Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Infusion	By : YamiBakura Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 3482 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything associated with it; it's all Jo Rowling and Warner Bros. I'm not making any money to write this.

Chapter List
- 1-Infusion
- 2-two
- 3-three
- 1
- 2
- 3
He opened his eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling. Everything was blurry and his head hurt something fierce. Where am I? He tried to say it, and was startled when it came out sounding something like “Gurgmble?”

With an effort, he turned his head and realised he was in a bedroom. There was something vaguely familiar about it now that he was looking at it, but everything was still blurry and he reached up and felt for his glasses. They were missing, which explained the fuzziness pervading everything. He felt slow, like he was trying to breathe and move and think through molasses, but with an effort, he pulled himself up into a sitting position. A fuzzy white thing was slumped over the end of his bed, but he ignored it for a moment. He found his glasses on a table beside the bed and slipped them on, sighing in relief as the room sprang into clarity.

It was about that time that he realised it was one of the spare bedrooms of number twelve Grimmauld Place, and the white slump at the foot of the bed was actually a person. Their head was turned away, but it looked vaguely familiar from the back. Harry swallowed and cleared his throat. “Hello?”

The figure stirred, mumbling something, then sat up and stretched. Grey eyes flicked a cursory glance over him, and Harry had the feeling that this had been something of a habit. He wondered how he’d gotten to Grimmauld Place when his last memory was of being in the Great Hall at Hogwarts, but curiousity took a backseat to horror as he realised it was Draco Malfoy who’d been asleep. The white-blond hair was longer than he remembered, but the most shocking part was the way it stuck out in every different direction, and there was several days’ worth of stubble on his face. Not once in seven years of being in school together had Harry ever noticed Malfoy looking less than immaculate, and seeing him looking so scruffy, not having shaved in several days, with hair that was lank, and greasy, falling around the pale, pointed face in clumps – it was like looking at an entirely different person.

Malfoy’s eyes widened as he took in Harry’s appearance. “Professor Snape! Madam Pomfrey! Professor McGonagall!” The Slytherin shouted at the top of his lungs and threw himself back from the bed so fast the chair he’d been sitting in rocked and fell over. Malfoy lunged for the door, and screamed for the teachers again. Harry held his head in his hands, feeling the blood throbbing through his temples.

What the hell?

-

McGonagall came bursting through the door, nearly hitting Malfoy in the face. She fell to her knees beside Harry and said, “Oh, Harry,” and then burst into tears. Harry recoiled, suddenly afraid he’d been transported into an alternate dimension. A scruffy Malfoy, a tearful McGonagall? Was Snape about to come in and pat him on the head and tell him how proud he was?

The advent of the Potions Master a moment later nearly made Harry leap out of bed because for a moment – just a moment – he was afraid that that was what was going to happen. Snape stopped short of the still weeping McGonagall, flanked by a beaming Madam Pomfrey and a lurking Malfoy. He didn’t quite sneer.

“Be still,” Snape said, tone dripping acid. “I will explain to you what you suppose you saw on the Astronomy tower later, but for now I require an explanation from you. What,” he began. “What. In seven years as my student gave you the idea that after someone spills an unknown potion all over you and your food it is perfectly fine to continue eating it as if nothing had happened?” His eyes flashed, and in retrospect Harry realised that it probably hadn’t been the greatest idea. Though in his own defense, he’d had other things on his mind.

“I,” Harry said. “I didn’t realise –”

“Precisely,” Snape drawled. “I’m not entirely sure if you realise anything that goes on around you. It is due to your airheaded thoughtlessness that we are now in the situation we find ourselves in.” He glanced at Malfoy, who had a shining and almost worshipful light in his eyes to be the subject of Snape’s attention. Harry felt bile rise to the back of his throat and swallowed against it while Madam Pomfrey bustled around the room, collecting potions onto a tray, and McGonagall stood and tried to compose herself. “Have you told him?” Snape asked, and Malfoy shook his head.

“I don’t know how long he was awake,” he said. “When I woke up, he was already sitting. I didn’t think to explain anything,” Malfoy added ruefully. He lifted a hand to the back of his neck, and the tips of his ears turned pink.

