Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Let Me Be Your Voice	By : Queenie_Mab Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 8661 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations from Harry Potter, created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers: Bloomsbury, Scholastic, and Warner Bros. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended

Chapter List
- 12
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- 14
“Here it is, Harry,” Hermione said, stopping by the infirmary on her way to class. She set Harry’s and Malfoy’s school bags, full to bursting with books and scrolls, at the foot of Harry’s bed. She glanced timidly at Malfoy, who was ignoring them both. “Can I help at all?” she asked. “I must say that I’m rather fascinated by the written form of Parseltongue. I’ve done some research on the subject and I don’t believe it has ever been studied. I almost wonder …”

Harry chuckled as her voice trailed off. “Well, I know I can use all the help I can get with my essays. Malfoy has had me re-write a few of them already. I never realised how shoddy my writing has been until I started translating his.”

He heard a snort of laughter come from Malfoy’s bed and looked over. “Well, at least I can admit when I need help,” he added without thinking.

Malfoy raised his hand with a rude gesture, clearly not amused.

Harry threw up his hands. “I didn’t mean it as an insult. I’m serious.”

Hermione chuckled softly from the foot of his bed. “I’ll leave you two to settle your argument. Ron and I will check back in after lessons are over for the day. I’ll take notes so you don’t fall behind.”

“Thanks, Hermione,” Harry said and watched her hurry away, her hair bouncing as she walked.

After she had left, Harry pulled the school bags towards himself and started unpacking them.

“Might as well get some work done while we’re here,” he said, separating the books from the scrolls.

“What do you want from me?” Malfoy hissed softly.

Harry turned to look at him. He was facing Harry now, but not making any movement suggesting he was planning to get up anytime soon.

“What do you mean?”

Malfoy didn’t answer with words, but Harry could read his eyes. They said, plain as day, why do you care?

Harry wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say, what Malfoy was expecting to hear. “I — I don’t want Voldemort to win,” he answered at last. “If you fail because of this curse, or because of the ill will you are shown by others because of the war, it’s like he wins.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow as if he were asking: and that is all? but thankfully didn’t press the issue any further.

Harry felt a flush start spreading up his neck and turned to face the books so Malfoy couldn’t see. The intimacy of their confinement made the kiss they had shared hang over them like the lingering echo of a lone note from an oboe, after an orchestra had fallen silent.

~x~

The next couple of days flew by in a whirl of intense focusing on finishing their coursework. Harry suspected part of Malfoy’s drive to getting everything done was to keep Harry so heaped with things to do that he wouldn’t have any time to talk about anything uncomfortable.

Malfoy received an owl from his mother on the first day, but he wouldn’t let Harry read it and refused all assistance when Harry offered to write back to her.

Ron and Hermione stopped in once an evening after lessons were dismissed, to hand over their new assignments and to fill Harry in about how things were going among the other students. Apparently there had been some harsh exchanges between the houses in the lower years, that the eighth-year students were asked to curtail by McGonagall. Hermione dropped several hints that she’d like some help from Harry in getting the students to work together after he was released.

On the final night of Malfoy’s convalescence, they sat side-by-side on the edge of Harry’s bed, the piles of coursework strewn over a table in front of them. They were nearly caught up.

Harry was feeling the energy between them as if it were tangible, like they were fighting an invisible force that tried to pull them together. He put down his quill and flexed his fingers stiffly.

“I wanted to ask …” he started, but was cut off by Malfoy’s curt answer.

“There’s nothing to talk about, Potter. It was a dare. There was nothing more to it.”

Harry turned to look at Malfoy, who was deliberately focused on one of Harry’s essays in front of him.

“Erm … I meant to say that I wondered if your mother knows who cursed you and why.”

He saw Malfoy’s cheeks flush as he ducked forward to peer closer at the page in front of him.

“Of course she knows,” Malfoy answered irritably. “Don’t you think she would have raised a fuss about it if she thought it may have been cast upon me by anybody other than my father?”

Harry realised the venom in Malfoy’s voice was an attempt to cover up the fact that he too had been dwelling upon the kiss they had shared. It made Harry’s body grow warm, though he knew he faced an enormous task in getting Malfoy to admit it.

Madam Pomfrey interrupted them, clearing her throat. “It’s time to put away the books and get ready for bed,” she said, drawing the privacy curtain aside behind them.

Malfoy scowled as he set his quill down. “Ask her if I could have a shower, Potter,” he told Harry. “The Cleaning Charms have left a sticky residue on my skin.”

Harry turned to ask, looking at Pomfrey’s confused expression. He knew it was probably quite off-putting to hear them conversing in Parseltongue and not to be able to understand what they were saying.

“We’d really like a shower, Madam Pomfrey,” Harry said, hoping his words were coming out in English. “The Cleaning Charms are making me itch.”

She pursed her lips, breathing out heavily through her nose. “I suppose that would be all right. The prefects’ bathroom is the closest, but I will only allow you to go if you promise to stay together. I don’t want either of you getting into any trouble while you are under my care.”

They finished clearing off the table and stuffing papers and books into their school bags in silence after she had walked away.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked, noticing Malfoy’s scowling face.

“There isn’t a shower in the prefects’ bathroom,” he said, irritated. “I don’t much fancy sharing a bath with you.”

Harry tried not to feel offended. “At least the tub is enormous,” he said, trying to make light of the awkwardness he felt. “If we stay on opposite sides I don’t see how it will be much of a problem.”

Malfoy scowled again, but said nothing.

Shortly thereafter they made their way up the stairs covered by a tapestry to the fourth floor and gave the password to the door to the bathroom.

