Fic: Bad Flirting (1/?)
Title: Bad Flirting (1/?)
Author: frostywonder
Rating: M/Adult (this part)
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Summary: As a Healer trainee, Malfoy needs to not only heal but study in-depth the various ailments and injuries. As an Auror trainee, Harry frequently suffers a multitude of ailments and injuries. Perhaps an arrangement can be made…
Warnings: Mentions of male genitalia! (and some fondling--for medical purposes!)
Word count: ~3600 (this part)
A/N: I've a whole list of prompts I'd like to finish; this is the short introduction to the first one that I have finally gotten around to starting. I hope to be quick with the updates without losing quality-I'm not the fastest of writers and often waste time in the editing process. Please bear with me! :D
Also, I am looking for a beta if anyone is willing! My main issues tend to be wordiness, British slang, and pacing.
--o--
Of everyone in the room, Malfoy appears the most shocked by Harry's drawn lot, but as Harry isn't really looking at anyone else, just Malfoy, his estimation of shocked faces could be a tad skewed.
"Positive, Potter? You're okay with him?" Auror Proudfoot asks quietly from Harry's side, his eyes appraising the blond in question.
Harry finally breaks gazes with Malfoy and faces his instructor, shrugging. "Yeah, sure. Why? Should I draw another?"
Instead of answering, Proudfoot merely waves over Malfoy and then scribbles his and Harry's names together on a parchment. The other instructors in the room do the same, the Healers appearing pleased and the Aurors suspicious.
Malfoy hesitates briefly, taking in his own wary assessment of Harry, then lifts his chin resolutely and crosses the room to join them. For the short distance, his smooth, gliding steps more resemble his mother than his father-gracefully imposing rather than pretentiously so, impressive in his ability to maintain an air of dignity at all in spite of wearing the bright, neon yellow robes indicative of a Healer trainee.
"You both know the stipulations between St. Mungo's and the Ministry of Magic?" Proudfoot asks, though he directs the question toward Malfoy, already aware of Harry having sat through a three hour lecture detailing the arrangement. At Malfoy's nod, he gestures them to a nearby table, saying, "Go on then. Once you've read and signed your contracts, Mr. Malfoy can begin his first examination," and then turns to the other Auror trainees waiting nearby. "Weasley! Get over here. You're next."
Harry glances at Ron, giving a half-smile when their eyes meet. In response, Ron mouths, "Rotten luck," throwing a grimace in Malfoy's direction. Harry follows the gaze, though his eyes drift lower to settle on Malfoy's moving backside, attractive even under a thick layer of neon yellow, and he smirks to himself before following. As he walks away, he hears Proudfoot mutter, "Easy, Weasley. The point is to draw a name, not to knock the hat out of Hersh's hands."
At the table sit the ever-scowling Auror Dawlish, who gives a sharp nod at Harry but turns hard eyes on Malfoy, and a middle-aged Healer whom Harry vaguely recognizes as the Healer consulted when training injuries were too severe for the Ministry's mediwitches-something which, thankfully, didn't occur often. In contrast to her Auror associate, she merely politely smiles at Harry and then seems to sit up straighter and beam when she sees Malfoy, practically reflecting the glow of his robes with her teeth.
"You two will be assigned an Unspeakable trainee. He or she will be accompanying you shortly," Dawlish gruffly informs them, pushing two parchment scrolls-their contracts-across the table. "Read before you sign. You should already know the arrangements, but we want everyone," a narrowed glance at Malfoy, "to be aware of the consequences should procedure not be followed."
For his part, Malfoy ignores the implied accusation and simply unrolls his scroll without even a twitch of irritation, his face a careful, blank mask against Dawlish's continued glare. Harry suppresses a grin at the display of dismissive composure, so different from the quick-to-sneer, quick-to-anger brat at Hogwarts, and instead asks curiously, "How many Unspeakable trainees are there?"
"Four," Dawlish grunts.
"But there're nine of us from the Aurors. Won't that leave out five?"
"As there are only seven Healer trainees, two groups will have two Aurors to a Healer, and the last group will be a simple Auror-Healer pair," the Healer answers kindly. "At the winter solstice we will be rearranging your groups so that everyone has a chance to gain multiple experiences."
Harry nods in understanding and unrolls his own scroll, disinterestedly skimming through the contract, already aware of the contents. The trainee arrangement had started as a method to "improve relations," Harry's superiors had explained. The Auror Department worked often and closely with both Healers and Unspeakables. More trust between their groups led to better cooperation.
In theory, anyway.
Harry wonders about that now, taking a discreet look around the room at the pinched expressions of both the Aurors and Healers. In reality, the alliance seemed quite fragile. He'd frequently heard disparaging quips from various Aurors regarding the other two groups-the vague, uninformative nature of the ever odd Unspeakables, and the way Healers often interfered when it came to the sick and injured, be they criminal or victim.
"Draco?" the Healer speaks up again, startling Harry back to his reading. "You and Mr. Potter can use exam room one. The Department of Mysteries is running a bit behind but that should give you time to complete Mr. Potter's physical first."
