Chapter Eight
Well, In That Case

: : :

It is snowing again. Thick flakes flutter against the tower window, sticking to the sill in an ever-growing pile against the glass. Every time Harry sighs, his warm breath fogs the frosty glass from the inside. It's been almost a week since the incident in the Three Broomsticks, and he's barely moved from this spot except to go to meals and classes, which he only manages half-heartedly after the careful prodding of Ron and Hermione.

Whatever poison Lucius used was a vile one; from what Harry has gathered, it was so chemically similar to the Firewhisky that there was no way anyone, except perhaps Snape, could have detected its presence in the drink. The fiery acid was designed to literally burn a person up from the inside out—thankfully, Draco choked on the drink before it got close enough to his heart. When Harry saw the smoke issue from his mouth, smelled the familiar, citric scent of acid, he did the only thing he could think of, which was to use a Freezing Charm on Draco, hoping to counteract whatever he'd swallowed.

And then he sent an immediate owl to Snape.

It was perhaps the first and last time Snape would ever acknowledge Harry acting less than idiotically. His Freezing Charm had not only frozen Draco inside and out, but prevented the damage from becoming irreversible. He'd still suffered life-threatening wounds from the poison, however, and even with proper care and a week's bed-rest, Draco's life is still in limbo. Madam Pomfrey and Snape have done all they can, and now it is up to Draco's body to decide whether to pull through or not. After all, having all ones internal organs liquidized is a fairly traumatic ordeal.

Harry leans his forehead against the window, closing his eyes as the cold glass bites into his warm skin, causing his scar to prickle. He wants to go and see Draco, even though as far as Harry knows, he is still in a coma-like stasis. But with Blaise on the warpath and in the Hospital Wing whenever he isn't in classes, Harry has stopped trying to go altogether. He doesn't blame the Slytherin for being so belligerent; after all, Blaise has a fair point.

If it hadn't been for you, Draco'd be fine. You are the reason he's in there.

An annoying little voice in Harry's head keeps trying to point out that Draco told him he wasn't doing this for him—because of him, but not for him—and therefore, it isn't Harry's fault. Harry, on the other hand, is more inclined to agree with Blaise; for him, because of him, it doesn't matter. Because of him still makes it his doing.

He wants to see Draco. He wants to see him so badly it hurts.

Haven't you done enough, Potter?

But he doesn't want to hurt Draco any more, either. Even if that means hurting himself.

Sighing, Harry pulls his forehead, now achingly numb with cold, off the windowpane. Just as he moves to sit on his bed, the dormitory door opens and Ron enters.

Harry stiffens; it's the first time since the incident that he's been alone with his best mate. There's a guilty pang somewhere in his midsection as he realises he's been rather neglectful of Ron these past few weeks, unfairly keeping him in the dark, and Harry has a suspicion that Hermione is the only reason Ron hasn't throttled him and demanded details about 'this Malfoy business'.

'Hey, Ron,' Harry says warily.

'Hey,' Ron says, looking disgruntled and a little uncomfortable. 'How're you doing?'

Harry blinks at him; he's been neglecting Ron for weeks, and the first thing Ron can think to ask is how he's feeling—guilt stabs at his abdomen again, digging deeper. 'I'm fine,' he says. Ron raises an eyebrow. 'No, really, I am. I'm fine,' he insists. 'How are you?'

Ron laughs softly, coming over to sit beside Harry on the bed, shaking his head. 'You've been alternating between pacing the common room and sitting on that windowsill for a week and you're trying to tell me that you're fine? We've been mates for seven years, Harry. Give me some credit, will you?'

Harry frowns, furrowing his brow, and sighs heavily. He sags sideways against Ron. 'Sorry. You're right. I do give you credit, I'm just an idiot. You should know that,' he points out. 'Seven years and all.'

'Mm,' Ron agrees, taking his weight without moving away. 'But then, I would have said I knew you well enough to swear my life that you would never, ever have anything to do with that git Malfoy, aside from beating his face in, too.' Harry stiffens again. But he's leaning against Ron now, and Ron notices. Before Harry can say anything, Ron continues quickly, 'It's all right. I'm not going to flip my lid or anything.'

