[hp] a lifetime of calamities followed by dangerous illnesses

[byblythe]

"It's monsoon season soon, anyhow," says Javinder in his perfect accent, which is more clipped than Draco's, "and besides, there's university."

Draco stares down at the letter from his parents - his mother, obviously, but there's the crest, and it says "parents" more than anything - with sheer annoyance.

"I thought it would take all year," Draco says, folding the letter up into a tiny cube. "It usually does." He rolls the cube across the floor like a dice. Quetzal, ruffling his wings in preparation to leave, pounces on the paper and drops it off the edge of the verandah with a squawk.

"You could look on the bright side." Javinder thumbs open the bottom two buttons on Draco's shirt. "This means it is safe back in England. No life of servitude to evil. No disastrous career choices."

"It also means," Draco mutters, tilting his head to the side as Javinder runs his finger around his collar, "that she knows that I'm not in Mumbai, and that you are not, as discussed, my tutor."

Javinder regards Draco thoughtfully and tugs remonstratively on Draco's hair. "Panga, Draco."

"Certainly, you can fuck me," says Draco, even though he knows precisely what Javinder is not saying. Javinder snaps his fingers to close the verandah door, which still makes Draco twitch, as does Javinder's audacious smirk, and Draco groans at the complete unfairness of life until Javinder pushes him back into the pillows and kisses him.

"I was in Goa," says Draco to Blaise, blinking rapidly in both surprise and the unfamiliar Scottish gloom. "I was in Goa, and more importantly, I was getting a bloody fantastic blowjob, and--"

"I wondered why your trousers were open." Blaise smirks. "And also why you were dressed like a hippie, so that's two out of fourteen questions answered. But welcome back."

"Huh," says Draco, refusing to blush while he did up his trousers, because the times he'd actually had sex on the beach in front of people he’d shown a bit more skin than the todger-flash Blaise was commenting on.

Which brought Draco back around to the point, which was that he had been in Goa, ceiling-fanned Kiplingesque brilliance that it all was, but then Quetzal had dropped another bloody letter on the bed while Javinder was going down on him and, while at the time Draco had thought the bar of chocolate might be a nice pre-orgasm snack, he had forgotten all about the concept of Portkeys.

And so, Blaise. Plus their room; the Slytherin dungeons; Hogwarts; and what felt suspiciously like winter.

"Why'd you activate a Portkey in the middle of sex?" Blaise wanders around Draco, eyeing him like an exhibit, and Draco remembers that he has the most appalling sunburn.

"Because," Draco snaps, "clearly I am an idiot. And clearly my mother is not, which I will try to remember the next time I attempt to out-manoeuvre her."

Draco phases out when Blaise expresses his concern over Narcissa Malfoy and sex being mentioned in the same conversation, and he takes in the fact that all his belongings are now neatly installed in their usual places, books lined up, Quidditch leathers shining, antique lamp perfectly positioned.

Draco sighs.

The trouble with five months of fantastic sex with a disgustingly proficient--magically and otherwise--Gujarati prince was that it spoiled your outlook on life at your crappy private school just a little, and there now seemed to be at least six more months in which Draco had to amuse himself.

"Malfoy?" Blaise snaps his fingers in front of Draco's face.

Draco grabs his wrist.

"One," he says, "no finger-snapping. Two, I am travel-weary, so no questions. Three, is it time for breakfast or supper?"

It's three days and some decidedly lacklustre groping with the Smith boy later when Draco gets post from Javinder.

"Aren't you going to open that?" Pansy eyes the parcel with interest.

"Nope," says Draco. Having described to the remaining seventh-year Slytherins, in carefully explicit detail, just how fabulous his exile on the sub-continent was, he feels quite delighted in tormenting them with no further information. Instead, he shrinks the parcel and puts it in his pocket for later--private--perusal. When Pansy turns to him to pry he smiles at her and gazes across the Hall.

Across from their table, Potter struts in and leans over the back of Weasley's chair to steal a piece of toast.

Draco considers this. Potter is, of course, essentially the reason why Draco is back at Hogwarts, and before schedule. There is obviously a karmic debt to be dealt with here.

"Wasn't it irritating," he muses aloud, "that Potter knocked off the Dark Lord in December?"

No-one answers him, which doesn't surprise Draco at all. Theodore had gone so far as to say that he thought Draco had become a slacker, was lacking in ambition, and a number of other insulting things. Draco had nodded and shrugged, contemplating whether the hassle of hexing Theo was worth the payoff of seeing him covered in mehndi.

