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The Volunteer	By : mrsmilfoy Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female Views: 11615 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all affiliated characters are property of J.K. Rowling. I make no profit from my drabbles.

Chapter List
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Chapter Two: Number Block

Harry was a quick enough study. It didn't take him long to recognise that he was the workhorse. And he really didn't mind. He could see from the relief on their faces that these girls were worked nearly to their bones here. Cho had told him how difficult it was to find nursery volunteers because people either didn't want the bother of the babies, or they didn't want to get attached to the babies.

But there were more than just babies on this ward. Mothers were here, too, of course. Families often gathered for births. And children up to age thirteen were hospitalised on the eighth floor. In fact, the ward was currently filled to the brim with orphaned, injured pre-adolescents and young teenagers. Harry hadn't even realized the scope of the war's extensive damage until he started volunteering. The number of families affected was truly staggering. Voldemort's reach had been most comprehensive.

He did know a few of the other volunteers. Padma and Parvati Patil, along with Cho, made up the circle of schoolmates he knew here. And he learned others were volunteering elsewhere in the hospital; Dennis Creevey, Pansy Parkinson, Daphne Greengrass and Seamus Finnigan, to name a few. He suspected he would run into them soon enough on his rounds.

And he had quite a few rounds. His coordinator kept him busy, indeed, and with certain less enjoyable jobs. Fetching deliveries was a staple, as was delivering to other departments. Linens were numerous and bulky – a damn heavy nuisance even with magic. And they went through so many… Sometimes, he felt like he fetched or laundered linens five times a day.

Elves helped, but they rarely appeared on the wards, preferring to work behind the scenes as they had at Hogwarts.

Then there were the odd jobs a volunteer picked up along their way; take this file to reception, drop these blankets off at the burn ward, take lunch up to Healer Grayson. Harry often lost track of the work he accomplished. But it was no bother at all. In fact, he loved being busy. By the time his head hit his pillow at night, there were no niggling thoughts and most importantly, no time for grieving.

He did have free time. His coordinator was quite adamant about caring for her workers. She insisted that her long-term volunteers have two free days a week, and apparently faced a great deal of resistance from hospital staff on this issue. They believed the word 'volunteer' equated to the word 'slave,' and she disagreed.

She wasn't afraid to lock horns with higher level hospital staff, and Harry admired her for it.

He also admired her hands, the little curls at the nape of her neck, her poise and the way she licked her teeth after she smiled to ensure she'd left no lipstick. He admired her spicy, unique scent and her strong feminine walk. He admired her trim waist and the beginnings of crows' feet aside her eyes.

When she was close enough, he studied her face as if she was a specimen. If she noticed, perhaps she ignored it. If she didn't notice, she was truly oblivious. Harry imagined himself to be transparent in his odd infatuation, but maybe she was just that preoccupied.

Or maybe she'd just never imagined that he could entertain thoughts of her beyond the professional. After all, she was more than twenty years his senior, and mother to a son Harry's own age.

Yet somehow – despite those odds – she crept into his dreams over and over again with her warm hands and hot breath. And now, often, Harry chased the dream, molded it to his own designs; made them alone in that forest, pressed his hand against hers, turned and caught her lovely lips by surprise before they could hit his ear.

True he'd never had sex. Fumblings in darkened corridors and awkward kisses in forbidden locations hardly amounted to what one could call experience. But Narcissa Malfoy's body set something alight in Harry's body that didn't require experience – just instinct.

He owled Ginny often, practically wracking his brain for something to say to her. She rarely responded with more than "Come home soon and take care." Hermione's letters were a bit more telling; how Ginny seemed to be withdrawing even further inside herself, how Molly and Arthur liked to pretend nothing was wrong, how Ron snapped often and behaved out of sorts. Harry encouraged her to come to the hospital – to come volunteer.

But Hermione called him out like no one else would have. "Harry. We can't run forever. And sometimes we have to deal with our problems before they absorb our strength only to ambush us in the night. What you're doing is wonderful, but don't do it just to avoid the darkness."

He kept that particular letter. Used it as a bookmark in Madame Bovary.

It had become quite obvious he wasn't the only person here escaping darkness. Not uncommon to find his fellow volunteers comforting each other through bouts of tears. However, it was also not uncommon to find them laughing together, singing along with the muggle radio or dancing in the conservatory.

In fact, the only person he hadn't seen crack her shell was their coordinator. She was ever diligent and business, brisk and taut as a drumhead. She gave out assignments and worked as hard as the rest of them, throwing herself as passionately into the fray as Harry did.

