Dabble: Werewolf
Summery: Harry's stuck in St. Mungo's after being infected by a werewolf. (EWE)
Disclaimer: All characters (unless otherwise stated) are property of their original creator, and I make no money from using them in the creation or posting of my drabble/fiction.
Characters: Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy
His left arm throbbed.
It wasn’t a dull ache, like many of the other injuries he usually received. With every beat of his heart, a wave of pain raced through him, up his forearm, across his shoulder and down deep into his chest.
Harry was miserable, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the stinging, pulsing werewolf bite that now graced his forearm. They had pulled him. Taken him off the force if you will.
Because even with all the new anti-discrimination laws, werewolves were still not to be trusted. They could cook in a restaurant, or play chaser on a professional Quidditch team, but they could not be Aurors, and that stung more than the fiery pain now coursing though his upper body.
“Mr. Potter.”
If he wasn’t already in such a foul mood, Harry would have appreciated the soothing, dulcet voice. It would have been fairly welcomed over the coddling, simpering voices of all the other mediwitches/wizards. Maybe if he just pretended to be asleep, they would go away.
“Mr. Potter.”
Well, pretending to be asleep didn’t work. The quiet reassurance the voice offered just seemed to grate at his nerves. Maybe misplaced anger. “Fuck, just leave the potions on the table.”
“Mr. Potter. I’m from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. If I may have a word with you?”
Well, shit. Harry rolled ungracefully onto his left side and scanned the room. Regardless, everything was blurry, seeing as how his glasses were on the table near the door. “What do you want?”
He heard the clink of something being picked up from the table near the door, the smooth, even click of heals, and the soft, swishing rustle of robes.
Harry felt the cool metal frame of his glasses pressed gently into his right hand. The hand that pressed them there was smooth and warm, and Harry wondered if everything about this person was meant to be soothing, that is until he put his glasses on.
“Fuck me. Malfoy? Seriously?”
Malfoy, in all his blond, pointy glory, stood obstinately in the center of the room, staring down at him impassively.
Disclaimer: All characters (unless otherwise stated) are property of their original creator, and I make no money from using them in the creation or posting of my drabble/fiction.
Characters: Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy
His left arm throbbed.
It wasn’t a dull ache, like many of the other injuries he usually received. With every beat of his heart, a wave of pain raced through him, up his forearm, across his shoulder and down deep into his chest.
Harry was miserable, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the stinging, pulsing werewolf bite that now graced his forearm. They had pulled him. Taken him off the force if you will.
Because even with all the new anti-discrimination laws, werewolves were still not to be trusted. They could cook in a restaurant, or play chaser on a professional Quidditch team, but they could not be Aurors, and that stung more than the fiery pain now coursing though his upper body.
“Mr. Potter.”
If he wasn’t already in such a foul mood, Harry would have appreciated the soothing, dulcet voice. It would have been fairly welcomed over the coddling, simpering voices of all the other mediwitches/wizards. Maybe if he just pretended to be asleep, they would go away.
“Mr. Potter.”
Well, pretending to be asleep didn’t work. The quiet reassurance the voice offered just seemed to grate at his nerves. Maybe misplaced anger. “Fuck, just leave the potions on the table.”
“Mr. Potter. I’m from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. If I may have a word with you?”
Well, shit. Harry rolled ungracefully onto his left side and scanned the room. Regardless, everything was blurry, seeing as how his glasses were on the table near the door. “What do you want?”
He heard the clink of something being picked up from the table near the door, the smooth, even click of heals, and the soft, swishing rustle of robes.
Harry felt the cool metal frame of his glasses pressed gently into his right hand. The hand that pressed them there was smooth and warm, and Harry wondered if everything about this person was meant to be soothing, that is until he put his glasses on.
“Fuck me. Malfoy? Seriously?”
Malfoy, in all his blond, pointy glory, stood obstinately in the center of the room, staring down at him impassively.