#magicalau

“Malfoy, genuinely, I fear for your hair follicles," Harry said.

“Who gives a fuck about my damn hair follicles! I’m stranded in the middle of a storm, at a house that isn’t mine, with someone who hates me while my child sleeps in the next room unknowing that his mother is slowly fading away from him even as I stand here, completely fucking useless because I haven’t got my magic, and even if I did, I couldn’t save her anymore than all the mediwixes on Earth—!” his voice choked off and he turned around, hiding the emotion that had suddenly sprung up, pricking his eyes, quickening his breath. “I don’t fucking care about my hair or my wet jumper or the blasted hair dryer, I just—!” 

He exhaled all the breath in his lungs and inhaled with an audible note, covering his eyes with his hand as he tried to keep his feelings from overcoming him. His chin trembled, and he clenched his jaw, breathing through his nose, though his lungs burned, eyelashes damp. They stood there in silence as Draco pretended not to cry and hoped that Potter would allow him the courtesy of not asking questions. 

The fire crackled in front of him, noisy, though the logs showed no sign of wear. He’d forgotten what an enchanted fire looked like, after having no use for one for so long—unable to floo anywhere himself, and Astoria too unwell to travel. He jumped as he felt a hand on the front of his, looking down as Potter took the comb from his hand, then shut his eyes, reached up to wipe his damp cheeks. 

“I’m sorry,” Potter said. “I didn’t know about Astoria.” 

Throat tight with emotion, Draco couldn’t answer, shaking his head instead, waving Potter away as he braced his hand on the mantel. He didn’t breathe for several long moments, trying to tame himself, feeling jittery and alarmed that he had disclosed so much, and not wanting to say anything else. Then, he felt a tugging at his hair, the prongs of the comb scraping his shoulder as Potter worked the knots that Draco had only made worse. 

“Just cut it off. I don’t care,” Draco said, but Potter didn’t answer, and instead continued to comb it carefully while Draco stared at the fire, incapable of saying anything else. 

Lightning flashed, followed several seconds later by booming thunder, and Draco’s ears perked, waiting for Scorpius to cry before he remembered that Potter had most likely set the silencing charm on his cot just like he’d done for Rose. He exhaled a relieved breath, felt the prongs of the comb at the base of his head, a chill going down his neck as his cold hair dripped and soaked into the collar of his jumper. Lightning and thunder came again in waves as they stood by the fire, knot after knot untangled. 

“The storm is moving away,” Potter said eventually. “You can tell by how slowly the thunder follows. It’s supposed to be a kilometre per second, so you can count on the next flash how many kilometres away the storm is.” 

“That’s a myth to give children something to do instead of worrying about the storm.” 

Potter huffed out a laugh, and Draco felt the teeth of the comb brush the crown of his head, strokes smooth as it ran from the root of his hair to the ends, over and over again. 

“Maybe the ratio isn’t exact, but the theory is there. The longer the time between, the further away the storm, and the seconds are growing longer. The last one was eight seconds—” he cut off as lightning brightened the room, counting out loud all the way to eleven. “There. See? A little bit further.” 

“I’m not a child. You don’t have to entertain me.”

Potter didn’t answer as he picked up the hair dryer, turned it on, combed through Draco’s hair as he began to dry it. Something hot writhed in Draco’s chest like a biting snake and he clung to the mantel to control himself, pressing his mouth together to keep back angry words—swears that would get Potter to leave him alone—stop doing these pointless tasks that meant nothing when his whole world was falling apart. He shut his eyes, felt heat behind his eyelids again, choked on his breath as he inhaled the burnt smell from the hair dryer. 

He stood in silence until his hair was dry, and Potter lifted it up, directing the heat from the dryer onto the back of his jumper. Lightning came again, and Draco unwillingly counted the seconds in his mind until the thunder rang out, feeling the tension in his neck ease a bit when he got past twenty. He looked toward the window, unable to tell if rain was still pattering there over the whirr of the motor. Potter shut it off as if reading his thoughts, and they stood in silence, listening. 