"Yes, I'll do that," Malfoy answers, a small smile on his face as he regards the matron. Then he sets the contract on the table, picks up a pre-inked quill, and signs his name on the bottom in a small, quick scratch. When he straightens, the smile is gone, his expression back to neutral, and he faces Harry with an air of indifference. "I'll go ahead first to prepare."
Harry nods but arches an unconvinced eyebrow at the feigned nonchalance. Malfoy's mouth twitches like he wants to smirk, but then his gaze drifts over Harry's shoulder and his expression changes to unimpressed. Harry turns in time to see Ron discreetly flip two fingers at Malfoy, the redhead grinning crookedly when he realizes Harry has caught him doing it. The Healer trainee beside Ron catches the motion as well and frowns, brow wrinkling with worry under shaggy bangs. Malfoy merely tilts his head in acknowledgement at his fellow trainee, disregarding Ron's rude gesture entirely, and then brushes past Harry as he glides toward the medical hallway with the same acquired grace as before.
Finally giving up on reading the rest of his own contract, Harry quickly signs the bottom and hands the scroll back to the Healer, thanking her with a polite smile when she instructs him to go to exam room one. Beside her, Dawlish is speaking to Ron and the other trainee and shoving two more scrolls across the table. He still gives the Healer side of the duo an irritated glare but sounds a lot less caustic, Harry notes.
"Ready to get your bits fondled by Malfoy?" Ron snickers quietly as Harry passes him. The elbow Harry jabs into his side only makes him snort louder.
Having overheard, Ron's partner frowns again and his brown eyes shoot anxiously to the medical hallway doors. Harry offers him a friendly smile but the Healer trainee only fidgets uncomfortably, looking like a timid little mouse next to Ron's taller and broader stature. Shrugging, Harry continues on, deciding that Malfoy's newly gained composure likely wouldn't last if he was kept waiting for too long. Although, it'd be interesting to see just how much this different, poised Malfoy would last before snapping. Harry grins to himself as he considers the possibility.
Just as he reaches the doors, a rough hand closes around his wrist to stop him. He's distracted enough with his thoughts that he yanks free and twists around in surprise, his own hand unconsciously jerking toward the pocket where he keeps his wand, but his only threat, it seems, is a watch he doesn't recognize being thrust in his face.
"You forgot this, Potter," Dawlish says, forcing the watch into Harry's hand. He doesn't give Harry a chance to deny ownership, instead enclosing Harry's wrist in the same rough grip and tugging Harry closer to harshly whisper, "Watch Malfoy carefully. Report anything." He scowls. "What's Mungo's thinking, recruiting him?"
Harry blinks and nods slowly, uncertain. "I-"
"Auror Dawlish, another pair has been chosen," the Healer interrupts coldly, still sitting at the table but turned to watch them, her expression tight and her mouth a thin line. In front of her, Ron's mousey trainee partner appears equally disapproving, now looking angered rather than nervous.
"Yes, yes. Be there in a moment," Dawlish snaps. He gives Harry a shove toward the doors, muttering, "I mean it, Potter. Watch him," and then stalks back to the table to give the newest pair their contract scrolls with his usual air of unpleasantness.
Ron sends Harry a questioning look but Harry waves him off, mouthing, "Later," and slips through the doors, feeling Mouse Boy's eyes on him as he does. He pauses on the other side, pondering Dawlish's instruction, and then stuffs the watch in his pocket and strides down the hallway to exam room one.
As he nears it, the door opens and an elderly Healer steps out, lime green robes faded from years of use and baggy around his old body. He smiles upon seeing Harry-a happy-go-lucky, oblivious-to-world kind of smile that makes Harry wonder if he'd begun to go a bit dim.
"Oh, Mr. Potter," he greets cheerily, holding out a wrinkled hand to shake. "You are awfully fortunate to have Mr. Malfoy as your medical associate. Fortunate indeed! Our little Draco is our best student-the best we've had in years, I'd say. Such a sharp mind. Will make an excellent Healer, just you wait."
"No one wants to hear what you have to say. Leave already, you barmy old coot," Malfoy intones from inside the exam room, though he sounds more exasperated and weary than embarrassed or upset.
The Healer's bubbly smile doesn't flicker at the insult. He merely pats Harry on the arm, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially, "His bedside manners need work, of course. Perhaps you can help with that."
"Er, right, perhaps," Harry replies, not bothering to contain his own amused smile.
"Well, go on then," the Healer chuckles, shooing Harry toward the exam room before cheerfully whistling his way back the direction Harry'd come.
"You are a slow reader," Malfoy says over his shoulder as Harry steps inside and closes the door. His tone is surprisingly civil but not overly friendly. He adds with a dismissive wave toward the exam bed, "Sit, please."
With a small sigh, Harry unbuttons his salmon-colored training robes, tossing them over a chair, and tugs his shirt over his head before climbing onto the bed, the sanitation charm warm under him. After two years of regular physicals for Auror training, he knows the drill. "So you're in charge of me for the next year, hmm?"