Harry relaxes once more, then lets out a bit of a groan. 'I'm sorry. I should have told you.'

'Maybe,' Ron says, shrugging. 'But if you had before Hermione stuck me to the armchair and lectured my brains out over it, I might have wigged out a bit.'

'A bit?' Harry asks, incredulous.

'A very large bit,' Ron admits. 'Anyway, mate—look. What you do on your own time is your thing. I guess I'm more worried he's got an ulterior motive or something. I mean, if he—'

Harry snorts, interrupting him. 'Is this where you're going to threaten to kill him if he breaks my heart?'

'Kill him? Merlin, no,' Ron says, shaking his head. 'I was thinking more along the lines of castration. Slowly. While he's conscious.'

'Oh, Won-won,' Harry mocks in his most coquettish tone, 'my hero.'

'Shove off,' Ron manages. 'Bloody queer,' he adds, though not unkindly. In fact, he's grinning rather stupidly. 'I mean—Malfoy, okay, he practically screams ponce, but you—' he shakes his head, '—I have to say I never saw it coming. And I think you've just destroyed the fantasies of half the girls in our year.'

'Have you seen half the girls in our year?' Harry gives a derisive snort. 'I consider that a perk.'

Ron smirks at that. 'Ginny's not taking it so badly,' he says. 'I think Hermione had a word with her, too. Good girl, that Hermione. But Romilda Vane was beside herself.'

Harry shudders, sitting up. 'Ugh, spare me. I'll never eat another bloody Cauldron Cake as long as I live.'

'And, um, the other reason I came up here,' Ron says, biting his lip. 'I sort of—well—after Hermione told me everything she knew, and practically made me swear an Unbreakable Vow not to kill him—I sort of... went to see him.'

Harry gapes at him. 'You went to see Malfoy?'

'It wasn't easy,' Ron says, wrinkling his nose. 'Hermione had to lure Zabini away, he's been pretty much living in the Hospital Wing. Even Madam Pomfrey's given up on telling him to get lost. I guess we'd be the same if it was you,' he admits, shrugging. 'But, yeah, I guess I had to prove to myself it was true, and I was worried if I came to see you first, we'd get into a row. I didn't care if I got into a row with Malfoy, 'cause he's a prat anyway.'

Harry stares at him, ignoring the insult, leaning in as he waits for him to continue. 'And?'

'Well,' Ron says, shrugging. 'He wasn't very happy to see me.'

'I would've guessed as much.'

'And I told him he was lucky I didn't regrind his organs into mush—'

'Ron—'

'—and he told me,' Ron continues over him, 'that as touching as my declaration of love was, his heart already belonged to another, and on that note, to make myself useful and give you this.'

Ron hands him an unmarked letter. 'He suspects that Zabini has been incinerating all of the letters he was instructed to deliver, and as much as I hate doing anything for that pillock, I suppose it's also doing something for you, so I don't mind.'

Harry is so happy at seeing something from Draco that he completely forgets to thank Ron, taking the letter, tearing it open and reading it quickly. Draco's sharp, narrow handwriting is both familiar and refreshing:

Blaise assures me that he hasn't killed you yet, if purely for my sake. That being the case, I'm thinking perhaps someone else has killed you, because there really is no other acceptable excuse for not being here, at my bedside, woebegone and sobbing for my suffering.

I mean, really, Potter—I only swallowed a shot of pure and unadulterated acid. I only nearly died. And if Blaise is to be believed, said trauma is entirely your fault, and you should be nailed to a cross and stoned until you are reduced to a bloody pulp of shame and stupidity. Or at least up here and waiting on me hand and foot to atone for your sins.

That said, if you're not here by teatime, so help me Merlin, I will crawl over to that tower myself, and the strain alone is certain to be the end of me. In which case, Blaise will kill you. Chop chop, Potter.

P.S. If you ever make me suffer the company of your Weasel unattended again whilst I am helpless and unarmed, I will sic Zabini on both of you.

