There's a curious deadness to the air, a stifling sense of being shut up in a room no one is going to enter and no one is ever going to leave. Harry doesn't mind that feeling, even craves it, but it's a strange thing to feel in the infirmary. There's usually at least one other patient stretched out on the beds as Madam Pomfrey bustles about, healing everything short of death with a brisk wave of her wand and a scathing glare at anyone who dares disturb the sanctity of her realm. At the very least it's Madam Pomfrey herself who's about, fussing as she examines the empty beds, ensuring their preparedness, before turning to her actual patients and ensuring they're healing at a rate she deems worthy, their comforts taken care of with an alacrity that leaves her patients stuttering and confused as to what's just occurred. Instead, there's nothing but that queer stilless in the air that means they are well and truly alone.

It's not that Harry minds that, precisely. He's grown very fond of being alone. It's just that, despite the feeling of being forsaken by the rest of the school, Harry is terrified that Madam Pomfrey or Dumbledore or, god forbid, Snape is going to walk in on them any moment.

And since Draco is delicately lapping at the head of his cock, Harry really, really doesn't want any interruptions.

"Draco," he croaks, "what're you doing?"

The response is a soft, wordless hum of lips pressed up against Harry's glans, tongue flickering out a moment later to find the narrow v at the base of the head. It sends him gasping, hands flailing and eventually curling around the metal bars at the head of his bed, gripping tightly enough that they creak in abused protest. No matter how much a sixteen year-old boy fantasizes about a mouth doing exactly this, the reality is almost as terrifying as it is arousing—made worse by Harry's inability to see much more than an impressionist's swirl of unshaped colors. Forcing one hand to fumble about on the bedside table, he stabs himself in the nose and the cheek before finally getting his glasses securely over his ears, only to nearly break them when Draco sucks the entire head of Harry's cock into his mouth.

"Oh, God," Harry says. And then again, when Draco chuckles without removing his mouth.

His neck hurts as he cranes it forward, blinking to make his eyes focus, but he ignores those little difficulties. His entire being is focused on: Draco, stretched out between his legs, forearms pressed against Harry's inner thighs to keep them from closing, his own legs bent at the knee to kick his feet idly back and forth in the air. It's a thoroughly casual pose, almost childlike in its innocence, but Harry can see the tension in his shoulders and the way Draco glances up every few licks, trying to gauge Harry's reactions. His mouth is swollen, as if he's been at this for some time, his eyes hazy with enjoyment. Best of all, Harry can see the way his arse shifts and moves—pale and pink, perfectly rounded, the way Harry thought only girls should be—rubbing himself against the mattress even as he licks the length of Harry's cock.

And then, abruptly, he stops. "You might make noise," Draco says petulantly. "I'm a natural, of course, but as I've never done this, encouragement might be nice."

It never occurs to Harry that he might be more experienced than Draco—if a few handjobs, one humiliatingly bad attempt at a blow job (giving), and receiving one that, given current realities, wasn't nearly as good as he'd thought, can really be counted as 'experienced'—but once Draco says it, Harry wonders how he could've ever doubted. In all sixteen years of Draco's life, Draco's trusted only one person before Harry—so whatever Draco's received, he's certainly never given this to anyone else. That thought makes Harry's hips buck up of their own accord, the need to orgasm overwhelming. It takes every ounce of Harry's willpower not to give in. "Don't say things like that," he orders breathlessly. "Please. Not—not yet."

Draco's eyes get big as Harry's cock twitches on its own, thrusting up until it almost touches his nose. "Okay," he says, faint against Harry's command. He curls his fingers around the base of Harry's cock, a hint of insecure wonder and that shyness Harry loves, coloring his actions. He doesn't stay shy for long, though, particularly as a slow stroke pulls a choked-off cry from Harry. It's a toss up which facet of Draco is more beloved: the hesitant uncertainty no one but Harry gets to see, or the cockiness that holds not a trace of maliciousness. "Oh, don't tell me you're objecting," Draco teases. "I know it's impolite to start while your partner is sleeping, but you did look pretty like that and I ... couldn't resist."

Couldn't resist? Harry groans, helpless, as Draco takes half of him inside the sweet heat of his mouth, sucking with gradually increasing pressure. He knows what Draco is saying underneath the careless tone, but his ability to speak is inversely tied with what Draco is doing to him. He doesn't know what words to use to reassure Draco, anyway. He understands that this is a different game then most fumbling teenagers play with each other, but his instinctive knowledge of the rules only goes so far. "I," he says, thrashing as his balls are rolled while yet more of his cock disappears into Draco's mouth. The sight is breathtaking, Draco's lips even pinker against the red flush of Harry's cock, cheeks hollowing as Draco thoughtfully sucks.

"Yes, you," Draco says, pulling back—and then grins, pleased, when Harry moans and blindly reaches to bring him back, "are still being very quiet. How am I supposed to determine what best makes you scream, when you aren't screaming?"

"People," Harry gasps out. His hand finds Draco's naked shoulder and clutches it, trying not to buck upwards so needily or add to the collection of bruises Draco already sports. It's one of the hardest things Harry's ever done, the need to press and take too strong to ignore. "Coming in."

"You know, I think you've never had a blow job before." Draco is smirking, his early admittance to being a novice himself ignored in favor of giving Harry a look so full of smug pleasure that Harry has to shiver. He knows—knows—that Draco's teasing gets him as hot as it does Harry, those pale globes flexing appealingly as they pick up speed. Harry wants to grab them and has to forcibly relax his fingers. "And yet, you wanked me so skillfully last night."

Mentioning that is deliberate; Harry can see the calculation in Draco's eyes, but he can't stop himself from moaning as he remembers the way Draco twisted and bucked against him, waiting for his word—Harry's word—before finally finding release. How those long, white limbs had flailed against the bed, torso heaving, cock so pink and perfect against Harry's palm, Draco whimpering with pleasure that Harry gave him, allowed him to feel ... "Bastard," Harry hisses, hips rocking up to smear a bit of precome against Draco's mouth like translucent lipstick.

"Oh, will that please you?" Draco hitches himself up slightly, staring directly into Harry's eyes as he carefully licks his lips clean.

