Random H/D
I wrote this ages ago when I was bored.
Title Anguish
Pairing H/D
Rating R
Disclaimer Not my characters
Warnings Dark
Draco sits across the table from Harry once again in the deserted Charms classroom. Harry is copying his Potions homework.
“You would have done well in Slytherin, you know,” Draco comments.
Harry’s head snaps up so fast that Draco is surprised that it does not fly off of his shoulders. “What do you mean by that?!” Harry demands.
“Yesterday,” Draco drawls slowly, “It was masterful. My father would have been impressed.”
Harry just glares at him.
Draco continues, “I myself was a bit overwhelmed. Never thought you had it in you Potter. Such unabated cruelty, such sharpened malice, but what stands out is the artistry.”
“Excuse me? Are you trying to provoke me?”
“Did I say that?” Draco’s voice is very cold, hard-edged. “I was talking about artistry. I saw you during Potions. You couldn’t take your eyes off me.”
“So you don’t understand yet?” asks Harry in a voice dripping with acid. “Are you still harboring misconceptions?”
“On the contrary.” Harry is watching him now, and the blond boy moves his hand to the third button on his shirt, the first two being already open at Harry’s command, and unfastens it. “I understand perfectly. You want to admire your work.”
Harry makes no sound but his eyes are now glued to Draco, drawn as a moth to a flame.
Malfoy stands. “I know the look. I recognize it. You tell me to stop if I’m mistaken.” As he speaks he continues to unbutton his shirt. Finally the last round disc slips its fastening and Draco regards Harry with a curious mixture of contempt, apathy and what might be disquiet. “You don’t want me to stop? I didn’t think so.”
Draco steps to the side a bit, directly into a shaft of light. “Like this,” he says, indicating himself, shirt still closed, “as displayed today, it looks like I’ve had a conquest, found a lover.”
Harry watches with fascination. Draco is nothing if not a showman, carefully calculating his moves. It has always been thus. “But the real show,” continues the carefully modulated voice, “is for your eyes only.” With that he draws the cloth apart, throwing the shirt back and letting it slide from his shoulders, down his arms, to fall to the floor.
Harry watches the progress of the sparkling white cloth then turns his eyes to what the loss of the shirt has revealed. He gasps. He cannot help himself. Draco does indeed have several “love marks” on his neck, fingertip bruises on his wrists - but the actual story is told on the pale skin of the other boy’s torso. Draco has claw marks on his chest, nail prints on his shoulders and great purple-red bruises the size of saucers. One particularly ugly contusion, black and purple-blue, disappears into the waistband of his trousers.
Draco stands very still. There is no expression on his face now, and there is none in his voice. “Systematic,” he states, “pain, then pleasure, then more pain, repeating over and again - but for you Potter, for you only pleasure.”
Harry’s mouth has gone dry and he cannot find his voice, nor can he tear his eyes away. They travel up and down over the spectacle in front of him.
“You like the view.” It is not a question. “Shall I turn?” Draco asks, and without waiting for a reply he does so.
This time Harry gags. He cannot help himself, but Draco’s back is to him now and Harry makes no sound. Harry feels himself begin to sweat as he looks at the welts, lash marks, cuts and bruises crisscrossing Draco’s back and shoulders, running down his spine, purpling over his kidneys. He is suddenly confronted with a mental picture of people clapping Draco on the shoulder, thumping him on the back, “Way to go Malfoy!” “Got some did you?” “She must be a tiger.” Hands falling on these bleeding tears, landing on bruise-blackened skin. He suddenly sees the wounds in front of him as if they are outlined in fire. They burn themselves into his vision and remain, even when he shuts his eyes. “I did this,” Harry thinks to himself. “This is who I have become.”
“Stay here!” Harry commands, surprised by the steadiness of his own voice, the harshness. “I’ll be right back.”
*****
Harry schools his features and walks back into the room.
Draco hasn't moved. He is still standing in the same spot, his back to the door, a sight that makes Harry’s stomach tighten. “Malfoy?” he calls.
The boy turns and looks across the room. “Yes?”
Harry crosses to him, noting that his expression is carefully neutral. “What did you mean when you said you’d seen the look before? What look?”