"At least until the winter's solstice," Malfoy reminds him in a distracted tone, not looking up from a chart. He flips a few pages of parchment out of the way, appearing to quickly read through each one. "Mediwitch Janus has seen you for the first two years of your training?"
"Yep." And good riddance. Having a giggly, ninety-something woman give him the feel up never quite made it on his List of Favorite Experiences.
"And only a few injuries from training. Nothing too terribly hazardous, I see."
"Not from training, no," Harry says. Malfoy finally looks at him, frowning and appearing both expectant and suspicious. He grins, only mildly embarrassed, and explains, "Ron and I got in a fight, year or so ago. Left me with some nice bruises, a few broken ribs, and a hex that had my whole body twitching for days, even after I got it treated."
Malfoy's expression changes in a way that makes Harry suspect his IQ has come into question.
He shrugs. "It was at a bar. We were pissed."
"A delightful way to pass the time, I'm sure," Malfoy scoffs lightly, attention moving back to his clipboard. "At least you'll prove an interesting specimen." He looks at Harry again, a hint of his old smirk showing through the calm mask. "I hear third year of Auror training can become quite dangerous."
"Isn't that why we've a contract between trainees? To give the St. Mungo's lot something fun to study?" Harry replies with a small smirk of his own.
"And here I thought it was because the Ministry wanted a cheap solution to its medical problems," Malfoy murmurs, then flips all parchments the right way and sets the clipboard aside, moving to stand next to Harry. "You have a mesomorphic body type, so we'll start with assessing your muscle growth and strength between now and your last check-up."
"A what body type?" Harry asks, having never heard anything of it.
Malfoy snorts softly, giving him a wry look, and wordlessly accios a book from the nearby shelf of medical texts that the mediwitches consulted on occasion. He thumbs through the pages until he finds what he wants and then hands it to Harry, tapping a paragraph labeled The Three Body Types: Ectomorph, Mesomorph, Endomorph. "Read that while I do the cursory blood pressure and nerve tests."
Harry scans the text while Malfoy began the usual wand waving that accompanied all medical experiences. In the back of his mind, he hears Dawlish's warning of, "Watch him," but the disapproving frown of the Healer at the table, the enthusiastic greeting of the older Healer in the hallway, and his own memory of a demoralized, sickly Malfoy murmuring at trial, "I just wanted it to be over," soon snuff out the paranoid caution. Like everyone else, Malfoy probably just wanted to move past the war.
"So I have the perfect body," Harry says after a moment of reading, grinning.
"You have an ideal body for muscle-building," Malfoy says dryly. "Let's not get the two confused."
"You'd be an ectomorph then, yeah? Small joints, lean muscles, long limbs, and-oh hey, check this out." Harry lifts the book for Malfoy to see, his grin widening as Malfoy's eyes find the sentence he's pointing to. "I always knew you were a bit of a princess, but according to this, even your bones are delicate! Delicate! Dainty to the core, huh?"
Malfoy calmly reclaims the book with a mild glare. "Don't make me add a rectal exam to the list of standard tests, Potter."
"Right, right, sorry," Harry says, chuckling, intrigued by Malfoy's unusual patience.
Malfoy shoots him an unamused look and returns the book to the shelf before starting again on his spell checks. Harry studies him curiously as he does, and though it's obvious that he's aware of Harry's mutual scrutinizing there is no stutter to his flow of magic. If anything, his motions become more perfectly fluid.
Still preening when given attention apparently.
"So… Aside from becoming a Healer, how've you been Malfoy?" Harry asks to break the silence. "I haven't seen you since-" He waves his hand in vague indication, not needing to vocalize as they both remember the trials.
"Better than you apparently," Malfoy answers coolly, not at all appearing ruffled by the reference. "How has your new tibia been working?"
Harry winces at the memory of his leg being crushed during troll training the year before. "You heard about that?"
"It's in your file, you dolt. And in The Prophet," Malfoy points his wand directly between Harry's eyes. "Stop talking and follow the tip of my wand."
Harry recognizes Malfoy's evasion for what it is but does as told, obediently removing his glasses and covering each eye when instructed-a routine he'd done many times before. Once they finish, he automatically opens his mouth before Malfoy even requests it of him, already knowing the next step. Malfoy smiles for a brief moment when he turns back from marking notes to find Harry's mouth hanging open expectantly. It's a nice smile.
"Okay," Malfoy says after looking in Harry's ear, adding yet more writing to Harry's file. "Stand and lose the trousers."
Harry slips off the bed to his feet, unbuttoning his trousers and shaking his legs out of them. "So the Healer who was in here before? Who's he?"
Malfoy snorts lightly. "That would be Healer Goodman."
"Oh? He seemed like a, er, good man," Harry quips, grinning at the exasperated glance Malfoy sends him. "He likes you a lot. Told me I'm fortunate to have you as my Healer."
"You are fortunate, as I am brilliant at this," Malfoy says, looking immensely proud of himself, like a dog wagging its tail after properly returning its ball. Then the indifference falls into place and Malfoy is professional once more. "The pants, too, Potter."
