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This was locked 'cause I wrote it while half-asleep, but uh... it's not anymore -.-;; I fixed it up a bit. Not a lot though, so beware of falling participles :P

It's an HBP AU (I KNOW!!) spin off from the Sectumsempra scene, as per [ profile] malafede's request. Uh. As a warning, I listened to 'Nothing Compares 2 U'. On repeat -.-

Disclaimer: not mine.

Author's Note: This is supposed to be an AU after the Sectumsempra scene in HBP. Uh, this is also a songfic. Well, 'written under the influence' counts as a songfic, y'know. At least I didn't call it 'Nothing Compares 2 U'.

Dedication: to Ste, who wanted it. I hope. Well, she asked for it! Heh. Though the blame is mine as usual, because, ummm... this isn't really 'porn', exactly, but. I tried? It is sort of? Er?

- Sleep to Dream -

He was still shaking three hours later. He couldn't talk; quite literally couldn't speak a word.

He'd taken a hot shower immediately after-- that, but the smell of blood couldn't seem to leave his skin. He thought he spied something dark clinging beneath the fingernail of his right thumb and forefinger. He stared at it as he walked back to Gryffindor Tower, almost putting it in his mouth and then stopping dead in the cold stone corridor, shuddering.

He'd only grunted at Hermione when she asked him what was wrong. He tried to say something reassuring, but could only blink, choking back some noise that seemed caught in his throat. He gritted his teeth; he needed to get upstairs. That was doable-- he had to focus.

The fire seemed too bright in the Common Room; the noise hurt his ears. All he could think was, thank -fuck- Ginny wasn't there. He went straight to bed and tried to get warm, but couldn't.

His thoughts were disjointed, though he kept remembering Malfoy lying there, blood pooled beneath him; blood on Harry's own hands. Blood had been all over his clothes; still was, beneath the spare robes he kept in the Quidditch changing room.

They hadn't even spoken for weeks before this; besides, he'd had no idea the spell would.... Harry shut his eyes till they burned, dry and itchy, and he kept on telling himself he couldn't have known. He wasn't -thinking-, really, was he? Malfoy-- Draco-- had attacked first; had looked at him with those familiar eyes full of rage, like Harry was the last person he wanted to see. Humiliation, Harry could understand, but the way Malfoy looked at him, it was as if they had nothing between them at all. Like Harry was right back to Personal Public Enemy #1; seeing that look made him want to hurt right back.

So there was nothing Malfoy wanted to show Harry but the business end of his wand? Well, Harry could deal with that, easy. The way he always did; it was instinct to do his worst, really. He played-- no, fought to win. That's what they always did.

He started to gasp, shivering harder, rubbing at both his arms and virtually curling into a ball. He was still trying to blame Malfoy even as the last sight he had of him wouldn't leave his vision. God, he was going to be sick, he thought, seconds before he leaned over the edge of his bed and was quite violently chucking up his dinner all over the floor.

Flopping onto his back, Harry held his queasy stomach with both arms, starting to be angry at Malfoy again.

What the fuck was he -thinking-, avoiding him this year? What did he think Harry would -do-? They could've talked; Harry knew something was going on. Even though Ron and Hermione laughed it off, this was -Malfoy-. He knew him; he knew him all too well: more than a year since Harry got banned from Quidditch already; since it started. He knew him in Quidditch closets and in freezing cold abandoned classrooms; he knew him on the Quidditch pitch and behind the greenhouse and even in the Forbidden Forest that one time, though Malfoy kept shivering and cursing before coming harder than ever. Of course he'd spent the whole trek back whining about the cold and the twigs up his arse and a million other things that almost distracted Harry from the fact they were holding hands. That was so long ago, now-- sometime right after the Cho debacle, wasn't it?

Harry leaned over, wrinkling his nose and whispering 'Scourgify!', trying not to be sick again. Enough was enough.

He exhaled forcefully. With a sudden clarity, he remembered Malfoy telling him-- predicting this in a casual, soft voice that fit the boneless sprawl of his sweaty body across Harry's hips-- he recalled Malfoy saying it would be Harry that killed him in the end. He said something to the effect that it was him or Harry and he'd always known that. Harry still rolled his eyes at the memory; what a melodramatic little shit. This was after Harry had actually bothered trying to have a conversation with him, explaining about the Occlumency lessons with Snape and his growing link with Voldemort. He hadn't known about the Prophecy yet, but it was bad enough, that was for sure. So Harry said something about Malfoy being a drama queen, and they'd actually gotten into a fight over it. In the end, the only way to shut him up was to fuck him into submission-- that never really changed, all this time.