Draco’s eyes narrow a bit but he replies, “The subtle glee, pride in a job well done, almost hunger. The look of a sadist, even though you accused me of being one.” This is said without expression.
“Where have you seen that look before?”
Draco continues to look at him but says nothing, lifting his shoulder in an elegant shrug.
“Answer me,” Harry demands, surprised by the severity of his own tone, “or do you want out of our bargain?”
“No,” says Draco, “I gave you my word.”
“Answer the question then.”
Harry sees his shoulders tighten, “I don’t remember, but I’ve seen it.”
“That,” says Harry, “is a lie. Fine,” and he turns around and walks toward the door.
“My father,” Draco says very quietly.
Harry stops, his stomach churning. Draco’s statement is answer not request. Without turning he asks, “Are you in pain?”
“Some.”
“Turn around.”
*****
Draco knows Harry is behind him by the subtle difference in the quality of the air. He is highly attuned to movements of those who mean him ill, has learned to know, like a wild thing does, when danger approaches. Unlike those creatures, however, he responds not with flight but with tight control. He forces his muscles to relax, countermanding his instincts, and confines all the tension inside into a ball in his stomach. He knows that his mind will detach after the first few minutes. He is still not able to prevent himself from gritting his teeth, however, although he has tried for years. He shuts his eyes.
Steeled for a blow as he is, Draco nearly jumps when what he feels instead is a soft touch. He does not move for he is too controlled, but his eyes fly open. Harry is running his hand very gently across his shoulders and down his back. Wherever he touches Draco felt slight tingles. He does not make a sound and neither does Potter for a while. This is almost worse than being hit - it is pleasant, is probably calculated to make him drop his guard. Harry’s hands move downward, slowly covering his entire back, to his waist.
“This will prevent infection,” says Harry in a slightly odd voice, “although it won’t actually heal you. Loosen this will you, and I’ll get the rest.”
Draco does as he is asked, loosening the laces of the trousers that sit low on his hips. Harry does not remove them, merely inserts his hand and rubs on the salve. It is actually quite sensual and Draco begins to have to fight to keep his body from responding.
“Turn around,” Harry growls and Draco does so. Draco meets Harry’s gaze in spite of himself for a moment and notices that the other boy is very, very pale - as if all of the color in his skin has been leached out by some strange process. His eyes are very dark, so much so that they no longer look green. It is Potter that looks away first. He picks up a blue bottle from the desk near him and pours some pale liquid into his palm, then worries it with his other hand. Draco realizes that he is warming it. He then begins to rub it carefully over Draco’s wounds, starting with the marks on his neck. He moves slowly and carefully over Draco’s skin, never causing him to want to flinch.
Harry stands very close and continues to move down, across nail marks in Draco’s chest, over the bruise that radiates from the ribs on his left side toward his nipple. Harry’s breathing has altered slightly and Draco has to fight to keep his own steady, but even as he does so he knows it is a losing battle. Harry’s hands move ever lower, and by the time they reach the bruise on his hip Draco has lost the struggle with his physical self. He looks at the man across from him and realizes that he is not alone in this, neither in the struggle nor in the loss. Harry seems to be consciously trying to stop his hands from shaking, to keep his breathing even, but he is failing at this, and a glance confirms to Draco that he is failing elsewhere as well.
What is going on? Draco wonders to himself. This is not at all like the scene from yesterday. Is Potter trying to seduce him or punish him or something else entirely? He does not know what to think, but his body is telling him things he doesn’t want to hear. Harry smoothes the balm over the bruise on Draco’s hip and his fingers dip under the fabric there to cover the rest of the injury. He pauses at this, draws in a breath and then removes his hands entirely.
“How about now?” Harry asks.
Draco’s head is swimming and he feels a bit dizzy. “What? How about what?” he asks, not knowing what Potter means.
“Are you in pain now?” Harry asks.
Draco sucks in a sharp, surprised breath at this. “No,” he replies, startled, “I’m not.”
Harry just stands there, still so close that Draco can almost feel him breath, almost hear the beat of his heart. Part of the blond boy yearns for Harry to touch him again, to kiss him, to do something. Instead Harry takes a half step back.
“Is there anyplace else that needs attention?” At this color suddenly floods Harry’s face and then recedes quickly. Draco struggles with the urge to laugh and then gives up and snickers. “Meaning?”