Red. His tongue is red and his teeth are small and sharp and he looks as wanton as any of the girls in the magazines Dudley doesn't know Harry has glanced at—mostly in disgust, except there's no disgust here. Oh, no. Harry frantically thinks that if Voldemort used this method of torture, Harry would break within moments. "Oh, God."

"You said that already. What I'm looking for is a 'yes, Draco, your skills are unparalleled, please continue' or 'no, as brilliant as you are, I prefer wanking myself'. Well, noises that indicate positive or negative will work, too, since I'm not certain you can properly pronounce 'unparalleled' right now." Long fingers trail up Harry's cock, squeezing just right before sliding back down to card through crisp curls. "Although," he continues, "I suppose 'oh, God' is really answer enough."

Harry gurgles helplessly.

There's something so joyous behind Draco's eyes, shining past whatever expression he wears, the way a bright summer's day never truly allows for shadows. "Well, I suppose it'll have to do. I wasn't much more coherent last night, either, was I? Or I could have told you how much I wanted to do this, then."

The words are jumbled and confusing, their meaning—it's important, Draco's told him something important!—slipping out of Harry's grasp the moment Draco slides his lips over the tip of Harry's cock and sinks down as far as he can. It isn't very, but Draco's hand curls over the remaining length, squeezing and stroking while his mouth licks and sucks, bobbing back and forth. It's far more clumsy than George's attempt over the summer, but Harry doesn't care, too wrapped up in who it is to care much about how.

He cries out when Draco's gag-reflex is accidentally triggered, the muscle spasms against the head of his cock driving him mad with lust. Then he has to bite his lip to stop from shouting when Draco purposefully repeats the move. Clever fingers curl around his balls, squeezing them lightly, while Draco grows bright red, trying to suck in enough air to keep himself from passing out while simultaneously sucking Harry and trying to hum. It's a losing battle, but the determination with which he tries is as powerfully erotic as what he does.

Harry's mind is bending as Draco works him harder and faster, his wet, agile tongue finding every good spot Harry has and introducing him to a few more—but what finally does him in is Draco's eagerness. Draco wants him to come, his eyes almost desperate for it, burning with desire to take whatever Harry gives him. It's impossible to withstand that and Harry doesn't bother trying.

Heat boils in his belly, dragging along his spine until his hips thrust erratically into Draco's mouth. He manages an "urk," that must have been more informative than Harry thought, because Draco immediately backs off until his lips surround the head alone, both hands pumping Harry's cock as orgasm finally spills over.

Harry is distantly aware of Draco moaning as his mouth is filled, a bruised throat repeatedly swallowing while a thin trail dampens Draco's chin. Eyes aching from being stretched so wide, Harry is unable to tear them away as Draco takes every bit of his release, going so far as to swipe his finger over his own chin and suck on it before returning to Harry's cock, suckling gently until not a trace of come remains anywhere. Only then does Harry allow himself to collapse against the bed, Draco crawling up to tuck himself over Harry's body.

"Oh, God," Harry says again. He has enough presence of mind to wrap his arms around Draco's warm body, marveling at the thundering pace of their hearts, trying to calm his breathing while Draco cuddles close to him, but that's about it. His mind is well and truly blown.

"You're very fond of that phrase," Draco tells him, his voice slightly muffled by Harry's collarbone and hoarse from recent activities. It sounds good. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Hurt? Pain is a distant memory, a bad dream barely recalled. "No. Did I hurt you? You're the one all over in bruises."

Draco's hand curls around his belly, body settling more heavily against Harry's. There's something damp against Harry's thigh, but before he can identify it, Draco says, "Madam Pomfrey came by an hour ago and gave me something. It tastes foul and it doesn't get rid of the bruises, but it does stop them from hurting."

"That's good." Harry curls his palm around Draco's neck, finding the bruises there by memory and stroking them. "Don't want you to—she what?" He sits up abruptly, eyes wild as he searches the room, as if he expects her to pop out from behind one of the neatly made beds, brandishing a wand and chastising them for their behavior. "Madam Pomfrey was here?"

Draco's hands are cool and smooth as they gently push Harry back onto the bed, stroking his chest and stomach until the heaving stops. "Yes, she was here, about an hour ago to check on both of us. That's why the gunk is off your chest, by the way."

Harry automatically glances down, noting that his skin is unblemished except for the faintest of pink smears, traveling in a jagged line from nipple to nipple. He shivers when Draco traces it lightly; it tickles. Harry isn't all that tan but he still looks dark against Draco's near-albino paleness. "She saw us," he says. His voice is very small.

Draco continues to pet and soothe him, settling on his side with his head propped up by a fist. His chin is very square like that, his nose almost too pointy, but Harry can see his eyes clearly and that is all that matters. "Yes, she did. Made some comment about Dumbledore's foolishness, went about her business, and then left like a good lackey."

"Madam Pomfrey is not a lackey."

"No, she's a gifted healer who doesn't appreciate Dumbledore mucking about with rules that are there for a reason—her words—but she also mentioned that the two of us together are rather adorable, the cow, and that we're better for each other." Draco leans down to place a kiss right at the crest of Harry's shoulder. "Why is it the rules are always meaningless for you, hm? Anyone else and I'd be threatened with expulsion for climbing into bed with you like this."

That one phrase—and not the threat part—is enough to send Harry shivering, certain bits twitching with lazy interest. "The rules never seem to apply to me," he says slowly. "Too many other people break them, long before I have a chance, I think."

Air snorts out over his skin, stirring the fine hairs there. "Oh, right. So you and your little friends sneaking out of your dorm before Christmas of your first year is someone else's fault?"

"No, that was Hagrid's actually, and my friends aren't little." Harry's grin is wide and welcome, and he wants to freeze this moment, body sated and calm and warm from Draco's presence, while his mind engages in the twisting, mocking battle that he's come to love. He is purposefully not remembering anything, concentrating on this moment and only this moment. "Hermione's almost as tall as I am, and no one's taller than Ron. Even Charlie's shorter."

