Chapter 2: Beyond the Wounds

A/N: Here is more of our lovely heroes. More tension, more confusion, more anger. Enjoy!

Harry didn't sleep well.

After he had collected himself sufficiently—which involved carefully not touching his aching cock and determinedly thinking of what little he remembered from History of Magic and NOT of Malfoy's mouth and what it might feel like on his own—he had managed to heal the majority of the wounds of the blond without any further... confusions.

In fact, for the rest of his time with Malfoy he had been perfectly fine. He had easily remembered and performed the healing spells that Hermione had instructed him in, he had bandaged the ribs while they were magically and naturally healing, he had actually managed to touch Malfoy without his heart speeding to an alarming rate. There was still the tingling in his hands, but that must have been the magic.

But he didn't sleep well. He tossed and turned and pulled his blankets up and then kicked them back away again in frustration. His dreams were haunted by pale skin and taut muscles, the lean lines of a man's body and the softer curves of his lips.

The thing was, Harry didn't think of men that way. Not in the way that had him waking with an erection that would not leave no matter how many Defense Against the Dark Arts spells he recited in his head. And he did not think of men in the way that had him leaning against the shower wall to support himself as his fingers curled around the sensitive length and he bit his lip to keep from moaning.

This morning he had hoped to come down to the kitchen early—painfully early to be honest, for Remus kept insane hours—and get himself a strong cup of tea before he was forced to deal with Malfoy. Instead, the Slytherin was already there, dressed in only his bandages and a pair of pants that was significantly too short, staring at the plate of food before him in disgust.

As Harry came in, his grey eyes lifted and he summoned a sneer. "Potter, I would at some point like clothes that actually fit. Yours are rather... small in places." His eyes drifted past Harry's bare chest down past the waist band of his pants, and the green-eyed man flushed at the implication. "Not only that, you cannot expect me to eat this rubbish you call food."

Harry forced a smile. "Malfoy, I'll let you borrow some of Remus's clothes since they'll probably be longer—you're too tall for mine. You will eat the food because you'd be dead if you were any skinnier. And," he added with a decidedly hostile expression, "don't doubt the fit of my pants in places, Malfoy, or I'll be forced to prove myself to you, and I'm sure neither of us want that."

There was a sudden silence. Was it just him, or did Malfoy's eyes dilate the slightest bit? And did he just swallow in what was certainly a nervous gesture? Were his cheeks maybe the tiniest bit flushed?

Harry turned to the cabinets to avoid looking at Malfoy any longer, which seemed to be something he was doing quite a bit of now.

He sat slowly at the table with a bowl of cereal and milk, glancing at Malfoy again and noting that the blond still hadn't touched his food.

Harry began eating more quickly than he normally did, hoping that he could get the hell out of this remarkably uncomfortable silence. Malfoy didn't say anything, but Harry could feel the grey eyes studying him carefully, running over him in a disturbingly thorough perusal.

"What is it, Malfoy?" he asked finally, setting down his spoon and looking at the other man directly.

"We've hated each other for a long time, haven't we?"

It was such an unexpected question that Harry was caught off guard. Harry would have understood another complaint, or an insult, or anything else, but this matter-of-fact question was nothing like the Malfoy he knew.

If he really knew Malfoy at all.

"Er—" he started. "Yeah. I guess we have."

"You know, I don't think I genuinely hated you until you made the Quidditch team. Then I hated you for getting something I wanted more than anything, and for refusing my friendship, of course." He paused and folded his arms behind his head. "But you decided earlier than that, didn't you?"

Harry was momentarily distracted by Malfoy's alabaster skin, and the remnants of his quidditch muscles stretched tight across his chest and torso. The darker pink of the nipples stood out against his skin in the chill of the morning.

"Er, I suppose I did."

"When?"

Harry blinked. He hadn't really expected an interrogation.

But he thought about the question. It had been so long now since he had begun hating Malfoy that he couldn't really remember why he had started in the first place.

"It was probably on the train, when you insulted Ron. He was my first real friend. Not just at Hogwarts, but ever. So I hated you. Though I thought you were a bit of a prat in Madame Malkin's as well."