Harry sat up in bed, wincing at his unsettled stomach.

This was fucked up; he -refused- to lie here and brood about Malfoy like a-- like a lovesick fool or something equally ridiculous.

He groaned, swinging his legs over and grabbing at his Cloak. At the back of his mind, he realized that he had no right-- they'd all but broken up over Ginny, though they'd never officially been 'together'. It was clear enough that Malfoy thought they were over, and Harry had no ground to stand on in that regard. Theoretically-- yeah, he knew he'd had to choose and he'd made his choice. But if he laid here one more minute without seeing Draco was all right with his own eyes, it would get ugly.

Rubbing at his aching hot forehead (Christ, he had a splitting headache, and it was all Malfoy's fault-- again), Harry snuck out into the corridor, making his way to the Hospital Wing. If he was lucky, Malfoy would still be incapacitated.

Easy in, easy out, right?

* * *

He had to wait quite awhile for Madam Pomfrey to walk through the door on an errand of some sort. He was nearly nodding off, leaning awkwardly against the wall, but he was too cold and his head hurt too much to sleep. He considered using that as an excuse for some Pepper-Up Potion, but fact was he still couldn't face speaking to anyone. Malfoy included. Hell, Malfoy was right up there at the top of the bloody list! Harry really hoped he'd been put under; who wouldn't be, after being cut open like... that....

Harry walked across the huge room as silently as he could, shivering at the bright moonlight pouring through the large windows to his side. It looked spooky-- too quiet and still outside with the naked trunks of trees pushing up against the inky sky accusingly somehow. He knew his imagination was running away with him, but anything was better than looking at Malfoy's motionless form all of a sudden.

"Go away, Potter."

Harry all but jumped out of his skin, sending a chair clattering loudly across the floor with the back of one hand. He hissed and rubbed it, frozen as he stared at Malfoy. He pulled the Cloak off his head with shaking fingers. That croak was horrid enough, but to actually see Malfoy looking so grey and sunken because of -him-.... To his horror, he felt tears prickling the backs of his eyelids and his fists clenched; he stumbled forwards a few steps, sitting down jerkily at the edge of the infirmary bed. If there was anyone else about in the echoing chamber, Harry reckoned they were comatose.

"Why are you awake?" Harry whispered, clearing his throat. He looked away, twisting the innocent top sheet mercilessly. "Do you-- do you need anything? Medicine?" He didn't ask how Malfoy had known he was there; he didn't want to know.

Malfoy laughed. It was an ugly sound. "Yeah." He stared at Harry, unblinking. "Guess you didn't get the message back there, but-- FUCK OFF!"

It was a wheezing, hollow croak, but Harry felt all the blood leave his face at once, and the headache became blinding. "Yeah?" He knew he was shouting-- saw Malfoy wince-- and knew Pomfrey was due back any moment, and here he was with a disembodied head, making a ruckus-- he just didn't care. "WELL-- WELL, FUCK YOU! I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU WANT, ALL RIGHT? I DON'T FUCKING CARE!"

And then he was furious because -he- was the one crying-- sobbing-- in front of Malfoy this time, and the idea was like a fist to the face. He jumped on top of Malfoy, straddling him and pushing his tongue in his mouth, moaning and licking frantically at his tightly shut lips. That was the only bit of resistance though; mostly, Malfoy went still, though Harry could feel he was shaking just as badly. Long seconds passed with Harry choking helplessly, unable to do anything violent, unable to -hurt- right now, which was the most frustrating part of all somehow. He only rubbed his chest sickeningly across the sheet covering Malfoy and settled for running his hands with freakish gentleness over Malfoy's sides, his thighs and hips and up his arms.

Up and down, up and down, until his own runaway heart slowed. He didn't notice when Malfoy stopped shaking; when Harry stopped licking and began simply breathing, gentle little puffs of breath against soft lips. They were slightly parted, but Harry's strength had nearly left him entirely by now.

He kept on rubbing, because if he stopped-- if he -stopped-, who knew what would happen. Malfoy would snap out of this weird trance and -talk- again or just look at him like-- like....

Harry's breath hitched painfully, and his nails dug into Malfoy's biceps. Malfoy gasped, jerking against him, and made an odd little mewling noise that was all too familiar.