Draco's brows quirk and then smooth. His opinion of the Weasleys has steadily risen, Harry's patient application of endearing stories and black condemnation when Draco slips up slowly accomplishing their intended goals. "Charlie—that's the dragon-tamer, right? Saw him at the tournament, two years ago. He's quite fit, isn't he?"

The chuckle bubbles out of him, a fountain of happiness and relief mixed until Harry can't tell one iridescent strain from another. "Yes," he says, leaning down to brush a kiss over Draco's ear, causing him to squirm and make a face as he wipes it dry again. "And yes, he is quite fit. Molly Weasley created a lot of beautiful children."

Blond hair flies as Draco's head pops up, pale eyebrows drawn into an unmistakable scowl. "Are you trying to make me jealous?" His tone is light, the menace underneath totally manufactured, while his eyes search Harry's anxiously. Anyone else would think him sneering, hard and coldm the way they have always seen Malfoy. "I know the littlest minx's had a crush on you for years, and don't think I won't stoop to the nastiest types of hexes to make sure none of them come near you. Half the school's in love with you, and I don't intend to share."

The words are rude, the threats mildly worrying, but Harry doesn't hear that. He's learned to ignore Draco's bluster, parsing his speeches down to whatever emotion or thought he's too busy covering to really acknowledge. All Harry hears is fear: that this is just a fluke, that it is Harry's old friends that he will return to when he comes to his senses, that Draco means nothing to him. Draco probably isn't even aware that his hands are closing around bits of Harry's flesh—he'll sport bruises on his ribs from Draco's hold—while his body burrows instinctively closer. He's too caught up in emotion to pay attention to those little details, and Draco Malfoy is never caught up in emotion—except with Harry Potter. The significance makes Harry's heart hurt.

Smiling, Harry leans in for a kiss that is long and sweet, for despite the gasping sigh Draco breathes into Harry's lips, their mouths never open. "Ginny's chasing Neville," he says, his voice low and quiet in the empty room. "Ron's mad for Hermione, everyone knows that except Hermione. The twins've got a girlfriend and boyfriend, respectively, and I'm too young for Bill or Charlie—and I think Bill's maybe dating someone. Besides." Draco tips his face up to accept the kiss Harry gives him, eyes remaining open, moving back and forth as they study Harry's face. Harry deepens the kiss, actively working to erase any uncertainty or question, and then says, "I don't want anything but friendship from them."

Grey eyes blink, hazy and unfocused. Draco is prettier than any of the pictures that hang on the castle walls, sweet enough to make the pinup magazines that Harry knows several of the girls have stashed away in their rooms blush with envy—and it's Harry that's given him that dazed, endearing look. It makes him understand just how Draco can go about all day with that smug look on his features since Harry's pretty sure that thinking of this will keep him looking smugly satisfied for days at a time, oblivious to everything else around him.

"And... from me?"

It's not a very Malfoy question to ask, and Harry knows that it costs Draco a great deal to force the words past years of training and his own stubborn pride. A Malfoy should never ask for such blatant reassurance—and Draco shouldn't ever need to. Aristocrats don't need things like that, certainly not from a dark-haired boy, raised as a peasant before finding out he's still not quite the prince.

But this is Harry, and rules trip over themselves to break when he approaches.

Fortunately, Harry likes giving reassurance because far too often, he can offer nothing at all. "I know what I want from you," he murmurs, leaning in for another kiss. Draco moans softly as his lips are parted, his mouth taken—Harry can taste the lingering bitterness of the potion he'd drunk and his own come—looking thoroughly debauched when they finally separate for air. "Don't worry," Harry whispers against his mouth. "I'll let you know what that is."

The noise Draco makes is one part frustration, three parts yielding lust, tingling through Harry's body to make him think that maybe Draco's jaw isn't hurting that badly and he'll agree to more practice. He opens his mouth to ask, knowing long before the first syllable forms on his tongue that something will interrupt him; it's just the way things are, for him.

The sharp knock echoes through the room, as disapproving as knuckles rapping on wood can be. "There are pyjamas by your bed, boys," Madam Pomfrey's voice calls. "Please dress yourselves."

"Damn it!" Draco's curse is heartfelt, staring at the join between Harry's legs hungrily.

Harry mentally echoes the curse, though he obediently looks around to find a stack of clothes folded neatly on the bedside table, as well as a veritable mountain of candy that he hasn't noticed before—getting your cock sucked creates the most amazing kind of tunnel vision. Dressing quickly, Harry has to work to keep his grumbling airless and private. He doesn't want the rest of the world to return, bringing things he's spent the last hour determinedly not thinking about, memories and understanding locked away in a box at the back of his mind. He wants to stay here, with Draco, safe and secluded while the world deals with its own problems for a while.

But that has never been Harry's fate, and he tells himself he should be grateful for getting even this long to forget. It's cold comfort and Harry can feel the rise of bitterness, acid bile against the back of his throat. To distract himself, he waits until Draco's head is trapped by his shirt before reaching between still-naked legs to fondle Draco's balls. They are heavy and soft against his fingers, comfortably fitting against his palm and it takes a surprising amount of effort not to squeeze them to the point of pain. Draco gasps at the touch, wet and harsh, surprised pleasure strong enough to make Harry's grin turn sharp, struggling to free his face while not moving his lower body even the tiniest bit. Panting fills the room, each wet breath echoing off stone walls. The immediate acquiescence is very pleasing to Harry and he tugs and rolls Draco's sac for as long as he thinks he can get away with, before drawing his fingers teasingly up a hardening shaft—and then lets go.

"Hurry up," Harry says, smiling angelically. "Wouldn't want Madam Pomfrey to see you like that."

Draco's glare is pure malice as he yanks on the thin cotton pants provided, forced to sit cross-legged on the bed in an attempt to hide the tent in his pants; but he's biting his lip and leans close to Harry as soon as the other boy is seated.

They are settled just in time, the door opening to reveal a frowning Madam Pomfrey. She gives them both disapproving looks that Harry, at least, doesn't buy for a single moment. If she really had a problem with either of them, she never would've allowed them hours of uninterrupted time—no matter what Dumbledore might've told her. Draco doesn't know her quite as well as Harry, though, and the pressure against Harry's shoulder grows firmer.

