The New Layout Requires A New Fic :)
Well, finally I shooed my sis from the PC for long enough to go through the fic one last time and to format it :) Here it is, tied with a pretty red ribbon, for you to read...
Title: Your Touch
Summary: Touch is heaven and hell, pain and relief. Touch is deliberately caused. Or not? Can you distinguish love from hate, lust from indifference in the touch? Sometimes you don’t seem to know at all; can’t judge coincidence from intention; can’t trust yourself. You can only give in and let the fingers burn you, brand you, own you.
Disclaimer: Do you really think that if I owned these boys, I would be showing them to anyone? *shakes head*
Rating and pairing: Harry/Draco, NC-17, couldn't decide on the category
Author's notes: I hope I've improved since the last one :) Feedback is really appreciated; even flaming, just leave something. Thanks to my betas hiddenshallows and stellahargrove, who were more than wonderful, and to luciology, who Brit-picked and commented later. It will be posted in two parts because it's somewhat long...
Read and enjoy, and don't forget the feedback!
Your Touch
~*~
To AleX, for making me wonder. ^_~______________
~*~
"Are you coming to the hut, Diem?" Pansy asked me three days ago, and after I said "What hut?" she rolled her eyes, excused herself, and went to fetch Potter.
Apparently, the brat was organising one of his favourite entertainments - going to a secluded hut somewhere in the mountains.
No matter how hard we try, with all the pressure on us, every few months we need some time off. But we can't risk getting drunk and distracted in public, and having fun in the Muggle world is not exactly an option, either. So, our great ex-Gryffindor came a year ago with that brilliant solution.
At times, when the situation is not too frantic, he goes away for a day or two to find an appropriate place (usually Muggle), rents it for a week or so, and then wards it as heavily as if the Queen herself were to reside there. All of the people from our division who want to relax for a while pay a small sum so that food and drinks can be bought. The whole organisation of how everyone gets in the hut is usually Potter's making.
When Parkinson came back, with Boy Wonder closely following, and explained the plan for this time, I hesitated. I'd been to such 'parties' twice before, neither time being all that impressive.
"Who'll come?" I asked, and Pansy recited all the people already enlisted.
"And without Burkins and Hopster?" I clarified, already intrigued. I hated those jerks fervently then, and still hate them now, three days later.
She smiled slyly and nodded, and I decided.
"What the hell, I’ll come."
~*~
And now, three days after that conversation, I'm dressed in comfortable Muggle clothing, as are all of the other twenty people around me. We are at the starting point of our trip, Potter is dividing the supplies between us and explaining how to pack them in order to bear the weight more easily.
"Why can’t we Apparate or something?" asks Lisa Corbin, when he gives her a couple of plastic bottles with water to place in her backpack.
If it were me, I would tell her to shut up. As it is, he says for the umpteenth time that it’s best that we perform as little magic as possible.
Honestly. All of us are Aurors, and we are having problems carrying ten pounds of luggage for half an hour. I suppress my sneer, because, on the whole, Corbin is a resourceful and intelligent person, but, when Melinda Fisher complains about 'not being a bellboy,' I have to react.
"Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Potter!" Everyone turns to look at me. "Divide their share among the men! If they are going to whine all the way, we'd better give up now."
Don't get me wrong, I'm not a sexist. Not even once in my life have I said or thought that women are inferior to men… except when the ladies, themselves, have used that notion to manipulate me. After all, such an announcement would be ultimate hypocrisy on my part, bearing in mind that my mother was the one to come up with the nifty little scheme that has kept me alive and not in the hands of some lunatic.
But, if someone is not in the mood to carry a little water today, that's fine with me; they’ll just have to deal with my remarks on the matter. My comment has some people smirking; others - the two girls, of course - looking vaguely relieved; and a third party - Granger, Weasley and Parkinson - all indignant.
"Malfoy!" Pansy shouts, and now I know that I'm in trouble.
No one calls me Malfoy in the open anymore. It's too dangerous, for one thing. Despite the fact that I'm a perfect carbon copy of my father, few people recognise me from the first meeting. They all notice a resemblance to someone they've met, but usually nothing more. So, to enhance that fortunate detail, I normally refrain from using my surname in public. In fact, it was Pansy who gave me this nickname I currently sport: Diem. I introduce myself with it and people call me that way. After all, otherwise people would have to call me Draco, a thing that is far too personal to be humoured.
My pretty ex-housemate must be very vexed with me to address me that way.
"Pansy, no offence, but I just want to get up there and sleep for a while, because I'm exhausted from all the missions lately. If they don't want to carry, fine. Let's just start the trip, okay?"
Her chin goes up defiantly and she pointedly opens her backpack to receive some potatoes. As do Frizzy and G-Fire. And, in case you are wondering, it wasn't me who gave them these nicknames.
Granger's nickname was a gift from Dean Thomas if I'm not mistaken, and while she's more sleek curls than frizziness now, it has stayed even after school.
Weasley's is a product from Potter's fascination with some kind of Muggle music, I believe. The little monster is fiercely opposing any use of the, quote, "nonsensical bloody thing." In other words, she likes it. The way her own brother (six inches taller than her) cowers a little when she's yelling is a better proof of the appropriateness of the nickname than anything I could've come up with.
~*~
A few hours later, we are not only in the hut, but also half-way through the preparations for dinner.
It's an amusing sight to witness. The girls - all five of them - are currently chopping cabbage for salad and, believe me, I could sell tickets. Whether it’s because of the war or something else, they don't have the slightest idea how to cook.
While Weasley and Granger know at least how to hold the knife, the others are totally clueless without their wands. I am starting to wonder if this no-magic thing is born of Potter's warped sense of humour.
My assumptions aside as they are not proved by solid evidence, but the way they were ushered to the kitchen was entirely his fault. "Sorry, ladies," he said. "I’m tired of always ending up with the cooking. Your turn."
So now the other boys are talking and laughing, while the girls are sweating piteously over a simple task. Too bad that I’m sure they'll find a way to retaliate against Potter and the rest soon enough. I’m staying aside; messing with angry women is a definite no-no.
~*~
"Cheers!" Finnegan says, and a chorus of voices answers him.
We are sitting at a long table laden with all kinds of salads and drinks. Looking at the dozens of bottles, I am sure that someone has done a lot of shrinking and enlarging, despite Potter's rules. The clinking of glasses is somewhat melodious and I smile, not participating. I don't drink alcohol. And of course, just when I think it'll pass unnoticed, Pansy grins at me.
"Why don't you have a glass, Diem?"
Oh, the revenge about my luggage comment.
"I’m not in the mood, really," I say, and at least five people exclaim that I have to drink for one-or-another-happy-occasion.
Oh, well.
"Okay," I give up, as the outcome of the situation is predefined enough, and look at the beverages available. Wine, vodka, whiskey. "Vodka."
Pansy raises an eyebrow and I smirk.
I hate vodka and we both know it. But, after all, she tried to make a subtle retaliation; I am allowed a subtle escape.
I have never been one to drink immeasurable quantities at will. My father had no problems in that regard, not at all. He didn't show any signs when getting tipsy, either - I remember how he told me about the ways my grandfather taught him to control himself, even under the influence of alcohol.
I, on the other hand, seem to have taken after my mother, who never quite managed to change the fact that two glasses of wine rendered her unsuitable for public appearances. After a double whiskey, I’m out of my head.
So, I adopted her strategy long ago: pour myself a shot of the alcohol I dislike most and pretend to drink. After all, I don't need the alcohol to have fun.
~*~
"And then the jerk tries to kick me but slips and falls on his arse…"
At that point of Weasley's story, we are all laughing so hard it's difficult to breathe. The room is hot, the food is half-finished, and everyone is steadily heading for unconsciousness.
My vodka is still mostly untouched, but that doesn't stop me from having what seems to be the best time I've had in months.
"Now, now, do you remember when…" starts Granger, and it all goes on.
Around midnight, a few people have already decided to call it a night and go upstairs to the rooms. Corbin (a bit past the just tipsy stage) was persuaded by Finnegan to 'go have a nap for an hour or so.' Really, can this man fail to get laid?
At half past, I leave the table and climb the stairs with a warm, sleepy feeling inside. I open the door of my room, only to find Granger and Fisher sitting on a bed, talking to Preston Flip, who's lying on the floor before them.
I stop at the threshold. "And exactly what are you doing here?"
All the rooms have four beds, but I was left alone in this one - the advantages of being the son of a missing Death Eater, I suppose.
"Sorry, Diem," Frizzy smiles sheepishly. "Scot's snoring in my room like there's no tomorrow. I’m moving in to your place."
She points at her bag on the floor. I hum noncommittally and head to the bed farthest from the door and next to the window.
"I’m cold," Flip complains in a while, and I look at the fireplace. There's no wood at all.
"I’m ready to fetch wood, but I can't light it," I say and get up, in a generous enough mood to play the errand boy.
I’m not sure if they pay much attention to me, but I go anyway. Someone will want to make us a bit warmer and won't be able to.
When I return to the room five minutes later, I see a dishevelled Potter stomp out of his room and into mine. I enter and see him prone on one of the untaken beds, hugging the pillow tightly, his head buried in it. I let the bucket with wood fall with a thud by the fireplace.
"Is someone snoring in his room, too?" I ask Granger, and she giggles.
"Seam is in his room with Lisa, and they won't stop talking, so he's mad at them and came here."
"I see," I head for my bed. "I'll require payment, I’m telling you."
"If I light the fire, will you let me sleep?" Potter questions, moving to look at me.
"Be my guest," I point to the cold hearth, and he gets up and starts arranging the wood.
In the matter of minutes he's back on his bed, and the fire is starting to crack and burn. I get ready for the night and, just when I’m snuggling under the cotton sheet with blanket above it, Fisher decides that she doesn't really want to sleep.