Snape turned back to Harry with a flat expression. “Very well. Do you recall one of the very first things I taught you?” He asked it in the tones of someone who is expecting a negative answer and is already composing the scathing remark he could give in return. For the first time since waking up in this bizarre set of circumstances, Harry felt his mood lightening. He’d gotten in trouble for taking notes, but he still recalled the notes.

“An infusion of wormwood and asphodel creates a sleeping potion so powerful it’s known as the draught of living dea –” He cut himself off, immediately realising the implications. The potion – that had gone all over him and into his food – must have been the draught of living death. Which meant he’d been asleep – judging by Malfoy’s appearance - at least a week? Maybe longer. Panic suddenly gripped him. Why was Malfoy keeping watch? Where’s Ron? And Hermione?

“Precisely,” Snape said again, and as he watched the thoughts play out over Harry’s face, his expression became something not quite as severe. It still couldn’t be defined as pleasant, however. “Your … lapse in judgement has cost us three months. A great deal of the Hogwarts students have decamped and joined with the Dark Lord, as well as countless others from outside the school. Mister Weasley and Miss Granger have taken Zacharias Smith on a mission to recover Ravenclaw’s Diadem from the school. You may be relieved to know that they will be returning shortly,” Snape added, though his eyes said that he’d have preferred to be delivering any news but that.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief to know that his friends were safe. Then the rest of Snape’s statement caught up with his still-muddled brain. “Wait,” he said. “Three…?”

“Yeah,” Malfoy interjected. “Most people have given up hope. V-Voldemort thinks he’s won. He took over the school and Hogsmeade is gone, and Diagon Alley is in pieces, and no one thought you were ever going to wake up.” His lips twisted into a wry, unhappy smile. “I told Granger I’d keep an eye on you while she was gone. She’s been working hard the last few weeks, with Professor Snape to find an antidote for you.”

Harry tried to surreptitiously pinch himself. Malfoy was doing favours for Hermione? Snape was working hard to help him for once? Was he dreaming? “I don’t think I can deal with this,” Harry said quietly, and his stomach gave a wrench. Madam Pomfrey elbowed her way through the small crowd around his bed and handed him a basin, standing by with the tray full of potions she’d gathered for him. Harry turned away from the audience to be quietly sick into the bucket, and then dropped it over the side of the bed. He still felt nauseous, but his stomach seemed to be settling. Snape, McGonagall and Malfoy were quiet, though at a sharp look from Pomfrey they backed away. Snape and McGonagall withdrew to a corner to have a hurried conference while Harry was taking the potions. Malfoy perched on the edge of the bed, looking at the wall. Harry inched his feet a little bit further away; he didn’t know all of what he’d missed during the time he’d been out of commission but whatever epiphanies the Malfoy heir had come to, Harry didn’t know and still wasn’t sure how much to trust him.

“Something to settle your stomach,” Pomfrey was saying. “And this is to replenish nutrients in your body and this is to dispel any lingering dizziness.” She went on explaining the function of the ten or so potions she was handing him, and Harry drained each vial without question. When he was done, he did feel better, and thanked her. The mediwitch smiled and backed away in turn when McGonagall and Snape finished talking and came back to the bedside.

“It will be a few days before you’re well enough to get up,” Snape told him. “The house-elves will bring you meals, but you are under strict orders to rest. Draco can explain the minutiae to you if you wish, but I’ll be leaving him here to make sure you’re doing as you’re told.”

Harry shot a furtive glance at Malfoy to see how he was taking the news of guard-duty, and was surprised to see a faintly pleased expression pass over his face. “I,” Harry said. “That’s fine. I’ll… This is a lot to deal with.”

Malfoy scoffed. “Think of what we’ve been going through without you,” he murmured as the teachers filed out of the room. “Voldemort practically running the country, you in thrall to some mysterious potion – Professor Snape had a hell of a time figuring out how they’d altered it.” He noticed Harry’s confusion, and elabourated. “All poisons and other harmful potions have an antidote,” Malfoy explained, and Harry found himself thinking that when he wasn’t sneering or snarling, Malfoy’s voice was pleasant to listen to. Then he realised he was probably suffering some sort of lingering dementia from his prolonged coma, and pinched his thigh again. Malfoy went on, oblivious. “We were able to determine from the remnants in the cauldron she dropped that it was an advanced form of the draught of sleeping death, but it wasn’t responding to the normal antidotes. We tried everything from banging pots together beside your head to a bezoar. Nothing worked. Word leaked out, and of course Voldemort took it as a sign of his victory – we’re sure the girl who did it to you was a Death Eater, or at least working for them.”