Harry's heart sped up painfully, but he didn't make any sudden moves; only rubbed in little circles over the place he'd hurt moments earlier. His head drooped, nodding forward beside Malfoy's, and he huffed moist little breaths against the side of his neck, feeling nearly safe enough to let a couple of pent-up tears trickle free. His nose tingled oddly, but mostly he was light-headed. Relieved.

"Thank God," he muttered, mouthing the side of Malfoy's neck, shuddering.

A single thin arm wound silently around his back, not exactly holding him but-- resting. Yes, Harry thought drowsily. He could use a rest. That would be nice; he suddenly realized he was quite exhausted.

"Hey," Malfoy whispered, prompting a sullen mumble from Harry. "HEY!"

He pinched him. Harry's eyes snapped open. He -pinched- him! On his -bum-!

"What?" he snapped, quite peevish now. His head felt muzzy and thick, like someone had woken him up from a sound sleep, though he couldn't possibly have fallen asleep yet. "Mmph."

"You do realize you were about to start snoring. Squashing me." Malfoy bucked up, bony hips bumping against Harry's painfully. "Off! Get off, you bloody-- useless-- slag!"

Harry smiled, rubbing his nose wickedly against Malfoy's neck. He knew it tickled, and Malfoy didn't disappoint, jerking against him and smothering a tiny giggle. Harry tried not to sigh, but a little "mmm" escaped.

A tiny little part of him was trying to tell Harry something. Something about an apology or at least-- bringing it up. The very thought threatened to bring back the headache. All he wanted was to lie here, feeling Draco's chest beneath his, the steady thump-thump-thump of his heartbeat. It was enough, wasn't it?

He rubbed his nose against Malfoy's neck some more, losing himself in a fuzzy haze, like a blanket wrapping around all reason and memory, hiding the knife-sharp edges cutting him up from the inside. A part of him was still angry, anxious, frustrated, and dimly he realized his chest hurt, but. But Malfoy didn't fight him.

Malfoy didn't fight him. In this. In this, Malfoy never did, not seriously. Not even now.

Without warning, Harry opened his mouth, sucking at the skin of Malfoy's neck. He licked and sucked hard, hands resuming their gentle back and forth up Malfoy's sides. His mouth was harsh, making the other's breath hitch and hips buck helplessly, but Harry's hands barely applied any pressure. That's what he focused on: the thin sheet still between them, the quaking of Draco's chest, those tiny, hushed pants and the way Malfoy seemed to choke on a breath every time Harry's finger brushed too close to his nipples; he was careful, more careful than he ever remembered being. Something about this-- well, everything about this was different. Starting with the fact that the sheet between them actually reassured Harry.

He was a coward, he thought distantly; he didn't want to -see-.

Thinking that needled him; hounded him more with every passing second. Finally, Harry relented; he sat up, shivering at the dismayed gasp Draco made, that unfocused look. He rubbed at Draco's flat, quivering stomach, murming nonsense under his breath. His hands barely touched; he had his fingers spread and his eyes closed in concentration, going by the tinge in Draco's sounds. He -knew- him, didn't he? He really did.

He wasn't prepared for that sudden angry gust of breath and the equally sudden grab; Malfoy's fingers clamped tight around Harry's wrist the moment before he hissed and placed Harry's palm on top of warm flesh. He gasped, flinching.

"This is what you wanted, right?" Malfoy's voice wasn't even accusatory; matter-of-fact, rather. "Have a good grope, Potter. Nothing-- well, not much you haven't seen before, is it?"

Harry's heart was hammering and he felt dizzy-- weak-- but all there was to see was a thick dark-pink scar. It was long and obviously quite new, but it wasn't-- it wasn't -bad-. Didn't look like someone on the brink of death; didn't even look particularly painful.

Harry swallowed. "Does it hurt?"

Malfoy sneered. "What the fuck do you -think-, Potter?"

He flushed, feeling like an idiot in the way only Malfoy could make him. "Well, how should I know! I was only-- only trying--" God, he hated that look on Malfoy's face. Any second now and his nausea would be back, too.

"Oh Lord," Malfoy sighed, rolling his eyes. "Don't be so bloody sensitive. Let's try and recall who's the injured party here, shall we? You just have to make everything about -you-, even this, right? And how is the mighty Lord Potter faring in all this? Hmmm...."

Harry growled, and pinched Malfoy's nipple hard in retaliation before he thought twice. Cheating, maybe, but Malfoy's head jerked back and his cock twitched against him.

"How's that?" he hissed, scratching at Malfoy's stomach while giving the scar a wide berth. "Have something you want to say, Malfoy?"