"Sit still," she tells them. "I'm going to check you both over." Her wand flickers in a complicated movement, pale blue light spilling from it to fill the air around them. It feels like gauze when it brushes against Harry's skin, light and diaphanous, as coolly smooth as silk. The sensation isn't uncomfortable to Harry, though Draco shudders as his neck is touched. "Well. You're both doing better, although Harry, you still need a few more days rest."

There's a curious sense of surprise in her voice, as though she'd expected Harry to be in worse shape than he is. That tallies with Harry's own private estimates of his rapid healing, and he slips an arm around Draco's waist, thumb worming under his shirt to rub against the nearly pointed base of Draco's ribs. As wonderful as Professor Snape's potion is, he knows what's truly helped him heal and recover; brooding is never good for convalescence.

"What about Draco?" Harry sees no reason to hide, as it's obvious she knows what's going on—and if she didn't, the heavy musk in the air is a dead giveaway. He flushes as he notices it, but merely tightens his arm around Draco's waist. "Is he doing better?"

Madam Pomfrey's mouth thins down to a stern line, looking offended that her medical skills have been questioned. "His bruises shall be gone in two days' time. I suppose that's reason enough to keep him in the infirmary."

Harry blinks, since that isn't what he'd been implying, but Madam Pomfrey is flicking a light green mist at Draco that makes him shudder as it slips under clothes to penetrate his skin, and Harry is too busy holding him while the tremors ease to remember to glare. When Draco finally calms, he leans heavily against Harry and says, "Ow."

"That did not hurt you," Madam Pomfrey snaps back, then suddenly smiles at both of them, younger and pretty for that one moment. "He's fine, Harry. I'll let Professor Dumbledore explain what's gone on while you two were... sleeping. In the meantime, eat some of the chocolate your friends have had delivered while I see about getting you two a proper supper."

"Thank you," Draco says as she leaves. Both of them stare at him, surprised to hear a real note of gratitude in his voice, but it's Harry he's looking at when he says, "That's what happens when one doesn't eat for twenty-four hours, Harry. One becomes hungry."

His tone is insufferably logical, but it still takes Harry a moment or two to remind his body how to function properly. "We can't have his Highness hungry, can we? Otherwise you whine so horribly. Here." He tosses a bag of something that looks too expensive to be from Honeydukes at Draco, who catches it nimbly, tears it open and pops a piece of what looks to be dark chocolate into his mouth with a quiet moan of joy.

Harry is immediately jealous.

"Try some." Draco breaks off another piece, passing it over blithely. "This is from Pansy. She always sends me Orrie's special dark chocolate when something's gone wrong. Sometimes I'll whine a bit just to make her think I'm really in need of it. Stupid bint."

The chocolate is rich and heady in his mouth, the scent of it sending his mind into a slow loop-de-loop while flavor rushes through his body. "What is this?" he asks through a full mouth. "And of course you'd call one of your friends a stupid bint."

"She is a stupid bint, Potter, and she's not my friend." Another piece disappears, Draco wearing an expression that makes Harry want to jump him right then, just so it can be him that makes Draco look so positively blissful. His jaw works slowly, obviously savoring the piece, and it is only the threat of Madam Pomfrey's imminent return that stops Harry from biting it.

He eats the second piece Draco hands him, concentrating on the taste to help him calm down. "She sends you bits of heaven in silver foil and you don't consider her your friend?" Harry isn't being acrimonious, really, he's genuinely interested in how Draco views the students in his own house. It's not something they talk about much, the conversation usually shifting to how Draco needs to remember that he's acting when he hurts Harry's friends. "That's not very nice of you."

"No, it's not." Draco reaches over Harry for another handful of candy, unfolding his legs as he leans back so he can dump his prizes onto his stomach. "You don't like anything cherry-flavored, right? And if I'm nice to her, she'll think she has a chance of marrying me when we graduate."

"She'll what?"

Draco's grin isn't precisely happy as he opens up a bag of toffees and begins feeding them to Harry, one by one. "She's wanted to be a Malfoy since the first time she ever visited me at the manor. I think she was probably about five, and I'm fairly certain I decided I was a pouf shortly after she told me all about the big wedding we were going to have, just how much tulle would be in her gown, and that it would all just be perfect."

Harry isn't sure how to respond to that, so he leans forward to let Draco help him finish the toffee. It's a pleasant enough distraction, but he can't calm his thoughts even as Draco's tongue twines with his own. Harry's not jealous, not really, understanding that love, or even affection, plays a very small role in what Draco's talking about. But the sheer callousness of marriage for financial gain is anathema to him.

When the final toffee is gone and their mouths are both swollen, Draco says, "Don't go all Gryffindor on me, Harry. Anyway, it doesn't matter. I'd rather be a squib than marry her, and in a few months I'll be disinherited and nowhere near the catch I was. In the meantime, there's more chocolate to eat." Draco bats his eyes, an obvious contrivance to cover his more genuine shyness: "May I have some?"

"You may," Harry says, throwing himself into the distraction. He doesn't want to be reminded of what will happen when the doors to the infirmary open again, and spends the next few minutes calmly determining if chocolate tastes better with or without the taste of Draco to accompany it. The answer is with, of course. Plastic crinkles as Harry lowers himself over Draco's chest, determinedly hunting down the last lingering traces of sweetness in Draco's mouth while Draco holds himself utterly still beneath him. He loves how quickly Draco submits to him, giving his body over to Harry's wants and whims without a single qualm. It is very hard to pull himself back when footsteps echo through the room, a magically-enhanced warning.

Madam Pomfrey is very pointedly not looking at them when as she crosses to the nearest empty bed stand and raps on it sharply. A platter of sandwiches instantly appears, followed by a jug with beads of water trickling down the sides as it reacts to the warmth of the room, and two goblets. "You'll both be very hungry after this healing," she says, "so eat as much as you'd like. Less sharing this time, please."

Red blooms on Draco's face but he keeps his eyes on Madam Pomfrey, on the off chance she actually looks at them directly. "It's not polite to eavesdrop."

"Actually, I couldn't hear anything," she says blithely, "so I wasn't. Eat up, the Headmaster will be in to see you shortly."