The chandelier burst into life as the door opened, revealing the swimming pool-sized rectangular bathtub with its hundred different taps. The flames from the candles sent a soft orange glow across the smooth white marble of the tub and floor.

Harry moved first, walking towards the deep end of the tub.

“That’s the side I want,” Malfoy interjected hotly.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Honestly. The bath is big enough for twenty people, Malfoy. Let’s just get it over with.”

He bent down, ignoring Malfoy’s indignant posture, and turned on a few of the taps, watching the steaming water begin to fill the large basin, much faster than it would in the Muggle world. Harry crossed the floor to a changing bench and stripped off his hospital pyjamas.

“Potter, I’m right here!” Malfoy protested.

Harry looked up and met his eyes.

“I’m sure I don’t have anything you haven’t seen before,” Harry said, not feeling very charitable. It was hard work playing nice with Malfoy, especially when the tension between them was so thick Harry felt like he was boxed in by it. He dropped his pants and climbed into the tub, settling beside a tap pouring a thick layer of foaming bubbles into the water.

He watched, faintly amused, as Malfoy crossed the room to a changing bench, a scowl plastered on his face. Malfoy grabbed a fluffy white towel from the stack and stripped off his pyjamas quickly, wrapping the towel around his waist.

Harry sat on the shelf lining the edge of the tub, allowing his head to rest against the ridge, relaxing his muscles, while Malfoy took a seat on the opposite side, still wrapped in his towel, his feet in the water. He adjusted a tap, sending a cascade of perfumed pink bubbles into the water and slipped under the surface, hidden behind them, unable to keep the sigh of relief from escaping his lips.

Harry wondered vaguely why Malfoy was acting so shy about seeing Harry nude, the way he kept averting his eyes, and refusing to look over, but the relaxing heat pouring from the tap to his right chased the thoughts from his mind.

Malfoy washed as the wall of bubbles dissolved, methodically mixing different potions from several taps, massaging his scalp with his back turned to Harry.

After he’d finished, he rinsed his hair, resurfacing from the water and moving towards the shallow end of the tub to turn another tap. A potion made up of what looked like purple sand filled Malfoy’s hand and Harry watched curiously as he scrubbed his arms and chest raw with it, finally sending a glare in Harry’s direction.

“You could wash, Potter,” he said dryly. “I don’t see why you feel the need to stare at me like a creeper.”

Harry shrugged at the barb. “What’s that you’re using? It looks like you’re trying to rub your skin off.”

Malfoy glowered at him. “I am exfoliating, you plebeian. It removes the dead skin cells and softens the skin. You might try it one of these days.”

Harry chuckled watching Malfoy attempt to get to his legs without surfacing; he overbalanced and caught himself from falling at the last minute by grabbing one of the taps.

“Potter, stop watching me!”

Harry chuckled again and took off his glasses, setting them on the edge of the bath. He turned to the tap nearest him and turned it, dumping a soapy potion into his hand. He scrubbed his hair and upper body with it, then refilled his palm and waded over to the shallow end of the tub, standing naked with the water coming up to his knees. He washed the rest of his body with firm deft strokes and then plunged under the water and swam back to the deep end. He reclaimed his seat and put his glasses back on. “Done.”

He looked over to where Malfoy sat submerged to his chest in the shallow end, working at washing each of his fingernails with yet another potion, a faint pink flush covering his cheeks.

It was a good half-hour before Malfoy had finally decided he was clean enough. He had spent the entire time not looking at Harry.

Harry raised an eyebrow, when Malfoy’s grey eyes flashed at him finally, fixing him with a stare.

“Would you mind turning around while I get out?” he hissed angrily.

“What’s the matter?” Harry hissed back, grinning. “Are you afraid you don’t quite measure up?”

His heart rate sped up at the gibe. He hoped he hadn’t gone so far as to instigate a fight, but simultaneously sort of wanted a reaction.

Malfoy’s cheeks flushed red. He turned and climbed out of the tub, leaving Harry staring at his flexing arse. His body was gorgeous, legs long and lean, and Harry’s breath caught at the brief sight of Malfoy’s balls before Malfoy covered himself with a towel and crossed the room to put his pyjamas back on.

Harry noticed they were freshly laundered and folded, set aside on the changing bench. He marveled at the magic of house-elves, to be able to complete their tasks without ever being seen, and was glad to an extent that they weren’t anti-wizard.

Harry watched Malfoy slip his pyjamas on, his back turned to Harry, and sighed, looking to his own pile of pyjamas in the corner.

He climbed out of the tub, not hiding the fact that his cock was half-erect and on display, but he was tired of Malfoy’s constant denial of the chemistry between them. He slipped his pyjamas on, feeling his arousal grow as he could feel Malfoy’s eyes on him, though he refused to look.

He knew he wasn’t model material. His chest was heavily scarred from the Horcrux locket, his knees were knobbly and he was short compared to most grown men, but he knew, too, that he was fit and lean. He pulled his pyjama bottoms over his muscular thighs, toned even more from all the time he’d spent on his broom over the summer.

He tied the drawstring over the tent in his pyjama bottoms and flipped his fringe out of his eyes, then looked to where Malfoy had slung his towel around his neck. He was normally a lot more reserved about hiding his erection, but Malfoy was driving him batty with all his mixed signals. Harry felt like flaunting a bit.

“Ready?” Harry asked, noticing the careful mask Malfoy had made of his face as he didn’t acknowledge Harry’s obvious bulge.

Malfoy turned and led the way out, and they walked back to the infirmary not talking. Fortunately, the corridors were empty.
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Let Me Be Your Voice