This, of course, means that no on else is supposed to sleep, either. In the next half an hour, she proceeds to try everything she can think of to wake Potter (who, if you ask me, is very much awake and just too patient for my taste.) Soon it comes to be something of a game - she tickles, pokes and nudges him; he pretends to be still sleeping or curses her loudly.
Granger and I are already laughing madly when Thomas crashes in, drunk as a sailor and singing something obscene. He looks around wildly for a second and then flings himself atop Potter's prone form, slurring something which suspiciously resembles, "Yes, baby, yes."
At that point, Potter's nerves can't take it and he jumps up, cursing fervently, and hops on my bed, looking for a safe place.
Maybe I'll stop going to these get-togethers, because I'll lose my aura of cold haughtiness completely. I’m threatening to fall off the bed with guffaws.
~*~
I’m propped up on an elbow, laughing, when a yawn suddenly overtakes me. Then another one, and then one more.
"Let's turn off the lights and get some sleep?" Flip stretches and crawls up in the bed by Granger.
"I don't want to!" Fisher starts whining. "I don't want!"
But I’m already curling in my favourite sleeping position, facing the wall, and I can hear Flip's murmuring to Granger so I guess they are adjusting, too.
The switch is above my head and I turn the lights off.
"Good night," I say, ignoring Fisher's displeased sounds.
A quiet laugh sounds beside me and I feel the bed dip slightly. Instantly, I roll around to find that Potter is still on my bed, lying on the coverlet, inching closer to me.
"What are you doing?" I ask, confused, attempting hard to adjust to the darkness.
"Sleeping," he says, moving up to lie on the pillow, and spreads his arm as if I’m sleeping on his shoulder every night.
Really, it's stupid, and it's something I've never thought I'd allow or agree to. But I turn my back to him and, using his biceps as a pillow, prepare to go to sleep.
Just when I've started wondering why I didn't curse him to hell and out of my bed, he presses tightly to my back, and winds his other arm around my waist. I’m abruptly reminded of the way he hugged his pillow a mere hour ago. He's squeezing me almost too hard, and I’m about to fidget a bit, when he relaxes his head on the crook of my shoulder, only to start strangely rubbing his nose behind my ear.
I suppose the hair is tickling him and I’m almost sure he'll pull it painfully soon, so I start to move to tuck it. Immediately, he tenses and hugs me more closely, if at all possible.
"The hair," I whisper, and he releases me only slightly.
When the locks are safely secured and I am still once more, he resumes his previous position. I can feel the weight on the back of my head and neck, his lips just near my ear.
"Good night," his low voice dances over my skin.
I know that I won't sleep that night.
~*~
Indeed, I don't seem to be asleep an hour later; not when our dear Melinda is whining, talking, slamming doors. In the end, Flip, who has had a few drinks, but is still a good forty pounds more than her, practically carries her out of the room.
"Mmmm, good," Potter whispers in my ear and snuggles in closer. "I was starting to wear thin on her."
I smile and close my eyes.
The room is quiet and semi-dark now, only the mellow light of the fire is giving life to some shadows. My whole body is warm and relaxed - Potter turns out to be a living furnace - and I can hardly remember a moment in the recent past when I've been this comfortably relaxed.
Regular breath is caressing my ear and cheek, and I should be falling asleep, but I’m not - I’m simply falling into my own musings.
Potter's heartbeat reverberates through my back, and I feel like my whole body is pulsing in rhythm with it. Thump, thump. Thump, thump, thump. Is it irregular or I'm just imagining it? Could he be sleeping and dreaming something good? Something bad?
He's hugging me, and all I seem to be able to think of is my bed at home; big, but almost always empty. The way I can't sleep when I’m alone because I’m cold or having nightmares; how I can't rest with someone there, either, because I don't feel safe. Now, it's different. While I’m still awake, I feel better than I have in a long, long time, even keeping in mind that it is the stupidest mistake to get involved - no matter how - with acquaintances at parties.
His odour is filling my nostrils; a sharp, all-permeating scent that combines barely discernible sweet notes with something raw and rich which is making me dizzy. I’m again back on the topic of my own home; the way my sheets smell only of myself, never someone else. Suddenly, my mind seems to be all slow and sleepy; not quite aware, not quite there, because I start imagining a bed bearing another's scent - thick and spicy, Potter's.
The thought is floating about in my semiconscious brain, teasingly defeating all the attempts to kill it. At that moment, when his nose is gently nudging at my ear, his arm is so tightly around my waist that the fingers are tucked under me, and his warmth is circulating in my blood, I can do nothing to get him out of my head.
My limbs are heavy with drowsiness and languor, and that place I’m lingering at, between wakefulness and dream, seems to be nirvana. But I have to move now, as nature calls, and I move to free myself. Potter can't have been asleep, not with the speed of his reaction.
The arm I’m lying on bends in the elbow and he's holding me practically motionless; two strong, hot shackles, one around my waist, the other around the upper arms.
"Harry," I say, and we both start.
My voice is hoarse from the long silence, low and so close to the definition of 'bed voice' that I want to curse myself. And where did that name come from, anyway? I can't remember addressing him like that ever before, even in my thoughts. I swallow.
"I need to get up for a bit."
For a second he doesn't move at all and then, just when I’m about to repeat, he lets me go.
"Come back," he whispers and, oh my, I wish he didn't, because his voice is just like the perfume; strong and grating, whiskey with ice. All of a sudden, I thank whatever deities made me sleep with a T-shirt and underwear, because if I was naked… Well, let's say he would know about the influence he has on me.
I crawl out of his warm embrace and go to the cold bathroom, remaining there for a period long enough to quench the dreamy desires of a half-lit room. When I'm ready to go back, I inhale deeply in search of a calm centre, and it hits me like a blow from nowhere. I'm still breathing him in; his scent is lingering on my clothes, on my skin, in my brain. Like a mark on the inside of me.
I return, and the moment I climb back to my spot, his arms are around me once more. Now that I’m still after moving quickly, my heart seems to be going a thousand miles before it gradually settles. I rub my cheek against his arm, a movement I don't realise until it's too late.
His hand leaves my waist, and it comes to me that I haven't tucked my hair. But his fingers are already collecting the strands, caressing and slowly arranging them so that they don't tangle.
I sigh, and there is no way to hide that I've been holding my breath. Confusion coursing through me, I lift a hand to cover my face, strangely burning in the dark. Thankfully, I catch myself before I complete the gesture and show him exactly how shaken I am. My palm falls next to my face and slightly touches his fingers. I'm ice-cold, but he's like fire and he actually whistles quietly.
"You're so cold."
His digits entwine with mine, and I'm sure that soon he'll warm me.
"Mhm," I murmur, still a bit awkward.
He just chuckles, and I'm acutely aware that he's not letting go of my hand.
~*~
I’m all sleepy again, protected by Harry's - Merlin help me but the stupid name won't leave me alone - body like an almighty shield.
It's funny how this comparison makes me think of my father.
I miss him terribly, the bastard, despite the fact that he always rushed me into all kinds of seemingly unnecessarily harsh things when I was a child. I remember how once he sent me to bed without supper for not having learnt a spell. I must have cried all night and when the morning came, I went through hundreds of pages until I found a curse that looked suitable to my young brain. When I performed it on him perfectly later that same evening, managing to dye his hair blue, he laughed. Laughed so hard that I thought there was something really wrong. And then, he hugged me; hugged me and said he was proud of me. I'll never forget it, the light in his eyes that night, when he announced what a great Slytherin I'd make.
I must have been eight or nine.
He is an intelligent man, no matter what the others say. He wasn't, and still isn't, crazy or power-craving; more than usual, that is.
I think that he is the person most responsible for my maturing. It happened when I returned home after fifth year, a wizard just starting to become a grown-up, hating everyone that dared utter a word against my values and beliefs. Then I understood two things. The first was that Lucius Malfoy, my father, and Lucius Malfoy, the pure-blood ranked so highly in the social hierarchy, were, in fact, one and the same man; always and everywhere. It hit me, the moment I asked where was dad, and mum's eyes watered, that the man painted so hard in the papers and thrown into prison, was the one who played Quidditch with me in the holidays. And that realisation brought along another one: that my father had made a mistake.
And that mistake hadn't been joining Voldemort, because that hadn't been much of an actual choice. How did he put it when I asked him? Oh, yes. 'They came one night, wearing black, reeking of smoke, and asked me to join a cause I believed in anyway. And when I hesitated, they casually mentioned the Brooks, whose home had been burnt down three days before. I was the only man in the family; tempted, young, just married. It's not a situation in which you say no.' So really, Voldemort had been the only way, had seemed the only correct path. And now, to go back to my previous train of thought, father's mistake was none other than underestimating a child.
Because no matter how you look at it, when the Ministry ordeal happened, Potter was not an adult yet. But father just couldn't comprehend that, in Potter, he had an opponent too brave to think at all, which proved an excellent strategy. Anyway, that first and last serious misstep cost the family the only support and advantage that we really had: Voldemort's trusting and favourable eye.
So when he managed to get out of Azkaban, father had to prove himself all over again, if he wanted to remain among the favourites. But night raids and Muggle killings were something that would have risked the Malfoy's impeccable name, the only thing not worth endangering for anything.
From all said so far, the events that took place seem more than logical. Within the year, my mother had her little plan ready and about to be started.
It's funny how simple things almost always work perfectly. When, one morning, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy disappeared, people remembered enough pieces of 'coincidentally' heard conversations to make whatever conclusions suited them. Even today, Voldemort believes that my parents were abducted and consequently killed by Dumbledore's people, while the Ministry is certain that they became victims of the Dark Lord's madness.
According to the monthly letters I receive from Mr. and Mrs. Morgan, living in Paris, neither version is correct.