Hesitating only briefly, Harry tucks his thumbs in his boxer-briefs and pushes them down. Malfoy seeing him naked couldn't be any worse than the ninety-year-old mediwitch, he figures, and he certainly had nothing to be ashamed of. Except, typically when he was to be molested by a gorgeous blond, it was in the moderate darkness of his bedroom, not under the glaring lumos lights of an exam room. And he usually received a nice dinner beforehand.
"You should be cautious with Healer Goodman," Malfoy continues, not looking up from the clipboard as Harry hops out of his pants. "It would be to your advantage to avoid him when you can."
"Yeah? You think so? He seemed all right," Harry replies, thinking back to the encounter in the hallway. "Losing it a bit, maybe. His mind, I mean."
Malfoy merely hums and then finally sets the clipboard aside, facing Harry once more. Harry prides himself on not squirming or blushing as gray eyes scan him from top to bottom.
"Well," Malfoy says, gaze lingering on Harry's groin, "you are known for your impressive wand."
Harry wiggles his eyebrows suggestively when Malfoy looks up. "I think I'm more recognized for how well I handle wands."
"Don't get cocky, Potter," Malfoy responds, and there is a touch of the old sarcasm in his tone but his eyes are warm with amusement. He flicks his hand and the wheeled stool under the Healer counter rolls to him. When he sits, his head is level with Harry's groin, his expression almost appearing suggestive when he looks up at Harry without tilting his head, blond lashes transparent over his grey eyes.
"Hey, uh," Harry says, grinning weakly, embarrassed, "don't be surprised if I get a stiffie while you've your delicate hands on me."
"You always were so easy to rile," Malfoy murmurs with a small shake of the head.
"What can I say? I'm a sensitive guy," Harry jokes. "Besides," he reaches up to tuck blond hair behind a pale ear, "I rather like you at this angle, Malfoy."
Malfoy brushes his hand away. "Please bear in mind what constitutes appropriate physical interaction, trainee Potter." His eyes glint wickedly despite his professional mask. "And I can assure you, there is nothing delicate about my technique, so you need not worry."
With that said, Malfoy suddenly takes Harry's balls in a firm grip that's only made unpleasant by the cold, rubbery glove charm over his hand. Harry groans sharply, his knees only buckling slightly but enough that he has to grab Malfoy's shoulder with one hand and the exam bed behind him with the other to steady himself. Heat rushes to his groin as Malfoy gives him a teasing fondle, and his cock, which had already been twitching with interest from their banter alone, begins to fill.
"Fuck," Harry mutters.
"Not today, trainee Potter," Malfoy says with a smirk, no longer trying to hide his true Slytherin nature. He squeezes gently. "Turn your head and cough, please."
Harry licks his lips and takes a deep breath. "You-"
The sentence is cut off by the clack of the exam door opening, a curly-haired dark brunette wearing the glittery blue robes of the Unspeakable trainees stepping into the room.
"Hello, I was assigned to- Oh." Amber eyes fix on Malfoy's hands and Harry's stiffening cock with mild surprise, the trainee stopping in the doorway. "I apologize for interrupting. Would you prefer if I came back at a later time?"
"No, that won't be necessary," Malfoy answers calmly, Slytherin smirk having vanished. He removes his grip from Harry and stands, canceling the charm on his hand and holding it out for the Unspeakable trainee to shake. "Draco Malfoy, St. Mungo's."
"Marty Burks, Department of Mysteries," the brunette replies, closing the door and stepping up to shake Malfoy's proffered hand. He turns to Harry for the same, seeming unbothered by Harry's nakedness. His grip is strong but not forceful when they shake. "Magical Law Enforcement, I presume?"
"Yes, Harry Potter."
They all pause after the introductions, Burks looking back and forth between Malfoy and Harry. "Well, this is awkward."
Harry gestures to his nearby clothes. "Would you like me to…?"
"Oh, no, you're fine. That's not what I meant," Burks says, smiling kindly and waving off Harry's suggestion. "You've a rather impressive prick. Nicely shaped and certainly of a more than adequately satisfying size."
"Why thank you. I'm quite proud of it myself," Harry says, on the verge of blushing bashfully despite the confidence in his words. Malfoy simply hums quietly at the exchange, eyeing Harry's semi-erection-which only swells further under all the flattering attention-with a small smile.
"I merely meant that the two of you are both so well known, being the top of your respective classes and all," Burks explains. "And I… Well, I'm not so bad, I suppose, but I'm afraid trainee Blosch would have been a better fit for you two. More advanced." He glances at Harry's cock again. "She'd have enjoyed the view."
"You're an acceptable study, I'm sure," Malfoy says lightly, somehow managing to make the comment not sound insulting, and then swings a hand toward the remaining chair not taken by Harry's clothes. "If you'll wait while I complete trainee Potter's physical…"
"Oh, yes, of course."
Malfoy reapplies the glove charm on his hand and once more sits on the stool as Burks settles nearby to watch.
"Now then, Potter, back to your hernia check," Malfoy says and grasps Harry by the balls again, teasingly rubbing his thumb down an underside vein on Harry's prick as he does. His smirk returns as Harry bites back a moan. "Turn your head and cough."