The casual confirmation that they have been spied on for who knows how long keeps them both very quiet as they eat the entire platter full of sandwiches. Both jug and platter magically refill themselves whenever their contents are low, a boon since both Draco and Harry are starving. Draco keeps his head down as he eats, staring at the bedclothes tangled around their socked feet. He's an intensely private person, Harry knows, who hasn't spent the last five years discovering bits and pieces of himself splashed on the front of the Daily Prophet at the most inopportune times—and only occasionally the truth. Harry is ashamed to realize he feels a bit of grim satisfaction that Draco is so upset by this—he can't remember Rita Skeeter without his mouth puckering, as if he's tasting something sour—so he says nothing. There's nothing to really say, anyway; learning to deal with this kind of attention can't be taught, and Harry's never done a spectacularly good job at it, regardless.

"It's humiliating," Draco says when the platter somehow determines that they're both full to bursting and doesn't refill itself. His eyes move as he traces the embossed vine that decorates the golden edge.

"Yes," Harry says. "It is."

"We should get her sacked."

Harry's smile is very soft, as is the kiss he presses to the corner of Draco's mouth. "Okay."

Draco's lips twitch and his eyes meet Harry's reluctantly. "You're not supposed to humor me, you know. It's insulting."

"Oh, yes, terribly so. You tell me you want to sack a woman who's saved my life several times, I say okay, and that means I'm humoring you."

Draco is grinning now, discomfort forgotten—or at least distanced. "It's all in the tone, Harry. You Gryffindors have no sense of nuance."

Harry isn't as good at denial, but he tries to grin back as he plans his response. He's still not nearly as quick at thinking up comebacks as Draco is, which only lets him in for more mockery as his protracted silence is taken advantage of. Another second or two and Harry knows that Draco's smile will turn mischievous and he'll say something truly terrible that would've sent the old Harry scrambling to wring Draco's pale neck—which of course reminds him that someone has actually tried to do so.

Ignoring Draco's jerk of surprise, he leans forward to reexamine Draco's neck: the bruises are more green and yellow today, but they're still obviously there. Harry worries about what he'll do, when next he sees Zacharias Smith.

A breath of air swirls through the room, a silent announcement that the Headmaster has joined them. Harry knows without looking up that Dumbledore is healthier than he's been in months, confirming it when he takes in: hair that no longer wants to stand upright and wrinkles that seem fewer than the last time. He can feel that Dumbledore is stronger, his presence filling up the room with the winter-taste of magic, the way it used to when Harry was small and easily impressed.

He can't help but be impressed now, again. He isn't entirely certain what Dumbledore did on Saturday—and really doesn't want to know—but he knows that it was an incredible bit of magic and that it hurt Voldemort very badly. That he is sitting on the bed across from theirs, eyes twinkling like sparklers, looking fit and well after only a day's worth of rest is a feat. It's also immensely reassuring; Harry doesn't like it when he has to worry and distrust the closest thing he's ever had to a true parent in his life.

"Good evening," Dumbledore says, beaming at them. "You have both rested and eaten?"

Draco has gone utterly still and silent, so it is Harry who says, "Yes, sir."

"Good, good. I confess, I am not quite certain where to begin. There are many things that we can talk about, and one must always begin at the beginning. The problem is discovering where that beginning is, and separating it from those fascinating ideas that wish to distract you."

This is Dumbledore at his most inscrutable, the rambling old man who sounds silly enough to walk himself into a wall rather than move around it, and Harry finds his spirits lifting again. The more obscure Dumbledore is, the better things tend to be for Harry. "What's going to happen to the ones who hurt Draco?" he asks. His fingers thread together with Draco's absently, squeezing reassurance. "Have they all been caught?"

"Ah, Harry, one can never truly catch all the members of a mob. I do believe it's part of the definition of one. Professor Snape, however, has been most zealous in identifying the perpetrators. I'm afraid that the only house with a respectable amount of points right now is Slytherin, and ten boys will be spending the next month serving detentions, something that he and their head of house both agree is acceptable. I will not tolerate physical violence in my school," he adds, the quiet breath of hardness in his voice more frightening than the blackest of threats. "I find such actions to be abhorrent and have every confidence that the students in question will understand this." Or else is an unnecessary addendum.

This seems to wake Draco up, prompting him to push himself upright and press his shoulder to Harry's. His expression is mulish and stubborn, but there's a quaver in his voice as he sneers, "And yet you allowed us to fight all term?"

"Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore begins, and then pauses. Harry has no idea how Dumbledore has interpreted Draco's flinch; Harry barely felt it, and he has an arm snaking around Draco's waist again. "Forgive me. Draco, if you and Mr. Potter were ever to truly fight, be certain that my reaction would be no different than it is now."

Draco blinks, glancing over at Harry questioningly. Harry just smiles, again sliding his fingers down the curve of Draco's hip. It's no surprise to him that Dumbledore knows—between McGonagall and Dumbledore's own frequent observations of Harry, frankly it'd be more surprising if he didn't know. But Harry knows that Draco views Dumbledore with a great deal of mistrust and will not be at all comfortable having the old man divine their inner thoughts with no effort. Harry's too used to it to care anymore. Well, to object to it, at least.

"I must insist," Dumbledore's voice interrupts them just as Harry starts caressing Draco's thigh with his thumb, "that both of you promise me that you will not take reprisal."

That grabs Harry's attention. His head whips around, as furious at that moment as when Draco first explained to him what happened. "No way, sir. Er. Respectfully. But no."

"Harry, as headmaster, it is my authority and right to punish those who flout school rules. You, however, are still a student and you must also obey those rules." It takes all Harry has not to laugh in Dumbledore's—the man who most encourages Harry to flout those precious school rules of his—face. "If you do so, I will have to punish you, as well."

"So punish me!" Harry doesn't care that he's adding finger-shaped bruises to Draco's hip. He is too angry, red flames licking the back of his eyes while blood drums a war-beat in his ears. He isn't thinking, knows he's not, and doesn't give a damn. Someone has hurt Draco and that thought leaves no room for anything else.

"No."