But nobody suspects the truth, which is fine by me - in the unclear situation father's old connections helped me with my Auror application, and Dumbledore wasn't too antagonistic. I think that the only one who really understands why I'm doing this job now is Potter. And this is simply because, in that regard, we are too similar, with the only difference that he actually believes in the cause and I'm in just for the fun of it. Maybe this is the thing to quench the childish enmity between us - it simply turned out that we had a lot in common. Or perhaps we all of a sudden grew up, upon really entering the war… But anyway, what is the bottom line is that, like my father and like Harry, I've always thought defeating a worthy opponent the most satisfying feeling. So…
I would continue to drift in my musings if the aforementioned green-eyed brat didn't start nibbling my ear gently, sending a pleasurable spark down my spine.
Well, this at least clears the question of why he is in my bed; obviously, it's for sex. Who knows why, but the conclusion is unexpectedly painful.
"What are you doing?" I ask lowly; the name skipped on purpose.
"Guess," he says, and his voice is sexier than before.
"Stop it," is my answer and, surprisingly, he pulls away.
That's it, I think. He'll leave now.
And he does. Getting up, he goes to the door and, just when I note to myself that he could've left more tactfully, he stops by the fireplace and starts relighting the fire.
I won't admit it, but when he comes back and hugs me again afterwards, I’m more relieved than perplexed.
I fall asleep after that.
~*~
I wake up with a start, with the knowledge that someone is touching me. I don't move or open my eyes; just wait.
The hand that was tucked under me is travelling on the edge of the blanket, along my body. I’m about to remark that I'd have never placed him in the pushers' category when the fingers reach my forearm and pull the sheet to cover it, then do the same upon finding my naked knee poking out.
He draws me up even closer to his body and buries his face in the crook of my neck, where he's slept all night.
If I've been surprised and confused before, there are no words to describe my feelings now.
~*~
Soon there are sounds of someone getting up, dressing and moving around.
"Harry?" Granger's whisper reaches us. "Where's Diem?"
I feel Harry moving to show me. I’m practically under him, and she laughs.
"Don't suffocate him; he's not leaving anyway," Harry sighs theatrically, and I can practically see the face he makes, but she ignores it. "We're going to breakfast. Are you coming?"
At that point I turn a little, yawning.
"Morning," I say, and Potter smiles at me.
"Are you hungry?" he asks and at my 'no' looks at Granger. "Well, if the food starts running out, call us, okay?"
She rolls her eyes and exits.
He turns to me and hugs me again. I drift back to sleep almost immediately.
~*~
"Get up!" a voice breaks into my subconscious, and I stir.
"Harry," the voice won't stop. "If you don't get up right now you won't have anything for breakfast."
The warm body next to me is shifting, rising. A door closes.
"Draco," a whisper caresses my ear. "Get up for breakfast. You have to eat."
I rub my eyes and yawn, forcing myself up. He moves away from the bed, his clothes rumpled from the night spent in them.
"Don't fall asleep again," he smiles, and leaves.
~*~
When I finally reach the kitchen of the cabin, I see Harry - yes, I've given up and I'll call him that way - making a sandwich.
"Morning," I say to Thomas, who is only half awake and looking like he has the hangover from hell.
"That's for you," Harry tells me, and points at an already prepared toast.
Butter, cheese, and sesame seed?
I stare in him in disbelief.
"You eat it like that, right?" he asks, unperturbed.
"Yes," I answer, still amazed. "Yes, I do."
I take the thing reluctantly and start eating with only one thought in my mind. He made me breakfast. He made me breakfast.
I exit the kitchen and head for the living room when a bright flash of light strikes in the middle of the room and a red feather floats gently to the floor. I pick it up and unroll the scroll attached.
The Portkey is for Mr. Malfoy and will activate in ten minutes.
~*~
Sweaty, dirty and semiconscious from pain and exhaustion, I fumble shortly with the lock and slowly enter my flat. Breathing in the familiar scent of home, together with something I can't recognise, but which is nice just the same, I stagger to the bedroom and carefully lower myself onto the bed, wincing from the stabs of fire along my torso. The moment I touch the pillow, my mind starts to slip into sleep.
"Diem," a hand touches my forehead, then moves to my shoulder and shakes me. "Diem!"
The voice is familiar and so is the touch, but I just want to rest.
"Later," I barely utter. "Much later."
My limbs feel heavy and too cold all of a sudden.
"Draco, wake up!" comes more firmly, and I open my eyes, bleary with two days of wakefulness.
Okay, what I see is a fine reason to groan.
"Potter, what are you doing in my flat?"
That at least explains the scent.
"Checking on you, what else. You didn't stay to report, which has never happened before."
"I forgot," I say, exasperated. "Is it all that important?"
I want to sleep…
"Did you convince him?" Potter changes the topic abruptly, and I freeze.
"I don't know what you are talking about," I lie.
"Come on!"
I stubbornly remain silent.
"Diem, who is your immediate superior?" he asks.
"Fisher," I reply.
"And who is the immediate superior of Fisher's team?" he continues, obviously trying to prove something.
"I have no idea."
I’m starting to fall asleep again.
"I am, you obnoxious Slytherin," he all but exclaims, and I am suddenly a bit angry. "So what happened?"
"Potter, I'll give you the report in a couple of days. Can't you leave me to sleep now?" I snap, moving to get up and away from him, which, of course, causes me to wince terribly. Stupid wound.
"What's wrong, Draco?" he catches me as I fall back on the bed.
Oh, so it's 'Draco' now?
"I’m fine!"
But his hands have already unbuttoned the robes I’m wearing and beneath them I’m in the bloodied shirt I fought in.
"Dear God," he mutters and within seconds I’m only clad in my trousers.
"Why didn't you go to see a Mediwizard?"
"Come on, Potter, don't get so melodramatic. It's nothing."
"No, it's not 'nothing' and we both know it! How did you manage to walk at all?"
No, it's not nothing, but I’m not about to tell him that.
"I was going to tend to it once I got some sleep. Harry," I flinch and curse myself, "I haven't rested in the last forty-eight hours. Please."
My eyes are drooping and I see his features soften. He shakes me slightly.
"Can you shower?"
"Now?"
"If you wash yourself, I'll bandage the wound."
"Potter! Out!"
What I hate most is having someone in a mother-henish mood around me. I try to get up and see him off, but sharp pain slices my side and I lose my breath for a second.
He's watching me with a raised eyebrow.
"Okay," I concede. "I’m going to shower now. Happy?"
He helps me to the bathroom and explains that he's going to go find all that he’ll need. When I'm finally alone in the small room and swaying dangerously, I start thinking that showering by myself wasn't such a good idea.
~*~
How I have reached the bed again escapes my memory, I only know that he needs to wake me once more when he gets back.
"Diem… Draco, wake up."
I whimper quietly as consciousness comes to me along with burning pain. I struggle to open my eyes, and, when I succeed, I see Potter arranging phials on my nightstand.
Upon noticing my attention, he turns to me, brow furrowed.
"Good, you haven't covered the cut," he says and sits on the bed next to me. "Come nearer so that I can reach you easily."
I move to comply, involuntarily hissing in the process. With clinical precision he pulls the cotton slacks I’m wearing lower on my hips so that he can have free access to the wound. I watch his hands while they are dipping a cloth into a bowl with clear liquid, and then follow their path to my torso. Against the pale skin, the bluish-red swollen curve of the laceration looks almost grotesque. He slowly starts rubbing the torn flesh with the cloth; cool, yet burning liquid dripping down my sides. I close my eyes and clench my fists, trying my best to remain silent.
"I know it hurts," he says, but I don't look at him. "If you had gone to a specialist immediately, it would have been easier. It wouldn't have gotten infected."
He pauses, which is not good as I’m trying to concentrate on his voice instead of the pain. I open my eyes when the movements of his hands cease, and he's staring at me.
"Why didn't you?"
I laugh; a sound that transforms into a stifled hiss once he gets on with his work. I find that with my eyes open I am more distracted. Good.
"Come on, Potter. Wounding an Auror is as serious an offence as murder. If someone discovers the cut, they'll torture him for information and then throw him into Azkaban. That's not my aim."
"So I’m to understand you persuaded him?"
"Of course," I say, little by little getting used to the pain. "I’m a Slytherin."
It's his turn to laugh at this, and the way his eyes sparkle is amazing. The light is put out quickly, though, and he looks at me, deadly serious.
"Will he work for us?" His voice is low and intense, and his concern is more than evident. His eyes hold my gaze, and I can't take it.
Fixed on the wall behind him, I try to answer as fully as possible. "For the moment, I think yes. But you mustn't let him become tempted to betray you; mustn't keep him too close or too informed; mustn't send him on delicate missions," I pause, but I can't stop, not now, "Just like you don't send me."
He inhales sharply at this, and I meet his eyes. For a second something flickers there, something soft and warm maybe, but it's gone in a flash.
"We trusted you with this one," he replies carefully, focusing on his work once more.
"Come on, it was a test and we both know it. He isn't that important an acquisition. If he was, I wouldn't have been sent. Was it your idea, by the way?"
His eyes remain trained on the wound and, although for a second I swear I can see a faint blush creeping up his face, he manages to clamp it down masterfully.
"Why are you doing this?" he asks after the shortest pause.
"He is a skilful wizard and a superb fighter," I shrug slightly. "With the Ministry he might survive longer than if he is an errand boy for Voldemort's people."
He looks me in the eye abruptly and I can feel the calculating air around him, the surprise.
"You respect him."
"I trained him," I say simply, closing my eyes. His hands are lying on my chest and, were the situation any different, it would be an exquisite sensation. "I know his strengths and weaknesses."
"I suspected that," he speaks again, and his fingers return to rubbing some kind of potion in, before he continues. "I've met him in battle. He has your style."
I smile almost nostalgically, remembering clearly the great challenge that tutoring Bryan Kelly proved to be; the constant fighting over just about everything, which improved not only him but also me.
"I guess no one wanted to finish his training after I severed all ties."
"You did that?" his voice deliberately controlled and impassive.
"Mostly."
We are treading on dangerous ground here, and I’m sure he can feel it, too. My position as an Auror is delicate to say the least.