He wondered if she was even in contact with her husband. If she ever saw her son. She certainly didn't seem to have any contact outside of the hospital, really. And he rarely saw a Prophet lying about, too.

So it was a surprise to find her tucked into a shadowed nook in the linen closet crying over a letter. Harry blinked, the levitating load of blankets and towels threatening to spill from his spell, deciding what to do. I should just leave…or step back out and make some noise…she won't want me to see her crying…I should hold her…

"Mr. Potter." Her voice barely quivered.

Damn. He stepped further into the storage room. Metal racks glinted in the ambient light. "Sorry," he murmured. He settled the linens on a trolley and tucked his wand back into his pocket. "I was just…"

"Of course." She sniffed and folded the parchment. Spiky masculine script read 'Cissa' and Harry knew it was from her husband. Unless there was some other man who called her 'Cissa,' and he highly doubted that. She was smoothing her hands over her trim skirt, gathering her wits. "If I might ask of you to not mention this to the girls?"

"I wouldn't, Mrs. Malfoy."

"Thank you." She straightened, looking more her usual confident self and turned to the door.

"Mrs. Malfoy?" She glanced over a shoulder at him. "If there's anything I can do…" He gestured helplessly, and her answering expression was just as helpless. She shook her head and scurried from the room.

Harry's last task that day was to stock and organize the nursery supply closet. He didn't mind the hard work, but the several trips to various departments for enormous loads of sundries were exhausting. Plus, he worked a little over his usual six o'clock, thereby missing dinner. He decided to visit the conservatory fridge for a snack, and heard the music as he rounded the corner.

Like a fool I went and stayed too long

Now I'm wondering if your love's still strong

Oo, baby, here I am, signed, sealed, delivered, I'm yours!

He smiled, recognizing the old tune. He'd heard it often on Privet Drive. Aunt Petunia had been fond of a radio station that played primarily older pop and rock music. He liked this one.

In the bright conservatory, Cho, Padma and Parvati were dancing, laughing at each other's antics. Harry stood in the doorway unnoticed for a time, watching them until Padma caught sight of him mid-twirl. "Harry!" She squealed.

"What?"

The twins pulled him gracelessly into their fracas. "You can't just watch!" Parvati said. "You have to show us some muggle moves!" And perhaps exhaustion, the excitement of a shared joy, or simply the music itself pushed Harry to motion. He grinned and spun, dancing with each girl in turn.

Here I am baby

Signed, Sealed, Delivered, I'm yours

(You got my future in your hands)

Here I am baby

Signed, Sealed, Delivered, I'm yours

(You got my future in your hands)

Drawing on the music videos he'd seen growing up, Harry did give up some muggle moves: the Moonwalk, the twist, mashed potato and even a modified Mick Jagger impression that left his cohorts heaving with laughter. He was preparing to walk like an Egyptian when the girls froze and gasped collectively.

I've done a lot of foolish things

That I really didn't mean, didn't I?

He turned slowly and saw their coordinator standing in the doorway, a hand covering her wide smile. "By all means, Mr. Potter." The hand flicked in his direction. "Do carry on." Her smile showed pretty white teeth.

He blushed brightly. "Actually…um…I'm alright." His cohorts snickered at his embarrassment and he turned toward them. "You were dancing, too!" He looked back to Narcissa. "They were dancing, too."

Oowee baby, you set my soul on fire

That's why I know you're my heart's only desire

Cho flicked the switch on the stereo, silencing it abruptly and making Harry's last statement ring loudly. Narcissa shook her head. "No policy against dancing, Mr. Potter." She took a deep breath and addressed the group. "St. Mungo's has a Ministry Inspection tomorrow. Staff and volunteers alike should look their best, just in case. And I don't have to tell you to behave yourselves. Let the others know as you see them tonight so they can have cleaned and pressed uniforms. Alright?"

"Yes, Mrs. Malfoy," the group chorused.

She smiled again. "Mr. Potter perhaps you should dance for the inspectors tomorrow. I imagine they would appreciate a well-rounded talent such as yours."

Harry's blush deepened at his friends' laughter. Cho gave him a once-over. "I suppose we could all use a little sprucing up before tomorrow. Padma? Will you give us a mani tonight?"

The Gryffindor squealed. "Oh, I'd love to! Come on. I've got a lovely purple you'll love. Parvati, fetch us a bowl, will you?" The trio was headed out the door when Cho turned. "Want a manicure, Mrs. Malfoy?"