It is while watching Potter trace a circle in the air with one hand and accio the butter dish with the other that Draco realises he may have a solution to the irritating gap in his life.

Clearly, he is meant to swap one powerfully magic, black-haired boy with a fabulous arse (he stands, peers, confirms) for another.

Yup, thinks Draco when Potter saunters out of the Hall. Arse is most definitely up to par.

"Potter," Draco says, although it's fairly redundant as there's no-one else on the pitch, being ridiculously bloody cold and all, "a word?"

Potter is flushed, which is nice, and tousled, which is also on Draco's list, but then he smiles, which Draco was not expecting but, hey, he can work with that.

"Hellooo," Potter says slowly, and Draco frowns, because Potter looks annoyingly smug.

"Surprised to see you back here, Malfoy," Potter says, and loops his broom over his shoulders. "Walk and talk? It's fucking freezing."

Draco finds himself turning and following Potter, which is disconcerting, but there's a plan to follow through here, and there's the aforementioned arse in training gear, of course.

"Your dives are rubbish," Draco observes. Potter nods absently and makes a remark about having his mind on other things, which Draco supposes is meant to refer to defeating evil single-handedly and before deadline, but he's distracted by the line of Potter's cheekbones and how there are three curious crimson spots in a row on his otherwise-perfect skin.

"Did you fly in India?" Potter asks, and Draco wonders how Potter knows where he's been.

"Yes," Draco says. "The Maldives. It was brilliant. Hot. Didn't have to layer on the gear." Which is to say, imagine me naked, go on, and Potter gives him a slight smile, so maybe that worked. "How'd you know where I was?"

Potter rolls his eyes. "Not much I didn't end up knowing."

Draco considers Potter's flagrant lack of hubris and decides he quite approves. Not that he would say. "I imagine after all that you could do with a trip to the seaside."

"Well." says Potter, glancing at Draco. "Nice suntan."

They reach a side entrance, which is locked when Draco turns the handle. He slips his hand in his cloak for his wand but Potter murmurs and makes a quick gesture and the door bangs open.

Draco would sulk at such an obvious display if it didn't turn him on so much.

"So," Potter begins, but Draco has this bit planned out in its particulars, so he takes Potter's broom and rests it against the wall behind them before stepping forward and curving his hand around the back of Potter's neck.

"Oh," Potter says faintly, and his eyelashes flutter a little, which is encouraging, so Draco tips Potter's glasses up on top of his head and waits a couple of beats. Potter doesn't smack him, and his hips almost tilt forward slightly, so Draco tries to ignore the shocky thrill of it all and frames Potter's jaw with his fingers.

Draco places his thumb, which is cold, on Potter's lower lip, which is warm and wet, and Potter's mouth opens a fraction. "Malf--" Potter doesn't finish the word, and if he does, it's more with a gasp than a syllable, which pleases Draco considerably.

"Thought so," says Draco quietly, even though he thought no such thing. He kisses Potter slowly, sliding his thumb out from their mouths only after he's prised Potter's open wider, because he likes the feeling of Potter's jaw moving under his fingers. They're both cold-cheeked and shivery and it makes the kiss even more heated, and Draco is just about to move onto the part where he shifts Potter backwards and starts undoing buttons, when Potter shudders and swoons.

Not, it seems, in the good way.

"I was kissing him." Potter cracks open an eye and winks at Draco, which is utterly charming and completely out of order all at the same time.

Draco gapes. "You were not!" But then he realises that arguing a fine dissection of the facts would be rather lost on Madam Pomfrey and Professor Vector, especially considering the point under discussion is an infectious Muggle disease, and to what degree he and Potter had been In Close Contact.

Professor Vector appears to be very much not-smirking, which irritates Draco more than Potter's twist on exactly who made what move, and who took it and liked it. Madam Pomfrey simply snorts and points to one of the glass doors at the end of the infirmary.

"Isolation. Two weeks. Mr Potter, I'm surprised you haven't that Muggle immunity potion in your blood. Mr Malfoy, I would prepare yourself for some unpleasant itching."

Draco wonders how this plan went so completely pear-shaped so quickly.

He is still wondering seven hours later when Potter has done nothing but sleep and, unattractively, snuffle.

The slight quirk of Professor Snape's eyebrow when he had come to deliver a large pile of schoolwork was more than Draco could bear, and he had flattened his nose against the glass of the door and tried to make his best sorrowful face.

Snape, it seems, was determined to ignore him.

Potter had thrown off the covers during his epic nap and Draco was amusing himself considering the curve of Potter's spine which, under other circumstances might have made him quite fidgety, but under the measle circumstances makes him choke with laughter.