To be continued...
Author: frostywonder
Rating: M/Adult (this part)
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Summary: As a Healer trainee, Malfoy needs to not only heal but study in-depth the various ailments and injuries. As an Auror trainee, Harry frequently suffers a multitude of ailments and injuries. Perhaps an arrangement can be made…
Warnings: Mentions of male genitalia! (and some fondling--for medical purposes!)
Word count: ~3600 (this part)
A/N: I've a whole list of prompts I'd like to finish; this is the short introduction to the first one that I have finally gotten around to starting. I hope to be quick with the updates without losing quality-I'm not the fastest of writers and often waste time in the editing process. Please bear with me! :D
Also, I am looking for a beta if anyone is willing! My main issues tend to be wordiness, British slang, and pacing.
--o--
Of everyone in the room, Malfoy appears the most shocked by Harry's drawn lot, but as Harry isn't really looking at anyone else, just Malfoy, his estimation of shocked faces could be a tad skewed.
"Positive, Potter? You're okay with him?" Auror Proudfoot asks quietly from Harry's side, his eyes appraising the blond in question.
Harry finally breaks gazes with Malfoy and faces his instructor, shrugging. "Yeah, sure. Why? Should I draw another?"
Instead of answering, Proudfoot merely waves over Malfoy and then scribbles his and Harry's names together on a parchment. The other instructors in the room do the same, the Healers appearing pleased and the Aurors suspicious.
Malfoy hesitates briefly, taking in his own wary assessment of Harry, then lifts his chin resolutely and crosses the room to join them. For the short distance, his smooth, gliding steps more resemble his mother than his father-gracefully imposing rather than pretentiously so, impressive in his ability to maintain an air of dignity at all in spite of wearing the bright, neon yellow robes indicative of a Healer trainee.
"You both know the stipulations between St. Mungo's and the Ministry of Magic?" Proudfoot asks, though he directs the question toward Malfoy, already aware of Harry having sat through a three hour lecture detailing the arrangement. At Malfoy's nod, he gestures them to a nearby table, saying, "Go on then. Once you've read and signed your contracts, Mr. Malfoy can begin his first examination," and then turns to the other Auror trainees waiting nearby. "Weasley! Get over here. You're next."
Harry glances at Ron, giving a half-smile when their eyes meet. In response, Ron mouths, "Rotten luck," throwing a grimace in Malfoy's direction. Harry follows the gaze, though his eyes drift lower to settle on Malfoy's moving backside, attractive even under a thick layer of neon yellow, and he smirks to himself before following. As he walks away, he hears Proudfoot mutter, "Easy, Weasley. The point is to draw a name, not to knock the hat out of Hersh's hands."
At the table sit the ever-scowling Auror Dawlish, who gives a sharp nod at Harry but turns hard eyes on Malfoy, and a middle-aged Healer whom Harry vaguely recognizes as the Healer consulted when training injuries were too severe for the Ministry's mediwitches-something which, thankfully, didn't occur often. In contrast to her Auror associate, she merely politely smiles at Harry and then seems to sit up straighter and beam when she sees Malfoy, practically reflecting the glow of his robes with her teeth.
"You two will be assigned an Unspeakable trainee. He or she will be accompanying you shortly," Dawlish gruffly informs them, pushing two parchment scrolls-their contracts-across the table. "Read before you sign. You should already know the arrangements, but we want everyone," a narrowed glance at Malfoy, "to be aware of the consequences should procedure not be followed."
For his part, Malfoy ignores the implied accusation and simply unrolls his scroll without even a twitch of irritation, his face a careful, blank mask against Dawlish's continued glare. Harry suppresses a grin at the display of dismissive composure, so different from the quick-to-sneer, quick-to-anger brat at Hogwarts, and instead asks curiously, "How many Unspeakable trainees are there?"
"Four," Dawlish grunts.
"But there're nine of us from the Aurors. Won't that leave out five?"
"As there are only seven Healer trainees, two groups will have two Aurors to a Healer, and the last group will be a simple Auror-Healer pair," the Healer answers kindly. "At the winter solstice we will be rearranging your groups so that everyone has a chance to gain multiple experiences."
Harry nods in understanding and unrolls his own scroll, disinterestedly skimming through the contract, already aware of the contents. The trainee arrangement had started as a method to "improve relations," Harry's superiors had explained. The Auror Department worked often and closely with both Healers and Unspeakables. More trust between their groups led to better cooperation.
In theory, anyway.
Harry wonders about that now, taking a discreet look around the room at the pinched expressions of both the Aurors and Healers. In reality, the alliance seemed quite fragile. He'd frequently heard disparaging quips from various Aurors regarding the other two groups-the vague, uninformative nature of the ever odd Unspeakables, and the way Healers often interfered when it came to the sick and injured, be they criminal or victim.
"Draco?" the Healer speaks up again, startling Harry back to his reading. "You and Mr. Potter can use exam room one. The Department of Mysteries is running a bit behind but that should give you time to complete Mr. Potter's physical first."