Harry turns slightly green and looks away. “You know what I mean.”
“Not really,” says Draco, “and I’m having trouble understanding why you care.”
“I didn’t say that I cared!” Harry replies backing away and picking up his and Draco’s homework from the desk. “Get dressed Malfoy. I’ll owl this to you and I’ll see you tomorrow.” With that and without a backward glance Harry walks quickly from the room.
*****
Draco walks slowly towards North Tower. Any blood lost by Draco is only his due, no pain too great, no humiliation too deep. His father, should he ever find out, would only regret that he had not been able to inflict the wounds himself. Draco shakes his head as if to fling out those thoughts. He mustn’t think such things. It doesn’t matter. He is doing what he has to do. Nothing more. He’s lived through worse.
Minutes later, Draco stands at the top of the tower, the moonlight glinting off his hair, picking out the silver threads in his expensive cloak. He notes the beauty of the night. The trees in the forbidden forest gleam silver, and the dark lake is still and pinpricked with reflected stars. A slight breeze ruffles his hair. The temperature is pleasant, the air just a bit crisp. The perfect night for star gazing and romance. How unsurprising that his agenda for this evening promises to include nothing whatsoever agreeable.
He flexes his shoulders, noting the stiffness in his ribs and down his back. He is sore elsewhere as well. He hears footsteps and tenses, then forces himself to relax. “I do not cower” he tells himself. The objective part of himself, the part detached from physical hurts, removed from emotional wounds, the purely calculating part of his mind is somewhat impressed by Potter and is interested to see where this will all lead. He is finding Harry to be unpredictable and that is a very rare thing in this world.
Harry’s foot reaches the top and Draco waits one beat, two, then turns. His timing is perfect, as always. Harry is just beginning to open his mouth to speak to him - he is off guard, his expression not yet schooled. Draco tilts his head a bit to the side, raising one eyebrow. Harry had not been looking at him with malice. There is something else in his expression, something Draco doesn’t recognize. The expression vanishes, and then Harry looks carefully unconcerned.
“Malfoy,” he says.
Draco inclines his head. He knows the power of silence.
Harry looks momentarily discomfited and then seems to steel himself. “How are you?”
Draco quirks one side of his mouth up, “I’m fine. Thanks for asking. You?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Harry says.
“No?” Draco raises an eyebrow. “What were you referring to then?” He knows that he is being deliberately obtuse, but after all, you have to take perks where you can find them.
“How are you feeling?” Harry asks, sounding slightly strained.
Draco is enjoying this. Potter is clearly uncomfortable with the subject. Draco suspects that part of “The Boy Who Lived” is feeling bad and guilty, and another part of him, one he might not like to admit having, is eager to see his work again. The torturer’s gleam will still reside in him, buried or not. “Oh, you know, a bit tired. I had a trace of a cold about two weeks ago, but it’s all better now.”
“Malfoy!!” Harry sounds very annoyed now, and that gives Draco a feeling of satisfaction. “I’m talking about…..” Harry points at Draco He then seems to realize that he is being cowardly, and finishes the statement, “I’m talking about your injuries. I need to know if you are healing.”
Draco notes that Harry looks slightly sickened. Good.
“Look Potter,” Draco drawls, “if you want me to take my clothes off just say so.” His voice alters slightly and now it sounds like venom, clean and sharp and deadly. “You have total control, after all. Anything that you want, but don’t expect me to give you the ideas.”
Harry swallows hard, and then stands up straighter. His features harden. “So” Harry looks Draco directly in the eye and there no longer any hesitation in his gaze.
Draco nods. His lips thin and his jaw tightens, but he takes off his cloak and his shirt, folding them and placing them on the wall behind him.
“And the rest.” Harry’s tone is cool and dispassionate.
Ah, Draco thinks to himself, I’m going to pay for that outburst. He gives no outward sign of his thoughts, however, and merely removes the rest of his clothing. He is glad the night is not actually cold.
