Draco wasn't lying when he said he liked to wank left-handed sometimes. It wasn't his usual method, but it did the trick when the mood was right. Unfortunately he wasn't able to do so comfortably with his arm wounded, which of course just made him want it more.

He gripped himself with his right hand, eyes closed and focusing on an image in his mind. A soft, sort of shapeless person, a shadow at most, kneeling on the ground and sucking him off. He ran his left hand through his blond hair, and in his imagination he thought of reaching down and ruffling his fingers through short, messy, brunette locks. He pulled and stroked, summoning a satisfactory orgasm that helped ease the tension in his muscles.

He cast a cleaning charm and laid back, staring sleepily at the fabric dome over his four poster bed. His room was quiet, and although he still had the same old feeling of being cramped in a sleeping space that was a fraction of the size of his suite at home, at least he had four walls and a door now. It was a significant step up from the intolerable shared sleeping spaces from previous years.

He lifted his arm and inspected his bandages to make sure they wouldn't come loose in his sleep. Potter had done an adequate job, he admitted to himself. He'd struggled to rewrap it himself after his shower, after Pomfrey had sent him away with instructions to keep it covered. He hadn't gone to the library looking for help, he told himself. He certainly hadn't looked for Potter. But it was nice that it had worked out the way it did. He drifted off to sleep with a smile on his lips.

He woke up grumpy.

He cussed out a first-year Slytherin who tried to line-jump and get a shower in before him. He cursed the boy with a leg-locker to teach him some respect for upperclassmen. As he stepped into the warm spray he enjoyed hearing the boy thump around as he tried to hop back to the common room for assistance. It brought back so many memories of hilarious pranks on unwitting classmates. If he ever found access to a Pensieve, he promised himself that he would first and foremost extract the memory of leg locking that moon-faced Longbottom boy eight years ago so he could relive the hilarity in full.

His reputation for quick and efficient retaliation had earned him the respect of the newly assigned underclassmen. The older students, who had grown up with his arrogant demeanor and commanding style had reinforced his reputation. He was, for lack of a better word, cool. He had expected to return as an outcast, a tolerated remnant of the losing side of the war. Instead word had spread of his acquittal, which somehow had translated into a story of triumph over adversity. He found himself at the apex of the pyramid of power that defined the social structure of Slytherin house. And he wasn't inclined to disabuse his housemates of the mythology that had placed him there.

He stepped out of the shower and towelled off, returning to his room with his left arm held stiffly against his side to conceal his wound. He closed himself in and checked it carefully. No signs of spreading or worsening. Pomfrey must have successfully neutralized the salamander flame. He dressed quickly as the clock tower chimed to indicate the start of the breakfast hour. He had to hurry of there wouldn't be time to bandage his arm and grab a bite to eat before his first class. He raised his wand and flicked a beacon charm, which sent a green spark sailing out of the tip and through the wall. It would travel directly to Potter, wherever he was, to let him know that he wanted to meet.

He tugged his school robe around his shoulders and pocketed his shrunken class materials. He dashed out with a quick wave to set the wards on his bedroom door, then darted out of the dungeons without another word to any of this housemates.

Potter arrived at the restroom a few moments after Draco, looking sleepy and rumpled as though he'd just rolled out of bed. "Hullo," he flashed a lopsided smile and scratched his fingers through his mess of dark hair.

"Did you sleep in a laundry hamper?" Draco blurted out, unable to keep the scorn from his voice.

"Sort of," Potter smiled ruefully. "I had a lot of herbology homework to catch up on. I fell asleep at my desk."

"You shouldn't have let me interrupt you yesterday," Draco chided him, but extended his arm for assistance anyway. He had already applied the numbing potion and the healing ointment.

Potter deftly wound the gauze around Draco's arm, moving more quickly with experienced fingers. "It looks a bit better today," he remarked. "Less oozing."

"Yes, well I hope Madam Pomfrey can seal it up more quickly than it will heal on its own," Draco flexed his fingers as Potter fixed the end in place.

"Do you think the Dark Mark will return to the burned areas?" Potter asked as Draco pulled his sleeve down over the bandage.

"Probably," Draco shrugged. "Even if it doesn't there's still enough of it left to make the whole effort pointless."

"Have you asked her if there's a way to remove it?" Potter asked the obvious question.

"Not directly. But there's no known way," Draco shook his head. "I've been researching it myself. No one knows how to lift an enchanted dark mark. It's tattooed into the skin."

"I'm sure you'll figure something out," Potter said as they exited the restroom. They walked together for a few steps, then realized they were both headed to the Great Hall for breakfast. No way to go their separate directions. Awkwardly they kept going, not speaking and feeling a little self-conscious. As they reached the doors Draco hung back to let Potter proceed ahead of him. Potter glanced back, his eyes regretful. But he understood. It wouldn't do to have people think they were becoming friends.