Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Infusion	By : YamiBakura Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 3475 -:- 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
- 2
- 3
It was, Snape mused, occasionally terrifying to be a teacher. A five minute conversation – not that he’d meant to stand outside and listen for that long, but he couldn’t bring himself to interrupt and the message needed delivering – had revealed more about two of his few remaining students than he’d ever wished to know. Ever.

And then some.

Suppressing a shudder, he tried to turn his mind back to the potions he was in the middle of. Wolfsbane, for Lupin’s lycanthropy in the small cauldron, and a draught of peace in another for McGonagall’s state of mind. With half an ear on the draught of peace, he stirred the Wolfsbane and considered the information he’d overheard.

He didn’t want to know. If those two were going to leap straight past the awkward friendship stage and right into a relationship, he wanted to be as far away from it as possible. Years of being in control of hormonal teenagers had given him a distinct distaste for other members of the human species, wizard or no, and it had been a sort of unspoken relief to be in Grimmauld Place, away from the hordes of students, and he felt that this last bastion of sanity should be unbroached by the fumblings of sex-starved adolescents.

But he knew, and he had no way of removing the information from himself. It was quite likely that one of the other professors residing at Grimmauld Place could perform the necessary charm, but then he’d have to explain why he needed it done. And though he would have happily humiliated Potter, Draco knew that Snape’s silence was his bond. It was one of the ways he’d managed to keep the Slytherins under control when the whole school was falling apart. From the time they set foot in his House, his students knew that they could come to him with anything and in addition to receiving whatever advice he could dole out, their secrets would never be spoken of again. He generally put things out of his mind and forgot them until they were needed again – his brain had more important things to be doing, like brewing, than focusing on his student’s problems.

And that brought him back again to the issue at hand. I must first decide what must be done about it, if anything, he told himself. Perhaps he could approach Draco – safely away from Potter and other prying ears, of course – and ask him to sit down and discuss this with him. And then if anything had to be brought to Potter’s attention, he could quietly inform Minerva, and she would handle it from there.

Satisfied by his conclusion, he stirred the Wolfsbane and then barely had time to duck as the draught of peace exploded messily, left too long on the heat, and somehow began spewing forth more liquid than could actually have been contained in the cauldron.

These children are bad for my health, he thought, using a rubbish bin lid to shield the Wolfsbane from the worst of the near-volcanic eruption of the failed potion.

-o0o-

It had been a week since he’d woken up, and Harry was sick to death of being bedridden. There was a near-constant stream of guards to make sure he hadn’t had a relapse – he knew they were petrified each night of him going to sleep and not waking up again for three months, or this time, ever – but in the spaces between visits he managed to swing himself out of the bed and was practicing standing. I hate this, he thought. It was early enough in the morning that no one had dropped by yet, and he’d just sat up and was preparing to slide out of the bed for his routine practice when someone knocked on the door. Before he could say anything, it swung open and Zacharias Smith stood there, looking like a portrait with the door framing him and the early morning sunlight from the hall window streaming in behind him.

“Good morning,” he said politely, and stepped in. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but I was just wondering if you still had Hexes, Horcruxes and Hellebore: A Comprehensive Guide to the Dark Arts up here somewhere.” He looked around the room as though asking for it would make it appear.

Harry nodded. “I just finished with it yesterday,” he said. “I don’t think there’s anything new in there,” he added.

“I know. I’ve already read it, but there was a spell that caught my attention and I wanted to look over it again,” Smith said. Harry flashed him a brief smile, then rolled over and rooted around under the bed for the books.

“Huh,” he said after a few minutes. “I found The Dark Arts and You, that children’s book Malfoy brought over, and Unmasking the Soul. No Hexes. Are you sure I’ve got it in here?”

“Reasonably,” Smith said, his voice even as he leaned against the bed post. Harry shrugged, and scrambled to the other side of the bed. As long as he wasn’t trying to stand upright he was getting rather good at moving around. He didn’t want to be forced to crawl around for the rest of his life, though, and he was proud of the progress he was making.

“I’ve got a secret,” Harry said. Smith leaned in close, looking interested. “I want to show you,” Harry added, and carefully put his feet down on the floor. He pushed himself up, and wobbled a bit, but stood easily. “I’ve been practicing,” he said proudly, but then things went all to hell.