“As if you’re having that bad of a time,” Harry said, and Draco glanced at him over his shoulder before arranging the duvet neatly on the mattress.

“I’m fine,” Draco said, picking up Harry’s towel from the floor to hang on the broken bunk’s ladder. “Aside from living with an absolute troll. Nice pick for your first wand core. Was that a family heirloom?”

Harry tried to shove him, but was laughing too hard, and ended up grabbing his arm instead as he buckled forward.

“Shut up—” Harry said, and Draco huffed. “You’re so dumb.”

“Am not. What kind of wood do you want for your wand? Now I’ve managed to make something decent enough, Alder will let me pick?”

Harry gave him a little push as he released Draco’s arm, then squeezed his hands together, feeling hot.

“I dunno. Maple might be nice. Bet it tastes good.”

“Taste? We’re not eating them.”

“No, I know, but like…you know, when you hold a wand and you can taste it?”

Draco stared at him with a lifted brow, hands in his pockets.

“Potter, what in Merlin are you talking about? You’re licking them? Did you—did you lick my wand?” Harry struggled to hold in his laugh for approximately one second before he was doubled over, holding his stomach. “Shut up! That is not what I meant!”

Harry tilted onto his side as Draco pushed him, curling into a ball, laughing so hard he felt delirious. The imagery was mad either way—whether it was Draco’s real wand that he was licking or—or...his brain short-circuited as he pictured something else, and suddenly he didn’t find it funny at all anymore. He let his laugh taper off, looked up at Draco’s reddened face, his crossed arms.

“Did you?” Draco persisted.

Harry swallowed, feeling a bit sick—a bit sweaty—a bit too lost in his own mind to answer the question.

“Malfoy, genuinely, I fear for your hair follicles," Harry said.

“Who gives a fuck about my damn hair follicles! I’m stranded in the middle of a storm, at a house that isn’t mine, with someone who hates me while my child sleeps in the next room unknowing that his mother is slowly fading away from him even as I stand here, completely fucking useless because I haven’t got my magic, and even if I did, I couldn’t save her anymore than all the mediwixes on Earth—!” his voice choked off and he turned around, hiding the emotion that had suddenly sprung up, pricking his eyes, quickening his breath. “I don’t fucking care about my hair or my wet jumper or the blasted hair dryer, I just—!” 

He exhaled all the breath in his lungs and inhaled with an audible note, covering his eyes with his hand as he tried to keep his feelings from overcoming him. His chin trembled, and he clenched his jaw, breathing through his nose, though his lungs burned, eyelashes damp. They stood there in silence as Draco pretended not to cry and hoped that Potter would allow him the courtesy of not asking questions. 

The fire crackled in front of him, noisy, though the logs showed no sign of wear. He’d forgotten what an enchanted fire looked like, after having no use for one for so long—unable to floo anywhere himself, and Astoria too unwell to travel. He jumped as he felt a hand on the front of his, looking down as Potter took the comb from his hand, then shut his eyes, reached up to wipe his damp cheeks. 

“I’m sorry,” Potter said. “I didn’t know about Astoria.” 

Throat tight with emotion, Draco couldn’t answer, shaking his head instead, waving Potter away as he braced his hand on the mantel. He didn’t breathe for several long moments, trying to tame himself, feeling jittery and alarmed that he had disclosed so much, and not wanting to say anything else. Then, he felt a tugging at his hair, the prongs of the comb scraping his shoulder as Potter worked the knots that Draco had only made worse. 

“Just cut it off. I don’t care,” Draco said, but Potter didn’t answer, and instead continued to comb it carefully while Draco stared at the fire, incapable of saying anything else. 

Lightning flashed, followed several seconds later by booming thunder, and Draco’s ears perked, waiting for Scorpius to cry before he remembered that Potter had most likely set the silencing charm on his cot just like he’d done for Rose. He exhaled a relieved breath, felt the prongs of the comb at the base of his head, a chill going down his neck as his cold hair dripped and soaked into the collar of his jumper. Lightning and thunder came again in waves as they stood by the fire, knot after knot untangled. 