Harry made a startled noise. “But she was only in second year at best,” he protested. “Would Voldemort really have recruited someone twelve years old?”

Malfoy’s mouth twisted. “He nearly recruited someone at sixteen,” he said mildly. Harry recalled sixth year – it hadn’t been that long ago, or so it seemed to him. He’d been convinced Malfoy was up to something, and been proven right. “I’ll tell you about Snape and myself in a moment,” Malfoy promised. “But first, why not a twelve year old? Who would suspect someone that young? But when your family’s being threatened, and all you’ve got to do is pour a potion all over Harry Potter to guarantee their safety…” Malfoy shrugged. “I was prepared to do a lot worse for my family’s lives.”

“I guessed,” Harry said. “I mean, I knew you were up to something, but after everything… I knew it would have had to be pretty serious.” He couldn’t seem to come right out and say it. Malfoy nodded anyway, and it after six and a half years of unmitigated hatred and rivalry, it was beyond strange to sit there and have a civil conversation. He kept expecting Malfoy to leap off the bed and hex him, or just punch him in the nose, or at the least start insulting him.

“So. Um. Veritaserum and pensieve memories and extensive trials are the reason Snape and I are here instead of Azkaban,” Malfoy said. “Plus, and I don’t know how much this had to do with anything, Dumbledore’s portrait was consulted.” Malfoy’s voice gentled in a way Harry had never heard before. “You knew… um… you knew he was dying anyway, right?”

Harry closed his eyes. He’d never thought of it like that, but the signs had been there. In retrospect, with the horrible things they’d been describing to him since he woke up – three months of his life were gone, and he was never going to get them back, and he was still trying to deal with that on top of everything else – it seemed clear. The ring had been a Horcrux and Dumbledore shaved years off his life trying to destroy it. It might have been the thing that killed him, though the poison guarding the false necklace would have finished the job even sooner. Thinking clearly about it for the first time, Harry realised that Snape had probably done Dumbledore a favour. “I knew,” he said finally. He felt very old. A war was going on while he was in a magical coma that apparently very few people thought he’d come out of. Voldemort had all but taken over, and it was now up to him to get better and stop him. He didn’t feel up to dealing with anything just yet, and looked directly at Malfoy for the first time since the teachers had left them. “Can you explain,” he began. “Maybe tell me why you’re doing favours for Hermione?”

Malfoy went pink. “Well, my father is still in Azkaban. He’s not coming out, and now that I’ve heard – I’ve done – I understand. He needs to stay there,” Malfoy said with finality. “Maybe I deserve to be there instead of him, or maybe with him, but my mother would kill me. And… well, she finally introduced me to Aunt Andromeda and my cousin Nymphadora, and my uncle, he’s muggleborn, but he’s not so bad, and Nymphadora, she’s a metamorphmagus, did you know? I wish I was a metamorphmagus, but that’s not something you can learn. I’m learning to be an animagus, though. I heard your father was one. In fifth year, wasn’t he?” Malfoy’s voice was envious and more than a little impressed. Harry wondered briefly if Malfoy was perhaps the first Slytherin in history to refer to Harry’s parents with something other than scorn and disdain. “To think that your dad was an animagus in fifth year, and when we were in fifth year you were teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts, and my biggest ambition was to be a school yard bully.” Malfoy sighed. “I realised something while Snape was keeping us out of Azkaban and you were just… laying there like a dead person, and Voldemort was taking over.

“I think I’ve had the wrong end of the stick the whole time,” he said, dropping the bombshell right into Harry’s lap with aplomb. “I’m not saying I was totally wrong, or that you were totally right, or that we’ll ever be best friends,” he added hurriedly. “Just that maybe I’m not totally right, and you’re probably not totally wrong.”

“I,” Harry said. “That’s a … big change.”

