Co-Author's Note: I forgot to mention that I'm still around..and still writing...slowly. If anyone is interested in my slow progress, they can follow me on Twitter under Digitallace
Part 2
Harry felt brilliant the next morning. Better than he'd felt in ages. His hip and back barely hurt at all, and he felt relaxed from the potion-induced sleep he'd had the night before. Slipping out of bed, he stretched experimentally, feeling the muscles work without pain. "It seems there might be some use in the world for Malfoy after all," he muttered to himself, unable to feel any loathing toward the blond when his body felt young and spry once more.
His cheerful mood followed him through breakfast, staring down the line of students all chattering loudly about the Hogsmeade trip today, where they would go, what they would buy, who was going to meet for secret snogs and who was going to be left out. It was a buzz of energy Harry found himself grateful to be distanced from. It hadn't taken Harry long to discover that wound up teenagers were a handful. He was scheduled to chaperone the next Hogsmeade weekend and he felt a twinge of pity for Flitwick and Sprout who had to take the students out this time. Harry hoped that the students were just a little extra excited because it was the first trip and maybe the shine would wear off by the next outing, but he wasn't holding his breath.
Malfoy was at breakfast, too, his usual sneering self, but Harry couldn't help but notice that hint of difference about him. He ignored it as the students began walking as fast as possible to the point where they'd meet their chaperones, leaving the Great Hall filled with sullen first years.
Amongst them was the lonely looking David Creevey. The boy seemed ostracized by the other Gryffindor students and it gave Potter an idea. He got up, strode over, and sat beside the trembling boy.
"How would you like private flying lessons with me today?" Harry asked boldly. "Just you and me, with none of your classmates watching?"
"R-really, Professor? You'd do that?" David asked with eyes round as saucers, his voice filled with awe.
Harry smiled kindly, amused by the look on the boy's face. "Of course, David. Meet me on the pitch in half an hour, yeah?"
Creevey nodded enthusiastically, his eyes alight with excitement. With a nod, Harry rose from the table and went to change.
"Better! Much better, David," Harry called, as he trailed behind the boy on his broom, ready to dive in and catch him should he fall.
It seemed Harry had been right. David had been so shy, so uncomfortable under the scrutiny of his fellow classmates that he hadn't been able to concentrate and ended up bungling his efforts to fly. Once Harry got him alone and drew him out of his shell, the young Gryffindor had actually shown quite a bit of skill and promise. The first hour was by far the hardest and Harry had been forced to catch him mid-air more than a few times as David overcompensated, lost his control, or got over-enthusiastic.
By the end of the afternoon, David was not only able to stay on his broom, but he'd even tried a few gutsy rolls and dives. Harry beamed at the boy, feeling like a proud father as David did one final dive and dismounted with a wide, excited grin.
"Did you see that, Professor?"
"How could I miss it? You were brilliant! A few more lessons and a bit of practice and you could be trying out for the House team next year," Harry praised, unable to keep himself from chuckling at the boy fairly bouncing in front of him.
"Merlin, you really think so?" David asked, wide-eyed.
"I do, indeed. I think that's enough for today."
"Professor, do you think...that is, would you mind if we practiced again sometime?" David asked shyly, looking up at Harry with hopeful eyes.
"Of course," he replied with a warm smile. The look of joy on David's face was enough to make Harry forget about the vicious stabbing pains that now assaulted him from flying all afternoon.
"Thank you so much, Professor!"
"No problem. Now, you'd better get back inside. You wouldn't want to miss dinner after all that work."
Harry took the broom from the boy with a smile and watched him turn and head eagerly toward the castle, no doubt starving after the long afternoon. After a moment, Harry turned and headed for the equipment shed, his back and hip shrieking with pain. He placed the school broom in its slot and reached a shaking hand into his robes, retrieving his pain potion. Tipping it back, Harry drank the contents, grimacing at the taste and then sighing with relief as the potion took effect. It wasn't as effective as the concoction that Malfoy had given him the night before, but it served to take the edge off.
Taking a deep breath, Harry limped out of the shed, locking and warding the door behind him. He gripped his broom, mounted with a grunt of pain and flew to the doors of the castle. This time, he managed to make it up the stairs before having to stop at the top to lean against the wall to catch his breath. Harry growled and fisted his hands in frustration. He was only twenty-six, for fuck's sake! He should be able to run up and down the stairs a hundred times over simply for a warm up, not keeled over in pain like some ancient wizard who couldn't even walk without a bloody cane.