"Why did you let him wound you?" he ends the awkward silence, and I shake my head slowly.
"I didn't let him anything. I was tired, and he thought he was fighting for his life. You of all people should know that there's no stronger incentive than that. When I made a mistake, he snatched the opportunity, just like I taught him. It's understandable."
"Yet you made him come with you, convinced him."
"He may have wounded me, but that doesn't mean that he won the duel." I open my eyes to look at him, all that talking finally draining the thoughts of sleep out of my system. "Haven't you noticed, Potter, how sometimes a small cut is just what you need to keep you alert and watchful in a fight?"
"Some small cut this is," he says, but his tone tells me that he understands. "From under the left armpit to the right hipbone, no, it’s no big deal whatsoever… really."
The slight sarcasm seeps away, and the next sentences come almost warm.
"I am, right now, wondering how you managed to stay conscious and walk around half a day. And you are calling it a small cut! Are you suicidal?"
"I’m in this job for it, Potter," I say, faintly, because the latest oil he's applying stings pretty bad. "Just like you. Even if you weren't the Boy-Who-Lived, you'd still be an Auror - or a Dark Wizard - because you like the adrenalin of the fight. You enjoy the strategy and pure wit of it; the way it's just you and your opponent; mind and weapon, tactic and psychology all in one. It's the same with me. I need it. If seeking what you need most is suicidal, then I am suicidal, but then so are you."
My eyes bore into his, and I can see that I’m right in my speculations; it's all written on his face. He says nothing, though, and we lapse into silence.
In a few minutes he takes a vial from the nightstand and starts dribbling some of its contents on me. It's burning, and I barely refrain from squirming away.
"What is that, for magic's sake?" I ask before I’m able to stop myself. "Ugh. It burns."
Carefully, he begins spreading it, chuckling. "Well, to reply to your so kind and polite question, it's one of those helpful potions I brew for myself. And be thankful, if it's burning, then things will be okay."
"You brew? For yourself?" I enquire, fervently trying to distract myself from the pain that is again surging through me.
"Mhm," he murmurs, watching the wound vigilantly. "If I allowed Mediwizards to heal all my wounds, I would need to attach them to me 24/7."
While he's talking, the liquid gradually turns green before going colourless again. He looks up at me.
"We're almost ready."
The thought I avoid voicing is that, ruefully, I’m quite incapable of doing anything, so there is no 'we'.
I’m glad that he came to check on me.
The next phial he grabs is pressed into my hand, and he helps me sit up carefully. It still hurts too bloody much, but I think it's getting better already.
"It's a painkiller. Drink it."
"How many things did you bring here?" I ask mockingly before consuming the dark liquor in one go.
It tastes of caramel, which triggers all the alarm bells in my head. I trusted him. Merlin, I trusted him, and I shouldn't have.
"What was this, Potter?" Damn, my voice is quivering. "There isn't a single painkilling potion that tastes good."
He doesn't look concerned at all and leans in to touch my forehead, checking for fever.
"It is a painkiller, just with a sleeping draught and caramel essence. It can get really hard to drink it all the time if it's as bitter as usual."
I am starting to feel the effects of the brew, and my panic rises to an even higher notch. I hate being drugged.
"Damn you, Harry, why did you do this?"
My voice is becoming weaker; the edges of my vision blackening.
"Draco, Draco," his hand is still rubbing my temple, his tone sympathetic. "You can't go through the stitching awake."
Stitching? What stitching?
The world fades into darkness.
~*~
I wake up slowly, gradually, as if blankets are being taken off of me one by one. When I open my eyes finally, the lids feel leaden, and I’m truly tempted to drift back to sleep. Then I look up and see a couple of phials, hanging a foot above me, tied with a ribbon, from which a note dangles.
Well, obviously I’m supposed to notice them first thing after I wake, but I don't remember why. The last memory that comes to me is how I barely dragged myself home.
I start to stretch and pain rushes through my body. I coil immediately, reflexively trying to protect myself. My head buries in the pillow and I breathe in a strangely familiar scent. Potter's. My head feels like it's filled with cotton.
Bit by bit, the events I’m missing come back and click into place, leaving only one question. Why does the bed smell of him? I also notice that I’m lying under the sheets, another thing I don't recall.
Gingerly testing the wound - now neatly covered in bandages - I take the vials, a little surprised that this doesn't require magic of some kind. Unrolling the note, I recognise the handwriting from the Portkey that sent me on my last mission. So, it really was him. I smile, amused by the unGryffindor way in which he shows me that he trusts me, by giving me a subtle clue. I guess this same penmanship is also the answer to my question if the sweet little test bore his signature; a belated, but definite 'yes'.
*Draco,
If you are feeling light-headed and empty, drink the red potion before attempting to get up. You need to eat something substantial as soon as possible (that apple pie will do for now, and if you have some milk with it, you should be okay). Then drink at least a glass of water, return to bed, and have the green potion. Don't brush it off, it's not a drug!
You have two days off, which means that with the weekend you don't have to be in the office before Monday. On Saturday night, I'll come to check on you and the wound, and to collect the full report you'll have written by then on your last mission.
And if you want that thing healed as fast as possible, eat regularly and keep yourself warm. The temperature in this bedroom of yours answers the question as to why you are so cold.
Harry*
Yes, mother, I think while removing the stopper of the red-filled bottle and downing it. It really helps with the hints of vertigo and gets the cotton out from between my ears.
I get up carefully, the wound twinging every now and then, and go to eat the aforementioned pie.
So, Potter came to check on me, patched me up, kept me warm all night, then rummaged my kitchen and wrote me a terribly perplexing note. How truly touching.
Not that I’m ungrateful, but he's really confusing me of late. He's hardened considerably since we graduated, has become a bit of a cynic, and has acquired some wholly Slytherin traits. Simply and clearly, he's not the bright-eyed, Gryffindor idealist I knew before, and the more I get to work within his squad, the more acutely I start to realise that.
Yet, he held me at the cabin and kept me warm last night. Signed the note by his first name and called me by mine.
I understand him so much better and so much worse at the same time now.
I follow his instructions, and, although the potion really doesn't knock me off, soon I’m asleep anyway.
~*~
When he comes on Saturday, I’m so much better that it's almost a miracle, given he's not a qualified Mediwizard. But on the other hand, from all the things he said, he has probably had a lot of experience with home healing…
"How are you?" he asks, moving to check my temperature.
"Much better, thank you," I answer, and start to unbutton the loose shirt I’m in.
Potter makes me sit down so that he can see the wound easily.
"Raise your arms," he instructs me, and I comply, watching his fingers move nimbly on the bandages.
Underneath, the wound is only slight swollen, one long scab; thinner at places, thicker at others, interrupted at regular intervals by the stitches.
"You didn't tell me how he wounded you," he speaks suddenly; his fingers strangely cool against the inflammation.
"You didn't ask me," I say, trying to ignore the signals going down my spine.
He stops and looks at me, one eyebrow raised in what I recognise as Frizzy's reproving expression.
"He tried to stab me with a dagger and I jumped, up and away, but too late," I pause, "On the other hand, I’m alive, so it was just on time."
"Going straight for the heart, aren't you sweet Slytherins?" he chuckles quietly, and I close my eyes, refusing to take on the banter.
"Done," he announces several minutes later, "You can put your arms down."
I do so and dress immediately, relieved to be out of his reach. If he's looking at me in a weird way, that's not my biggest problem right now.
"And what happened with the report?" he asks neutrally when I’m ready, causing me to eye him sharply.
"Who's going to read it?"
"I am."
"Only you?"
"Yes."
"Alright," I say and go to fetch one of the two sheets of parchment I have written this morning. I hand it then to him, and he doesn't wait a heartbeat before unrolling it.
*Following the latest intelligence, I arrived at the supposed hideout of Bryan Kelly. After three hours' worth of surveillance, I had seen enough to confirm the information. I managed to lure him out, where, upon seeing me, he revealed that he was prepared to fight, both with magic and with the daggers he is famous for wielding. After the duel, I convinced him to come with me to the Ministry. I left him to Auror Melinda Fisher, my immediate superior.*
He folds it neatly after reading it aloud, puts it in his pocket, and then looks at me. He is serious and guarded, never such a good sign.
"Why did you ask me who would read it?"
"Because if it was going to the Ministry archives I would give you the other copy," I answer, intently studying my nails. They need cutting.
"With the made up story?" he continues to ask, and I feel his eyes burning holes into my forehead.
"Yes," I reply, still not looking up.
"Why?"
"Why not?" I parry him casually.
"Come on!" he cuts sharply, and I can almost touch his irritation. "It doesn't really matter who reads the stuff! The difference is minimal."
"It's not minimal. Just a few days ago, you stitched a longish cut on my chest, it would be stupid to give you a report stating that I met Kelly, we talked, and he agreed peacefully to come with me, don't you think?"
I finally look up and smile sweetly at his stunned expression.
"You said that in your other report?" he sounds so incredulous that I would actually protect someone, that I feel offended.
It must show on my face, because he shuts up and just stares at me for a bit.
"You are aware that it is a serious transgression to lie to authority, are you not?" he asks slowly, and I shake my head my head to show him how much I'm not buying this.
"Yes, Potter, I am aware. And are you aware that obeying rules is not something you should talk about?"
"I guess not," he answers and quickly rises. "I have to go now."
Within the minute he's gone, leaving me alone in my flat to wonder what the hell had just happened. When I go back in the kitchen, I realise he's left something else there, too.
A scent that torments me mercilessly.
~*~
I dream of long, slender fingers dancing over me; of a hot mouth eating me whole; of smart hands working me into oblivion; of a low voice praising the sounds I make.
I sense a hot presence that gives me safety and shelter; another body that drives me mad with desire.
I feel thrusts that make me writhe and tremors that trip me over the edge.
When I wake up, hot and sweaty, the sheets are tangled around my waist and all that is left from the vision are jade eyes printed on the inside of my lids and an addictive aroma clinging to my senses.