He tried to take a step. Somewhere between his foot and the floor, his brain misread its signals and he overbalanced, falling straight into Zacharias Smith’s arms.

And if that hadn’t been humiliating enough, when Smith crashed against the post he was leaning on, Harry fell on top of him and they met lip to lip.

For a few agonising seconds, they simply stared at one another. For Harry, who had only just begun to admit to himself that he found blokes attractive, it was horrifyingly embarrassing to have been forced into his first kiss with another guy by accident. Then he realised that Smith was probably about to deck him, and he jerked back, overbalancing in the opposite direction and hit his head against the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, blinking away the stars dancing around his head. “I’m sorry,” he said again, more strongly. “It was – it was –”

“ – Fine.”

“Pardon?”

Smith smiled a true smile for the first time Harry could remember, and as he recognised it for what it was, he also realised that as good-looking as Smith was normally he was now exceptionally handsome. The simple expression transformed his whole face, lighting up his eyes and generally softening all the harsh lines he seemed to be made of. Harry’s breath caught in his throat as Smith came closer, leaning down over him.

“I said it was fine. If you mind, though…”

“I –” Harry’s voice squeaked nervously and he cleared his throat. “I don’t mind.”

The smile widened and then Smith was kissing him again, truly kissing him with more skill and grace than the accidental lip-smash they’d just shared. One hand came up to cup the back of Harry’s neck, and his lips moved expertly over Harry’s more inexperienced ones. It sent tingles all down his spine, and he relaxed a little more, his eyes sliding shut as he arched his face up to get a better angle.

*

Draco saw Smith entering Potter’s room as he came up the stairs, and curiousity wouldn’t let him just pass by. As he glanced into the room he was greeted by the picture of Potter’s rear end presented over the edge of the bed as he apparently dug around underneath it without actually leaving the mattress.

“Huh,” Potter was saying, sounding out of breath. “I found The Dark Arts and You, that children’s book Malfoy brought over, and Unmasking the Soul. No Hexes. Are you sure I’ve got it in here?”

Draco allowed himself a cool smile as he thought about the children’s book Potter was referring to. Though it was illustrated and used small words, the book had been a gift from his father for his fifth birthday. It was full of really awful things, like dementors and particularly cruel hexes for children to cast with practice wands or wandless magic. He’d slept with that book for almost a full month before his mother found it under his pillow and confiscated it. The smile dropped away as he remembered the row it had caused between his parents – he rarely saw them fight, but when they did it was spectacular – and how, more recently, she’d even been reluctant to have the house-elves dig it out of storage for him. He was fairly sure it didn’t contain anything about Horcruxes, but it had been a bit of a joke after Weasley whirled on him and said, “I bet your family’s got loads of Dark books at that Manor, don’t they Malfoy?” and he’d been unable to resist saying back “Oh, certainly. I’ve got an extremely Dark one of my own, I just have to nip back and find it – gift from my father, you know,” and he’d Disapparated out and come back with that horrible little book and Weasley had turned redder than his hair, but Potter had taken one look at it and laughed and laughed…

Potter wasn’t laughing now, though he was smiling brightly enough to light up the room. He clambered off the bed and stood up, something Draco had been sure he wouldn’t be able to manage yet, and he was feeling as proud as Potter looked until the Gryffindor tried to walk and fouled it up.

A black rage such as he’d never known before overtook Draco as he witnessed Potter, arms partially wrapped around Smith’s neck, kissing Smith who had his arms fully around Potter’s waist, and he was opening his mouth to interrupt their little scene when Potter did the sensible thing and threw himself backwards. Draco heard a thump as he hit his head, but the relief he felt at Potter’s reaction to such a bizarre and unfortunate accident temporarily outweighed his concern.

The relief was all-too short-lived as Smith dropped to his knees and advanced on Potter’s helpless form like a predator on the scent of his next meal. Draco had heard the phrase ‘seeing red’ before, everyone had, but he’d never actually thought it was literal until that moment when the entire world shrank down to the sight of his former worst enemy turned new friend and the man he hated most in the entire world besides Voldemort practically laying on the ground, snogging for all they were worth. Everything that wasn’t them was crimson, and as he watched he realised that even the two of them looked like they’d been draped in sheer scarlet. His mouth was open, working silently, as he tried to encompass this bizarre and infuriating turn of events.