“The storm is moving away,” Potter said eventually. “You can tell by how slowly the thunder follows. It’s supposed to be a kilometre per second, so you can count on the next flash how many kilometres away the storm is.” 

“That’s a myth to give children something to do instead of worrying about the storm.” 

Potter huffed out a laugh, and Draco felt the teeth of the comb brush the crown of his head, strokes smooth as it ran from the root of his hair to the ends, over and over again. 

“Maybe the ratio isn’t exact, but the theory is there. The longer the time between, the further away the storm, and the seconds are growing longer. The last one was eight seconds—” he cut off as lightning brightened the room, counting out loud all the way to eleven. “There. See? A little bit further.” 

“I’m not a child. You don’t have to entertain me.”

Potter didn’t answer as he picked up the hair dryer, turned it on, combed through Draco’s hair as he began to dry it. Something hot writhed in Draco’s chest like a biting snake and he clung to the mantel to control himself, pressing his mouth together to keep back angry words—swears that would get Potter to leave him alone—stop doing these pointless tasks that meant nothing when his whole world was falling apart. He shut his eyes, felt heat behind his eyelids again, choked on his breath as he inhaled the burnt smell from the hair dryer. 

“You’re a deplorable pervert, Blaise,” said Draco, holding a clipboard under his nose. 

“Funny words from a man who’s just told me to wank off in a closet.” He tapped his wand to sign. “And you’ll send the paperwork to the club for me?” 

“Assuming your sample doesn’t come back infested, yes.” 

“I’m clean. Everyone at the club is—that’s the whole point of testing every four weeks.” 

“A month is a long time. Anything can happen. One rogue cock and the entire place goes down.” 

“Know a lot about rogue cocks, do you, Malfoy?” 

“Go fuck yourself. Literally. I’ll give you five minutes—though, knowing you, that might be a record.” 

“Would be faster if you helped me.” 

“Then, by all means, take your time,” Draco said, turning toward the door. “You’re lucky I got this job. Your mum has shagged half the Healers in this ward alone—they’d tell her all about your extracurriculars if you went to one of them.” 

“Yes, yes, I’m forever indebted to you for keeping my secrets. Not like you’re under oath or anything.” 

“If the Dark Lord decides I am needed elsewhere, who will you go to?” 

“A Muggle testing centre. I just like it this way because you look good in green. It makes providing the sample much easier.” 

The heat that built in Draco’s cheeks was against his will entirely, and he shot Blaise a glare as he opened the door. 

“See you next month, lech.” 

“That’s no way to talk to your patients. Lucky I like you mean.” 

“Aim better this time.” 

⇇ ⇉

His Mark burned halfway through lunch, and he choked down a swear, chugging his tea in the lift as he went toward the Floos. Once inside the Manor, he found Voldemort’s study, bowing low until he was noticed and addressed. 

“Anyone admitted this week with memory loss, bring them to me,” Voldemort said, and Draco stared at a crack in the marble a few feet away. 

“Yes, my Lord,” he answered. 

“Usually when I save someone’s life, they just say ‘thank you’,” Potter said, and Draco’s face pinched, leaning back. 

“I’d rather blow you than do something so degrading.” 

Potter huffed, then his lips pressed flat, his fingers loosening around Draco’s wrist. His green eyes caught a shine, as if he were seeing Draco more clearly, and Draco’s heart knocked against his ribs as Potter’s hands dropped and undid his flies. In his lower periphery, he could see bare skin—a distinct shape—the space between their bodies suddenly feeling hot even though it hadn’t a moment ago. 

“Go ahead,” Potter said, and Draco’s air choked off. 

“What?” he said through his teeth, a rush in his ears, heat in his chest as his lips went a little numb. 

“I said do it. You want to thank me? Want me never to bring up the fact that I saved your arse twice in one day? Get on your knees, then.” 

Draco let out a shaky laugh of disbelief, wanting to smile, but not quite capable with the awareness of Potter’s cock hanging out just in front of his own. 

“Have you lost your mind?” Draco whispered. 

“A bit. So you won’t do it, then? Sort of weird to offer and then chicken out—”