Harry looks up and notices Ron's looking politely away. 'It's fine,' he says quickly, grinning slightly. 'I'm not going to hide it from you.'

'Actually, I was more worried there'd be something in there I'd rather not know,' Ron says, smirking. Harry shoves his shoulder, not hard, and Ron leans back easily, tilting his head to the side as he scans the letter quickly. He shakes his head, frowning. 'I have no idea what it is about him that appeals to you. Even in his letters, he's got a nasty mouth.'

'I dunno,' Harry says offhandedly, unable to keep the shit-eating grin off his face, 'his mouth's pretty brilliant, sometimes.'

Ron tries to cough and laugh at once, and ends up choking.

: : :

When Harry arrives at the Hospital Wing, he's already got his wand out. Despite Draco's promises that Blaise will not attempt to murder him on sight, Harry is willing to bet that Blaise will still be spoiling for a fight.

Blaise is not there, however, and this immediately puts Harry on higher guard; is something wrong? Has Draco got worse? Been moved to St Mungo's? His stomach clenches painfully as he makes his way across the room, towards the curtained-off sickbed where he knows Draco should be.

When Harry rounds the curtain, the reason for Blaise's absence becomes clear: Dumbledore, Snape and Narcissa Malfoy are around Draco's bed, his mother sitting down beside it and fussing over her son, smoothing the hair back from his forehead and generally making him squirm. Snape is watching the scene rather fondly—then he spots Harry, and scowls.

Dumbledore smiles at Harry. 'Ah, Harry, I was wondering when you would join us.'

At Harry's name, Draco jerks upright and Narcissa stands, turning to face him. She is a tall, stately figure in deep green robes. Behind her, Draco winks at him.

'Mr Potter,' Narcissa says. She beckons him forward and Harry goes, warily, shooting a glance at Dumbledore, who merely smiles indulgently at him. 'Thank you for coming. I wished to express my deepest thanks to you in person.'

'Er,' says Harry. 'Thanks for what?'

'For saving my son's life,' she says simply, bending to bestow a light kiss on his forehead.

'But I'm—'

'The one who took him into harm's way in the first place?' Narcissa interrupts, and her eyes flicker briefly to Snape, whose scowl intensifies. 'No, Mr Potter, that fault lies entirely with myself. I do not expect a boy your age to understand, but rest assured it was my own fault in allowing my late husband anywhere near my son.'

'Er,' Harry says again. 'Late husband?'

'Oh,' Narcissa says, smiling faintly—she looks rather frightening. 'I regret to say my husband has had a rather terrible accident,' she continues, doing an impressive job of sounding undoubtedly guilty and looking completely innocent, 'involving a Welsh Green and an improperly administered tranquilliser.'

'Is that so?' Snape says dryly. 'How unfortunate.'

Dumbledore doesn't look surprised; if anything, he seems quite amused. 'Could have happened to an yone,' he agrees, looking rather pleased.

'Er,' says Harry a third time, now trying not to grin. 'Why was your husband anywhere near a Welsh Green?'

'Because he is a very, very stupid man. Or was, I suppose I should say.' She looks at Draco fondly; Draco looks both smug and surprisingly unsurprised.

'Karma,' Dumbledore says wisely. 'A force even the wisest have yet to fully understand.'

: : :

Harry is lying on his bed, arms folded under his head, with the curtains on his four-poster drawn closed. It has been a week since he went to see Draco. He stops by the Hospital Wing several times a day, but Narcissa Malfoy has taken up residence there and, although she seems strangely unconcerned by the fact that her son is intimately involved with him, Harry does not feel that snogging Draco while his mother is in attendance would be an acceptable thing to do; the most contact they've had was when Draco, growing frustrated at Harry's nervous hovering, grabbed his hand and intertwined their fingers.

He is alone in the seventh-year boys' dormitory; he can hear his Housemates in the common room. Ginny seems to have grudgingly accepted the whole situation, although she still refuses to talk to Harry directly. Ron is managing well, considering, and while he neglects to mention Draco if he can help it, Harry doesn't mind. Hermione, the ever-present figure of support, asks Harry how Draco is doing whenever he returns from the Hospital Wing, and informs him that as soon as Draco makes a full recovery, Blaise will likely consent to be in the same room as Harry without hexing him.