Malfoy nodded, and for a moment said nothing. "You were the first person I ever asked to be my friend," he said quietly. "But I suppose we should be glad that you refused me, then. We should have ended up hating each other anyway... what with you being such a prick."

"I'm the prick?!" Harry cried indignantly. "I'm not the one who insulted your friends every time I saw you. You went out of your way to be rotten to me."

Malfoy nodded. "I liked it. Seeing you mad, that you couldn't control some aspect of that perfect little life of yours, that I was something not even your precious Muggle-lover Dumbledore could fix—"

"Don't you ever fucking talk about him like that!" Harry shouted, leaping to his feet. "You're the reason it happened! You're the reason he's dead!"

Malfoy's expression immediately closed, and his relaxed body tensed suddenly. "You blame me."

"Of course I blame you! You let them in! You were the reason anybody knew we were up there! I could have saved him, but you—"

"That's right, Potter, blame it on me! How like you to pin it on somebody else. It couldn't possibly be that Dumbledore fucked up, no, it's me! What choice do you think I had? They were going to kill me and my family! The Dark Lord doesn't accept failure, Potter! I could have killed him, but I didn't. I couldn't do it. I failed, and not even Snape could save me." He finished so quietly it was nearly a whisper.

Harry's wand was out and his anger had nearly reached the bursting point. He hadn't been furious like this since that night, when he had chased Snape, hurling curses at him as he ran. Snape...

"He did it to save you?"

Malfoy nodded. "He made an Unbreakable Vow to my mother."

Harry sat down. "What did they do to you, Malfoy?"

The blond man shook his head and slumped, suddenly looking defeated.

"You'll have to tell me, sometime."

"No, I won't."

"I need to know. There might be damage that I won't find without knowing."

"Let it go, Potter."

Harry took a deep breath to quell the anger that was once again rising within him. It had felt good, for those few moments, to let the fury take over, but he couldn't afford to lose himself to it.

"You know," Malfoy said softly, and his eyes had something else in them this time, "I like you better angry than cold."

Harry scoffed. "You don't like me at all."

The other man shrugged. "I could. We don't exactly know each other, Potter. Not that I want to become bosom buddies—you might contaminate me with those awful Mudblood germs—but I don't have to hate you."

Malfoy stood and picked up his plate, moving to the other side of the table and far too close to Harry for his peace of mind. The blond leaned down close to him, his lips next to Harry's ear. Against his will, Harry found his heart beating faster. "I don't want to hate you." Harry could practically feel him smirk. "And I think I could like not hating you a lot."

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Draco had no idea what had possessed him to speak to Harry—no, Potter—like that. Fuck. He was an idiot, telling him that his had been been the first friendship he'd ever asked for, that he liked seeing him mad, that he wanted to like him.

Why the fuck did he feel like telling Potter everything when those green eyes looked in his direction?

And Merlin. Concentrating had been nearly impossible with all that skin on display. Golden, that was the only color to describe Potter's skin, and so much of it with the broad shoulders laden with muscles from years of flying. And he hadn't quite been able to keep his eyes from lingering on the brunette's firm ass, nor his gaze from straying to the line of dark hair that created a tantalizing path from his navel to disappear under the edge of his pants.

Fuck, he needed sex. Now that the most pressing of his needs had been taken care of, he was having trouble ignoring his other... desires. Not that he was connecting Potter with sex. For one thing, he liked birds, not blokes. And most definitely not Potter.

An image of that golden body over him, under him, surrounding him, buried in him, came unbidden to his mind. His cock sprang eagerly to attention.

Fuck. He would just avoid Potter. That would work, right? He would talk to him as little as possible, be around him only when he had to be, and this weird focus he had on fucking the Golden Boy into the mattress would go away.

Merlin, he needed a wank.