Narcissa glanced at her nails. "I thank you girls, but I'll pass. I've still some work to do."

"G'night, then." Cho smiled back at Harry. "G'night to you, too…Fred Astaire."

"Who's Fred Astaire?" Padma asked in the corridor.

Harry looked down shyly. "Sorry about the uh…dancing."

"I didn't complain." Her lips pursed and her hands were doing the nervous flicking. "Mr. Potter."

"Yes?"

"You need a haircut."

"Oh."

She hesitated again. "I'm rather good with hair. If you like, I could…"

"That'd be nice." A part of him thrilled to the thought of her attentions, her touching his hair, touching him.

She was obviously relieved. "Good! We can use my office, then." She turned to go.

"Do you mind if I grab a snack first?" Harry gestured to the refrigerator. "I skipped dinner earlier."

"Silly boy." Narcissa tisked. "You mustn't get so caught up in the work. It will still be there after dinner." She cocked her head. "Come with me. I'll take care of you on both counts."

In her dim office was a covered tray under a warming charm. She lifted the silver lid to reveal steak, green beans and a baked potato. An empty bowl held a crust of bread. "An elf brought it up to me earlier. I ate the soup."

His mouth watered. "I'm not going to eat your dinner, Mrs. Malfoy."

She whisked her wand and a leather wing-back sidled up to her desk. "Sit. Eat. It's ridiculous to let it go to waste."

He sat. She slid into her own chair tiredly, looking at him from across her desk as he ate. I'm having dinner with her, Harry thought. His mind swelled with the possibility. Sort of…

"How are you getting on, Harry?"

It was the first time she'd called him by his given name. He withheld a smile. "Fine. Thank you."

"No. Thank you." Her head lolled against the chair back and Harry watched her neck. "You've been an excellent help. I'm glad you came to us."

"Well, the work is good," Harry said. "It's what I needed."

She blinked. "You know…many of the volunteers are here because they don't have homes any longer."

"I know. I'm lending mine to the hospital, actually."

Her brow rose. "Grimmauld Place? I played there often as a girl. Your godfather and I were cousins, you know."

Strangely intimate, this; talking in hushed tones, the moonlight in her hair, him eating her food. Harry felt drowsy. "I know." He thought of the pictures he'd found – the few that were in his room at this very moment.

"I remember Sirius rather fondly, believe it or not. He was…a scamp." She sighed wistfully. "There was a time long ago when the Blacks were a family." Her eyes fell to his nearly diminished plate, and she changed the subject acutely. "I wanted to volunteer Malfoy Manor as you did. But Lucius…"

Harry settled his knife and fork politically, stifling the odd curl that attempted to control his top lip. "Lucius?" He prompted.

Her eyes met his again. Unspoken things swirled there like star clusters. "Lucius is Lucius," she said simply. And the discussion was tabled. "Ready? I don't want to keep you up too late." She'd drawn her wand. The ebony and silver studded instrument glistened as though wet in the moon's glow.

"Ready." Her fingers were what he'd expected, really; efficient and firm, warm and quick. They felt amazing ruffling his hair about. She was formulating her plan of attack, it seemed.

"I used to cut Draco's hair," she murmured. "Yours is different. Like your father's. Unruly."

His eyes opened. "You knew my father."

"Mm-hm. Vaguely. And your mother. Though I can't claim we were ever 'friends.'" She whispered and he felt a slice through his hair. Her magic tingled. Very strong. He remembered briefly dueling this witch and knew she was a formidable opponent. "We had a few classes together at school." Another slice. Her cutting seemed as certain as her manner and soon dark hair peppered his white oxford shirt. "Would you like to know anything about them?"

His throat tightened. He knew enough of his father, really. Between Snape's memories and the reminiscences of now dead Marauders, he knew quite a bit. He didn't know much of his mother. Beyond her moving pictures and her all-consuming sacrifice, he knew next to nothing. "No," he said.

She paused. Possibly surprised that he'd refused her offer. "Very well." Her fingertips occasionally brushed his nape or his temple. The temptation to lean into the innocent touches was strong. Truthfully, he didn't want to hear her talk about his mother because he didn't want to be reminded that this witch cutting his hair – this witch who'd awakened lust in him – was old enough to be his mother.

He didn't want the math, the years, the dates, the digits. They were just that, after all: numbers. All he wanted – needed – at the moment was her: all dressed in white, fussing over him. The nurse to his soul. The mother to his desire.