Malfoy shrugged. “Well, it didn’t come all at once, but I’m trying. It helps that Granger’s not a complete incompetent, even if she did have… dubious parentage.” Malfoy raked a hand through his hair, kicking it up into an even wilder state. Harry’d almost forgotten about it, but now that he was letting himself look, he was able to see the lines creasing the corners of Malfoy’s eyes and the shadows around his lips. It was an incongruent image, considering Malfoy was only seventeen, and the last clear memory Harry had of him was youthful, lively, entertaining half the Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables with his antics.

“When was the last time you slept in a bed?”

Malfoy shot him a dirty look. “Last night,” he said. “I just didn’t sleep very well, and ended up… napping. Dozing,” he amended. “Just dozed off in the chair and must have fallen forward and – hem.” Malfoy cleared his throat, ears pink. “Anyway.” He waved it away, though Harry noticed that Malfoy didn’t look directly at him again for a while.

“So why don’t you shower and change and maybe go take a proper nap?” It was just a suggestion, but Harry could see Malfoy considering it. Finally he nodded.

“There is merit to what you say,” he said. “Will you be alright?”

Harry had a sarcastic comment on the tip of his tongue. He was ready to say it, and then his brain kicked in and reminded him that he’d been getting along with Malfoy, and the pureblood was truly making an effort. He needed all the allies he could get at this point, and he was fully aware of it. “I made it through seventeen years mostly on my own,” he said instead. “I’m sure I can handle another half hour.”

Malfoy’s fading blush returned full force. “Very well,” he said loftily. “Just call for one of the house elves if you need anything.” His hands fluttered over the comforter, like he was itching to straighten it or fluff pillows or something, but he didn’t touch. Harry relaxed back, trying to ignore it, and considered all the things he’d learned. Malfoy finally left but Harry was distracted by a slamming door and a scream. He bolted upright in bed, then winced as his muscles – unused to motion – protested the movement. There was a curious thunder from the hallway and then Hermione burst through the door like a hurricane, her hair almost standing on end and her eyes wide.

“Oh, Harry!” She threw herself at him, and Harry realised that even though it felt like it had been just a few hours, it was good to see her after all.

*

Draco pulled the door behind him, not quite closing it fully, and leaned against the wall. They’d almost given up hope. They’d almost given up entirely. He was glad that they hadn’t, now. From the beginning, all he’d wanted was friendship. When he couldn’t have it, he set out to be the biggest pain in the neck he could be, and he’d managed it. But with Potter comatose, Voldemort’s victory was almost assured, and suddenly facing the reality of the dreams his father had been feeding him, Draco realised he’d been wrong. Everything he’d said to Potter had been the truth, and it felt almost liberating to finally be honest with himself.

Actually, if he were being fully honest, he’d admit that Harry’s eyes were the most amazing shade of green he’d ever seen, but that was territory he didn’t want to get into, not when they’d just started toeing the line of the no-man’s-land sectioned off for peace between them.

He heard Granger’s scream of delight, and went down the hall a little ways to the room he’d claimed when they first moved in, just in time to avoid being run over as she and Weasley barrelled into Potter’s room. He was half-tempted to stick around and eavesdrop a little bit, but battled the impulse down and ducked into his room instead. He lay down on his bed, pillowing his head on his arm, and stared up at the ceiling and thought about all the things that were starting to go right.

A knock on his door interrupted him and startled him out of the half-dreaming doze he’d slipped into.

“Come in,” he said, rolling off the bed into an upright position, and ran his fingers through his hair to flatten it a bit. Zacharias Smith edged the door open, and stood just inside.

“Thought I’d let you know how it went, since the other two’ll be busy with Potter for the next three weeks,” he said. Draco had never liked Smith; even looking past the Hufflepuff part, he didn’t like blonds – himself excluded of course – and there was something about the laconic boy that just rubbed him the wrong way. He could never tell when Smith was being serious or joking or sarcastic or anything, and he didn’t like not knowing. No matter how hard he tried, Draco couldn’t master the politician’s art of an impassive expression in the face of everything. Smith had not only mastered it but gone one farther and seemed to be impassive with inflections. Just now, looking at his flat lips and hooded eyes, Draco had no way of guessing whether or not the venture had been successful, or if Smith was actually about to pull out a gun and murder him where he stood.

“We got the diadem,” Smith said after a few moments of silence and mutual studying of one another. “Professor Snape is having a look at it right now. Professor McGonagall thought that maybe putting the diadem and Slytherin’s locket together might cause some sort of reaction, but nothing’s happened yet. We’re having a meeting of the Order tonight to get suggestions on how to destroy them.”