Smith did something unseen then, because Potter’s eyes snapped open, wide with shock, and then his whole body gave a quiet little shudder and he put his arms around Smith’s shoulders and leaned into it, and Draco’s angle of vision made it clear that they weren’t just kissing innocently, Smith had put his tongue practically down Potter’s throat, and now Potter was making little noises, and every nerve thrummed in Draco’s body. He turned on his heel and marched away, knowing it was his own fault for spying, but he had only one –

There was just –

Why

“Smith!” he roared, slamming the kitchen door open and stalking through it. Weasley and Granger jumped a mile each, staring at him wide-eyed.

“Um,” Granger said. “He’s not here?” She shrank back and this puzzled Draco for all of about thirty seconds before he realised it was because she was afraid of him. Years ago this would have pleased him endlessly – he hated the way they treated him, as though he were nothing more than a bit of dirt they had on their shoes just because he was a Slytherin, almost as much as he hated that sodding bastard Smith – but he was mature enough now to realise that they were allies and almost friends, if he were going to be honest, and he couldn’t scare them like this. He threw himself into a chair on the opposite side of them and rested his hands palm down on the table so they could see he was unarmed. They visibly relaxed, and somewhere under the towering inferno of fury his mind had become, he was glad of this.

“Oh,” he snarled. “Oh, I know he’s not. But let him come,” he added. “Let him just come in here so I can kill him.”

The two Gryffindors shared a baffled glance. “Barking mad,” Ron whispered.

*

Over the next few weeks, Malfoy, Smith, and Harry were nearly inseparable. Hermione couldn’t make sense of it, especially because Malfoy visibly bristled at the sight of Smith and never said his name if he could help it. And he was constantly playing nasty little pranks on the Hufflepuff when the teachers were out of sight, something not even a determined effort by Harry, Ron, or Hermione herself had been able to stop. Smith, inexplicably, tolerated everything Malfoy threw at him with a serene smile, something that infuriated Malfoy to no end.

There was a mystery afoot at Number Twelve, and she was going to find the end of it or her name wasn’t Hermione Granger.

“I’m going up to the attic, Harry, would you like to come with me?” Smith asked. Hermione discreetly peeked over the top of the book she was reading. Harry’s face lit up and he nodded as he climbed to his feet.

“I’ll just go too, then, shall I?” Malfoy put in, and got up to follow them. Smith was whispering something to Harry that made him laugh a little, and they both looked over their shoulders at Malfoy. Hermione noticed Malfoy’s hands clenched into fists by his side, but in an act of supreme self-control he didn’t reach for his wand, or say anything, or even – and at this point Hermione had been long expecting it – go for Smith’s throat with his bare hands. He just took long, even breaths and followed silently behind them.

Which was another mystery - why was he so keen to be glued to Harry and Smith’s side? She knew Harry had been treating him better, especially since he’d made such an about-face concerning the war. He’d even started being nice to her, and had once – after a long night waiting up for the Order to return, mostly filled with firewhisky – admitted that he’d had a massive crush on her in their second and third years. He’d looked absolutely horrified by himself the moment the words were out of his mouth, but Harry had clasped him on the shoulder, eyes bright with drink, and said “You’re alright after all, Malfoy.”

And then they were friends.

Not even ten minutes after the trio had left the room, Ron came in and sat down beside her with a weary sigh. “Wish I knew why Malfoy was acting like a baby duck,” he said by way of greeting.

“What, you mean following Harry and Smith around?”

“Everywhere. It’s like they’re a single person who’s got six legs and three heads. It’s bizarre. I mean, Harry never gave Smith the time of day before, and we all know how much Malfoy hates him, so why’re they attached at the hip?”

Hermione hid a smile behind her tea cup. “I have a theory,” she ventured. Ron turned to her with shining eyes.

“I knew it. You’ve probably got it all worked out, haven’t you? What is it then?”