Dozens of angry red dots adorn Potter's back and stomach, just like the three on his left cheek.

"Potter!" Draco is determined that sheer Pureblooded willpower will prevent him from this ridiculous disfiguration, but he is rather alarmed at how thoroughly Potter seems to have been knocked out. "Wake up. Now."

"Mnn-mph," gurgles Potter, and Draco closes his eyes with the intention of regaining his happy place when he remembers the parcel in his pocket.

"That," Draco enunciates in what he hopes is a perfect imitation of Javinder's ridiculously colonial inflection, "is completely arse bollocks unfair." He foregoes the origami, screws up the parchment in a tight ball, and throws it at Potter's sleeping body where it bounces onto the floor.

Javinder's letter is purely pornographic, and now Draco has a raging hard-on. In a bed next to a stupidly attractive half-naked dot-to-dot picture. Who refuses to wake up and do anything useful.

Like get Draco off.

Draco's head feels thickly woolly when he wakes up. When he reaches out for the lamp he smacks his hand into the wall which reminds him, painfully, that he his not in his comfortable bed but in the infirmary, and Harry Potter is...

"Are you wanking, Potter?"

"Shh."

There is a brief pause before the regular sound starts again, slower this time but unmistakable. Draco has not shared a room with Blaise Zabini without developing a fine ear for the sounds of masturbation.

"You could at least wake me," Draco says irritably, hating the entire concept of measles and wondering why his legs feel stupidly heavy when he tries to crawl out from under the bedclothes.

"Ah--" Potter's breath catches harshly and Draco holds his breath, because he can hear Potter come.

"Sorry," Potter slurs out, which does nothing for Draco's peace of mind but a whole lot for his cock, which is terribly interested in the post-orgasmic tone of Potter's voice. "It stops the itching."

"I itch," says Draco plaintitively.

Potter is a pleasantly heavy weight when he crawls on top of him and strips off the blankets.

"Where?" Potter has a peculiar murmur that crackles against Draco's skin, but maybe that's because he's kissing that bit just in the crook of Draco's neck, which has to be lucky dexterity, because there's no way Potter can be good at this, even if he's coordinated enough to pull down Draco's pyjamas with one hand and curl his hand around the back of Draco's neck with other.

"Everywhere," Draco stutters, and Potter lines up his hips just so, "but especially, oh, there, umm," and that slow grind is a fucking terrific idea, as is the nicely direct grip Potter makes around Draco's cock.

Maybe measles affect the brain, thinks Draco, because Potter is being so very cooperative, and Draco hadn't expected things to be this easy. "Are you sure we shouldn't be having some kind of conversa--" and that is that, because then Potter kisses him, enthusiastically and heavily, breaking away every few seconds to turn and try another angle, which is brilliant, because Draco's head is heavy and he's perfectly happy to be man-handled.

"--shun," he says when Potter pulls back a bit and shoves Draco's knees up and apart and insinuates himself against Draco, all feverish and splendidly naked.

"Nope," Potter says and Draco would be cross that Potter had stopped jerking him off if he wasn't now rocking against him steadily, insistent, scrabbling for Draco's hands and holding them against the bed like he knows what he's doing.

Draco looks at him briefly, which is funny because Potter hasn't his glasses on and Draco feels like he's cross-eyed anyhow. Potter is the picture of concentration. His tongue trapped between his teeth (which is kind of moronic, but also kind of hot), he's blinking in time with the quickening pace of his hips, so fast that his eyelashes blur, and the flush on his cheeks is high and startling. Draco tries to imprint the picture on his brain just in case this is an hallucination caused by the disease.

"There's good," Potter says, twisting a little.

"There's fucking brilliant," Draco arches up to make it just this side of perfect, Potter's cock sliding alongside and over his own, and somehow Potter has managed it so each thrust pulls back the skin delightfully, and then he thinks about the fact that he's getting off with Harry Potter. In fact, Potter is literally assaulting him, and Draco forgets to be irritated by his own easy virtue and heaves in a great breath as the heavy pressure in his groin builds out of his control.

"Come on," Potter whines, which is blatantly needy and does the trick for Draco and the coiled arousal in his belly floods through him when he comes, involuntarily pushing up his hips into Potter's and grasping his fingers around what he can of Potter's wrists until the lazy endorphins swimming around his body send him heavy and relaxed.

Potter's forehead is damp when he tucks it down against Draco's ear, and his breathing is staccato, escalating to gasps as he rolls circles with his pelvis, still hard between them, and Draco thinks Potter is reaching down to finish himself off (talk about recovery time) when Potter slides his hand across Draco's belly, slippery and tickling.