Draco lifted his chin a notch, wishing Smith didn’t make him feel so inferior. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll take another look at this book my mother brought from the Manor.” He waved the book from his bedside table, and then sat on the bed, prepared to do some more studying. It was, so far, the most comprehensive book anyone had been able to produce concerning Horcruxes and their creation and destruction.

Smith didn’t seem to take the hint, however, and remained where he was. Draco looked up after he found the page he needed.

“Yes?”

“I hear Potter’s awake,” Smith said and paused. For a moment, what appeared to be actual expressions passed over his face, though Draco couldn’t identify them all – they just came and went too fast for decent comprehension. “How’s he doing then?”

“Fine as far as anyone can tell,” Draco said candidly. “We weren’t expecting him to wake up at all, of course, so everyone’s in a tizzy over the fact that he actually has. We’ll know more over the next few days if there’s been any permanent damage.”

Smith nodded as he took this in, and then let himself out. Draco sighed. I really hate him, he decided, and then turned back to the book, trying to find something they could reasonably use to destroy the two Horcruxes in their possession. Basilisk venom was one option, but as the only known source was beneath Hogwarts, deep in enemy territory – assuming Voldemort hadn’t already gone down and gotten the fangs Potter’d left behind – that was out.

-o-

Two days after Potter’s awakening, the Order was no closer to figuring out how to destroy the Horcruxes. They’d had some impressive screaming rows over them, so loud that even Potter had heard them up in his room. He was chafing at being stuck in bed, and Draco was on his way to deliver more books. Granger had proclaimed that since he was bedridden until his body could readjust to consciousness, he could help in their efforts to locate more Horcruxes and researching ways to destroy them.

“Malfoy! I’m so glad you’re here, I’m about to start tearing my hair out. Hermione and Ron have been busy all day, poking that damn tiara with sticks, and this book put me to sleep twice.”

Potter looked genuinely glad to see him. Draco gave a small grin; he’d wanted this for years, wanted Potter to look at him like he was worth something, and now that he had it he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

“I was just coming to deliver more books for you. Still having trouble standing?” He’d been in the room with Weasley and Granger the first time Potter tried to get to his feet, and his legs, weak from so many months just lying still, had simply given out on him. He was spending several hours a day working them, and Draco thought it also had to do with his balance – three months horizontal would mess it up, he knew, since spending more than eight hours in bed messed him up – but that would have to come after he’d gotten some strength back in his muscles. Draco cringed inwardly to think of what this would do to his chances on a broom. From the very first, Potter had been a flier to envy, and the Blacks had installed a Quidditch pitch in their spacially-adjusted back yard, overgrown now but Draco had been itching and chafing to get out there and practice on it, especially since it was covered round with anti-muggle wards and notice-me-not charms, but he couldn’t get anyone to come out with him. With Potter awake, he had high hopes that the Gryffindor Seeker would be up for a round of Catch the Snitch if nothing else, but not if he couldn’t walk out to the field under his own power.

“Bloody hell, yes,” Potter snarled, and raked a hand through his hair. He’d recently bathed, so it was wet, and instead of kicking back into his eyes it stayed pushed over, looking gelled into place. It wasn’t a bad look, but it exposed the scar on his forehead, and Draco knew from conversations with Granger that Potter was horribly self-conscious about it. He wouldn’t be likely to wear his hair like that full-time. Even if it did free up his eyes for viewing, too, which without his glasses covering them or his hair shadowing them, were even more vibrant than Draco remembered. Be professional, he told himself.

Draco took a seat in the chair that was pulled up to the edge of the bed, and dropped the books, carefully avoiding Potter’s feet. He could move them, but not quite fast enough to avoid the texts, and Draco didn’t want to injure him. On one hand, Potter would probably kill him if Draco broke his foot and slowed down his recovery that much more, and on the other, he was almost startled by his disinclination to cause harm. It’s nothing, he told himself. It’s certainly not a crush. No matter what Professor Snape, he did not have anything beyond friendly feelings for Potter. He did not.