"Yes, I'll do that," Malfoy answers, a small smile on his face as he regards the matron. Then he sets the contract on the table, picks up a pre-inked quill, and signs his name on the bottom in a small, quick scratch. When he straightens, the smile is gone, his expression back to neutral, and he faces Harry with an air of indifference. "I'll go ahead first to prepare."
Harry nods but arches an unconvinced eyebrow at the feigned nonchalance. Malfoy's mouth twitches like he wants to smirk, but then his gaze drifts over Harry's shoulder and his expression changes to unimpressed. Harry turns in time to see Ron discreetly flip two fingers at Malfoy, the redhead grinning crookedly when he realizes Harry has caught him doing it. The Healer trainee beside Ron catches the motion as well and frowns, brow wrinkling with worry under shaggy bangs. Malfoy merely tilts his head in acknowledgement at his fellow trainee, disregarding Ron's rude gesture entirely, and then brushes past Harry as he glides toward the medical hallway with the same acquired grace as before.
Finally giving up on reading the rest of his own contract, Harry quickly signs the bottom and hands the scroll back to the Healer, thanking her with a polite smile when she instructs him to go to exam room one. Beside her, Dawlish is speaking to Ron and the other trainee and shoving two more scrolls across the table. He still gives the Healer side of the duo an irritated glare but sounds a lot less caustic, Harry notes.
"Ready to get your bits fondled by Malfoy?" Ron snickers quietly as Harry passes him. The elbow Harry jabs into his side only makes him snort louder.
Having overheard, Ron's partner frowns again and his brown eyes shoot anxiously to the medical hallway doors. Harry offers him a friendly smile but the Healer trainee only fidgets uncomfortably, looking like a timid little mouse next to Ron's taller and broader stature. Shrugging, Harry continues on, deciding that Malfoy's newly gained composure likely wouldn't last if he was kept waiting for too long. Although, it'd be interesting to see just how much this different, poised Malfoy would last before snapping. Harry grins to himself as he considers the possibility.
Just as he reaches the doors, a rough hand closes around his wrist to stop him. He's distracted enough with his thoughts that he yanks free and twists around in surprise, his own hand unconsciously jerking toward the pocket where he keeps his wand, but his only threat, it seems, is a watch he doesn't recognize being thrust in his face.
"You forgot this, Potter," Dawlish says, forcing the watch into Harry's hand. He doesn't give Harry a chance to deny ownership, instead enclosing Harry's wrist in the same rough grip and tugging Harry closer to harshly whisper, "Watch Malfoy carefully. Report anything." He scowls. "What's Mungo's thinking, recruiting him?"
Harry blinks and nods slowly, uncertain. "I-"
"Auror Dawlish, another pair has been chosen," the Healer interrupts coldly, still sitting at the table but turned to watch them, her expression tight and her mouth a thin line. In front of her, Ron's mousey trainee partner appears equally disapproving, now looking angered rather than nervous.
"Yes, yes. Be there in a moment," Dawlish snaps. He gives Harry a shove toward the doors, muttering, "I mean it, Potter. Watch him," and then stalks back to the table to give the newest pair their contract scrolls with his usual air of unpleasantness.
Ron sends Harry a questioning look but Harry waves him off, mouthing, "Later," and slips through the doors, feeling Mouse Boy's eyes on him as he does. He pauses on the other side, pondering Dawlish's instruction, and then stuffs the watch in his pocket and strides down the hallway to exam room one.
As he nears it, the door opens and an elderly Healer steps out, lime green robes faded from years of use and baggy around his old body. He smiles upon seeing Harry-a happy-go-lucky, oblivious-to-world kind of smile that makes Harry wonder if he'd begun to go a bit dim.
"Oh, Mr. Potter," he greets cheerily, holding out a wrinkled hand to shake. "You are awfully fortunate to have Mr. Malfoy as your medical associate. Fortunate indeed! Our little Draco is our best student-the best we've had in years, I'd say. Such a sharp mind. Will make an excellent Healer, just you wait."
"No one wants to hear what you have to say. Leave already, you barmy old coot," Malfoy intones from inside the exam room, though he sounds more exasperated and weary than embarrassed or upset.
The Healer's bubbly smile doesn't flicker at the insult. He merely pats Harry on the arm, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially, "His bedside manners need work, of course. Perhaps you can help with that."
"Er, right, perhaps," Harry replies, not bothering to contain his own amused smile.
"Well, go on then," the Healer chuckles, shooing Harry toward the exam room before cheerfully whistling his way back the direction Harry'd come.
"You are a slow reader," Malfoy says over his shoulder as Harry steps inside and closes the door. His tone is surprisingly civil but not overly friendly. He adds with a dismissive wave toward the exam bed, "Sit, please."
With a small sigh, Harry unbuttons his salmon-colored training robes, tossing them over a chair, and tugs his shirt over his head before climbing onto the bed, the sanitation charm warm under him. After two years of regular physicals for Auror training, he knows the drill. "So you're in charge of me for the next year, hmm?"
"At least until the winter's solstice," Malfoy reminds him in a distracted tone, not looking up from a chart. He flips a few pages of parchment out of the way, appearing to quickly read through each one. "Mediwitch Janus has seen you for the first two years of your training?"
