Sporting Bruises
~•~
Firewhisky sure doesn't taste as good coming up as going down, Harry thinks as he kneels beside the loo. Another wave of nausea hits him. He scrambles to hold tight to the lid.
Walking out of the bathroom, he notices his butt is sore. And he certainly didn't go out last night sporting bruises around his wrists. His bed's a mess of sweat-soaked sheets, there's spunk stains everywhere. A cashmere scarf is tied to the bedpost, bringing fuzzy memories that Harry doesn't yet dare to explore.
"Bloody ..." He manages a scratchy croak. The ancient toad from the Hogwarts' lake had a lovelier voice. Malfoy must have Apparated home, and damn it, he was in no shape for magic. Why the fuck didn't he stay?
Harry remembers clearly that Malfoy sat alone in the Leaky last night, a row of shot glasses before him, his left arm wrapped in bandages. His first night out of St Mungo's after the Ministry approved removal of the Mark.
Other things are not so clear: the odd longing in Malfoy's eyes, the bone-deep exhaustion in his limbs even as they fucked like they always do ... They've not seen each other for a week. Tired and hung over, Harry can admit to himself that he missed the git. Who probably Splinched himself and is back already at St Mungo's!
Harry steps towards to window to call for Elsie, but another owl waits outside. With a haughty look it drops a package. Bright sparks explode before Harry's eyes as he catches it, like a golden Snitch. He retrieves a flask of Hangover Potion and a letter in Malfoy's old-fashioned hand.
Potter, it reads, don't expect me to clear the chaos on your desk. Get your arse into the office pronto. Shacklebolt wants those reports at ten.