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Draco managed to avoid Potter for a grand total of two days. He mostly kept to his room under the pretense that he needed to rest, and managed to use Kreacher for all his other needs. Of course, he was going a little crazy staying in the room all the time, but he couldn't really go anywhere else. He'd stumbled across the library on the second day, during an exploration on which he had carefully not passed Potter's room. Unfortunately, the bloody werewolf had already been there, lifting his eyebrows a fraction of an inch in question and making Draco feel like a fucking intruder. So he'd gone back to his room. And done jumping jacks. And looked out the window onto the remarkably spacious backyard. Until he saw Potter flying around without his shirt. Didn't the wanker own any clothes?

It was on the second day after dinner that Harry finally came to inflict his Golden Boy tendencies on the helpless Slytherin.

The knock was as much anticipated as it was dreaded, and Draco's heart nearly stopped beating when he heard it.

He scowled anyway in defiance. "What?" he snapped.

A chuckle came from the other side of the door. "Get the fuck over yourself, Malfoy. I'm coming in. You'd better be decent." This was followed by the door opening and a tousled and flushed Potter strode into the room.

"Potter, when exactly did I say you could come into my room?" Draco's tone was anything but friendly.

The Gryffindor merely raised a brow and grinned. "Come off it, I own this house."

"Why in hell are you so sodding cheerful this morning?"

Potter's grin lit up his entire face, made the infernal green eyes even brighter. "I had a great fly earlier."

Draco's brows drew together in a dangerous frown. He was well aware of the fact that Potter had flown and had a wonderful time this morning—after watching for only a few minutes he'd needed a fucking cold shower. Stupid fucking Gryffindor.

His eyes turned back to Potter and he was surprised to find the other boy's gaze appraising and annoyed.

They said nothing for a few moments.

"Thanks for inviting me, Potter," Draco spat, wanting to make Potter as uncomfortable as he felt.

He saw the brunette's jaw tighten in anger and smirked. Part of him delighted in the fact that he could get to the other man. It was a powerful thing, to be able to affect the emotions of another and he'd always liked power. Though right now he'd rather affect Potter in an entirely different way.

"I have to check your bandages."

Draco gritted his teeth as Potter touched him to keep from gasping. It wasn't like he'd never been touched before. But those hands were so soft and rough at the same time, carefully taking the bandages off his ribs and prodding his bruises with calloused fingers.

Draco watched Potter as he worked. The brunette's cheeks were markedly flushed, and his lower lip was caught between his teeth in a way that made the Slytherin want to bite it.

It had been sometime since he had felt so much. Other than pain, that is. He had felt plenty of pain so far, at the hands of the Dark Lord and his legion of basic-black-sporting minions. But this, none of this was straightforward in his head. It didn't make sense, the combination of things that were going through his skin and his blood and his mind. There was so much here, he knew, but he didn't know what it was, and he was even less sure what he could possibly do with it.

After awhile that soft baritone spoke, interrupting his thoughts. "I'm done." Potter stood and backed away from him, though their eyes remained on each other as more space grew between them.

An awkward silence stretched before them as they stood; they were now both looking at anything but each other.

Finally Draco rolled his eyes. "Is there something else you wanted Potter?" The Slytherin would never forget how the Harry's cheeks grew distinctly more flushed at the question, and his lower lip once again found its way between his teeth.

Potter straightened, and looked Draco square in the eye, almost a challenge. "I think you should have dinner with Sirius and Remus and me downstairs today, instead of avoiding me."

Instead of protesting the obvious indignity of having to dine with the suddenly-not-dead arrogant arsehole and the bloody pathetic werewolf, Draco found himself saying, "I'm not avoiding you."

A single dark brow raised in disbelief. "You're doing a remarkable impression of it, then."

For the first time he could remember, Draco found himself spluttering like a fool, or worse, like that bloody Weasel whenever he was around the stupid Mudblood. "I—but—well—"

Potter raised a hand in what the blond thought was a particularly arrogant expression. "Save it, Malfoy. Just come down at seven, and try to be civil. I know it's hard for you, what with the bloody stick up your arse, but try."

Draco glowered as the brunette shut the door. "You want civil, Potter? I'll give you fucking civil."

A/N: What mischief is Draco planning? How tense will things get between our two men before they have to relieve their—cough—tensions? And how many times must I beg for more REVIEWS?