The noise in the common room suddenly quiets. Curious, Harry listens, wondering if he's imagining things. The quiet continues for a full two minutes, and then Harry hears the door open. He considers casting a Lumos to see who it is; it's evening, and the moon and stars provide the only faint source of light in the room. He is saved having to investigate, however, when his bed curtains are drawn back, and a tall figure is backlit against the moonlight.

'Feeling antisocial?'

Harry sits up so quickly it leaves him feeling dizzy. Draco laughs softly and places an open hand on his chest, shoving him back down. He climbs over him, knees on either side of Harry's hips, pinning him to the bed. His hand is still on Harry's chest, holding him down.

'I was going to send you an owl and tell you to meet me in the dungeons, but...' Draco says, and shrugs.

'I didn't know you'd been discharged,' Harry says.

'Oh, yeah,' Draco says, shrugging again. 'Mum wanted me to go home for a few weeks, but I told her I had a prior engagement.'

Draco's hips and buttocks are resting heavily on Harry's groin, and he swallows, trying to will his body to calm down. This is the first private conversation he's had with Draco since his father nearly killed him, and he's had a lot of time to think. He has things he has to say, things Draco needs to understand, before this goes any further than it already has. 'Good,' he says. 'We need to talk.'

Draco cocks his head. 'Are you breaking up with me, Potter?'

'I wasn't aware that we were going out,' Harry returns, dryly.

'Oh, well, in that case,' Draco says, sitting back, running his hand from Harry's chest along his arm to his hand; Harry laces their fingers automatically. 'As much as I am looking forward to this, I'm not really into casual relationships.'

'Will you shut up and listen?' Harry asks and Draco does, but he's still smirking. 'Look. I like you. You know that. And my friends are—mostly—all right with it. They'll get over it. The point is, though, I've got—things. To do. Important things. I mean, I don't think I need to explain that the Prophet isn't exactly far from the mark when they go calling me the Chosen One.'

Draco's fingers tighten in his; he's still listening, but no longer smirking. Harry plunges on: 'I can't really tell you what's going on, as much as I might want to. Ron and Hermione know, but they've always known, and I'm not saying I don't trust you—it's just safer, the less people know, safer for me and safer for them. Safer for you. But there are going to be times that I need to—go, and do things, and I won't be able to tell you what, or for how long, but I need you to understand that it's important.' He sucks in a deep breath and finishes, 'I need you to trust me.'

Draco listens to him in silence, and regards him quietly for a while before answering. 'I do,' he says finally. 'Trust you. And I figured as much, I mean, you needing to—do things,' he says, sighing heavily, his weight sinking into Harry. 'I would like to help, of course, but we both know I'd be lying if I said I could be useful at all.'

'You're useful to me,' Harry insists. 'This—whatever it is, that we're doing? It's been the most helpful thing I've had in seven years. Everything else—I mean, what do I get out of this, in the end? In the meantime? This,' Harry says, taking another deep breath, causing Draco's hips to rise and fall with his chest, 'this has helped more than you can understand.'

'I'm not going anywhere, Potter,' Draco tells him. 'You'll go and do what you have to, and in the end—in the meantime—I'll still be here.'

'Harry,' Harry feels obliged to correct; at this level of intimacy, surnames seem a little inappropriate. 'And—well, good,' he says, smiling. 'In that case—and at the risk of sounding like a complete prat—'

'Risk?' Draco interjects, smirking like a bastard. 'You often sound like a complete prat.'

'—I was wondering if you'd, er,' Harry says, fumbling over the words, 'if you'd—'

Draco leans down and kisses him; Harry makes a quiet noise and gives up, shivering when Draco's tongue teases his bottom lip. 'You completely incoherent sod,' Draco says against his mouth, opening his eyes to look at Harry. This close, Harry can see every single amber fleck in his grey eyes. 'Are you asking me out?'

'I was trying to,' Harry admits, grinning, and kisses him back briefly. 'Before I was, you know, rudely interrupted.'

