Secrets and Suprises. Chapter Six: Repair

Disclaimer: I own NOTHING! JK Rowling is a Goddess and I am nothing but a lowlife.

Warnings: Teenage angst to the max. Slash, eventually (Getting closer...>.>). I am a whore for hurt and comfort. Potentially triggering content.

Also: Thank you for the reviews! It is very much appreciated.

Since when do I care if what I say is mean? Especially to Harry Potter? Draco asked himself with incredulity as he shut the door. Don't be ridiculous. You've always cared, was the timid response. He ignored it. Turning around, he smiled. The Room of Requirement didn't fail them. It had conjured itself up in the shape of a comfortable, clean sitting room. Cushioned chairs sat in front of a quietly burning fireplace, in-between the armchairs sat a small circular table, with clean rags, neatly folded gauze atop its surface, a bowl of water, and a small bowl of murtlap. Harry stood, his back to Draco, sleeves still hastily rolled up.

"Sit, Potter." Draco quipped, in a tone of voice that didn't allow for disagreements. He couldn't quite figure out why he didn't just shun Harry, push him away and let his actual friends deal with the kid. Because you're not the bad person everyone thinks you are. The bad person you think you are. Draco sighed. When Harry sat, Draco seated himself in the opposite chair.

Harry was almost in a daze. He had followed Malfoy up the stairs and through many hallways without really knowing what was going on. So his secret was out. Well, one of them, at least… he thought, then shook his head lightly. He allowed himself to be ushered into the room without protest, even went and sank into a chair on Draco's command. Now what? Malfoy looked like he was pondering the same thing.

"This is going to sound—strange, Potter, but I need you to take off your robe." Draco winced at his own words.

"What, why?" Harry questioned. If this scene could get any weirder… Here his was, with his archenemy, in the Room of Requirement, arms bare, Malfoy had just asked him to take off his robe, and to top it off--they weren't trying to kill each other. Strange indeed.

Malfoy sighed impatiently. "Robe, sleeves, large, pain in the arse." With an impatient roll of his eyes, he gestured towards the huge sleeve, which was indeed being a pain in that it kept rolling down, covering the area that needed first aid the most.

"Right." Harry nodded, briefly met Malfoy's eyes, and then looked away, hastily pulling the robe over his head. He was left in the uniform black pants and a simple white tee. Awkward, he waited.

Draco tried not to watch. He tried very, very hard not to watch as Harry turned away from him and took off his robe. He didn't really want to see the way Harry's back muscles flexed and tensed with each movement, the way his slender torso twisted with ease…Draco shook his head, clearing it. Not a chance, Draco. While he was perfectly aware and mostly okay with the fact that he was of the male persuasion, he was sure that Harry wasn't. It didn't matter, anyway. He simply couldn't stand Harry as he was—much less entertain the idea that Harry even might want to…

Harry coughed quietly, drawing Draco from his thoughts. "Right, well then. Come here." Draco reached out and grabbed Harry's wrist, pulling the arm towards him, gentle yet firm, not yielding to any resistance put up by Harry. He reached for one of the clean rags and dipped it into the dish of water. It's warm, he smiled softly. The R.o.R. was certainly an amazing thing. He dabbed at the area around the fresh cut, cleaning dried blood.

"You know, I can do this myself." Harry grumbled, though not putting up a fuss.

"Don't be stupid. No you can't." Draco said simply back, re-dipping the rag and wiping more, inching closer to the gash.

"Hey! What's that supposed to mean?" Harry questioned, a flare of anger rising.

Draco gripped Harry's wrist tighter, enough for the other to notice but not enough to hurt. "It means, Potter, that you obviously haven't been doing this yourself, judging by…" He nodded towards the lower part of the forearm, an excess of scar tissue serving as evidence.

Malfoy's right. Damn. He didn't have time to come up with a retort before he winced, warm rag coming in contact with the actual cut now. "Oww!" The end of the sound raised in pitch, an urgent feel.

"Easy. There must be some sort of disinfectant if that hurts so much." Draco stated intelligently.

There was a long silence in which Draco finished tending to Harry, ignoring small gasps and sharp intakes of breath from the other as he applied the murtlap, neatly wrapped the area, and sank back into his chair, releasing the lanky individual.

Harry let out a long breath. He felt like he had been holding it the entire time. Something about the way Malfoy worked, the way strong hands were so gentle—it made him feel—Maybe he's more than I thought he was. Harry blinked. It was almost like he had been let out of a trance. He slumped, suddenly very tired. Brief glance was given to his wristwatch, the display read 10:13. Damn, he thought, not late enough to be an excuse. But then again, did he really want to leave? He looked over at Malfoy, intrigued to see the blonde staring into the fire, elbows resting on armrests while fingertips touched each other in front of his face, splayed ever so slightly. A picture of deep thought.

Indeed, Draco was in deep thought. There were a couple of routes to take now, he guessed. One, ditch the guy. He'd done his good deed, hadn't he? He was no longer responsible, but then again—Draco gave an ever-so-quick glance over to the skinny Boy Who Looked So Lost and realized he was more responsible than anyone. Damn.

"So," Draco began, "Talk."