Regardless of ones opinion of oneself, no matter how confident a person is of their appearance and their worth, no matter how arrogant, there is something humiliating about standing naked in front of someone who is clothed. The desire to cringe, to cover oneself, is primal. To resist takes force of will, and it can be done, but the feeling of shame remains regardless of outward aspect. Draco is no exception. He does not move, does not shrink, but deep inside of himself some part cries out at the pain of this particular exercise in enmity.
“Turn around Malfoy.” Draco can feel Harry drawing closer.
Harry’s hands begin to rub the potion onto Draco’s wounds again, and this time Draco pays attention. He notes that the tingling exists only as long as Harry’s hands are on a particular spot. When he moves the sensation stops and the tingles take with them any pain or stiffness Draco is feeling.
Draco wills himself not to respond in any way. Harry covers every lesion and injury on his back and beyond - the backs of his thighs, his calves. Draco does not move. When Harry tells him to turn he does so, instantly and without protest. Draco notes that Harry’s breathing is once again unsteady, but he forces himself not to further explore the responses of his tormentor. He fixes his eyes on a point beyond Harry’s left shoulder. Remaining unmoved is now harder. Small, unwelcome fingers of desire curl in his stomach, and he squashes them firmly. When Harry reaches the bruise on his hip, Draco closes his eyes, inside part of him is screaming that this has to end soon. When Harry slips a hand softly between his thighs, nudging them apart to touch a bruise there, Draco’s body overrules his mind, responding so fast and with such intensity that Draco’s breath catches and he nearly chokes. He forces himself not to move and keeps his eyes shut so tight that spots dance behind his eyelids. Draco hears Harry suck in his breath hard, feels Harry’s fingers tremble and tighten on his thigh. The grip relaxes, but now tremors run over Draco's skin, completely beyond his control. He holds his breath and finally it is over. Harry is no longer touching him. This is both immense relief and loss.
Draco does not move or open his eyes. He does not know where Harry is at this moment, but he doesn’t want to look him in the eye right now. Draco silently curses his own body for betraying him; but as he does so he knows that given any encouragement from Potter he would throw himself into the inferno that could so easily leap between them. Part of him is certain, positive beyond any shadow of doubt, that Harry feels the same way - is singed by the same fire. It is so unfair that such chemistry should be found here - within the confines of obligation and anguish.
- Fin
Title Anguish
Pairing H/D
Rating R
Disclaimer Not my characters
Warnings Dark
Draco sits across the table from Harry once again in the deserted Charms classroom. Harry is copying his Potions homework.
“You would have done well in Slytherin, you know,” Draco comments.
Harry’s head snaps up so fast that Draco is surprised that it does not fly off of his shoulders. “What do you mean by that?!” Harry demands.
“Yesterday,” Draco drawls slowly, “It was masterful. My father would have been impressed.”
Harry just glares at him.
Draco continues, “I myself was a bit overwhelmed. Never thought you had it in you Potter. Such unabated cruelty, such sharpened malice, but what stands out is the artistry.”
“Excuse me? Are you trying to provoke me?”
“Did I say that?” Draco’s voice is very cold, hard-edged. “I was talking about artistry. I saw you during Potions. You couldn’t take your eyes off me.”
“So you don’t understand yet?” asks Harry in a voice dripping with acid. “Are you still harboring misconceptions?”
“On the contrary.” Harry is watching him now, and the blond boy moves his hand to the third button on his shirt, the first two being already open at Harry’s command, and unfastens it. “I understand perfectly. You want to admire your work.”
Harry makes no sound but his eyes are now glued to Draco, drawn as a moth to a flame.
Malfoy stands. “I know the look. I recognize it. You tell me to stop if I’m mistaken.” As he speaks he continues to unbutton his shirt. Finally the last round disc slips its fastening and Draco regards Harry with a curious mixture of contempt, apathy and what might be disquiet. “You don’t want me to stop? I didn’t think so.”
Draco steps to the side a bit, directly into a shaft of light. “Like this,” he says, indicating himself, shirt still closed, “as displayed today, it looks like I’ve had a conquest, found a lover.”
Harry watches with fascination. Draco is nothing if not a showman, carefully calculating his moves. It has always been thus. “But the real show,” continues the carefully modulated voice, “is for your eyes only.” With that he draws the cloth apart, throwing the shirt back and letting it slide from his shoulders, down his arms, to fall to the floor.