“Well, I think that maybe Malfoy’s a bit –” But she never got to say what Malfoy was, because he was there and speaking to them.

“I. Hate. Him.”

Hermione and Ron blinked at the interruption and turned to peer at the doorway. Malfoy was framed there, clutching the trimming like it was the only thing standing between him and a violent death. Maybe Smith’s.

“Who, Harry?” Ron lifted an eyebrow as Malfoy shot him a dirty look.

“Of course not Potter, you idiot,” he announced. “I quite like Potter. It’s the other one.” Malfoy came fully into the room, fixed himself a cup of tea, and threw himself into one of the chairs, sloshing tea over the rim and onto the table. He didn’t seem to notice it, because he put his elbow down in the puddle a moment later and scowled at his tea cup as if it had mortally offended him.

Hermione had also noticed – people tended to forget she was there when she had a book in her hand, she was so quiet and she’d seen some of the most interesting things – that Malfoy had stopped saying Smith’s name about the time he’d first barged in on them screaming about him. Right about the time, she realised suddenly, that Harry and Smith started spending all their time together. Pieces of the puzzle began fitting themselves together in her mind, but she wanted to talk to Malfoy before she made any guesses. What a perfect opportunity, she thought, and turned a bright smile on him. “Why do you hate him?”

Malfoy transferred his glare to her. “I don’t like blonds,” he announced. “I can’t stand the sight of his hair, its total rubbish, even Potter can do better.”

“Never had a problem with it before,” Ron said, and Hermione flashed him a grateful smile. He looked puzzled but pleased, and she wished she could tell him she was happy he was helping with her little interrogation, even if he didn’t know it. But she didn’t dare, not with the object of said interrogation sitting two feet away.

“Yeah, well, he didn’t – He wasn’t – ” Malfoy stopped dead, eyes wide. Then he stared at each of them in turn. “You don’t know, do you?”

Hermione shot him a baffled look. “Know what?”

Instead of answering, a gleeful smile pulled the corners of his mouth up. Hermione was almost glad to see it – it was highly reminiscent of their school days, and although it used to preclude a very nasty fight, it was a marked change from the constant moping and scowling he’d been doing lately. “You mean to tell me he hasn’t told you yet?” He trailed off before they could say anything, and then, more to himself, “of course, he hasn’t exactly told me either, the git. Still.” The smile turned almost warm. “I know something you don’t.”

Ron bristled. “If this is something to do with Harry,” he began, but Malfoy cut him off.

“If he hasn’t had the common human decency to inform his best friends, it certainly isn’t my place to inform you. Just let me gloat a moment for knowing something before you, and then I’ll get back to him and ask him why exactly he hasn’t informed any of us.” Hermione shuddered slightly at the dark look on his face. If she wasn’t one hundred percent sure that Malfoy had joined their side – she’d been present at his Veritaserum questioning herself – if she didn’t believe that he was fully for Harry, she’d have been extremely disturbed by the expression on his face. But she was, and it only caused the momentary shiver. It still wasn’t a pleasant look.

“Before you go,” she said quickly. “You still haven’t said why you hate Smith so much.” She wasn’t wasting this opportunity because Malfoy was being inexplicable.

“I already said. I don’t like blonds. He’s a greasy, grimy, dirty git and I hate his face.”

It was such a childish thing to say that Hermione was caught entirely off guard. It had, however, entirely cemented her conviction in her theory. “Do you even know why you don’t like him?”

“I hate him,” Malfoy corrected, mopping up the last of his spilled tea with a napkin. “With the fierce passionate burning of a thousand suns,” he added with his typical melodrama. Hermione felt like she was going to burst as the pieces all fell into place. She beamed at him.

“Malfoy, you utter pillock, isn’t it obvious? You’re completely jealous!”

He blinked at her owlishly. “Excuse me? I am not.”

“You absolutely are!”

“I’m not! I can’t be.” His voice lost some of its conviction. “I,” he said. “I don’t even know quite what that is.”