Malfoy stared back at him through slitted eyes, but this was good; this was a look Harry recognized as well. And yet, he had no warning before Malfoy grunted and pulled at him, jerking Harry down by the collar. He panted, probably near-exhausted by this burst of energy, and bit at Harry's bottom lip with vicious force, tugging with his teeth.

Harry's heart flew up, suddenly lodging somewhere in his mouth. He pulled back, panting harshly as he framed Malfoy's face firmly between his hands and thrust his tongue in between his teeth. Malfoy groaned, arching against him and sliding his tongue against Harry's with a fury, all pretenses discarded. Their saliva pooled between their mouths, some running down Harry's chin as he did his best to consume Malfoy's mouth whole. No matter how much of his tongue he had, he wanted more; he sucked at it with a single-minded intensity he'd thought he'd nearly forgotten since their last time more than a month ago.

This was nothing like his sweet kisses with Ginny; the blood pounded so loudly in his ears he could scream, and the need to pound -Malfoy- felt like it had now settled into his bones, a throbbing aching mess, but he held back. He kept on kissing him, trying not to grind too hard against his leg. He knew he'd come like this if it went on, especially when Malfoy kept making those noises, his own dick twitching and jumping against Harry's stomach, but it was wrong, wasn't it. He shouldn't... shouldn't go that far....

"Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck--" It was a constant mumbled litany as Harry tried not to lose it completely. It had been so -long-. It felt like-- God, it was too long.

Malfoy pulled away roughly, gasping for air barely an inch from Harry's mouth. There was a string of saliva still connecting their mouths; Harry couldn't look away. "Come on. Do it like you want to, Potter." His pants were loud and harsh, and Harry's eyes flew up to meet Malfoy's. He nearly came, bucking up against him. "Fuck my arse," he mouthed as Harry watched his lips move, red and raw looking. Fuck, he was really going to-- no. No.

He dug his fingers into the bed. Malfoy was always like this; mind-fucking, hate-fucking, goading and then gloating afterwards at Harry's confusion and pangs of guilt. But he needed this-- God-- he needed.... Harry groaned, giving Malfoy's filthy, awful, gorgeous mouth a nipping lick and twist-and-sliding down until he was facing the other's angry-looking dick.

All Harry could think was: YES!

He took Malfoy as deep as he would go in one movement, feeling a resurgence of self-confidence at the loud moan, the way Malfoy's fingers pulled at his hair so hard it hurt. It would feel silly to recall, but at that moment Harry thought he was apologizing-- he was damn near -worshipping- Malfoy's cock, tears and spit streaking down to his chin. His moans were all but muffled by that bitter-tasting length hitting the back of his throat, but for once Harry welcomed the discomfort. Right then, he felt he was proving something-- somehow.

He swallowed Malfoy's come with a strangely poignant bliss, slurping and sucking gently as it tapered off, nuzzling into his balls and softly rubbing behind them. He felt hyperaware of every little sigh and whimper, to the point where he was overcome. His own cock throbbed needily in his trousers, leaking piteously, but Harry did nothing. He only licked and sighed and probed lower, down between Malfoy's inner thighs where the tiniest touch would make him arch and shudder.

"Nnn." Malfoy barely moved anymore, tossing his head on the pillow and snorting a bit. "S-stop--" he said, slurring. "Tickles... mnnn.... 'Sgood...."

It was seconds before Malfoy was out like a light, and Harry gave a slight smirk, thinking that he did supply the drug after all. He sat up, groaning under his breath and adjusting his cock, looking his fill of pale, still rosy flesh. No more greyness, anyway.

He lifted the sheet back up to Malfoy's chin, sitting back, and then (after a bit of a scramble) Harry located the blanket and tucked Draco in completely. He was actually nodding off again, exhausted, though his hand clutched at his swollen crotch stubbornly. He kneaded himself, contemplating coming over Malfoy's face, immediately flooded with half-remembered times he'd rubbed his come into Malfoy's skin, made him lick it up, made him want it. Beg for it. It just wasn't the same without that prissy mouth begging him.

God, he was tired, but if he left now-- tomorrow-- Tomorrow would come the way it always did. It's not like he could stop it. Malfoy would probably be a prick about this, the way he was about everything, but. At least he was okay. Ridiculous as that thought was, there it was. He was okay; they were okay. That was enough thinking, wasn't it?

Harry closed his eyes, sighed, and went to sleep on the empty bed next to Malfoy's.


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the artist formerly known as lunacy

October 2012

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