"Thanks," Potter says, leaning back to smear Draco's come along a patch of red bumps on his ribs, and Draco would be incensed if it wasn't so profoundly, erotically filthy.

By the time Draco has obtained maximum measle coverage, he and Potter have had upwards of nine mutual handjobs, two vague attempts at proper fucking (messily incomplete, Draco blames the fever), and Draco has taught Potter an incomparable trick with his tongue.

Potter is, happily, a quick study.

Draco's not really so bothered by the itching, because it is just an excuse to prod Potter out of his marathon naps and go down on him. Not that Potter seems to be complaining at the constant sex, although he seems to have got the worse of it, measle-wise. Draco's spots are almost on the wane when Potter's seem to stop coming up in new and interesting places.

Madam Pomfrey mutters something about poor childhood nutrition but Draco knows Pureblood superiority when he sees it.

"My immune system kicks arse," Draco muses as Potter, stretched out and wriggling, clutches at the pillow behind his head. Draco swaps his hands on Potter's cock and licks his other fingers slippery again. "You poor thing, there's still a few here."

Here is the inside of Potter's thigh, which Draco thinks is probably deliberate on Potter's part seeing how Potter positively moans whenever Draco licks the skin there, and Draco can understand that.

Must write Javinder a letter, Draco thinks, bending down to take Potter's cock in his mouth and enjoying the yelp of encouragement he gets. After all, half of these tricks were new to Draco a few months ago, and Draco likes to give credit where it's due. Not that he'll be sharing that fact with Potter; greedy wretch can just keep guessing where the goods are coming from.

"Shut up and move," Potter says, helpfully kicking his legs apart. Draco feels fairly obliging, but he does like it when Potter gets frustrated, so he tightens his fingers around the base of Potter's cock and drags his mouth slowly up, savouring the hot heavy weight and flickering vein-pulse.

"You're so fucking demanding," Draco observes, but it's with a faint fondness, and besides, ohgodohgod, there's not really anything that compares to pushing his fingers inside Harry Potter and hearing him gasp.

"Gonna kick your arse," Potter wheezes, but "arse" degenerates into a series of broken "ahh" sounds, so the threat loses some of its authority. Especially when Potter blindly gropes (Draco loves hiding Potter's glasses, yes it's juvenile, yes it's ridiculous, yes it's bloody hilarious) down and wraps his hand around the head of his cock and jerks furiously, his muscles clenching erratically around Draco's slowly-sliding fingers, and Draco can only wonder at the whole karmic order of the universe.

It's nice to think he really deserves this.

"Apparently we're not infectious anymore," Draco says gloomily, because Potter was in the loo when Madam Pomfrey had come in and given him the horrifying news.

Potter's face squinches up with disapproval, which is not attractive, but Draco appreciates the sentiment behind it.

"That's." Potter scratches his head and looks out the window. "Shit."

"She's kicking us out tomorrow. After breakfast." Draco is annoyed to find he's wringing his hands, and even more annoyed that he only notices when Potter puts his own hands on his.

"Malfoy," Potter says, and looks at him like Draco is five and stupid. It's kind of nice that Potter kisses him reassuringly, but also weird because, it's them, and not Hufflepuffs, or something.

"Don't be sentimental, Potter," Draco says sharply when Potter pulls him back onto the bed and grasps his hands around Draco's arse. "I'm sure this is strictly a convenience thing."

Potter keeps kissing him, but it has more intent and, also, more geographical variety (collarbones, rib, navel, inner elbow, hipbone) than a strictly soppy consolation snog should have. "It is convenient," Potter says nonchalantly, "turn over," manoeuvring Draco onto his front and running his palms flat down Draco's spine.

Well, okay then.

"So," Draco says after a while, which is a little difficult with Potter's cock all snug and pressed up against his arse, and Draco appears to be shivering, "this is just a thing, right?"

"Relax, Malfoy," Potter says softly, and Draco tries to, and also not to think anymore because he, oh, he can't.

"Am," Draco stutters a little later when he has his breath back, and he's still not thinking about Potter, or Potter fucking him, because the universe will implode and Draco's current run of luck with karmic debts might end. And then Potter stops.

"Don't you. dare. stop." Draco hisses and pushes back, and Potter leans forward around him.

"I'm not," he says, and gives Draco a lazy shove that hits the, fuck-it-hits-the-spot, and Draco can feel Potters smile against his neck. "Just, I've never had the mumps."

Notes: Panga (Hindi): Prickly, instinctive, petulant confrontation.
The title is a corruption of a chinese proverb.