Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Yellow	By : FalsettoSlumber Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 1684 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter, and the characters in this story are not mine, and are owned by JK Rowling & Warner Bros. I am making no profit from this work.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
Draco's POV
The sky outside is dark, tinged with the light of fading stars. The midnight darkness of the sky fades into a soft teal as it recedes gently down into the hills; the sun is beginning to come up, touching the rolling landscape in a somewhat cold, wintery light. The yellow of the low slung orb casts a strange light across the hills and through the floor length window of the manor's most prominent room; a parlour decorated in the typical colours of Slytherin house. A rich emerald green covers the mahogany panelled walls, and the many trinkets covering the tops of dressers and spindly legged tables are all silver, glistening in the cheerless light filtering from the high chandelier.
He grips his hands against the sill of the window, knuckles prominent in the light. Shadows pronounce themselves starkly against the slightly waxy skin, as it appears yellowed, almost with age, in the light. Blond hair falls limply into his eyes, that had once been so manicured, with not even a strand out of place. Now, it is thin, greasy even, as the once mighty Slytherin stares apathetically out at the sunrise.
Draco Malfoy turns sourly from the window, pushing the now eagerly rising sun to the back of his mind as he walks from the room. Too many memories there, he thinks bitterly, as an immaculate painting of his parents in their youth stares at him from near the doorway. He crosses the halls of the spacious building, hearing his footsteps echo behind him as he steps over the cold marble floor. Stopping before a unconcerned looking closed door, small in comparison to the rest of the towering, masculine solidarity of the building. Slipping through quietly, as if he could disturb someone other than himself and a litter of house elves, he finds himself in the usual place; a small room, walls bare, with only a chair sitting beside the window within.
Sitting down slowly upon the chair, he hears his bones creak through his body with the effort that it causes him. Grimacing at his weakness, he looks out towards the room, as if before an audience.
“Why?” He addresses an invisible crowd, his eyes clenching in pain at how small his voice sounded. How pathetic. Why must something so, so muggle grip him like this? How could something so unnecessary cripple him like this, when he had stood before the Dark Lord and survived with a story to tell?
“This isn't fair.” He whimpers, clutching his arms about his emaciated body as if afraid of falling apart. Granted, that is not such an impossible feat anymore, given the facts, but still. He feels so stupid, so useless, as he sits there, tears falling across his pale, yellowing skin.
This disease is going to kill him.

Harry's POV
“Harry, would you just listen for two seconds?” He looks up, distracted as his ex wife stares curiously at him. Her brown eyes are cautious, kind, as he fights to remember what is happening. She sighs, twiddling the eagle feather quill in her fingers.
“Wake up, Harry. Please, just wake up.” Ginny looks sad, and he sighs, pushing a pile of parchment and letters aside, as he turns towards her, shaking his head in a wasted effort to clear it.
“Sorry, Gin. I'm just over-”
“Worked. Yes, I know.” She finishes his sentence, tutting at him as a small smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. A crash from upstairs tells them that, yet again, their two sons are fighting, probably squabbling over who's turn it was to use the miniature flying broom Harry had bought James for his birthday. In compensation for not being around so much, he supposes. Ginny raises her eyes to the ceiling, and he follows suit, laughing under his breath. The first in a while. They look at each other, small, sad smiles lingering upon their faces, mirroring each other. He places a hand over hers, his expression saying sorry where words could not.
Raising from the table, he walks towards the door, shutting it quietly behind him as he apparates, the world disappearing in blur of uncomfortable tightness, and the smell of burning rubber.