Harry stood for a moment longer, working hard to push the bitter, useless anger away. Finally, he straightened and began to limp toward his quarters. A long hot shower, a change of clothes and a modest dinner in his sitting room did a world of good for Harry. He was exhausted and his back was still killing him, but at least he was clean and fed and ready to take on Malfoy's snark. Casting a iTempus/i, Harry sighed heavily and levered himself out of the chair. He wobbled a bit, his hip stiff from sitting, before he steadied himself and limped toward the door.
By the time Harry made it to Malfoy's door, he was panting from pain and exertion, sweat glistening on his face. Bracing himself against the door frame, Harry raised a hand to knock on the door. It swung open a second later to reveal a sneering Malfoy.
XXX
"You're late," Draco drawled. he frowned as he noted Potter's heaving chest, the thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, and the look of barely suppressed pain in his emerald eyes. "Bloody hell, Potter, what have you been doing?"
Potter glared at him and shoved himself off the door frame, seemingly determined to show as little weakness as possible in front of his rival.
"Nothing, just a little extra flying lesson, that's all. I'm fine," Potter snapped, taking a shaking step into the room. As if to prove him a liar, his hip chose that moment to give out, sending him stumbling into Draco's chest. Without a second thought, Draco wound around Potter's waist like the last time, holding him up even as he scoffed and sneered down at the idiot.
"Fine my arse, you can't even walk, you utter prat. What the fuck were you thinking by flying all bloody afternoon?" Draco demanded, trying his best not to sound like a nagging wife as he helped Potter over to the padded medical table he'd conjured in his sitting room.
"I was helping a student get over his fear of flying." Potter panted. "He wasn't very confident and couldn't fly to save his life before today. By the end he was better on a broom than most of the students in his class."
"Bloody Gryffindors," Draco muttered irritably, insisting to himself that he absolutely did inot/ifind Potter's look of pride endearing or his actions sweet in any way, shape or form.
Helping Potter onto the edge of the padded table, Draco reached over to take a vial from the small table to his right and thrust it at Potter.
"Drink," he snapped.
Potter glared at Draco, glittering green eyes clashing with cold steel, before he uncorked the potion and drank. Draco could tell Potter was steeling himself for the inevitably rotten taste of healing potion, and took no little amount of pleasure in the look of pleasant surprise that crossed his features as he swallowed. Draco knew that rather than the horrible, gag-inducing taste of the typical healing potion, Potter would be tasting a very mild hint of treacle. For years, Draco had worked to improve the taste of his brews, particularly that of healing potions. He was quite rightfully proud of how far he'd come in that regard.
"Bloody hell, Malfoy, I never thought I'd say this, but you're brilliant," he said.
Draco's heart skipped a beat at the praise and, much to his annoyance, he felt his cheeks flush with heat.
"It's about time you realized it, Potter," Draco said, forcing a haughty smirk.
Potter rolled his eyes in exasperation and slid off of the table.
"Right, well, thanks, Malfoy," he said, turning toward the door.
"Not so fast, Potter. There's still the salve," Draco announced as he lifted a ceramic pot from the small table.
"Huh?"
"The healing salve I've brewed will compliment the potion and help it last longer," Draco explained. "I daresay this is the most important part if you're going to continue being a Quidditch hero."
"Oh, right, okay," Potter answered with a small frown as he reached for the salve.
Draco held the jar purposefully out of reach and shook his head, determined to have a little fun at Potter's expense. It served him right after all. While Draco had been working tirelessly to create a potion that would temporarily regenerate Potter's musculature, the Gryffindor twat had been out exacerbating his injuries by flying when he should have been resting. A sly grin worked over his features as he took in Potter's suddenly fearful gaze. "Trousers off, Potter," he purred, making the words sound more seductive than he'd intended.
The effect was quite nice, however, as Potter's emerald eyes seemed to grow impossibly wide. Draco feared momentarily that they might just pop clear out of his head, but it was too amusing to linger on bad consequences too long. "I-I…you…what?"