“What, jealousy?” Ron, who’d been sitting and being admirably quiet – just because they were peaceful didn’t mean the two of them had forgotten their enmity entirely, and Hermione was almost sure they traded insults out of old habit than actual dislike. Although, it was easier for Ron to not be nasty about Malfoy when he wasn’t in the room, and he’d rarely had anything to say to him when he was. “You’ve never wanted a toy that someone else had, or a broomstick, or wanted to be like Viktor Krum and play Quidditch like that, or –”

“Or wanted someone’s friends?” Malfoy cut him off with a surprisingly thoughtful cast to his features.

“It’s a bit like envy that way, yes,” Hermione said. “They’re not quite the same thing, of course. But still. You obviously want something Smith has, and you don’t even know it.” She made her statement with a pleased smile, happy to have finally figured it out. This lasted all of about three seconds before she actually got a good look at Malfoy’s face.

He looked like someone had punched him in the stomach and knocked all the air out of his lungs. Dazed, almost – as if that had come as a total surprise. Of course, I said it myself – he didn’t even know it, she thought. He shook his head slowly as comprehension dawned. “I feel,” he said. “I may need the smelling salts. Who’s got the hartshorn? Where’s my fainting couch? I can’t believe this,” he murmured, more to himself than either of the two Gryffindors present. “Jealous…of something Smith has. No, no, of course it can only the one thing but… Why?”

Ron leaned over to Hermione and whispered, “I think you broke him.” Malfoy’s mad mutterings continued into incoherency, and Hermione waved Ron off.

“I don’t understand at all,” she said to Malfoy, getting his attention. “What could he possibly have that you don’t, or couldn’t get?” She’d been thinking he’d shout ‘Aha, the platinum cauldron I’ve been after for ages, of course, I should have known,’ and maybe him going off to nick it, or maybe even just plain asking to borrow it, or going to buy his own. Instead, Malfoy was still shaking his head, looking like he’d been hit with a bludger.

“I can’t believe you don’t know. You figured this out, and they’ve been dead obvious but you still don’t know – I didn’t even know!”

“You’re not making any sense!”

“Barking mad,” Ron commented to nobody. “Barking, howling mad. Hermione,” he added, switching his attention to her as Malfoy continued to shake his head and stare at the stain on the table where the tea had spilled. “What have you done to him? Harry’ll have your head for dinner if you’ve ruined him, you know how much he likes him.”

“I have to go,” Malfoy announced suddenly, shoving his chair back so violently it fell over. He left it where it was and muttered, “Jealous. By Merlin’s white beard, jealous.” He missed the door entirely on his way out and walked straight into the wall. Not even Ron’s perfectly audible snickering produced a reaction, though – he just put his hand on the doorframe and used it to navigate through the portal. Hermione realised her mouth was open and closed it, looking at Malfoy’s untouched tea.

“That didn’t go anything like I expected,” she said, and picked up the tea and drained it. Ron just chuckled quietly to himself.

“Right into the wall, did you see him? I don’t think he’s ever been so clumsy.”

*

It had been bothering Draco for weeks. Ever since Granger had told him – laid out in neat little words, all lined up just as they should be – he hadn’t been able to get it out of his head. He couldn’t seem to stop himself from following them, whenever they snuck off to have a bit of a private moment to snog or whatever – even after a month the habit was too deeply ingrained to just drop, and especially after Hermione’s news – because leaving them alone and wondering what they were doing was driving him mental. And he hadn’t even known.

He hadn’t even known that the aching, furious burning in his chest was jealousy, or that Smith – who he’d always disliked – had become his number one target because he had something Draco wanted and couldn’t get. Not that he’d told them that. The looks on their faces when he’d revealed his secret knowledge was almost worth knowing about it in the first place. Except that if he didn’t know, he wouldn’t have spent the last month and a half in misery, dejected and furious. He’d just have been a bit curious, wondering where they were constantly sneaking off to. He knew they must know he knew – and his own thoughts were sending him spinning – but they hadn’t said anything to him, or to the teachers or some of Smith’s Hufflepuff friends who were constantly in and out all the time and not even Potter’s other two-thirds of his little cabal knew. It was mind-boggling. She’d figured out he was jealous when he didn’t even know himself, but how could she be so oblivious as to miss the absolutely clear signals from Smith and Potter? They were acting like little kids who’d formed their own club, and only Draco’s interference had kept them from something really nasty.