'Mm,' Draco hums, rolling off him. 'I suppose, but if you forget my birthday or our anniversary, the deal's off.' Harry scowls at him, but Draco isn't looking; he pushes the bed curtains aside completely and hops off the bed before turning back to face Harry. 'I've been meaning to ask, by the way,' he drawls, his smirk half-hidden in the darkness. 'Were you up here when you got my letter?'

Harry doesn't need to ask which letter Draco is talking about. Intellectual pornography, huh? He blushes at the memory. 'Er. Yeah.'

'Here?' Draco asks innocently, pointing at the wall beside his bed.

'Um,' Harry says. 'Well, no, over—by the window, actually.'

Draco looks behind him, then back at Harry rather appraisingly. 'Over there? Really? Rather daring, I'd say. I suppose there are some tolerable Gryffindor traits.'

Harry rolls his eyes, but Draco is taking him by the hand and pulling him over to that very same wall. He manoeuvres Harry between himself and the stone, a hand on his chest to hold him against the wall, and descends on his mouth.

Harry lets out a sharp hiss into the kiss; the windowsill is pressing painfully into his backside, but Draco is between his legs and that feels incredibly, incredibly good and he does not want it to end. Draco surfaces, lazily, nibbling on his lips and breathing unevenly. Harry hisses again as Draco drags his teeth along the underside of his throat and grinds against him so hard it's bordering on painful; terribly, dizzyingly, heavenly painful.

Draco's right hand is unbuttoning his shirt, his left holding Harry firmly by the hip, and Harry gasps as teeth snap at his collarbone, replacing the mark there that was beginning to fade. Harry decides he's done wondering whether he likes girls or guys better; nothing, absolutely nothing, could feel better than this—Draco's hand inside his shirt, fingers caressing his chest, his ribs, travelling up and down his side, nails leaving red lines in his skin. Nothing is better than Draco's hips thrusting against his, the heat pooling in his groin, so incredibly intense and intoxicating that he just might faint. Draco sucks harshly on the flesh where Harry's neck and shoulder meet, and Harry runs his hands up and down Draco's back, lingering occasionally to grip his hair and give a sharp tug, which makes Draco bite down and send the Snitches in Harry's stomach aflutter over and over again.

Their hips develop a rhythm, learning when to press and for just how long, just how hard, and every time, Harry feels the blood rush to his head and back to his groin again, until he's given himself a monumental headache that would probably hurt like hell under normal circumstances. Sweet fucking Merlin, he can't take this anymore. He's hard and aching and Draco had better get down to it or he's going to kill him.

He seizes Draco harshly by the hair, earning a gasp and a sharp bite in retaliation, and drags his mouth over to Draco's ear, hissing, with increasing urgency, 'Draco. Draco, Draco, Draco,' and then tells him what he wants. What he needs. 'Right now, or Merlin help me, I will kill you until you give it to me.'

Draco abruptly stops everything he's doing and pulls back, staring at Harry. Not in horror or disgust or even shock, but more of a stupor. His pupils are dilated, eyes bright and wide.

'Come again?' Draco finally manages, voice quiet and hoarse over bruised lips.

Harry licks his lips and lets his eyelids drop further, and leans in close, so his lips are touching Draco's. 'I said,' he repeats slowly, calmly, like he's asking for a spare quill, 'that I want you to fuck me.' He pauses to let it sink in, watching Draco's expression change from stunned to hesitant. Harry raises his eyebrows. 'Problem?'

Draco lets out a short breath against his lips; the hesitation materializes into very carnal desire, and he swallows hard. 'No,' Draco breathes, voice sounding deep in his throat. 'No problem at all.'

: : :

fin

Please note: There's about two pages worth of smut that goes here, but I can't post due to ffnet's anti-MA rating policy. So... if you want the smut, feel free to check my author profile. The link listed goes to my livejournal, where you can read this chapter in its full NC17 naughty glory (if you like, the fic doesn't need it to be complete). You can also search for this story on Hex Files as well.

Short, M-rated for-shits-and-giggles-only epilogue incoming shortly. My way of saying thanks for reading!