"Yep." And good riddance. Having a giggly, ninety-something woman give him the feel up never quite made it on his List of Favorite Experiences.
"And only a few injuries from training. Nothing too terribly hazardous, I see."
"Not from training, no," Harry says. Malfoy finally looks at him, frowning and appearing both expectant and suspicious. He grins, only mildly embarrassed, and explains, "Ron and I got in a fight, year or so ago. Left me with some nice bruises, a few broken ribs, and a hex that had my whole body twitching for days, even after I got it treated."
Malfoy's expression changes in a way that makes Harry suspect his IQ has come into question.
He shrugs. "It was at a bar. We were pissed."
"A delightful way to pass the time, I'm sure," Malfoy scoffs lightly, attention moving back to his clipboard. "At least you'll prove an interesting specimen." He looks at Harry again, a hint of his old smirk showing through the calm mask. "I hear third year of Auror training can become quite dangerous."
"Isn't that why we've a contract between trainees? To give the St. Mungo's lot something fun to study?" Harry replies with a small smirk of his own.
"And here I thought it was because the Ministry wanted a cheap solution to its medical problems," Malfoy murmurs, then flips all parchments the right way and sets the clipboard aside, moving to stand next to Harry. "You have a mesomorphic body type, so we'll start with assessing your muscle growth and strength between now and your last check-up."
"A what body type?" Harry asks, having never heard anything of it.
Malfoy snorts softly, giving him a wry look, and wordlessly accios a book from the nearby shelf of medical texts that the mediwitches consulted on occasion. He thumbs through the pages until he finds what he wants and then hands it to Harry, tapping a paragraph labeled The Three Body Types: Ectomorph, Mesomorph, Endomorph. "Read that while I do the cursory blood pressure and nerve tests."
Harry scans the text while Malfoy began the usual wand waving that accompanied all medical experiences. In the back of his mind, he hears Dawlish's warning of, "Watch him," but the disapproving frown of the Healer at the table, the enthusiastic greeting of the older Healer in the hallway, and his own memory of a demoralized, sickly Malfoy murmuring at trial, "I just wanted it to be over," soon snuff out the paranoid caution. Like everyone else, Malfoy probably just wanted to move past the war.
"So I have the perfect body," Harry says after a moment of reading, grinning.
"You have an ideal body for muscle-building," Malfoy says dryly. "Let's not get the two confused."
"You'd be an ectomorph then, yeah? Small joints, lean muscles, long limbs, and-oh hey, check this out." Harry lifts the book for Malfoy to see, his grin widening as Malfoy's eyes find the sentence he's pointing to. "I always knew you were a bit of a princess, but according to this, even your bones are delicate! Delicate! Dainty to the core, huh?"
Malfoy calmly reclaims the book with a mild glare. "Don't make me add a rectal exam to the list of standard tests, Potter."
"Right, right, sorry," Harry says, chuckling, intrigued by Malfoy's unusual patience.
Malfoy shoots him an unamused look and returns the book to the shelf before starting again on his spell checks. Harry studies him curiously as he does, and though it's obvious that he's aware of Harry's mutual scrutinizing there is no stutter to his flow of magic. If anything, his motions become more perfectly fluid.
Still preening when given attention apparently.
"So… Aside from becoming a Healer, how've you been Malfoy?" Harry asks to break the silence. "I haven't seen you since-" He waves his hand in vague indication, not needing to vocalize as they both remember the trials.
"Better than you apparently," Malfoy answers coolly, not at all appearing ruffled by the reference. "How has your new tibia been working?"
Harry winces at the memory of his leg being crushed during troll training the year before. "You heard about that?"
"It's in your file, you dolt. And in The Prophet," Malfoy points his wand directly between Harry's eyes. "Stop talking and follow the tip of my wand."
Harry recognizes Malfoy's evasion for what it is but does as told, obediently removing his glasses and covering each eye when instructed-a routine he'd done many times before. Once they finish, he automatically opens his mouth before Malfoy even requests it of him, already knowing the next step. Malfoy smiles for a brief moment when he turns back from marking notes to find Harry's mouth hanging open expectantly. It's a nice smile.
"Okay," Malfoy says after looking in Harry's ear, adding yet more writing to Harry's file. "Stand and lose the trousers."
Harry slips off the bed to his feet, unbuttoning his trousers and shaking his legs out of them. "So the Healer who was in here before? Who's he?"
Malfoy snorts lightly. "That would be Healer Goodman."
"Oh? He seemed like a, er, good man," Harry quips, grinning at the exasperated glance Malfoy sends him. "He likes you a lot. Told me I'm fortunate to have you as my Healer."
"You are fortunate, as I am brilliant at this," Malfoy says, looking immensely proud of himself, like a dog wagging its tail after properly returning its ball. Then the indifference falls into place and Malfoy is professional once more. "The pants, too, Potter."