Hermione's POV
Her best friend is sat upon her kitchen table, legs swinging with excess energy. As she waves her wand distractedly at the kettle, it begins to whistle cheerfully into the glowing, noisy kitchen. A blur of red, curly hair flies past her as Rose gallops towards the fridge, eager to find some sort of strange, nut filled snack. The rain outside slams against the window panes, seeming to make the small kitchen appear even more welcoming.
“Cupcake?” She questions, waving the laden tray in front of him temptingly. He glances at the frosted cakes, before shaking his head, looking down at his old Quidditch captain badge that is nestled in the palm of his hand.
“What's wrong, Harry?” She sits down beside him, hand resting protectively on her full-to-bursting womb, picking out a soft, lavender coloured cake from the stack. He shrugs, picking at a hang nail with the sharp point of the badges clasp.
“I just feel restless, Hermione.” He mutters, wincing as the point caught on a piece of fresh, soft skin. As a bead of blood spreads across the tip of his finger, he sucks on it noisily, and Hermione rolls her eyes, disgusted.
“Is it work?” She asks, thinking about how stressful it must be to be a healer in this day and age. Ron is an Auror these days, though slightly higher ranking than most, and he is away from home enough as it is. Harry shrugs, placing the badge in his pocket before he can do anymore damage.
“Something's missing. I don't know what.” He whispers sadly, and she nods knowingly. He is missing having somebody, that much is obvious.
“Have you spoken to Ginny?” She asks, attempting to draw him out of his own little world, but he merely looks at her, aghast at the idea.
“You think – Ginny and I? No. Never again.” He splutters indignantly, and she smiles at his uncomfortableness.
“I mean about maybe seeing the kids more.” She finishes, and he relaxes, his shoulders losing all tension immediately. He shakes his head, appearing to realise that maybe, just maybe it was something that needed to be done.
“Goodbye Harry!” Hermione calls out to him as he stumbled for the fireplace, seemingly eager to follow up on her advice. Or maybe just eager to be doing something.

Draco's POV
People whisper around him as he exits the fireplace of the Atrium stiffly, glaring noticeably at his appearance. Probably disgusted that someone could turn up in their perfect looking ministry as much of a mess as he looks. He walks as nonchalantly as he can across the hall, trying his hardest to avoid the stares, before bundling himself into as lift and pressing “up”. As the lift doors begin to shut on the thankfully empty cabin, a hand is placed upon the wire grating to stop the doors from sliding shut. Gritting his teeth, Draco slinks back towards the back of the cabin, trying to make himself as small as possible so as not to draw attention to himself.
Merlin, but he misses the days where he would stand and glare at anything that deigned to enter a lift with him! A body fills the rest of the lift, and Draco blanched in recognition. Beside him, on a lift intended for several floors upwards, is Harry Potter himself. Tall, hair as messy as it ever has been, he fills the lift with a strange aura of physical and mental power that had never been there in Hogwarts. His glasses glint in the light, as he turns to stare awkwardly at Draco.
“M – Malfoy?” He coughs, eyes raking downwards from Draco's unkempt hair to the smart but now ill fitting robes that hang from his shrinking frame.
“Potter.” He sneers, trying desperately to regain some of the old swagger that he had commanded when at Hogwarts. Drawing himself up to full height, he pushes himself with some effort from the side of the lift, to stand without help beside the Gryffindor. Potter looks at him somewhat curiously, and raised an eyebrow in question. Draco ignores him, fixing his gaze determinedly at the filigree pattern of the doors.
“What happened to you?” Potter asks him loudly, obnoxiously. Slowly, Draco turns to Potter in annoyance, his stomach clenching unpleasantly as the lift comes to a halt on the next floor. Deserted, nobody joins them, regrettably, and the lift carries on its ascent.
“Whilst it is of no concern to you, Potter, I am ill, as it is quite obvious. Now I would thank you to keep your irritatingly long nose out of my business, as I have a meeting with Minister Shacklebolt that I would rather not be late for, thank you.” He glowers at the dark haired man, and turns back to face the doors, seething. Potter, however, has other ideas.
“What are you ill with? Surely you should be at St Mungo's!” He seems to have forgotten who is talking to as he imposes even more on Draco's solitude, and the blond man sighs, turning back once more to the brunette, hearing his spine creak warningly as he does.
“This is not something that St Mungo's can treat. It is a muggle illness, therefore I regularly attend sessions at a muggle hospital. Next question, Potter, since clearly have them.” He feels the familiar twinge at the base of his spine, and he bites the inside of his mouth to take his mind off of it. Potter looks abashed, and glances down at his own hands.
“Is it curable?” He whispers, sounding odd in the echoing space of the lift. Draco went white, thinking of what the doctor in the white coat had told him that day at the annoyingly bright, clinical muggle “hospital”.
“No.”
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