Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, author of the Harry Potter series.
Warnings: slash (boyxboy)
Note: Written for the Great Maze Comp - You see a man straight ahead. Beard white and robes purple…Nothing rhymes with purple; Pairing God Challenge - Michael Corner/Harry Potter; "The As Many As You Want" Comp - sky, Weasley, shiver, slash, flying; Disney Character Competition: Faline; The Hunger Games Trilogy Competition - Beetee and Wiress.
Of Broom Closets and Hospital Wings
Harry, clad in deep red robes proudly displaying his house symbol, carried his broom loosely in one hand, greeting his teammates as he passed them, weaving through the half-naked bodies expertly. He stopped just before the door when he heard a familiar voice call out, a shock of red hair peeking out from a red shirt as Ron yanked it on, sending him a confused look.
"Where are you going, Harry?"
Flashing him a grin, Harry maneuvered himself out the door until only the upper half of his body was seen.
"Oh, you know, just meeting up with Michael before the game," Harry said happily, smiling even wider when he saw Ron roll his eyes and grumble about "love-sick idiots."
Shutting the door with a click, Harry barely resisted the urge to skip down the halls, letting out a squeak as a hand darted out of a previously closed broom closet, pulling him roughly inside the looming darkness. His Firebolt clattered to the ground, resting innocently while on the other side the couple proceeded to do something not so innocent.
His back shoved to the wall, a warm, familiar body pressing up against him, Harry moaned when lips attacked his own. Harry looped his arms around Michael's neck, trying to pull him even closer, arching his body to get as much contact as possible. He felt a hand on his hip, a thumb slyly sneaking into his robes and teasingly drawing circles onto the patch of skin. The other hand was at the base of his neck, yanking at the dark locks back, forcing his mouth open to bear the onslaught of pleasure caused by his boyfriend's tongue.
Just when dizziness started to cloud his senses, Harry felt Michael pull back and advance his domineering campaign to his neck, latching onto the smooth column, biting and sucking harshly on the pale skin, creating dark bruises that would stand out starkly. Head tipped back for easier access, Harry shivered when a tongue darted out to lap at the sensitive area, letting out a soft sigh, feeling Michael smile at his reaction as he buried his face in the crook of his neck, running his nose across the juncture between neck and shoulder. When a hand began to trail downward deliberately and as Harry tensed in anticipation, arms tightening around Michael, the door was pounded on loudly, startling the two apart.
"Quit snogging your boyfriend, Potter! You can shag after the game for all I care!" Harry heard Ron yell from the other side. Pouting slightly, Harry fixed his robes and ran his fingers through his hair which became even more rebellious under Michael's previous care. Stepping out from the closet, Harry ignored Ron's scandalized look at his appearance, bending down to pick up his broomstick, walking toward the field when he was pulled back into kiss.
"Good luck," was whispered into his ear before Michael made his way into the stands.
Harry scowled in frustration, eyes darting around the field, trying to catch sight of the Snitch. Dark hair whipped in front of his face, blocking his view. Harry knocked his head back, flipping them away in frustration. It was an exceptionally windy day, causing difficulty in performance for both teams. One had to keep a tight grip on the broom in order to stay on it instead of fifty feet below.
Harry jerked his head to the left, seeing a flash of gold in his peripheral vision. Veering sharply, Harry dove for it, hand reaching out, feeling the tiny wings beat against his fingertips, just an inch or so before it would fall into his palm. More, a little more, Harry bit his lip, back straining as he stretched his body forward to its limit. And a sudden shadow quickly entered his field of sight, racing with remarkable speed toward his face. He might have felt it before he saw it, Harry belatedly realized, feeling his hold on the broom loosen dangerously, body swaying alarmingly, tilting just so as the wind pushed him aside. Funny, Harry wasn't in much pain, instead a numb sort of feeling encased him as he fell, air rushing past him, clouds of black edging his vision. The last thing he saw was a worried Cedric diving after him, arm outstretched toward his prone form.
If a student were to walk into the Hospital Wing later the next day, just after breakfast, he would hear the groaning of one Harry Potter as he woke up, registering the unrelenting headache he would have to suffer through the following days.
Harry blinked his eyes blearily, reaching out blindly for his glasses, and once feeling them on the counter, settled them crookedly on his face. He startled when a finger pushed them up higher, righting the position, hearing the amused chuckle at his crinkled nose. Opening his eyes, Harry saw Michael sitting on the visitor's chair, smiling down at him. Harry made to push himself up against the headboard when his arms gave out as pain set his head bursting with fire. Harry moaned, burying his face into the pillow. Why couldn't it just stop? He felt fingers card through his hair in sympathy.
"Harry, my boy, how are you?" He didn't need to lift his head to know who that was. Harry let out another moan to answer the question. He received light laughter in return and a reassuring pat on the shoulder.
"Now, Harry, you were dealt quite a hit to the head. Would you mind answering a few questions just as a precaution?" Harry peeked one eye out from the slightly deflated pillow, closing it once more when the bright purple only succeeded in making his head spin. He let out a sigh, silence filling the air before Dumbledore took that as a yes and proceeded to ask the questions.
"Easy one first: What's your name?"
"Harry James Potter," he muttered, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the simplicity lest the headache worsen.
"Good, and what year is it?"
"1994."
"Now, last question. What rhymes with purple?" Harry lifted his head, raising a tired eyebrow at the bearded headmaster, staring at him in disbelief. He couldn't be serious. But as the silence drifted on, and the expression on Dumbledore's face didn't relieve, Harry sighed, dropping back onto the pillow. Burple. Flurple. Shurple.
"Nothing?"
"Well, it seems you're all right in the head, quite lucky no serious injury was caused," Dumbledore said cheerfully, placing a lemon drop on the bed which would go completely ignored by the two students. "I'll leave you to heal then, fair wishes, Harry."
Harry didn't answer, letting his eyes slip close, basking in the pleasure of his boyfriend petting his head, sleepily glaring at Michael whenever he stopped.