“So,” he said, hoping his face wasn’t giving away his thoughts. “Instead of reading, why don’t we talk?” He gave a sort of twisted smile; he’d been practicing at it, but nasty smirks were basically his trademark and he’d had a lot more practice at making them instead of an actual smile. He’d just discovered – and so far, had no luck in sharing this momentous realization with Professor Snape – that the Gryffindors they were surrounded by responded much better when one gave a genuine smile instead of a sneer. Pansy had laughed herself silly when he’d told her via magic mirror, and had to cut their conversation short because her raucous hooting had attracted the attention of her brothers, who were Death Eaters. Pansy, he was convinced, was on their side; she was just spying on her family for him out of loyalty. He fretted sometimes at her putting herself into such danger, but she said she preferred the fear, uncertainty, and possibility of a messy and painful death to sitting around the ancient and most noble house of Black with Draco and the rest of the Order.

Harry’s eyes lit up, and he asked about Quidditch. Draco laughed, and they gave themselves over to it like – as McGonagall might have said – ordinary teenagers.

Eventually the conversation came around to girls. “So,” Draco asked. “Girl Weasley. Did you or didn’t you?”

Potter flushed. “Just a few kisses,” he admitted. “I broke up with her because… well, it’s a war.”

“Brilliantly noted,” Draco drawled. “And this is a house, and you’re lying in a bed. Any more fantastic observations?”

“Well, you asked. I didn’t want to put her in danger.”

“From what I hear, she’s put herself in danger all on her little lonesome. I also hear her lonesome isn’t so little, too.”

“Malfoy!”

Draco felt a grin tugging at his lips. No one did outraged scandal like Potter when it came to saying his name. “I’m just saying,” he said defensively. “So, what’s your deepest and best kept secret?”

Potter looked intrigued. “Not darkest?”

“I have no desire to share my darkest secret, but I’ll give you my best kept one if you swear an Unbreakable Vow not to reveal it,” Draco said, leaning forward conspiratorially.

“I’ll do no such thing,” Potter said, his tone withering enough to be an eighty year old woman.

Draco laughed. “Very well, no Vow. I’ll still tell you, but you have to at least promise not to reveal it.” Potter nodded, and leaned forward. “The story about the helicopter and the toad was totally false. I made the entire thing up.”

Instead of laughing, Potter just looked confused. “What story about the helicopter…? What?”

“You mean I never told you that one? Well damn,” Draco said. “That was a waste of a good confession. Your turn. Deepest and most well-kept secret.”

Expecting something more along the lines of a secret fetish for leather, or maybe something to do with his parents, Draco was taken utterly off-guard by Potter’s sudden flush.

“I think I might prefer guys,” he muttered.

“Oh.” Draco paused. “Oh!”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Potter said suddenly, turning those luminous verdant eyes on him. Draco felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room.

“I won’t,” he said.

“And don’t,” Potter added, “be a jerk about this to me. I’m not entirely sure yet. I’ve never… well, there was just Cho and Ginny, but then,” he made a slashing motion with his hand that Draco couldn’t understand and didn’t try to, then shrugged.

“I won’t,” Draco promised. “I’m a malicious Slytherin, not a hypocrite.”

“What?” said Harry. “What?”

To his mortal shame, Draco felt his entire face turn pink. “Well, I can’t be a jerk about it to you since I definitely prefer guys, myself,” he admitted.

“Oh.”

Draco glanced up at him. “You have to tell me another one, since I gave you two.”

Potter opened his mouth, but before he could say anything Draco was humiliated again to hear Snape’s voice from the doorway.

“As fascinating as all this sharing-and-caring time is, there are two Horcruxes in a locked box downstairs that need eliminating, and unless you actually read the books and not just sit on them, they’re not going to be much help.” He turned from the room in a swirl of robes, and the two boys shared a silent, horrified glance that lasted all of about five seconds. Then they both collapsed into helpless laughter, shaking with it until tears slipped out and ran down their faces.

So, Draco thought, this is what it’s like to have a real friend.

-o0o-

I'm very pleased to see all the reviews. Not sure if I mentioned this in this story or the other one, but I absolutely adore writing for everyone in this section because you're all amazing. Hope you enjoy this, and the next chapter will be up as soon as it's written (and someone mentioned needing a beta. I'll be on the lookout for one, but my internet access is spotty so I apologise in advance for any glaring mistakes and whatnot.)
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Infusion