~*~
Your Touch: Part Two
Title: Your Touch
Summary: Touch is heaven and hell, pain and relief. Touch is deliberately caused. Or not? Can you distinguish love from hate, lust from indifference in the touch? Sometimes you don’t seem to know at all; can’t judge coincidence from intention; can’t trust yourself. You can only give in and let the fingers burn you, brand you, own you.
Disclaimer: Do you really think that if I owned these boys, I would be showing them to anyone? *shakes head*
Rating and pairing: Harry/Draco, NC-17, couldn't decide on the category
Author's notes: I hope I've improved since the last one :) Feedback is really appreciated; even flaming, just leave something. Thanks to my betas hiddenshallows and stellahargrove, who were more than wonderful, and to luciology, who Brit-picked and commented later. It will be posted in two parts because it's somewhat long...
Read and enjoy, and don't forget the feedback!
Your Touch
~*~
To AleX, for making me wonder. ^_~______________
~*~
"Are you coming to the hut, Diem?" Pansy asked me three days ago, and after I said "What hut?" she rolled her eyes, excused herself, and went to fetch Potter.
Apparently, the brat was organising one of his favourite entertainments - going to a secluded hut somewhere in the mountains.
No matter how hard we try, with all the pressure on us, every few months we need some time off. But we can't risk getting drunk and distracted in public, and having fun in the Muggle world is not exactly an option, either. So, our great ex-Gryffindor came a year ago with that brilliant solution.
At times, when the situation is not too frantic, he goes away for a day or two to find an appropriate place (usually Muggle), rents it for a week or so, and then wards it as heavily as if the Queen herself were to reside there. All of the people from our division who want to relax for a while pay a small sum so that food and drinks can be bought. The whole organisation of how everyone gets in the hut is usually Potter's making.
When Parkinson came back, with Boy Wonder closely following, and explained the plan for this time, I hesitated. I'd been to such 'parties' twice before, neither time being all that impressive.
"Who'll come?" I asked, and Pansy recited all the people already enlisted.
"And without Burkins and Hopster?" I clarified, already intrigued. I hated those jerks fervently then, and still hate them now, three days later.
She smiled slyly and nodded, and I decided.
"What the hell, I’ll come."
~*~
And now, three days after that conversation, I'm dressed in comfortable Muggle clothing, as are all of the other twenty people around me. We are at the starting point of our trip, Potter is dividing the supplies between us and explaining how to pack them in order to bear the weight more easily.
"Why can’t we Apparate or something?" asks Lisa Corbin, when he gives her a couple of plastic bottles with water to place in her backpack.
If it were me, I would tell her to shut up. As it is, he says for the umpteenth time that it’s best that we perform as little magic as possible.
Honestly. All of us are Aurors, and we are having problems carrying ten pounds of luggage for half an hour. I suppress my sneer, because, on the whole, Corbin is a resourceful and intelligent person, but, when Melinda Fisher complains about 'not being a bellboy,' I have to react.
"Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Potter!" Everyone turns to look at me. "Divide their share among the men! If they are going to whine all the way, we'd better give up now."
Don't get me wrong, I'm not a sexist. Not even once in my life have I said or thought that women are inferior to men… except when the ladies, themselves, have used that notion to manipulate me. After all, such an announcement would be ultimate hypocrisy on my part, bearing in mind that my mother was the one to come up with the nifty little scheme that has kept me alive and not in the hands of some lunatic.
But, if someone is not in the mood to carry a little water today, that's fine with me; they’ll just have to deal with my remarks on the matter. My comment has some people smirking; others - the two girls, of course - looking vaguely relieved; and a third party - Granger, Weasley and Parkinson - all indignant.
"Malfoy!" Pansy shouts, and now I know that I'm in trouble.
No one calls me Malfoy in the open anymore. It's too dangerous, for one thing. Despite the fact that I'm a perfect carbon copy of my father, few people recognise me from the first meeting. They all notice a resemblance to someone they've met, but usually nothing more. So, to enhance that fortunate detail, I normally refrain from using my surname in public. In fact, it was Pansy who gave me this nickname I currently sport: Diem. I introduce myself with it and people call me that way. After all, otherwise people would have to call me Draco, a thing that is far too personal to be humoured.
My pretty ex-housemate must be very vexed with me to address me that way.
"Pansy, no offence, but I just want to get up there and sleep for a while, because I'm exhausted from all the missions lately. If they don't want to carry, fine. Let's just start the trip, okay?"
Her chin goes up defiantly and she pointedly opens her backpack to receive some potatoes. As do Frizzy and G-Fire. And, in case you are wondering, it wasn't me who gave them these nicknames.
Granger's nickname was a gift from Dean Thomas if I'm not mistaken, and while she's more sleek curls than frizziness now, it has stayed even after school.
Weasley's is a product from Potter's fascination with some kind of Muggle music, I believe. The little monster is fiercely opposing any use of the, quote, "nonsensical bloody thing." In other words, she likes it. The way her own brother (six inches taller than her) cowers a little when she's yelling is a better proof of the appropriateness of the nickname than anything I could've come up with.
~*~
A few hours later, we are not only in the hut, but also half-way through the preparations for dinner.
It's an amusing sight to witness. The girls - all five of them - are currently chopping cabbage for salad and, believe me, I could sell tickets. Whether it’s because of the war or something else, they don't have the slightest idea how to cook.
While Weasley and Granger know at least how to hold the knife, the others are totally clueless without their wands. I am starting to wonder if this no-magic thing is born of Potter's warped sense of humour.
My assumptions aside as they are not proved by solid evidence, but the way they were ushered to the kitchen was entirely his fault. "Sorry, ladies," he said. "I’m tired of always ending up with the cooking. Your turn."
So now the other boys are talking and laughing, while the girls are sweating piteously over a simple task. Too bad that I’m sure they'll find a way to retaliate against Potter and the rest soon enough. I’m staying aside; messing with angry women is a definite no-no.
~*~
"Cheers!" Finnegan says, and a chorus of voices answers him.
We are sitting at a long table laden with all kinds of salads and drinks. Looking at the dozens of bottles, I am sure that someone has done a lot of shrinking and enlarging, despite Potter's rules. The clinking of glasses is somewhat melodious and I smile, not participating. I don't drink alcohol. And of course, just when I think it'll pass unnoticed, Pansy grins at me.
"Why don't you have a glass, Diem?"
Oh, the revenge about my luggage comment.
"I’m not in the mood, really," I say, and at least five people exclaim that I have to drink for one-or-another-happy-occasion.
Oh, well.
"Okay," I give up, as the outcome of the situation is predefined enough, and look at the beverages available. Wine, vodka, whiskey. "Vodka."
Pansy raises an eyebrow and I smirk.
I hate vodka and we both know it. But, after all, she tried to make a subtle retaliation; I am allowed a subtle escape.
I have never been one to drink immeasurable quantities at will. My father had no problems in that regard, not at all. He didn't show any signs when getting tipsy, either - I remember how he told me about the ways my grandfather taught him to control himself, even under the influence of alcohol.
I, on the other hand, seem to have taken after my mother, who never quite managed to change the fact that two glasses of wine rendered her unsuitable for public appearances. After a double whiskey, I’m out of my head.
So, I adopted her strategy long ago: pour myself a shot of the alcohol I dislike most and pretend to drink. After all, I don't need the alcohol to have fun.
~*~
"And then the jerk tries to kick me but slips and falls on his arse…"
At that point of Weasley's story, we are all laughing so hard it's difficult to breathe. The room is hot, the food is half-finished, and everyone is steadily heading for unconsciousness.
My vodka is still mostly untouched, but that doesn't stop me from having what seems to be the best time I've had in months.
"Now, now, do you remember when…" starts Granger, and it all goes on.
Around midnight, a few people have already decided to call it a night and go upstairs to the rooms. Corbin (a bit past the just tipsy stage) was persuaded by Finnegan to 'go have a nap for an hour or so.' Really, can this man fail to get laid?
At half past, I leave the table and climb the stairs with a warm, sleepy feeling inside. I open the door of my room, only to find Granger and Fisher sitting on a bed, talking to Preston Flip, who's lying on the floor before them.
I stop at the threshold. "And exactly what are you doing here?"
All the rooms have four beds, but I was left alone in this one - the advantages of being the son of a missing Death Eater, I suppose.
"Sorry, Diem," Frizzy smiles sheepishly. "Scot's snoring in my room like there's no tomorrow. I’m moving in to your place."
She points at her bag on the floor. I hum noncommittally and head to the bed farthest from the door and next to the window.
"I’m cold," Flip complains in a while, and I look at the fireplace. There's no wood at all.
"I’m ready to fetch wood, but I can't light it," I say and get up, in a generous enough mood to play the errand boy.
I’m not sure if they pay much attention to me, but I go anyway. Someone will want to make us a bit warmer and won't be able to.
When I return to the room five minutes later, I see a dishevelled Potter stomp out of his room and into mine. I enter and see him prone on one of the untaken beds, hugging the pillow tightly, his head buried in it. I let the bucket with wood fall with a thud by the fireplace.
"Is someone snoring in his room, too?" I ask Granger, and she giggles.
"Seam is in his room with Lisa, and they won't stop talking, so he's mad at them and came here."
"I see," I head for my bed. "I'll require payment, I’m telling you."
"If I light the fire, will you let me sleep?" Potter questions, moving to look at me.
"Be my guest," I point to the cold hearth, and he gets up and starts arranging the wood.
In the matter of minutes he's back on his bed, and the fire is starting to crack and burn. I get ready for the night and, just when I’m snuggling under the cotton sheet with blanket above it, Fisher decides that she doesn't really want to sleep.
This, of course, means that no on else is supposed to sleep, either. In the next half an hour, she proceeds to try everything she can think of to wake Potter (who, if you ask me, is very much awake and just too patient for my taste.) Soon it comes to be something of a game - she tickles, pokes and nudges him; he pretends to be still sleeping or curses her loudly.