Harry watches the progress of the sparkling white cloth then turns his eyes to what the loss of the shirt has revealed. He gasps. He cannot help himself. Draco does indeed have several “love marks” on his neck, fingertip bruises on his wrists - but the actual story is told on the pale skin of the other boy’s torso. Draco has claw marks on his chest, nail prints on his shoulders and great purple-red bruises the size of saucers. One particularly ugly contusion, black and purple-blue, disappears into the waistband of his trousers.
Draco stands very still. There is no expression on his face now, and there is none in his voice. “Systematic,” he states, “pain, then pleasure, then more pain, repeating over and again - but for you Potter, for you only pleasure.”
Harry’s mouth has gone dry and he cannot find his voice, nor can he tear his eyes away. They travel up and down over the spectacle in front of him.
“You like the view.” It is not a question. “Shall I turn?” Draco asks, and without waiting for a reply he does so.
This time Harry gags. He cannot help himself, but Draco’s back is to him now and Harry makes no sound. Harry feels himself begin to sweat as he looks at the welts, lash marks, cuts and bruises crisscrossing Draco’s back and shoulders, running down his spine, purpling over his kidneys. He is suddenly confronted with a mental picture of people clapping Draco on the shoulder, thumping him on the back, “Way to go Malfoy!” “Got some did you?” “She must be a tiger.” Hands falling on these bleeding tears, landing on bruise-blackened skin. He suddenly sees the wounds in front of him as if they are outlined in fire. They burn themselves into his vision and remain, even when he shuts his eyes. “I did this,” Harry thinks to himself. “This is who I have become.”
“Stay here!” Harry commands, surprised by the steadiness of his own voice, the harshness. “I’ll be right back.”
*****
Harry schools his features and walks back into the room.
Draco hasn't moved. He is still standing in the same spot, his back to the door, a sight that makes Harry’s stomach tighten. “Malfoy?” he calls.
The boy turns and looks across the room. “Yes?”
Harry crosses to him, noting that his expression is carefully neutral. “What did you mean when you said you’d seen the look before? What look?”
Draco’s eyes narrow a bit but he replies, “The subtle glee, pride in a job well done, almost hunger. The look of a sadist, even though you accused me of being one.” This is said without expression.
“Where have you seen that look before?”
Draco continues to look at him but says nothing, lifting his shoulder in an elegant shrug.
“Answer me,” Harry demands, surprised by the severity of his own tone, “or do you want out of our bargain?”
“No,” says Draco, “I gave you my word.”
“Answer the question then.”
Harry sees his shoulders tighten, “I don’t remember, but I’ve seen it.”
“That,” says Harry, “is a lie. Fine,” and he turns around and walks toward the door.
“My father,” Draco says very quietly.
Harry stops, his stomach churning. Draco’s statement is answer not request. Without turning he asks, “Are you in pain?”
“Some.”
“Turn around.”
*****
Draco knows Harry is behind him by the subtle difference in the quality of the air. He is highly attuned to movements of those who mean him ill, has learned to know, like a wild thing does, when danger approaches. Unlike those creatures, however, he responds not with flight but with tight control. He forces his muscles to relax, countermanding his instincts, and confines all the tension inside into a ball in his stomach. He knows that his mind will detach after the first few minutes. He is still not able to prevent himself from gritting his teeth, however, although he has tried for years. He shuts his eyes.
Steeled for a blow as he is, Draco nearly jumps when what he feels instead is a soft touch. He does not move for he is too controlled, but his eyes fly open. Harry is running his hand very gently across his shoulders and down his back. Wherever he touches Draco felt slight tingles. He does not make a sound and neither does Potter for a while. This is almost worse than being hit - it is pleasant, is probably calculated to make him drop his guard. Harry’s hands move downward, slowly covering his entire back, to his waist.
“This will prevent infection,” says Harry in a slightly odd voice, “although it won’t actually heal you. Loosen this will you, and I’ll get the rest.”
Draco does as he is asked, loosening the laces of the trousers that sit low on his hips. Harry does not remove them, merely inserts his hand and rubs on the salve. It is actually quite sensual and Draco begins to have to fight to keep his body from responding.