And the worst part was he knew – he’d admitted to himself – that if he’d just had Potter, if he could be the one sneaking off into dark corners and the attic and the Quidditch pitch with him, then it wouldn’t be nasty. It wouldn’t be horrible or gut-wrenching or anything other than perfectly wonderful, but he hated Smith and Smith had Potter.

He hadn’t even gotten out of bed one day, when Hermione’s scream echoed through the hallways. As horrifying visions of the Dark Mark, of Potter in pieces, of Death Eaters swarming the house danced through his head, he threw himself out of bed and down the hallway, realising as he did so that somehow she’d become Hermione to him, even in his head. Potter was still Potter – except late at night, when he became a muffled, breathy Harry – and Weasley was still Weasley and he didn’t acknowledge That Other One’s name any more because there was no tone of voice that could properly convey his unspeakable rage and - and jealousy – but somehow, she’d become Hermione. He didn’t think she knew, either, because when he ricocheted out of his bedroom and flung himself down the hall shouting “Hermione, are you alright?” she’d backed out of Potter’s room and the shocked, betrayed look on her face turned momentarily to confusion. Then it registered. She’d been looking in Potter’s room!

He threw himself around the corner, eyes half-closed in order to shut out the scene of carnage he was expecting. When he didn’t noticed any bright splashes of blood anywhere, or body parts spread across the floor, he opened his eyes wider.

He immediately wished he hadn’t. Though the sight of Potter’s bare chest, the framework of the huge mahogany four-poster in the background, and sleepily hooded eyes was enough to fuel several more weeks of fantasy, the way Potter jerked the sheet up to his chin and shouted wasn’t all that pleasant.

Neither was the sight of another bare chest rising beside him, topped with –

For the second time in his life, Draco felt an inferno of rage shoot through him, though for the first time he knew what it was when it happened. Smith blinked into the light, and mumbled something nonsensical that sounded like “Whuzthuhskrimming?” Meanwhile, the sheet slithered lower and lower, exposing an absolutely indecent amount of skin, and Draco could hear Hermione behind him gasping for breath at the shock. He didn’t think he’d breathed once since he came to the door and found them together, and he wrenched air into his lungs with a forceful heave. The sheet slid lower, and Draco – entirely against his will – could make out the sharp jut of his hipbones through his skin. If he’s naked, Draco thought to himself, I’ll kill him.

But Smith raised his knee and propped himself up on his elbows, and the sheet fell off entirely, revealing a thin pair of pyjama bottoms, riding low but clearly covering everything. Hermione made a tiny sound of relief as she saw it, but it was short lived as Potter, still clutching the sheet to his chin like a Victorian maiden, suddenly caught up with what was going on and shouted at them again, this time with words.

“Haven’t you people ever heard of knocking? Get out! What’s wrong with you? It’s early morning, can’t we just be left alone?”

Hermione gasped again, and Draco flicked a glance back at her to make sure she wasn’t turning blue or choking. Her complexion was normal, but the wide-eyed disbelief in her eyes was new. “S-so-sorry Harry!” she squeaked. “I knocked. I did. I didn’t get an answer and I was afraid suddenly that something had happened and I was just worried and I’m sorry! I’m going!” She darted down the hallway, crashing into Ron who was finally coming to find out what had caused his girlfriend to shriek like a banshee at seven thirty in the morning.

Draco sneered into the bedroom. “So sorry,” he said without an ounce of sincerity. “Do get back to whatever you were doing in private.” He reached out and slammed the door with a satisfying thud, then stood with his back to it facing Ron. “Don’t go in there,” he warned. “Potter’s fit to hex us all, and I think you value your sanity.”

“My san… What?”

“Trust me, don’t.” Draco put a hand down on his shoulder to stop him, or comfort him from the unspeakable knowledge of what lay behind the thick door, and then they both seemed to realise what he’d done at the same time. Draco felt his face turn pink, and then shrugged. “Seems we’ve been chucked. Let’s go see what Hermione’s doing in the kitchen, shall we, Ron?” He carefully turned Ron around and steered him away from the Room of Horror.