Granger and I are already laughing madly when Thomas crashes in, drunk as a sailor and singing something obscene. He looks around wildly for a second and then flings himself atop Potter's prone form, slurring something which suspiciously resembles, "Yes, baby, yes."
At that point, Potter's nerves can't take it and he jumps up, cursing fervently, and hops on my bed, looking for a safe place.
Maybe I'll stop going to these get-togethers, because I'll lose my aura of cold haughtiness completely. I’m threatening to fall off the bed with guffaws.
~*~
I’m propped up on an elbow, laughing, when a yawn suddenly overtakes me. Then another one, and then one more.
"Let's turn off the lights and get some sleep?" Flip stretches and crawls up in the bed by Granger.
"I don't want to!" Fisher starts whining. "I don't want!"
But I’m already curling in my favourite sleeping position, facing the wall, and I can hear Flip's murmuring to Granger so I guess they are adjusting, too.
The switch is above my head and I turn the lights off.
"Good night," I say, ignoring Fisher's displeased sounds.
A quiet laugh sounds beside me and I feel the bed dip slightly. Instantly, I roll around to find that Potter is still on my bed, lying on the coverlet, inching closer to me.
"What are you doing?" I ask, confused, attempting hard to adjust to the darkness.
"Sleeping," he says, moving up to lie on the pillow, and spreads his arm as if I’m sleeping on his shoulder every night.
Really, it's stupid, and it's something I've never thought I'd allow or agree to. But I turn my back to him and, using his biceps as a pillow, prepare to go to sleep.
Just when I've started wondering why I didn't curse him to hell and out of my bed, he presses tightly to my back, and winds his other arm around my waist. I’m abruptly reminded of the way he hugged his pillow a mere hour ago. He's squeezing me almost too hard, and I’m about to fidget a bit, when he relaxes his head on the crook of my shoulder, only to start strangely rubbing his nose behind my ear.
I suppose the hair is tickling him and I’m almost sure he'll pull it painfully soon, so I start to move to tuck it. Immediately, he tenses and hugs me more closely, if at all possible.
"The hair," I whisper, and he releases me only slightly.
When the locks are safely secured and I am still once more, he resumes his previous position. I can feel the weight on the back of my head and neck, his lips just near my ear.
"Good night," his low voice dances over my skin.
I know that I won't sleep that night.
~*~
Indeed, I don't seem to be asleep an hour later; not when our dear Melinda is whining, talking, slamming doors. In the end, Flip, who has had a few drinks, but is still a good forty pounds more than her, practically carries her out of the room.
"Mmmm, good," Potter whispers in my ear and snuggles in closer. "I was starting to wear thin on her."
I smile and close my eyes.
The room is quiet and semi-dark now, only the mellow light of the fire is giving life to some shadows. My whole body is warm and relaxed - Potter turns out to be a living furnace - and I can hardly remember a moment in the recent past when I've been this comfortably relaxed.
Regular breath is caressing my ear and cheek, and I should be falling asleep, but I’m not - I’m simply falling into my own musings.
Potter's heartbeat reverberates through my back, and I feel like my whole body is pulsing in rhythm with it. Thump, thump. Thump, thump, thump. Is it irregular or I'm just imagining it? Could he be sleeping and dreaming something good? Something bad?
He's hugging me, and all I seem to be able to think of is my bed at home; big, but almost always empty. The way I can't sleep when I’m alone because I’m cold or having nightmares; how I can't rest with someone there, either, because I don't feel safe. Now, it's different. While I’m still awake, I feel better than I have in a long, long time, even keeping in mind that it is the stupidest mistake to get involved - no matter how - with acquaintances at parties.
His odour is filling my nostrils; a sharp, all-permeating scent that combines barely discernible sweet notes with something raw and rich which is making me dizzy. I’m again back on the topic of my own home; the way my sheets smell only of myself, never someone else. Suddenly, my mind seems to be all slow and sleepy; not quite aware, not quite there, because I start imagining a bed bearing another's scent - thick and spicy, Potter's.
The thought is floating about in my semiconscious brain, teasingly defeating all the attempts to kill it. At that moment, when his nose is gently nudging at my ear, his arm is so tightly around my waist that the fingers are tucked under me, and his warmth is circulating in my blood, I can do nothing to get him out of my head.
My limbs are heavy with drowsiness and languor, and that place I’m lingering at, between wakefulness and dream, seems to be nirvana. But I have to move now, as nature calls, and I move to free myself. Potter can't have been asleep, not with the speed of his reaction.
The arm I’m lying on bends in the elbow and he's holding me practically motionless; two strong, hot shackles, one around my waist, the other around the upper arms.
"Harry," I say, and we both start.
My voice is hoarse from the long silence, low and so close to the definition of 'bed voice' that I want to curse myself. And where did that name come from, anyway? I can't remember addressing him like that ever before, even in my thoughts. I swallow.
"I need to get up for a bit."
For a second he doesn't move at all and then, just when I’m about to repeat, he lets me go.
"Come back," he whispers and, oh my, I wish he didn't, because his voice is just like the perfume; strong and grating, whiskey with ice. All of a sudden, I thank whatever deities made me sleep with a T-shirt and underwear, because if I was naked… Well, let's say he would know about the influence he has on me.
I crawl out of his warm embrace and go to the cold bathroom, remaining there for a period long enough to quench the dreamy desires of a half-lit room. When I'm ready to go back, I inhale deeply in search of a calm centre, and it hits me like a blow from nowhere. I'm still breathing him in; his scent is lingering on my clothes, on my skin, in my brain. Like a mark on the inside of me.
I return, and the moment I climb back to my spot, his arms are around me once more. Now that I’m still after moving quickly, my heart seems to be going a thousand miles before it gradually settles. I rub my cheek against his arm, a movement I don't realise until it's too late.
His hand leaves my waist, and it comes to me that I haven't tucked my hair. But his fingers are already collecting the strands, caressing and slowly arranging them so that they don't tangle.
I sigh, and there is no way to hide that I've been holding my breath. Confusion coursing through me, I lift a hand to cover my face, strangely burning in the dark. Thankfully, I catch myself before I complete the gesture and show him exactly how shaken I am. My palm falls next to my face and slightly touches his fingers. I'm ice-cold, but he's like fire and he actually whistles quietly.
"You're so cold."
His digits entwine with mine, and I'm sure that soon he'll warm me.
"Mhm," I murmur, still a bit awkward.
He just chuckles, and I'm acutely aware that he's not letting go of my hand.
~*~
I’m all sleepy again, protected by Harry's - Merlin help me but the stupid name won't leave me alone - body like an almighty shield.
It's funny how this comparison makes me think of my father.
I miss him terribly, the bastard, despite the fact that he always rushed me into all kinds of seemingly unnecessarily harsh things when I was a child. I remember how once he sent me to bed without supper for not having learnt a spell. I must have cried all night and when the morning came, I went through hundreds of pages until I found a curse that looked suitable to my young brain. When I performed it on him perfectly later that same evening, managing to dye his hair blue, he laughed. Laughed so hard that I thought there was something really wrong. And then, he hugged me; hugged me and said he was proud of me. I'll never forget it, the light in his eyes that night, when he announced what a great Slytherin I'd make.
I must have been eight or nine.
He is an intelligent man, no matter what the others say. He wasn't, and still isn't, crazy or power-craving; more than usual, that is.
I think that he is the person most responsible for my maturing. It happened when I returned home after fifth year, a wizard just starting to become a grown-up, hating everyone that dared utter a word against my values and beliefs. Then I understood two things. The first was that Lucius Malfoy, my father, and Lucius Malfoy, the pure-blood ranked so highly in the social hierarchy, were, in fact, one and the same man; always and everywhere. It hit me, the moment I asked where was dad, and mum's eyes watered, that the man painted so hard in the papers and thrown into prison, was the one who played Quidditch with me in the holidays. And that realisation brought along another one: that my father had made a mistake.
And that mistake hadn't been joining Voldemort, because that hadn't been much of an actual choice. How did he put it when I asked him? Oh, yes. 'They came one night, wearing black, reeking of smoke, and asked me to join a cause I believed in anyway. And when I hesitated, they casually mentioned the Brooks, whose home had been burnt down three days before. I was the only man in the family; tempted, young, just married. It's not a situation in which you say no.' So really, Voldemort had been the only way, had seemed the only correct path. And now, to go back to my previous train of thought, father's mistake was none other than underestimating a child.
Because no matter how you look at it, when the Ministry ordeal happened, Potter was not an adult yet. But father just couldn't comprehend that, in Potter, he had an opponent too brave to think at all, which proved an excellent strategy. Anyway, that first and last serious misstep cost the family the only support and advantage that we really had: Voldemort's trusting and favourable eye.
So when he managed to get out of Azkaban, father had to prove himself all over again, if he wanted to remain among the favourites. But night raids and Muggle killings were something that would have risked the Malfoy's impeccable name, the only thing not worth endangering for anything.
From all said so far, the events that took place seem more than logical. Within the year, my mother had her little plan ready and about to be started.
It's funny how simple things almost always work perfectly. When, one morning, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy disappeared, people remembered enough pieces of 'coincidentally' heard conversations to make whatever conclusions suited them. Even today, Voldemort believes that my parents were abducted and consequently killed by Dumbledore's people, while the Ministry is certain that they became victims of the Dark Lord's madness.
According to the monthly letters I receive from Mr. and Mrs. Morgan, living in Paris, neither version is correct.