The word should have come from Dumbledore, who looks sadly resigned and almost lost—probably because Harry is again his own person and not the little automaton he sometimes thinks Dumbledore wants him to be. That it comes from Draco, however, yanks the bottom out from Harry's stomach. Eyes wide behind his glasses, Harry looks at Draco in disbelief. From Dumbledore he expects opposition. Not from Draco. "What?"

"I said no, you idiot," Draco repeats, again somehow managing to sound fond and exasperated at the same time. It's a skill only Hermione's mastered, previously, and it's a little scary that Draco's picked it up so quickly. "Tell me, Potter, what do you think will happen if you swoop down on your fellow Gryffindors like some sort of an avenging angel, hm? They'll be so pleased to face your wrath, your friends. So understanding that I'm not really the arrogant prat I've been the last five years and have only been pretending this year. Come on, Harry! How do you think your friends will react when you're angry at them for defending you?"

Harry's grip doesn't loosen, not even when Draco shifts uncomfortably. He knows what Draco is telling him, of course. He understands that if Harry does this thing, then Draco's cover is blown wide open and instead of gradually allowing his friends to get used to a new and improved Draco, Harry will be forced to chose—his friends or Draco. And whichever one he picks, the other will be lost in a wave of hatred and betrayal. It's a choice that haunts him, when he thinks of it, which isn't often. He's grown introspective, yes, but denial is a sixteen-year-old's best friend and Harry courts it when necessary. He's lost too much to lose yet more—

—but he cannot stand that someone has hurt Draco, and it's hard to remember everything when his blood beats so strongly in his ears.

"Besides." Draco's sneer isn't quite where it should be, but the effort makes Harry soften. Draco is trying to keep most of who he was as he figures out who he is, each facet of himself battled for over ice tilted at some impossible angle. "I don't need your help to get my own back. I'm a Slytherin. Vengeance is practically our creed."

He's not entirely certain if Draco means that. He is supposed to believe that Draco has the matter well in hand, and certainly it's possible that he's spent most of the night beside Harry contemplating different ways to humiliate the ones who hurt him; Draco is just as good at that as Malfoy has ever claimed to be. But Dumbledore is still sitting before them, serenely listening as Draco promises retribution without raising a single objection. And Draco is not looking gleefully inward, as he usually does when caught up in some complicated plot. Instead, he looks desperate.

Harry sighs. Silently, he promises that Zacharias Smith belongs to him and no one else, and then gives in to the pressure of two pale-eyed stares. "Fine." The word is shoved between clenched jaws, but he means it. That seems to be enough. "I won't make them pay." Not them, but him, who is going to understand in no uncertain terms that he is never to touch Draco again.

Draco probably understands that this is compromise, not capitulation, but his smile is pure and the hand that creeps under the blankets to curl around Harry's thigh does not tremble. Harry covers that hand with his own, using the touch to help him let go of his anger, or at least force it down to glowing embers in the back of his mind. Calm again, Harry returns Draco's smile and looks at Dumbledore once more.

He's not at all surprised to see speculation underneath the slightly befuddled expression, but he is surprised to see relief. What, does he truly not want to punish Harry for his transgressions? That's stupid, Harry thinks. Harry knows how to take his lumps and doubly so when he knows he's in the wrong and just doesn't give a damn. But then Draco is squeezing his hand, the warm pressure enough to distract Harry, and Dumbledore's mask of pleasant bemusement is back firmly in place.

"Very good," he tells them, beaming happily. "As for you, Mr. Potter, our events from the previous day have been kept closely guarded... "

Harry's grin is quick and boyish as he chimes in with the headmaster to say: "So of course, everyone knows about it. I thought they might, sir." How much detail, though, Harry dreads. This is different from when he came back from the Chamber of Secrets, aching and hurt but vindictive, as his actions proved he was not the Heir of Slytherin and also returned Hagrid to his proper place. Or even when he returned with Cedric's body cold against his own, raging against the disbelief that he met over and over again.

This time, Harry doesn't want to tell anyone of what happened the day before. Not even Draco, who is twisting around to hold him, instead of being held by him. "I'm all right," he mutters.

"What was that potion?" Draco asks, the words aimed above Harry's head. "The one Snape made for him?"

"It is a compound similar to Dreamless Sleep," Dumbledore explains, affecting no surprise that Draco knows about the potion. "It allows Harry to distance himself from events occurring twenty-four hours before consumption of the potion."

Draco mutters something under his breath, worrying at his lower lip until Harry's attention is fixed solely on white, even teeth pressed into pink that grows redder and redder. Harry wants to lean over and bite it for him. "So he can't take it more than once," Draco says, oblivious to Harry's focus.

"Not unless something occurred today that he wishes to distance himself from."

Draco doesn't blush, although he twitches a little. "But I smelled peppermint, before, and if you combine that with the murtlap essence in Dreamless Sleep, you can create an immunity to it. Which means normal Dreamless Sleep won't work on him anymore."

"A problem Professor Snape is aware of, Draco. He's attempting to modify the potion, or create something that works similarly as we speak."

Harry is completely aware that Draco and Dumbledore are having a conversation that is about him. He should probably be involved in it, or at least pay attention, and he wants to. As soon as Draco stops tracing patterns on his inner thigh, concentrating so hard on his own thoughts that Harry's pretty sure Draco has no idea what he's doing. Interrupting now might make him aware of it, and Harry wants to prevent that. It's the first time he can remember that Draco's initiated contact without requesting permission first.

"But the point of Dreamless Sleep," Draco says slowly, "is to keep away all dreams. Even the good ones, which isn't very healthy. No one ever talks about the side effects of Dreamless Sleep, because it's difficult enough to make that people only take it rarely, but there are some. If you take away Harry's good dreams, he'll be just as crazy as if you don't take away the bad ones."

"Ah?"

The question is lilting, completely non-intrusive, but Draco still flushes. "It's, er, why I got in bed with him," he confesses shyly. His hands have stopped moving and his eyes seem glued to the blankets tangled around their legs, but he hasn't stopped touching Harry, either. "He started having a nightmare."