She moved to his front to tackle his bangs and he was treated to a view of her chest again. His height even seated gave him a bird's eye perspective, in fact. Beneath the fitted cotton v-neck she wore a stiff brassiere of some sort. The barest hint of lace said it was white or perhaps ivory. The lighting made deciphering color difficult, but created gorgeous shadows on breasts that were round and full. Not too big, but not small like Ginny's.

The sudden comparison stymied him for a moment. He couldn't compare this witch to Ginny. Ginny was still practically a girl as he was practically still a boy – or would be in Narcissa Malfoy's eyes. This witch was already a woman – a mother filled out by age, childbirth and the pitfalls of marriage to a Death Eater. His eyes dropped to her waspish waist. But hell, she looks bloody well fit for a mum.

He had a sudden image of his hands wrapping round that waist. Sliding over those hips. Cupping that arse. She stepped away from him, broke his reverie. "Much better," she said, smiling down.

Draco's mother. Harry smiled up at her in turn. The terrible truth that lurked at the base of his brain burst from its cocoon and fluttered violently to freedom. "Thank you," he whispered.

He needed this witch - his ex-feral-enemy who once taunted him with her very bearing; needed to know her, feel her hands on him at least once more if not for eternity. He needed to own her and in doing so be owned by her. He needed to be cradled in her arms, heart and thighs. He needed most primally to fuck her blind.

One last touch to his hair and she pocketed her wand. His body was on fire, and he was glad of the dimness and his dark trousers. Hopefully his erection was well hidden. "I officially release you," she said. "Just shave before tomorrow morning's meeting." Her knuckles scraped the two days of beard on his cheek, sending a further charge to his groin.

"I will." He stood, turned away from her quickly. "Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy. For dinner and the haircut. For everything, really." The chill of the door's latch brought him a hint of calm.

"You're welcome, Mr. Potter." She stood in her office door, watching him enter his room. Silhouetted in silver, one arm bent in the door's frame, she was an oracle – a goddess vision. "Sweet dreams."

He imagined they would be.

At the next morning's meeting, Harry was a bit brighter eyed than his colleagues. He'd slept well, and indeed… his dreams had been littered with gloriously filthy compromising images of himself and Narcissa Malfoy. He woke early for a wank, shower and shave – per her request.

And he didn't miss her approving glance when she breezed into the conservatory. "Good morning. Don't we all look quite smart?" She handed out lists of duties for the day. "Keep in mind inspectors are about. There's no guarantee, of course, that you'll run into them. But if you do, please represent St. Mungo's well, even if we are mere volunteers. News, questions or concerns?" At a round of headshakes, she nodded. "Very well. Enjoy your tea. And have a good day."

With that, she was off to her own solitary tea and work. Harry nodded to her as she slipped past him, and she slid her hand quickly across his jaw, surprising him. Her eyes were bright when he met them, his own probably wide and stupefied. "You clean up well, Mr. Potter," she spoke so softly he knew no one else heard her.

His gaze flicked to the girls gathered round the table, discussing their duties and preparing their breakfasts. They'd seen nothing of her caress. And when his eyes flicked back to their coordinator, she was gone.

Harry managed to avoid any inspectors, but he did spend his day in a confusing malaise. Remembering her touches put him in a state of complete befuddlement. He accidentally delivered a load of baby linens to adult long term care, and dropped a case of nipples outside the nursery supply closet. The staff had snickered happily at his modified nipple-summoning spell. After spilling a container of disinfectant all over himself and two Healers, he decided to knock off early, and went to the cafeteria.

He'd just stepped into the first floor lift with his dinner tray when he heard his name. "Mr. Potter!" He knew her voice like honey in his tea, and used his foot to stop the lift gates.

"Mrs. Malfoy." She stepped in beside him, slightly flustered and clutching a folder to her chest.

"Thank you."

"Headed back to our ward?"

"Yes. Eight," she intoned. The rickety lift began to rise. Her lips quirked. "I…I heard about the nipples." She was trying not to laugh. It was terribly sexy.

Harry grimaced, tried not to think of her nipples. "Yeah. That."

"Nice spell work, though."

His grimace turned to a grin. "Well. Necessity is the mother of invention."

"True." She finally allowed her smile, nodded to his dinner. "Off then for the evening?"

"Yes. I think I should quit while I'm ahead."

"Good idea. Any plans?"

"Just reading. You?"

She shuffled the folder she held. "I've some figures I promised I'd take a look at for Healer Wynn. Budgeting. Boring, but…" A graceful shrug. "What are you reading?"

"Madame Bovary."