Hesitating only briefly, Harry tucks his thumbs in his boxer-briefs and pushes them down. Malfoy seeing him naked couldn't be any worse than the ninety-year-old mediwitch, he figures, and he certainly had nothing to be ashamed of. Except, typically when he was to be molested by a gorgeous blond, it was in the moderate darkness of his bedroom, not under the glaring lumos lights of an exam room. And he usually received a nice dinner beforehand.
"You should be cautious with Healer Goodman," Malfoy continues, not looking up from the clipboard as Harry hops out of his pants. "It would be to your advantage to avoid him when you can."
"Yeah? You think so? He seemed all right," Harry replies, thinking back to the encounter in the hallway. "Losing it a bit, maybe. His mind, I mean."
Malfoy merely hums and then finally sets the clipboard aside, facing Harry once more. Harry prides himself on not squirming or blushing as gray eyes scan him from top to bottom.
"Well," Malfoy says, gaze lingering on Harry's groin, "you are known for your impressive wand."
Harry wiggles his eyebrows suggestively when Malfoy looks up. "I think I'm more recognized for how well I handle wands."
"Don't get cocky, Potter," Malfoy responds, and there is a touch of the old sarcasm in his tone but his eyes are warm with amusement. He flicks his hand and the wheeled stool under the Healer counter rolls to him. When he sits, his head is level with Harry's groin, his expression almost appearing suggestive when he looks up at Harry without tilting his head, blond lashes transparent over his grey eyes.
"Hey, uh," Harry says, grinning weakly, embarrassed, "don't be surprised if I get a stiffie while you've your delicate hands on me."
"You always were so easy to rile," Malfoy murmurs with a small shake of the head.
"What can I say? I'm a sensitive guy," Harry jokes. "Besides," he reaches up to tuck blond hair behind a pale ear, "I rather like you at this angle, Malfoy."
Malfoy brushes his hand away. "Please bear in mind what constitutes appropriate physical interaction, trainee Potter." His eyes glint wickedly despite his professional mask. "And I can assure you, there is nothing delicate about my technique, so you need not worry."
With that said, Malfoy suddenly takes Harry's balls in a firm grip that's only made unpleasant by the cold, rubbery glove charm over his hand. Harry groans sharply, his knees only buckling slightly but enough that he has to grab Malfoy's shoulder with one hand and the exam bed behind him with the other to steady himself. Heat rushes to his groin as Malfoy gives him a teasing fondle, and his cock, which had already been twitching with interest from their banter alone, begins to fill.
"Fuck," Harry mutters.
"Not today, trainee Potter," Malfoy says with a smirk, no longer trying to hide his true Slytherin nature. He squeezes gently. "Turn your head and cough, please."
Harry licks his lips and takes a deep breath. "You-"
The sentence is cut off by the clack of the exam door opening, a curly-haired dark brunette wearing the glittery blue robes of the Unspeakable trainees stepping into the room.
"Hello, I was assigned to- Oh." Amber eyes fix on Malfoy's hands and Harry's stiffening cock with mild surprise, the trainee stopping in the doorway. "I apologize for interrupting. Would you prefer if I came back at a later time?"
"No, that won't be necessary," Malfoy answers calmly, Slytherin smirk having vanished. He removes his grip from Harry and stands, canceling the charm on his hand and holding it out for the Unspeakable trainee to shake. "Draco Malfoy, St. Mungo's."
"Marty Burks, Department of Mysteries," the brunette replies, closing the door and stepping up to shake Malfoy's proffered hand. He turns to Harry for the same, seeming unbothered by Harry's nakedness. His grip is strong but not forceful when they shake. "Magical Law Enforcement, I presume?"
"Yes, Harry Potter."
They all pause after the introductions, Burks looking back and forth between Malfoy and Harry. "Well, this is awkward."
Harry gestures to his nearby clothes. "Would you like me to…?"
"Oh, no, you're fine. That's not what I meant," Burks says, smiling kindly and waving off Harry's suggestion. "You've a rather impressive prick. Nicely shaped and certainly of a more than adequately satisfying size."
"Why thank you. I'm quite proud of it myself," Harry says, on the verge of blushing bashfully despite the confidence in his words. Malfoy simply hums quietly at the exchange, eyeing Harry's semi-erection-which only swells further under all the flattering attention-with a small smile.
"I merely meant that the two of you are both so well known, being the top of your respective classes and all," Burks explains. "And I… Well, I'm not so bad, I suppose, but I'm afraid trainee Blosch would have been a better fit for you two. More advanced." He glances at Harry's cock again. "She'd have enjoyed the view."
"You're an acceptable study, I'm sure," Malfoy says lightly, somehow managing to make the comment not sound insulting, and then swings a hand toward the remaining chair not taken by Harry's clothes. "If you'll wait while I complete trainee Potter's physical…"
"Oh, yes, of course."
Malfoy reapplies the glove charm on his hand and once more sits on the stool as Burks settles nearby to watch.
"Now then, Potter, back to your hernia check," Malfoy says and grasps Harry by the balls again, teasingly rubbing his thumb down an underside vein on Harry's prick as he does. His smirk returns as Harry bites back a moan. "Turn your head and cough."
To be continued...