They found Hermione in hysterical but silent tears over the kettle, waiting for it to boil. “I,” she hiccoughed. “I can’t believe he didn’t tell us!” She paused to wipe her eyes, and then fixed Draco with a look that spoke volumes of murder. “You knew! You slimy, disgusting, wart-covered festering ferret! You knew this whole time and you didn’t tell us!” She burst into noisy sobs that quite masked the sound of the kettle screaming.

Ron went to her side, bewildered, and put an arm around her. “Didn’t tell us what?” He reached over and shut the kettle off, then waited for Hermione to collect herself.

Hermione sniffled a few times, then, with a glare at Draco, spat out: “Harry slept with Smith!”

Ron turned puce.

Draco put up his hands. “They were fully clothed!” Then, remembering Smith’s bare chest, bare all the way right down to the line of hair beneath his navel, he amended, “Mostly clothed.” Harry’s bare chest, smooth and muscled and tanned, and he flushed. “At least they had trousers on. And I hope all they did was sleep. If Smith’s touched him, I’ll kill him!” The words slipped out without advanced warning to his brain, and he clapped a hand over his mouth, wishing a hole would open up beneath him so he could get away from the suddenly curious stares of the two Gryffindors.

Comprehension dawned on Hermione’s face. “That’s why – and you’ve been after Smith this whole time because he’s been – and it’s Harry? Oh, Draco,” and then she’d come over and hugged him, which was a lot more awkward than his hand on Ron’s shoulder because this was a bone-crushing, full-body-contact hug with a muggle-born. He felt an involuntary shudder creep up his spine, and then hesitantly patted her on the shoulder.

Ron was staring askance at them both, his revolting red hair a frizzy mop that seemed to be taking the worst qualities of Harry and Hermione’s hair and combining them. “I need tea. Maybe whisky.”

A shrill voice came from the doorway. “Ronald Weasley!” Hermione and Draco jumped guiltily apart, as though they’d been caught out at something filthy, as Mrs. Weasley bustled into the kitchen. “What’s this I hear about whisky? At eight in the morning, have you gone mad? You’re not old enough for whisky!”

“I’ve not gone mad, mum, the rest of the world has. Harry was in bed with Smith and Malfoy hugged Hermione and I think Kreacher’s slipped something into the water glasses, because I don’t know how to explain this morning any other way.” He was pouring several cups of tea at once, as though he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. Draco felt a bit like that himself, but he pulled himself up to his full height and faced down Mrs. Weasley’s incredulous stare with as much dignity as he could imagine.

“Harry James Potter!” she bellowed, and was right back out the kitchen door not three minutes after she’d come in. Ron snickered a bit.

“Maybe seeing mum in a tearing fit’ll chase Smith off for good, d’you think?”

“Oh, Draco, I didn’t mean that, I hope you don’t – I mean, I hope you’re not upset. You’re not a ferret.” Hermione was reduced to tears again, now that someone else was handling the Potter fiasco. “How long have you known? How did you know? Harry never said a word, I never would have guessed!”

“Give us a couple of those cups, Weasley,” Draco commanded, and ushered Hermione to a chair. “I’ve never liked Smith,” he said. “I just… I hate him,” he said, as if that were all he’d ever needed to say.

“We’ve had the chapter and section on Smith, Malfoy, we want to know how you know about him and Harry,” Ron said imperiously, but he was delivering some of the tea cups to the table as he said it.

“I walked in on them, just like you,” Draco said finally, reliving that horrible moment over in his mind. “I don’t even know what I’d gone up for, it was before Ha - Potter could walk properly, couldn’t even get out of bed on his own, and he fell and they…” He made an incomprehensible movement with his hands, unwilling to come right out and say it.

“Kissed?” Hermione suddenly sounded like those two idiot Gryffindor girls, always hanging about and gossiping. Parvati Patil and… Violet Brown. She leaned in closer, and took one of Draco’s hands in hers. “I bet that was horrible. I can totally understand how you feel about Smith, he’s foul, really, taking advantage of Harry like that.” Her eyes gleamed, though, and Draco had a feeling there was something she wasn’t telling them. “So that’s how they started, and how you knew, but you’ve been following them around ever since, hardly had a moment… to… themselves…” Her voice trailed off, and she yanked her hand away as though he’d burned her. “It was probably your fault! They took to sleeping together because you wouldn’t let them alone!”