But nobody suspects the truth, which is fine by me - in the unclear situation father's old connections helped me with my Auror application, and Dumbledore wasn't too antagonistic. I think that the only one who really understands why I'm doing this job now is Potter. And this is simply because, in that regard, we are too similar, with the only difference that he actually believes in the cause and I'm in just for the fun of it. Maybe this is the thing to quench the childish enmity between us - it simply turned out that we had a lot in common. Or perhaps we all of a sudden grew up, upon really entering the war… But anyway, what is the bottom line is that, like my father and like Harry, I've always thought defeating a worthy opponent the most satisfying feeling. So…
I would continue to drift in my musings if the aforementioned green-eyed brat didn't start nibbling my ear gently, sending a pleasurable spark down my spine.
Well, this at least clears the question of why he is in my bed; obviously, it's for sex. Who knows why, but the conclusion is unexpectedly painful.
"What are you doing?" I ask lowly; the name skipped on purpose.
"Guess," he says, and his voice is sexier than before.
"Stop it," is my answer and, surprisingly, he pulls away.
That's it, I think. He'll leave now.
And he does. Getting up, he goes to the door and, just when I note to myself that he could've left more tactfully, he stops by the fireplace and starts relighting the fire.
I won't admit it, but when he comes back and hugs me again afterwards, I’m more relieved than perplexed.
I fall asleep after that.
~*~
I wake up with a start, with the knowledge that someone is touching me. I don't move or open my eyes; just wait.
The hand that was tucked under me is travelling on the edge of the blanket, along my body. I’m about to remark that I'd have never placed him in the pushers' category when the fingers reach my forearm and pull the sheet to cover it, then do the same upon finding my naked knee poking out.
He draws me up even closer to his body and buries his face in the crook of my neck, where he's slept all night.
If I've been surprised and confused before, there are no words to describe my feelings now.
~*~
Soon there are sounds of someone getting up, dressing and moving around.
"Harry?" Granger's whisper reaches us. "Where's Diem?"
I feel Harry moving to show me. I’m practically under him, and she laughs.
"Don't suffocate him; he's not leaving anyway," Harry sighs theatrically, and I can practically see the face he makes, but she ignores it. "We're going to breakfast. Are you coming?"
At that point I turn a little, yawning.
"Morning," I say, and Potter smiles at me.
"Are you hungry?" he asks and at my 'no' looks at Granger. "Well, if the food starts running out, call us, okay?"
She rolls her eyes and exits.
He turns to me and hugs me again. I drift back to sleep almost immediately.
~*~
"Get up!" a voice breaks into my subconscious, and I stir.
"Harry," the voice won't stop. "If you don't get up right now you won't have anything for breakfast."
The warm body next to me is shifting, rising. A door closes.
"Draco," a whisper caresses my ear. "Get up for breakfast. You have to eat."
I rub my eyes and yawn, forcing myself up. He moves away from the bed, his clothes rumpled from the night spent in them.
"Don't fall asleep again," he smiles, and leaves.
~*~
When I finally reach the kitchen of the cabin, I see Harry - yes, I've given up and I'll call him that way - making a sandwich.
"Morning," I say to Thomas, who is only half awake and looking like he has the hangover from hell.
"That's for you," Harry tells me, and points at an already prepared toast.
Butter, cheese, and sesame seed?
I stare in him in disbelief.
"You eat it like that, right?" he asks, unperturbed.
"Yes," I answer, still amazed. "Yes, I do."
I take the thing reluctantly and start eating with only one thought in my mind. He made me breakfast. He made me breakfast.
I exit the kitchen and head for the living room when a bright flash of light strikes in the middle of the room and a red feather floats gently to the floor. I pick it up and unroll the scroll attached.
The Portkey is for Mr. Malfoy and will activate in ten minutes.
~*~
Sweaty, dirty and semiconscious from pain and exhaustion, I fumble shortly with the lock and slowly enter my flat. Breathing in the familiar scent of home, together with something I can't recognise, but which is nice just the same, I stagger to the bedroom and carefully lower myself onto the bed, wincing from the stabs of fire along my torso. The moment I touch the pillow, my mind starts to slip into sleep.
"Diem," a hand touches my forehead, then moves to my shoulder and shakes me. "Diem!"
The voice is familiar and so is the touch, but I just want to rest.
"Later," I barely utter. "Much later."
My limbs feel heavy and too cold all of a sudden.
"Draco, wake up!" comes more firmly, and I open my eyes, bleary with two days of wakefulness.
Okay, what I see is a fine reason to groan.
"Potter, what are you doing in my flat?"
That at least explains the scent.
"Checking on you, what else. You didn't stay to report, which has never happened before."
"I forgot," I say, exasperated. "Is it all that important?"
I want to sleep…
"Did you convince him?" Potter changes the topic abruptly, and I freeze.
"I don't know what you are talking about," I lie.
"Come on!"
I stubbornly remain silent.
"Diem, who is your immediate superior?" he asks.
"Fisher," I reply.
"And who is the immediate superior of Fisher's team?" he continues, obviously trying to prove something.
"I have no idea."
I’m starting to fall asleep again.
"I am, you obnoxious Slytherin," he all but exclaims, and I am suddenly a bit angry. "So what happened?"
"Potter, I'll give you the report in a couple of days. Can't you leave me to sleep now?" I snap, moving to get up and away from him, which, of course, causes me to wince terribly. Stupid wound.
"What's wrong, Draco?" he catches me as I fall back on the bed.
Oh, so it's 'Draco' now?
"I’m fine!"
But his hands have already unbuttoned the robes I’m wearing and beneath them I’m in the bloodied shirt I fought in.
"Dear God," he mutters and within seconds I’m only clad in my trousers.
"Why didn't you go to see a Mediwizard?"
"Come on, Potter, don't get so melodramatic. It's nothing."
"No, it's not 'nothing' and we both know it! How did you manage to walk at all?"
No, it's not nothing, but I’m not about to tell him that.
"I was going to tend to it once I got some sleep. Harry," I flinch and curse myself, "I haven't rested in the last forty-eight hours. Please."
My eyes are drooping and I see his features soften. He shakes me slightly.
"Can you shower?"
"Now?"
"If you wash yourself, I'll bandage the wound."
"Potter! Out!"
What I hate most is having someone in a mother-henish mood around me. I try to get up and see him off, but sharp pain slices my side and I lose my breath for a second.
He's watching me with a raised eyebrow.
"Okay," I concede. "I’m going to shower now. Happy?"
He helps me to the bathroom and explains that he's going to go find all that he’ll need. When I'm finally alone in the small room and swaying dangerously, I start thinking that showering by myself wasn't such a good idea.
~*~
How I have reached the bed again escapes my memory, I only know that he needs to wake me once more when he gets back.
"Diem… Draco, wake up."
I whimper quietly as consciousness comes to me along with burning pain. I struggle to open my eyes, and, when I succeed, I see Potter arranging phials on my nightstand.
Upon noticing my attention, he turns to me, brow furrowed.
"Good, you haven't covered the cut," he says and sits on the bed next to me. "Come nearer so that I can reach you easily."
I move to comply, involuntarily hissing in the process. With clinical precision he pulls the cotton slacks I’m wearing lower on my hips so that he can have free access to the wound. I watch his hands while they are dipping a cloth into a bowl with clear liquid, and then follow their path to my torso. Against the pale skin, the bluish-red swollen curve of the laceration looks almost grotesque. He slowly starts rubbing the torn flesh with the cloth; cool, yet burning liquid dripping down my sides. I close my eyes and clench my fists, trying my best to remain silent.
"I know it hurts," he says, but I don't look at him. "If you had gone to a specialist immediately, it would have been easier. It wouldn't have gotten infected."
He pauses, which is not good as I’m trying to concentrate on his voice instead of the pain. I open my eyes when the movements of his hands cease, and he's staring at me.
"Why didn't you?"
I laugh; a sound that transforms into a stifled hiss once he gets on with his work. I find that with my eyes open I am more distracted. Good.
"Come on, Potter. Wounding an Auror is as serious an offence as murder. If someone discovers the cut, they'll torture him for information and then throw him into Azkaban. That's not my aim."
"So I’m to understand you persuaded him?"
"Of course," I say, little by little getting used to the pain. "I’m a Slytherin."
It's his turn to laugh at this, and the way his eyes sparkle is amazing. The light is put out quickly, though, and he looks at me, deadly serious.
"Will he work for us?" His voice is low and intense, and his concern is more than evident. His eyes hold my gaze, and I can't take it.
Fixed on the wall behind him, I try to answer as fully as possible. "For the moment, I think yes. But you mustn't let him become tempted to betray you; mustn't keep him too close or too informed; mustn't send him on delicate missions," I pause, but I can't stop, not now, "Just like you don't send me."
He inhales sharply at this, and I meet his eyes. For a second something flickers there, something soft and warm maybe, but it's gone in a flash.
"We trusted you with this one," he replies carefully, focusing on his work once more.
"Come on, it was a test and we both know it. He isn't that important an acquisition. If he was, I wouldn't have been sent. Was it your idea, by the way?"
His eyes remain trained on the wound and, although for a second I swear I can see a faint blush creeping up his face, he manages to clamp it down masterfully.
"Why are you doing this?" he asks after the shortest pause.
"He is a skilful wizard and a superb fighter," I shrug slightly. "With the Ministry he might survive longer than if he is an errand boy for Voldemort's people."
He looks me in the eye abruptly and I can feel the calculating air around him, the surprise.
"You respect him."
"I trained him," I say simply, closing my eyes. His hands are lying on my chest and, were the situation any different, it would be an exquisite sensation. "I know his strengths and weaknesses."
"I suspected that," he speaks again, and his fingers return to rubbing some kind of potion in, before he continues. "I've met him in battle. He has your style."
I smile almost nostalgically, remembering clearly the great challenge that tutoring Bryan Kelly proved to be; the constant fighting over just about everything, which improved not only him but also me.
"I guess no one wanted to finish his training after I severed all ties."
"You did that?" his voice deliberately controlled and impassive.
"Mostly."
We are treading on dangerous ground here, and I’m sure he can feel it, too. My position as an Auror is delicate to say the least.
"Why did you let him wound you?" he ends the awkward silence, and I shake my head slowly.