"Really? How interesting. You must tell Professor Snape everything you remember." There's something leading, almost manipulative about Dumbledore's words. It's the same kind of buried taunt that Draco levies at Harry, and the comparison is less shocking than it should have been; Dumbledore wears an old man's absentminded confusion the way Draco wears his father's icy disdain. "If I may, how did you coax Harry out of them? Or were you not able to?"

"There needs to be lava leaf," Draco mutters, obviously distracted by his own thoughts and unaware of Dumbledore's question. "But lava leaf doesn't mix with the chamomile without exploding. That has to be part of the potion. Damn it. I need my potions book."

Normally, watching Draco chase down a problem is one of Harry's joys in life. It's hard to enjoy it, though, when Dumbledore's question still hangs in the air, Harry almost breathless as he waits for the answer. "Draco?" he asks. "How'd you stop my nightmares?"

"I told you," Draco says, eyes rolling in irritation. "I climbed into bed with you. Once you wrapped yourself around me like a bloody Devil's Snare, you fell back into real sleep. It was all perfectly revolting, really. You wouldn't let me back out of bed no matter how much I struggled, you overgrown lummox."

"Oh." He doesn't say thank you, because that would knock Draco out of this absently honest mood. Questions crowd in his mind about hundreds of things he knows Draco is not comfortable talking about and, for that reason, are never asked. If he tries, though, Harry knows that he'd get maybe one more answer before Draco snaps back to reality—and Harry does not want Draco to see the bright red flush he knows stains his cheeks.

Dumbledore's eyes are kind as he suggests, "Perhaps you would care to go and join Professor Snape?" His voice is diffident, as if he doesn't care whether Draco obeys or not, and so clearly manipulative that Harry has no idea why he's ever fallen for the Headmaster's tricks before. "I am certain he would not turn your assistance away. I believe he is working in his private office at this very moment."

Draco nods distractedly, already half-way out of the bed before awareness returns. His body jerks as he twists around, one leg still tangled in the bed clothes, eyes huge as they search for Harry's. "Er." It's odd, seeing him this vulnerable when others are in the room. Around Harry, Draco will give in to his insecurities. Never others. It's impossible to tell if he really trusts Dumbledore enough, or if he's so worried about Harry that he forgets to pretend. Or maybe something else entirely. "That is... "

Harry does not want Draco to go. Draco is his shield, his protection against the world Dumbledore clearly wants to draw him back into. Draco is... Harry shakes his head, concentrating on his resentment of Dumbledore, who is once again effortlessly manipulating Harry's life without his consent, because contemplating Draco leaving makes his stomach clench painfully. "Go," he tells Draco, aiming for playful, hoping his voice doesn't sound as strained as he thinks it does. "I'll be all right."

Grey eyes grow sharp and cutting as Draco studies his face. Clearly, he doesn't believe Harry for a moment, but Harry concentrates on looking innocent and accepting and eventually Draco nods sharply. Blonde strands of hair, slightly stringy instead of its usual waterfall of softness, cling to his eyebrows. It makes him look cross-eyed. "Of course you will, once I get this potion made."

"Of course," Harry repeats, sincere.

Hastily donning a clean robe over his pyjamas, Draco tries on a smirk that doesn't quite succeed. "I'll have to. You're impossible if you don't sleep, Potter, and I'm certainly not risking contamination by spending the night in your dorm. Ugh. Gryffindor cooties."

The comment is odd, slightly stilted and lacking Draco's usual urban delivery, but the message is clear and Harry couldn't care less that Dumbledore is watching them with approval. Instead, he watches as Draco fusses with his collar, head tilting this way and that as he tries to find a position that minimizes the bruises on his neck. He does this without a mirror, a process so fascinating that Harry forgets to tell him not to bother: his lip is still split, red and raw looking, his eye still swollen enough that it does not open all the way. Everyone will know where he's been, if by some small chance they've forgotten. Harry doesn't think they will have. But he doesn't say that, either, because if he opens his mouth he knows he will say stay.

Finally satisfied—and somehow the reddened bruises on his neck are hidden enough that Harry has to look hard to see them—Draco puts on a smirk the way a knight lowers his metal helm and strides purposefully towards the door. Stops. Turns back, mask disappearing as anxious eyes find Harry's. "I'll forget something," he promises.

He will forget something? Blinking, Harry forgets that he is trying not to speak and lets his teeth unclench. The words make no sense, but Dumbledore is nodding placidly, unconcerned and, apparently, understanding. "Of course," Dumbledore says mildly, before Harry finds enough breath to say something. "I will explain to Madam Pomfrey."

"Thank you, sir." Draco's robes flare as dramatically as Snape's as he stalks out of the infirmary. Better, really; Snape is a poor man's copy of Lucius Malfoy's icy demeanor and haughty arrogance, and no one does Lucius better than his own son.

The quiet grows after Draco's departure, as heavy and smothering as when Harry first woke. He pulls his knees to his chest, hugging them because he has to touch something and even at their closest, Dumbledore is not the type to touch.

"Harry—"

"I don't want to talk about it." In a way, they don't need to talk about it. Harry is proficient enough at Occlumency to keep Voldemort from his mind, yes, but not Dumbledore. One look is enough, their eyes meeting and staring for longer than a breath of time, and Dumbledore can find out everything he wishes. But Harry does not look into Dumbledore's eyes, and Dumbledore does not ask him to. "I'm tired," he lies.

Dumbledore remains silent for long enough that Harry almost does start to drift. His mind should be feverish, he knows, a roiling mass of conflicting needs. Once again he mentally promises Snape whatever the man should ask for, because all he feels is heavy and a little dull without Draco to focus on.

"I wish only," Dumbledore's soft voice interrupts his thoughts, "to tell you how proud I am of you. And that your strength is none of my doing. If anything, it is in spite of me."

Harry doesn't understand that, and doesn't bother trying. He'll ask Draco, later. Draco loves word games almost as much as Dumbledore does and always glows when he finds a way to translate the message into something Harry understands. "Okay," he says, because some kind of response seems necessarily.

Dumbledore sighs and ponderously climbs to his feet. "Rest, Harry. With your permission, Poppy will create a pensieve of yesterday's memories that the Order may have a full debriefing without you being required to speak of it."