Draco rolled his eyes. "Oh, do get a grip, Potter. I'm not going to molest you. I'm a professional, remember?"
XXX
With narrowed eyes, Harry shifted uncomfortably, grasping at whatever straws he could. "How do I know you haven't poisoned the salve?"
"I'm going to pretend you didn't ask me such an asinine question. Now, disrobe and lay on your stomach. I assure you I'll find just as little pleasure touching your bare flesh," he commented with a sneer, tapping his nails against the jar in a frustrated rhythm while Harry continued to squirm. "Today, Potter. I do have other things to do than attend to your needs."
"Fine," Harry ground out bitterly, steeling his resolve as he unbuckled and shoved his trousers down in one fell swoop, exposing his clingy red boxers.
"I should have known," Malfoy commented with a smirk, gesturing to the silky crimson fabric.
"Just shut up and let's get this over with," Harry bit out as he climbed onto the table and purposely turned away from Malfoy as it heated with embarrassment.
"As you wish," Malfoy chuckled, bowing dramatically before sliding the boxers down enough to give his attention to the afflicted areas. Harry heard him unscrew the lid and braced himself for the imminent chill of the salve, only to be surprised when the salve felt warm against his lower back. As Malfoy's fingers massaged the aching muscles, Harry felt himself growing hot, and not just because of the ointment's temperature.
His lips let out a soft moan without his permission as those lithe fingers kneaded his hip, dipping lower to massage the outer portion of Potter's thigh. The effect was instantaneous. All lingering soreness dissipated the moment the salve was worked into his flesh, and Harry soon found himself in another uncomfortable position.
"Gods, Draco," he murmured incoherently, his eyes falling closed at the feel of Malfoy's hands caressing him so intimately. An image of those hands drifting lower, wrapped around a different aching flesh sent blood pooling to his groin and his hips bucked forward instinctively as he bit back a moan of desire.
Eyes flaring wide, Harry glanced up to find Malfoy's attention riveted to his task, a look of stoic indifference on his pale features. Harry breathed a silent sigh of relief at the sight. Had Malfoy heard or seen the reason for Harry's flushed cheeks, the Slytherin would surely be taunting him over it by now. He cleared his throat, drawing Malfoy's gaze to his mouth briefly, and then up to his eyes.
"Erm, I think it's worked," Harry said abruptly. "Thanks." He shifted slowly off the table as Malfoy's fingers fell away, his face a bit paler than usual, but giving no signs that he'd noticed Harry's reaction to his attentions. He quickly hopped down from the padded table, using it to mask his erection as he slid back into his trousers, carefully holding his robes closed over his groin.
"It's my job," Malfoy commented with a negligent wave of his hand, dismissing the gratitude outright.
Harry found himself mildly disappointed that Malfoy hadn't been similarly affected by their encounter, but quickly squashed that feeling with a huff. "All the same, it feels loads better already. So, thanks."
"I expect you to rest properly tomorrow. If you don't overexert yourself, the potion and salve should last a week. If you start feeling any peculiar side effects, come and see me at once. The potion may take a bit of tweaking still before it's perfected for continuous use," Malfoy spouted, sounding every bit like a medical advert in the Daily Prophet.
"Side effects like what?" Harry asked warily.
Malfoy shrugged with elegant grace and turned away to transfigure the table back into the tufted leather armchair it had been before Harry arrived. "I couldn't begin to hypothesize at the moment. Just let me know if you start to feel different. Even something small and seemingly insignificant. Even if you think it might not have anything to do with the potion. Let me know right away, understood?"
Harry nodded, swallowing as he imagined growing extra limbs or some other horrid mutation, but his straining cock pressed tightly against the inside of his trousers dispelled all nonsensical thoughts and he nodded curtly, angling toward the door. "I'll let you know, whatever it is," he conceded and left Malfoy's quarters in a hurry.
He was so focused on getting to his room and relieving some of the pressure building within him that it wasn't until he'd reached the painting of Sir Cadagon and wracked his brain for the password that he realized his peculiar reaction to Malfoy's touch might be one of the side effects the prat had mentioned. But how in Merlin's name was he supposed to bring it up? If it was a side effect, he certainly wanted it to go away, but what was he supposed to do? Just waltz up to Malfoy and mention that his massage had turned him on so much that he'd had to run back to his quarters and wank? And then have to hear about it for the rest of his life? Absolutely not.