“Turn around,” Harry growls and Draco does so. Draco meets Harry’s gaze in spite of himself for a moment and notices that the other boy is very, very pale - as if all of the color in his skin has been leached out by some strange process. His eyes are very dark, so much so that they no longer look green. It is Potter that looks away first. He picks up a blue bottle from the desk near him and pours some pale liquid into his palm, then worries it with his other hand. Draco realizes that he is warming it. He then begins to rub it carefully over Draco’s wounds, starting with the marks on his neck. He moves slowly and carefully over Draco’s skin, never causing him to want to flinch.
Harry stands very close and continues to move down, across nail marks in Draco’s chest, over the bruise that radiates from the ribs on his left side toward his nipple. Harry’s breathing has altered slightly and Draco has to fight to keep his own steady, but even as he does so he knows it is a losing battle. Harry’s hands move ever lower, and by the time they reach the bruise on his hip Draco has lost the struggle with his physical self. He looks at the man across from him and realizes that he is not alone in this, neither in the struggle nor in the loss. Harry seems to be consciously trying to stop his hands from shaking, to keep his breathing even, but he is failing at this, and a glance confirms to Draco that he is failing elsewhere as well.
What is going on? Draco wonders to himself. This is not at all like the scene from yesterday. Is Potter trying to seduce him or punish him or something else entirely? He does not know what to think, but his body is telling him things he doesn’t want to hear. Harry smoothes the balm over the bruise on Draco’s hip and his fingers dip under the fabric there to cover the rest of the injury. He pauses at this, draws in a breath and then removes his hands entirely.
“How about now?” Harry asks.
Draco’s head is swimming and he feels a bit dizzy. “What? How about what?” he asks, not knowing what Potter means.
“Are you in pain now?” Harry asks.
Draco sucks in a sharp, surprised breath at this. “No,” he replies, startled, “I’m not.”
Harry just stands there, still so close that Draco can almost feel him breath, almost hear the beat of his heart. Part of the blond boy yearns for Harry to touch him again, to kiss him, to do something. Instead Harry takes a half step back.
“Is there anyplace else that needs attention?” At this color suddenly floods Harry’s face and then recedes quickly. Draco struggles with the urge to laugh and then gives up and snickers. “Meaning?”
Harry turns slightly green and looks away. “You know what I mean.”
“Not really,” says Draco, “and I’m having trouble understanding why you care.”
“I didn’t say that I cared!” Harry replies backing away and picking up his and Draco’s homework from the desk. “Get dressed Malfoy. I’ll owl this to you and I’ll see you tomorrow.” With that and without a backward glance Harry walks quickly from the room.
*****
Draco walks slowly towards North Tower. Any blood lost by Draco is only his due, no pain too great, no humiliation too deep. His father, should he ever find out, would only regret that he had not been able to inflict the wounds himself. Draco shakes his head as if to fling out those thoughts. He mustn’t think such things. It doesn’t matter. He is doing what he has to do. Nothing more. He’s lived through worse.
Minutes later, Draco stands at the top of the tower, the moonlight glinting off his hair, picking out the silver threads in his expensive cloak. He notes the beauty of the night. The trees in the forbidden forest gleam silver, and the dark lake is still and pinpricked with reflected stars. A slight breeze ruffles his hair. The temperature is pleasant, the air just a bit crisp. The perfect night for star gazing and romance. How unsurprising that his agenda for this evening promises to include nothing whatsoever agreeable.
He flexes his shoulders, noting the stiffness in his ribs and down his back. He is sore elsewhere as well. He hears footsteps and tenses, then forces himself to relax. “I do not cower” he tells himself. The objective part of himself, the part detached from physical hurts, removed from emotional wounds, the purely calculating part of his mind is somewhat impressed by Potter and is interested to see where this will all lead. He is finding Harry to be unpredictable and that is a very rare thing in this world.
Harry’s foot reaches the top and Draco waits one beat, two, then turns. His timing is perfect, as always. Harry is just beginning to open his mouth to speak to him - he is off guard, his expression not yet schooled. Draco tilts his head a bit to the side, raising one eyebrow. Harry had not been looking at him with malice. There is something else in his expression, something Draco doesn’t recognize. The expression vanishes, and then Harry looks carefully unconcerned.
“Malfoy,” he says.