It's intrusive, but Harry nods gratefully. He doesn't want to have to revisit these memories, distant and dim though they are; worse, to do it in front of members of the Order. While Harry knows and cares for a great many of them, spending time as an active participant as opposed to Harry, their friend or adoptive son, is painful. The risk of death is high, the ruthlessness of necessity creating a rift not even hate can breech. "Later?"

"Today, Mister Potter. Or the memories will not be clear enough to be useful." Dumbledore reaches out a gnarled hand, the knuckles thick and twisted like the branches of the Whomping Willow, but never quite touches Harry. "There is a tranquility spell. It cannot make you sleep, but it will help you to drift."

Sedative, the Muggle portion of Harry's brain translates. It does that, sometimes, ten years of Muggle thinking occasionally still at odds with five years within the world of magic. He nods, though, because he doesn't want to think and remains still as Dumbledore whispers something hissing and low, sounding the way Draco's eyes often look, surrounding him in grey. It slips through his body, robbing him of control until he slumps back against the headboard, his mind spinning lazily as the patter of a summer's rain fills his ears. It is not sleep; Harry knows that he is conscious and if necessary, could break free of the cotton that's filled him from head to toe. Maybe, anyway. It's restful, though, and pleasant and without Draco, it is perfect.

Time is a meaningless concept like this, though he rouses somewhat when Madam Pomfrey enters the room. She holds something small and gold, and Harry vaguely thinks that it is fitting that his pensieve looks like a snitch. His heavy limbs move slowly, but he lies down when he is told, unconcerned when the gold is touched to his temple—it is warm and very hard against him—and Madam Pomfrey says words he does not understand. His vision swirls then, clarity vanishing the way it does when he removes his glasses, thankfully never coming into full focus as his memories are transferred.

"Rest, Mister Potter," Madam Pomfrey tells him, customary briskness vanished under sweet custard and stuffed animals with pouty eyes. "You must rest and allow your mind to catch up with your body."

Harry wants to tell her that he's fine, but he can't seem to convince his mouth to open or convince his lungs to fill up enough to create sounds. Madam Pomfrey doesn't seem to mind, patting his cheek gently. Harry doesn't notice when she leaves, only vaguely aware that the smell of mint leaves with her. He likes it, this grey empty nothingness, his mind resting fallow until voices from the hall finally penetrate.

"What do you mean, we aren't allowed to see him?" The voice is shrill and sick with worry. Hermione, Harry thinks.

"Yeah, Dumbledore said he was awake. C'mon, Madam Pomfrey, please. We just want to make sure he's okay." Belligerent and nervous, accusatory without ever quite crossing that uncrossable line, complete with a tremor Harry can recognize anywhere. Ron.

"I assure you, Mister Potter is quite well. Right now he is sleeping, something he needs a great deal of," Madam Pomfrey snaps. Hazily, Harry smiles, the pillow rough against his lips. She sounds like a dragon, fiercely protective and his mind supplies images of pure white scales with spectacles and terrifyingly large gouts of flame before settling back into grey.

"Please, Madam Pomfrey, we just want to see him." Anxious hints of little girl drown out the more familiar bossiness; for Harry, Hermione stops pretending to be a grown up and just is. It's sweet, or would be, if Harry could concentrate. "We won't wake him, I promise, you can watch us and everything. We just need to—you!"

The switch from solicitous begging to icy hatred is strong enough that Harry's body almost jerks in reaction. She is rarely this angry, and it frightens Harry to hear it now. This is safety, home, where Hermione is loving and kind; not rearing up like a bear prepared to defend its territory. His mind spins, and he cannot understand the increasingly loud voices until finally Madam Pomfrey orders Ron and Hermione to leave, or face detention.

"I'm not leaving Harry with him," Ron declares, stubbornness sounding strangely commanding. Controlling. It's like listening to Ron captain them during Quidditch practices, but there's no edge of laughter or uncertainty here. He sounds frighteningly like his mother and Harry doesn't understand why that makes him feel sad. "Make Malfoy leave, and we'll go."

"Mister Weasley! I assure you, Mister Potter is perfectly fine and in absolutely no danger! You and Miss Granger will leave this instant."

"But—"

"Now!"

Ron's bourgeoning adulthood is nothing against Madam Pomfrey's scandalized ire and Harry can hear Ron and Hermione muttering angrily as they slowly slink away. It is only when the last of the grumbles fades does she say, "Honestly. As if I'd allow students to fight each other in my infirmary. The nerve! Well. Never mind that. You may retrieve your cloak, Mister Malfoy, but be quick about it. I wish to close up the infirmary for the night."

"Yes, ma'am," that voice, crystalline bells chiming in a belfry, says. Harry wants more of that voice, craves it the way a child craves sweets, but it is lost in a swirling cacophony. He tries to separate the different sounds, identifying the swish or thud or murmured word, but not anything really useful. It's impossible to wake up more, either, and that hurts. He cannot bear to hear that voice, Draco's voice, only to miss the chance of seeing him. He wants the bed to dip, his body rolling slightly as the angles change, a warm body sliding against his own, arms wrapping firmly around him while a cool mouth trails wet kisses against a forehead that is startlingly warm.

It takes him a very long time to realize that this is not desire so strong it overwhelms him, but reality.

"I see you found your cloak, Mister Malfoy," Madam Pomfrey says, and suddenly Harry understands. An excuse to return to the infirmary. To Harry. Cool fingers brush over Harry's face and then Draco's. "You're obviously suffering a fever," she says mechanically, voice flat as she pays lip service. "You'll have to spend the night here, I'm afraid."

"Terrible thing," Draco says sleepily. Somehow, he has draped Harry's arms around him, head tucked comfortably underneath Harry's chin while their legs entwine together. Harry's body relaxes completely. His arm will fall asleep by morning, he knows, and does not care. This is safe and home and peace. He can handle pins and needles. "I'll probably have to miss breakfast, I'm so sick. Really, I'm near death here... "

If anything else is said, Harry does not know it. Draco's heat burns through Dumbledore's spell, but in the wake of receding grey flows black sleep that Harry does not try to fight. Draco is here, has come back without Harry asking, and will stay the night. He needs nothing else.