The corridors were cold, as was to be expected of an ancient castle. Magic that had once been used to maintain constant heating spells had long ago been diverted to maintaining the wards and barriers protecting the castle and its inhabitants. Harry liked the cold, because he'd been living in it for so long, a deep, aching iciness that spread out from his chest to consume his entire being. That the air happened to give a plausible reason for this let him pretend, just for a minute, that it wasn't unusual.
He wandered the castle, hands shoved deep in his pockets, feeling the stinging pain of wounds that were still healing. He should still be in the hospital wing, his injuries, whilst not life-threatening, were still very serious, but he'd always hated the hospital wing, hated lying there, helpless, while others fought the war, fought his war.
The attack came by surprise, hands grabbing at his arms and pushing him up against the stone wall. He fought with battle-hardened instincts and let himself be manhandled, telling his mind that it was alright, that he wasn't in any danger. Or maybe he was, he wasn't sure any more, maybe had never been sure.
Dry, cracked lips assaulted his, tongue pushing into his mouth with an arrogant insistence. Hands tugged at his clothes, fingernails scratching as his skin, but staying away from bandages. He heard a low, throaty moan and was surprised to realise that it had come from him. A hissing whisper, and admonition to stay quiet, and he nodded, biting his lip against more sounds as rough, calloused hands delved into his trousers and took hold of his growing erection.
The sweet, metallic tang of blood filled his mouth and he licked at his red-stained lips, leaning forward to clutch at his attacker and rest his head on his shoulder, letting the hard, fast motions of his hand sweep away the cold, just for a minute.