"Oh." She blinked. Her lashes were remarkably long and he wondered briefly if she could feel them fluttering against those high cheeks. "Muggle book."

"Yes. I've been reading quite a few."

"Interesting… I enjoy reading, too."

"Really?" Every puzzle piece that comprised her was a gift, it seemed. "What are you reading now?"

"I just finished The Sword of the Sea."

He hoped his surprise wasn't offensive to her. He was familiar with the new wizarding title, popular particularly among men. "Oh. How was it?"

Her eyes crinkled adorably. "It was what one would expect. Swashbuckling magical pirates, mermaids, sirens and bodice-ripping."

A flash of the lace he'd glimpsed beneath her top the night before and he swallowed. "Sounds exciting."

"Would you like to borrow it?"

"I would." His heart sped a little. "I'll trade with you. I'm almost done with Flaubert."

"Alright." Was that anticipation in her eyes? The thrill of reading a muggle book? They walked quietly down the corridor together, separate from the bustle of the hospital at last. "Wait. I'll get that book for you."

Harry stood at his door as she instructed, but couldn't resist a glimpse inside her quarters. They were definitely larger than his, and had a window overlooking a full-size bed. Same neutral colors, it seemed, but draped across her tan duvet was a swath of white satin. A dressing gown, perhaps? Merlin, help me. Just what his fantasies needed – more salacious textures covering this forbidden witch.

He jerked upright when she darkened the door again, holding out a veritable tome bound in red leather. "Wow." He hefted the book. "This should keep me busy."

She ducked her head shyly. "It reads rather quickly, actually. I hope you enjoy it."

"I'll hand off Madame Bovary tomorrow."

"Fine. Fine." She was nodding unnecessarily. He wasn't sure why. "You can leave it on my desk if I'm out. I leave the door unwarded."

"I will." Harry gestured to her with his tray. "Want some of my dinner this time?"

She looked touched by his offer, as if she'd never been offered someone else's free meal before. Of course, she probably hadn't. "Oh…no. No. I ate earlier. But thank you. Really. Thank you." Her left foot rubbed the back of her right calf. Harry stared at it, almost felt it against his own calf. "Have a good evening, Mr. Potter."

"Yeah…you, too. Mrs. Malfoy." Her legs disappeared slowly back into her room, and Harry realized he hadn't looked back to her face once before her door closed.

The book was heavy on his chest. He laid on his bed staring up at bland white ceiling and thinking. When did it start? The wanting that came in such devastating waves... Did fingers in a forest force such wild desire? Could one tense and terrifying moment bind a mind to an idea like a sticking charm? Or had it always lurked there... He thought back on the times he'd seen the woman in his youth. The time he'd stared at the hourglass of her body at the Quidditch World Cup and thought, "How wasted is that body on such an icy bitch?"

He'd thought how perfect she and Lucius Malfoy were for each other - both so disgusted by anything other than themselves that it was a wonder they could function at all in outside society.

And he'd believed absolutely that day in Madam Malkin's that Narcissa Malfoy was capable of killing him. She'd struck him as such the lioness when it came to protecting her spoiled, ferretous son that he was almost surprised she hadn't been a Gryffindor. Of course, she would probably be mortified to hear such a thing. But still...

Was it her strength, then? Her fearless sense of self-righteousness that drew him to her? He grimaced and shifted his erection. It had to be more than tits and ass. Right?

A part of him piped up meekly then, saying, envy? And his forehead creased. Was I jealous of Draco Malfoy? Of her doting, enduring motherhood? A thing I never knew? Is that what I want from her? Skint knees kissed, haircuts and hot meals? Her pride and praise? "Is this because I wasn't breast-fed?" He asked aloud.

But thoughts of her breasts spiked fervent flickers of desire in his already blazing brain and the erection intensified. He sighed in frustration and cast her book off his chest, opening his trousers matter-of-factly. He flipped through files of images until he settled on a fantasy involving her and a dressing room in Malkin's. The dream-sex was rather angry, so he fisted himself accordingly and it wasn't long until he'd sprayed his hand with the evidence of his deviance.

No, he didn't want a mother.

He wanted Draco Malfoy's mother...

AN: Again, I tip my tiny hat to my brilliant Britpicker intoxicatedminds. This chapter brought to you by some music: Signed, Sealed, Delivered belongs to Stevie Wonder. And though they're not outright featured, I relied heavily on A Perfect Circle's The Nurse Who Loved Me and the Decemberist's lovely album The Hazards of Love.
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The Volunteer