“Hermione,” Ron interjected quietly. “Hermione, don’t take this the wrong way. Do you need some of that Mih-dull stuff you’ve got in your bag?”

“Guess the cat’s out of the bag,” came a voice from the door. All three of them whirled around and sent death-glares at Smith, who was lounging indolently as ever against the frame. If looks could kill, he’d have been a smoking hole in the floor three times over. “Wondered why you were constantly hanging about, Malfoy,” he continued, oblivious to them. “Guess it must eat you up at night knowing he’s with me.” The sharp look he sent at Draco told all three of them clearly that whatever bad feelings Draco had for him were amply returned. “And I’m flattered that you think I could get Harry Potter into bed with me after a month and a half, Granger,” Smith continued. “But I’m sure your little Gryffindor hearts will sleep more soundly tonight knowing that all we did was sleep.” His tone of voice said that if he’d had his way, then not only would they not have slept but they’d have kept the whole house up as well.

Draco’s wand appeared in his hand. He hadn’t been aware of holding it before, but it was suddenly there, his fingers wrapped so tightly around it that they hurt.

“One more word,” he said, voice dripping acid with every syllable. “One more word, and I’ll curse you so hard your descendants will feel it.”

Smith smirked at him, eyes almost visibly emitting sparks. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. I won’t be having descendants.” His gaze trailed dismissively over Draco’s body. “I doubt you will, either, but that’s not saying too much, is it?”

Red sparks shot out of the tip of Draco’s wand as he lost his hold on his temper. Ron and Hermione shared one panicked look and then with the famed courage and bravery legendary in Gryffindor House, they plunged under the table just in time to avoid the spells Draco and Smith shot at one another across the kitchen.

-o0o-

I got yelled at for my authors note. I WIN. XDD Only someone like me could have managed that. It contained (I believe) some actual information. I cut it down to less than the six hundred words they asked it be (barely.):

When I started writing this last Sunday (October 9^th, 2o11) I had just got back from finally seeing the second part of the last Harry Potter movies (HP Deathly Hallows Part 2). IT. WAS. WONDERFUL.

I don’t know if anyone looks at my profile; I generally try to keep a running log of what I’m currently working on at the bottom if you don’t want to read through all the personal crap (which I’m also pants about updating – it’s a sickness, I swear. It’s not that I don’t spend a lot of time online or on AFF, it’s just that I spend too much time dicking around on Facebook or reading things on AFF.

Someday soon, I will be rereading the books yet again, and this time, I may go through and write an alternate history of Hogwarts, years 91-97, told from Draco’s point of view, and gleefully point out all the places I believe Ms. Rowling has been holding out on us. It won’t be word for word, or as long as the books, obviously, as that would be plagiarism, and I’ve no desire to become another Cassandra Clare. But the idea is there. So is the idea of sticking Harry in Slytherin (That hat… “There’s talent…and a nice thirst to prove yourself… You could be great, you know…and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness…” [Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, by J.K. Rowling 2001 – page 151]). Someone’s already done Draco in Gryffindor (Lomonaaeren, I believe, in “Draco the Cowardly Lion” – it’s meant as a sort of parody but it’s bloody brilliant.) and Ravenclaw (“If You’ve A Ready Mind” by Maya – upon rereading the books, I realised that the title came from the Sorting Hat’s song).

Future projects include finishing this – “Infusion”, rewrite of the godawful mess “Infusion of Wormwood and Asphodel” – I did notice that some of you completely disregarded my warning about its awfulness and read it anyway. I hope none of you did yourselves serious damage. I’m still sorry about that. I’m debating on whether or not to take it down entirely and let the whole thing be forgotten. Finishing “Displaced Redux,” a rewrite of Displaced which isn’t too bad in the writing department – there was usable stuff in it, at any rate – but just wasn’t up to snuff for my current standards. Also included on the possibility-list is “Crack of Sunlight” mentioned on my profile page, and a lovely idea presented itself to me earlier while I was at work. I don’t think it’ll be too long, though I have a distressing habit of accidentally running my stories into the ground, or otherwise painting myself into a corner with them if I let them get away from me.
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Infusion