest mishap is somehow due to you, Potter, as always. Trophy Room, both of you, seven sharp. Be there punctually or regret it even more than you already do."
"Sir," Draco's shoulders slumped, defeated. In utter chagrin, he glared at Potty, who was barely disguising a pleased smirk.
"Wanker!" Draco hissed, sotto voce, "Flippin' pansy-arse shirtlifter!"
"And you'll be partnered together today, Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Potter," Snape's command overrode Draco's glare. "Naturally, as you are both criminally late to my class. Start immediately, please. Pages 321 through 323 in your texts—the Philtre of Eleutherios."
"Sir," Potter nodded, agreeable to whatever nonsense Snape might pronounce upon his bowed-down head this once, and started off to the closet to gather their ingredients, whilst Draco flung himself and his bag down on the only empty work bench left open.
"That'll come in handy, later, the Philtre," Potter muttered in passing, right in Draco's reddened ear. "For afters, I mean—Draco." Potter resumed his stroll off to the supply closet with great sanguinity, nearly whistling under his breath, he was so bloody jaunty, and Draco gaped aghast at his retreating spine.
And blushed, pink as cabbage roses.
And gulped, when he thought more deeply of Potter-promised 'afters', and detentions conducted alone in the deserted Trophy Room, and Eleutherios, that ancient, potent god of love and desire.
Misters Malfoy and Potter finished their assignment in record time and with a barest minimum of quibbling, needless to say. It may not have been quite 'all better' between them, but it was certainly a very healthy beginning.
Finite.