Another thought struck him as finally remembered the password and stalked into his rooms, quickly divesting himself of his robes before slipping into bed. Had Malfoy done this to him on purpose? It seemed like a Slytherin-worthy prank to give Harry a potion that would arouse him at the touch of another man. And would it work on anyone, or just Malfoy?
His hand was already gripping his erection forcefully at the thought, stroking angrily at the image of Malfoy's smirking lips taunting him for his affliction. He'd teach that bastard not to mess with Harry Potter, he thought as he continued to stroke. He'd have to keep up a strong façade around the Slytherin and not let on that he was so turned on by such a simple touch.
With his resolve strengthened, Harry felt the pressure build to bursting inside of him, and the simple memory of Malfoy's long, deft fingers stroking him instead had him coming with a shout.
XXX
Draco watched Potter leave, making sure to keep his carefully constructed facade of indifference. The moment the door closed behind the brunet, his stoic mask was replaced by a look of frustrated want. No doubt Potter thought he hadn't noticed his visceral reaction to Draco's touch, but he had noticed ieverything/i. He now stood in his sitting room hard and aching and utterly confused.
With a huff of irritation, Draco dropped gracefully into the newly transfigured chair, a petulant pout on his face. He had been trying so hard to ignore the attraction that he felt for the prat - to bury this ridiculous crush he'd harboured for longer than he cared to admit – and in less than one hour, Potter had utterly devastated all of his best efforts. Stupid bloody Potter and his stupid fucking reactions.
iGods, Draco./i
The blond shuddered at the memory of Potter moaning his name, his arse clenching as his hips shifted into the padded mattress. Draco's cock twitched violently, the fabric of his trousers biting cruelly into the throbbing flesh. Giving in to his body's unrelenting desire with an annoyed sigh, Draco freed his erection and began to wank. It took less than a dozen strokes to have him arching off the chair with a muted cry of, "Harry!"
It might have been less humiliating if this had been the first time he'd ever pleasured himself over the Gryffindor's image, but Draco had wanted him long before his wanton display tonight. Unfortunately, Potter's reaction to his touch had only served to frustrate and confuse him beyond the point that any masturbatory act could relieve.
Retrieving his wand, Draco cast a cleaning spell and tucked himself away, glaring fiercely at the fireplace as his mind reeled with questions. What did Potter's reaction mean? Did he enjoy Draco's touch alone, or would he react that way for any man? Was he even gay? It could have easily been the sensual nature of the massage, or effects from the potion. Did he think of Draco as anything other than a childhood rival? And if he didn't, could he?
Draco knew it was ridiculous to think that Potter might actually fancy him, but his body had reacted and now it was tormenting him. He had to know for certain if he had even the slightest chance to possess Potter the way he had wanted to for the past ten years. The problem was that Draco knew the ex-Gryffindor would never willingly answer the personal questions that he so desperately wanted answered. Potter was much too stubborn and prideful to ever admit attraction to the man who had tormented him throughout school, regardless of how much Draco had changed. How the bloody hell was he supposed to get Potter to give him the affirmation he sought?
"Come on, Draco, you're a Slytherin. Think like one," he muttered to himself. He cast around for ideas until finally, the solution jumped to the forefront of his mind.
Veritaserum.
Draco would slip it into Potter's pain potion and then he would have the undisputed truth. If Potter was honestly not interested in him, Draco could finally steel himself to move on with his life, perhaps find the pureblood woman his father so desperately wanted him to marry. However, if Potter was attracted to him…well, Draco dared not think about that just yet.
The raven-haired man would be furious with him afterward, to be sure, but Draco figured it was no more than Potter deserved for making it bloody well impossible to ignore him.
With a firm nod and a devious smirk, Draco rose from the comfort of his chair and headed for his bedroom. He stripped down to his skin and slipped between the silk sheets of his bed, a sigh of contentment washing over him. Draco would bide his time, watching Potter's behaviour around him closely until their next meeting. In a week's – possibly less, given Potter's thick-headed insistence to over-work himself – he would finally know the truth. After ten years of wanting, a week didn't seem very long at all.
Author's Note: I hope you all enjoyed Part 2...part 3 to follow soon.