Draco inclines his head. He knows the power of silence.
Harry looks momentarily discomfited and then seems to steel himself. “How are you?”
Draco quirks one side of his mouth up, “I’m fine. Thanks for asking. You?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Harry says.
“No?” Draco raises an eyebrow. “What were you referring to then?” He knows that he is being deliberately obtuse, but after all, you have to take perks where you can find them.
“How are you feeling?” Harry asks, sounding slightly strained.
Draco is enjoying this. Potter is clearly uncomfortable with the subject. Draco suspects that part of “The Boy Who Lived” is feeling bad and guilty, and another part of him, one he might not like to admit having, is eager to see his work again. The torturer’s gleam will still reside in him, buried or not. “Oh, you know, a bit tired. I had a trace of a cold about two weeks ago, but it’s all better now.”
“Malfoy!!” Harry sounds very annoyed now, and that gives Draco a feeling of satisfaction. “I’m talking about…..” Harry points at Draco He then seems to realize that he is being cowardly, and finishes the statement, “I’m talking about your injuries. I need to know if you are healing.”
Draco notes that Harry looks slightly sickened. Good.
“Look Potter,” Draco drawls, “if you want me to take my clothes off just say so.” His voice alters slightly and now it sounds like venom, clean and sharp and deadly. “You have total control, after all. Anything that you want, but don’t expect me to give you the ideas.”
Harry swallows hard, and then stands up straighter. His features harden. “So” Harry looks Draco directly in the eye and there no longer any hesitation in his gaze.
Draco nods. His lips thin and his jaw tightens, but he takes off his cloak and his shirt, folding them and placing them on the wall behind him.
“And the rest.” Harry’s tone is cool and dispassionate.
Ah, Draco thinks to himself, I’m going to pay for that outburst. He gives no outward sign of his thoughts, however, and merely removes the rest of his clothing. He is glad the night is not actually cold.
Regardless of ones opinion of oneself, no matter how confident a person is of their appearance and their worth, no matter how arrogant, there is something humiliating about standing naked in front of someone who is clothed. The desire to cringe, to cover oneself, is primal. To resist takes force of will, and it can be done, but the feeling of shame remains regardless of outward aspect. Draco is no exception. He does not move, does not shrink, but deep inside of himself some part cries out at the pain of this particular exercise in enmity.
“Turn around Malfoy.” Draco can feel Harry drawing closer.
Harry’s hands begin to rub the potion onto Draco’s wounds again, and this time Draco pays attention. He notes that the tingling exists only as long as Harry’s hands are on a particular spot. When he moves the sensation stops and the tingles take with them any pain or stiffness Draco is feeling.
Draco wills himself not to respond in any way. Harry covers every lesion and injury on his back and beyond - the backs of his thighs, his calves. Draco does not move. When Harry tells him to turn he does so, instantly and without protest. Draco notes that Harry’s breathing is once again unsteady, but he forces himself not to further explore the responses of his tormentor. He fixes his eyes on a point beyond Harry’s left shoulder. Remaining unmoved is now harder. Small, unwelcome fingers of desire curl in his stomach, and he squashes them firmly. When Harry reaches the bruise on his hip, Draco closes his eyes, inside part of him is screaming that this has to end soon. When Harry slips a hand softly between his thighs, nudging them apart to touch a bruise there, Draco’s body overrules his mind, responding so fast and with such intensity that Draco’s breath catches and he nearly chokes. He forces himself not to move and keeps his eyes shut so tight that spots dance behind his eyelids. Draco hears Harry suck in his breath hard, feels Harry’s fingers tremble and tighten on his thigh. The grip relaxes, but now tremors run over Draco's skin, completely beyond his control. He holds his breath and finally it is over. Harry is no longer touching him. This is both immense relief and loss.
Draco does not move or open his eyes. He does not know where Harry is at this moment, but he doesn’t want to look him in the eye right now. Draco silently curses his own body for betraying him; but as he does so he knows that given any encouragement from Potter he would throw himself into the inferno that could so easily leap between them. Part of him is certain, positive beyond any shadow of doubt, that Harry feels the same way - is singed by the same fire. It is so unfair that such chemistry should be found here - within the confines of obligation and anguish.
- Fin