"I didn't let him anything. I was tired, and he thought he was fighting for his life. You of all people should know that there's no stronger incentive than that. When I made a mistake, he snatched the opportunity, just like I taught him. It's understandable."
"Yet you made him come with you, convinced him."
"He may have wounded me, but that doesn't mean that he won the duel." I open my eyes to look at him, all that talking finally draining the thoughts of sleep out of my system. "Haven't you noticed, Potter, how sometimes a small cut is just what you need to keep you alert and watchful in a fight?"
"Some small cut this is," he says, but his tone tells me that he understands. "From under the left armpit to the right hipbone, no, it’s no big deal whatsoever… really."
The slight sarcasm seeps away, and the next sentences come almost warm.
"I am, right now, wondering how you managed to stay conscious and walk around half a day. And you are calling it a small cut! Are you suicidal?"
"I’m in this job for it, Potter," I say, faintly, because the latest oil he's applying stings pretty bad. "Just like you. Even if you weren't the Boy-Who-Lived, you'd still be an Auror - or a Dark Wizard - because you like the adrenalin of the fight. You enjoy the strategy and pure wit of it; the way it's just you and your opponent; mind and weapon, tactic and psychology all in one. It's the same with me. I need it. If seeking what you need most is suicidal, then I am suicidal, but then so are you."
My eyes bore into his, and I can see that I’m right in my speculations; it's all written on his face. He says nothing, though, and we lapse into silence.
In a few minutes he takes a vial from the nightstand and starts dribbling some of its contents on me. It's burning, and I barely refrain from squirming away.
"What is that, for magic's sake?" I ask before I’m able to stop myself. "Ugh. It burns."
Carefully, he begins spreading it, chuckling. "Well, to reply to your so kind and polite question, it's one of those helpful potions I brew for myself. And be thankful, if it's burning, then things will be okay."
"You brew? For yourself?" I enquire, fervently trying to distract myself from the pain that is again surging through me.
"Mhm," he murmurs, watching the wound vigilantly. "If I allowed Mediwizards to heal all my wounds, I would need to attach them to me 24/7."
While he's talking, the liquid gradually turns green before going colourless again. He looks up at me.
"We're almost ready."
The thought I avoid voicing is that, ruefully, I’m quite incapable of doing anything, so there is no 'we'.
I’m glad that he came to check on me.
The next phial he grabs is pressed into my hand, and he helps me sit up carefully. It still hurts too bloody much, but I think it's getting better already.
"It's a painkiller. Drink it."
"How many things did you bring here?" I ask mockingly before consuming the dark liquor in one go.
It tastes of caramel, which triggers all the alarm bells in my head. I trusted him. Merlin, I trusted him, and I shouldn't have.
"What was this, Potter?" Damn, my voice is quivering. "There isn't a single painkilling potion that tastes good."
He doesn't look concerned at all and leans in to touch my forehead, checking for fever.
"It is a painkiller, just with a sleeping draught and caramel essence. It can get really hard to drink it all the time if it's as bitter as usual."
I am starting to feel the effects of the brew, and my panic rises to an even higher notch. I hate being drugged.
"Damn you, Harry, why did you do this?"
My voice is becoming weaker; the edges of my vision blackening.
"Draco, Draco," his hand is still rubbing my temple, his tone sympathetic. "You can't go through the stitching awake."
Stitching? What stitching?
The world fades into darkness.
~*~
I wake up slowly, gradually, as if blankets are being taken off of me one by one. When I open my eyes finally, the lids feel leaden, and I’m truly tempted to drift back to sleep. Then I look up and see a couple of phials, hanging a foot above me, tied with a ribbon, from which a note dangles.
Well, obviously I’m supposed to notice them first thing after I wake, but I don't remember why. The last memory that comes to me is how I barely dragged myself home.
I start to stretch and pain rushes through my body. I coil immediately, reflexively trying to protect myself. My head buries in the pillow and I breathe in a strangely familiar scent. Potter's. My head feels like it's filled with cotton.
Bit by bit, the events I’m missing come back and click into place, leaving only one question. Why does the bed smell of him? I also notice that I’m lying under the sheets, another thing I don't recall.
Gingerly testing the wound - now neatly covered in bandages - I take the vials, a little surprised that this doesn't require magic of some kind. Unrolling the note, I recognise the handwriting from the Portkey that sent me on my last mission. So, it really was him. I smile, amused by the unGryffindor way in which he shows me that he trusts me, by giving me a subtle clue. I guess this same penmanship is also the answer to my question if the sweet little test bore his signature; a belated, but definite 'yes'.
*Draco,
If you are feeling light-headed and empty, drink the red potion before attempting to get up. You need to eat something substantial as soon as possible (that apple pie will do for now, and if you have some milk with it, you should be okay). Then drink at least a glass of water, return to bed, and have the green potion. Don't brush it off, it's not a drug!
You have two days off, which means that with the weekend you don't have to be in the office before Monday. On Saturday night, I'll come to check on you and the wound, and to collect the full report you'll have written by then on your last mission.
And if you want that thing healed as fast as possible, eat regularly and keep yourself warm. The temperature in this bedroom of yours answers the question as to why you are so cold.
Harry*
Yes, mother, I think while removing the stopper of the red-filled bottle and downing it. It really helps with the hints of vertigo and gets the cotton out from between my ears.
I get up carefully, the wound twinging every now and then, and go to eat the aforementioned pie.
So, Potter came to check on me, patched me up, kept me warm all night, then rummaged my kitchen and wrote me a terribly perplexing note. How truly touching.
Not that I’m ungrateful, but he's really confusing me of late. He's hardened considerably since we graduated, has become a bit of a cynic, and has acquired some wholly Slytherin traits. Simply and clearly, he's not the bright-eyed, Gryffindor idealist I knew before, and the more I get to work within his squad, the more acutely I start to realise that.
Yet, he held me at the cabin and kept me warm last night. Signed the note by his first name and called me by mine.
I understand him so much better and so much worse at the same time now.
I follow his instructions, and, although the potion really doesn't knock me off, soon I’m asleep anyway.
~*~
When he comes on Saturday, I’m so much better that it's almost a miracle, given he's not a qualified Mediwizard. But on the other hand, from all the things he said, he has probably had a lot of experience with home healing…
"How are you?" he asks, moving to check my temperature.
"Much better, thank you," I answer, and start to unbutton the loose shirt I’m in.
Potter makes me sit down so that he can see the wound easily.
"Raise your arms," he instructs me, and I comply, watching his fingers move nimbly on the bandages.
Underneath, the wound is only slight swollen, one long scab; thinner at places, thicker at others, interrupted at regular intervals by the stitches.
"You didn't tell me how he wounded you," he speaks suddenly; his fingers strangely cool against the inflammation.
"You didn't ask me," I say, trying to ignore the signals going down my spine.
He stops and looks at me, one eyebrow raised in what I recognise as Frizzy's reproving expression.
"He tried to stab me with a dagger and I jumped, up and away, but too late," I pause, "On the other hand, I’m alive, so it was just on time."
"Going straight for the heart, aren't you sweet Slytherins?" he chuckles quietly, and I close my eyes, refusing to take on the banter.
"Done," he announces several minutes later, "You can put your arms down."
I do so and dress immediately, relieved to be out of his reach. If he's looking at me in a weird way, that's not my biggest problem right now.
"And what happened with the report?" he asks neutrally when I’m ready, causing me to eye him sharply.
"Who's going to read it?"
"I am."
"Only you?"
"Yes."
"Alright," I say and go to fetch one of the two sheets of parchment I have written this morning. I hand it then to him, and he doesn't wait a heartbeat before unrolling it.
*Following the latest intelligence, I arrived at the supposed hideout of Bryan Kelly. After three hours' worth of surveillance, I had seen enough to confirm the information. I managed to lure him out, where, upon seeing me, he revealed that he was prepared to fight, both with magic and with the daggers he is famous for wielding. After the duel, I convinced him to come with me to the Ministry. I left him to Auror Melinda Fisher, my immediate superior.*
He folds it neatly after reading it aloud, puts it in his pocket, and then looks at me. He is serious and guarded, never such a good sign.
"Why did you ask me who would read it?"
"Because if it was going to the Ministry archives I would give you the other copy," I answer, intently studying my nails. They need cutting.
"With the made up story?" he continues to ask, and I feel his eyes burning holes into my forehead.
"Yes," I reply, still not looking up.
"Why?"
"Why not?" I parry him casually.
"Come on!" he cuts sharply, and I can almost touch his irritation. "It doesn't really matter who reads the stuff! The difference is minimal."
"It's not minimal. Just a few days ago, you stitched a longish cut on my chest, it would be stupid to give you a report stating that I met Kelly, we talked, and he agreed peacefully to come with me, don't you think?"
I finally look up and smile sweetly at his stunned expression.
"You said that in your other report?" he sounds so incredulous that I would actually protect someone, that I feel offended.
It must show on my face, because he shuts up and just stares at me for a bit.
"You are aware that it is a serious transgression to lie to authority, are you not?" he asks slowly, and I shake my head my head to show him how much I'm not buying this.
"Yes, Potter, I am aware. And are you aware that obeying rules is not something you should talk about?"
"I guess not," he answers and quickly rises. "I have to go now."
Within the minute he's gone, leaving me alone in my flat to wonder what the hell had just happened. When I go back in the kitchen, I realise he's left something else there, too.
A scent that torments me mercilessly.
~*~
I dream of long, slender fingers dancing over me; of a hot mouth eating me whole; of smart hands working me into oblivion; of a low voice praising the sounds I make.
I sense a hot presence that gives me safety and shelter; another body that drives me mad with desire.
I feel thrusts that make me writhe and tremors that trip me over the edge.
When I wake up, hot and sweaty, the sheets are tangled around my waist and all that is left from the vision are jade eyes printed on the inside of my lids and an addictive aroma clinging to my senses.
~*~
Your Touch: Part Two