Dragon's Bane

Dragon´s Bane

Notes: Bugger. I´m writing H/D. The one ship I told myself I would never ever in a month of Sundays write. Not that I know if it´s going to be actual all out and out sexiness, but gyah! One of my least favourite ships. I hate my muse. It gives me an idea and, therefore, I must write.

Fortunately for me, Siria likes them, so my excuse for this abomination is that it´s all for her - a little present, shall we say? Take them! Keep them! And while you´re at it, my muse is yours too.

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Pomfrey had bustled around the ward for what felt like hours, clucking her tongue and grimacing as she always did whenever she had patients brought in, her attention on the two seekers currently occupying beds on opposite sides of the ward.

It was with no small measure of relief that her patient watched her pull the drapes closed around his bed.

Scowling darkly at the curtains that surrounded his bed, Draco Malfoy flexed the aching fingers of his right hand, his mind playing out the cold-blooded murder of Harry Potter, scene by scene.

Of course, it was all a fantasy, but if he was ever left alone with the arrogant, self-righteous git of a Gryffindor...

Wincing as a sharp pain lanced up his right arm, Draco massaged his right fingers and palm with his left hand, bruises still visible on his parchment-pale skin and no doubt covering the rest of his pyjama clad body as well.

Through the window behind him, the evening sun had slunk down, licking over the edges of the Quidditch hoops and stands, as it made its nightly journey towards the horizon and out of sight, the sky turning bloody.

Shifting on the bed, swinging his legs out from beneath the blankets, he unsteadily got to his feet, clenching his teeth together to smother a groan as the bones - newly repaired - took his weight for the first time, stiff and sore.

Looking out of the window, he studied the Quidditch pitch, which was the last place he had seen before regaining consciousness in the medical wing. One side of his mouth rose in a nasty smile.

At least, he knew, Potter was in as bad a state as he was, if not worse.

According to the lecture he had received from Professor Dumbledore, as well as the whining nasal rant of Professor McGonagall beyond the curtains, it had been the most violent Quidditch game ever seen at Hogwarts.

Of course, that it had centred around the two Seekers, who had appeared more than willing to kill one another, was just coincidence.

It was their first match of the school season against one another, him and Potter. The first match of the last year of their school lives before they left Hogwarts. The first match of the term, which would decide whether Slytherin or Gryffindor would reach the final of the Quidditch Cup.

Draco Malfoy had vowed before the game started that he wasn´t going to let Potter win without the biggest fight of his life.

It had been painfully close for years, the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Steal-The-Limelight just a hair´s breadth ahead of him, as they raced after the Snitch, always closing his hand around it the moment that Draco´s fingers skimmed the wings.

He was determined to win.

Apparently, Potter had felt just as strongly about it.

The hatred in Potter´s poison green eyes had drawn a sneer from Malfoy, when they had hovered just above Madam Hooch, as she prepared to release the Bludgers and Snitch to begin the game.

"Ready to taste defeat, Potter," he had said, drawing on his nastiest and smuggest smile, a smile that made most people want to hit him - although most were to afraid of him to dare. Potter was no exception to that rule, his expression turning ugly.

"What makes you think you´re going to break that losing streak of yours, Malfoy," he had retorted, giving his best approximation of a sneer back.

Pathetic really.

The boy-wonder of the wizarding world trying to succeed as a bastard.

If the adrenaline hadn´t been rushing, if the Quaffle had not just been tossed up in the air, if he had been granted a heartbeat longer before the game started, Draco knew he would have laughed long and hard.

Potter hadn´t known what he was in for.

Unfortunately, Draco could admit to himself, nor had he.

Despite all the previous games where they had faced one another over the years, a standard of two a year, nothing had ever revealed that - when he wanted to - Potter could play as dirty a game as Draco himself.

Judging by the tirade that McGonagall had launched at Potter, beyond the drapes, only a short time earlier, it seemed that no one had expected Gryffindor´s Golden boy to be willing to practically impale someone on his own broom to stop them getting to the snitch first.

When he heard and felt a rib snap with the impact, he had been sure a bludger had struck him, the pain making his eyes stream with uncalled for tears.

When he had regained control of his broom, he had swung to see Potter hovering a Quaffle´s throw away, a malicious little grin on his face. His hair was wind-swept and his face flushed, his eyes glittering with determination.

"You should look where you´re going, Potter," Draco had managed to hoarsely shout, gripping his ribs with one arm and trying to pretend that he didn´t feel like he was about to pass out from the pain. "Need new glasses, do you?"

"I can see well enough to beat you, as usual, Malfoy, although I think I could do that with my eyes closed by now," Potter had responded, before soaring off towards the upper reaches of the stadium.

Draco had been left, clutching his ribs for several minutes, withdrawing his wand and performing the most basic of binding spells on his chest. There was no way, he had told himself, that he was about to concede and let Potter win.

The game had rapidly edged from dangerous to potentially fatal.

How they had managed to almost kill each other without breaking any of the rules of Quidditch, Draco couldn´t understand, but he could remember the dramatic climax of the match.

Bloody and bruised, they had been after the snitch, racing upwards, nudging one another´s brooms to try and knock each other off course, both of them with their arms outstretched and almost touching the shimmering golden ball.

Both of them had been so focussed on outdoing one another, they hadn´t seen the bludger. Sound has been howling in Draco´s ears, perhaps warnings, perhaps cheers, so utterly indistinct like a rushing tidal wave.

All he could remember after that was a blow that sent them smashing into one another and he could remember seeing Potter had taken a blow to the head, apparently unconscious, then his own consciousness seemed to give into the pain.

Air had rushed rapidly over him, he suspected from the fall, screams had become clearer and then more pain and blackness.

He had woken in the medical wing, aching all over.

Mind you, he cheerfully acknowledged, it was rather inevitable to feel a little sore when you fell off a broomstick from thirty feet up, unconscious, and landed on your right side, breaking your arm and leg in several places.

Within half an hour, the shattered femur had been rebuilt and his right wrist was as normal as it could be, although the lingering pain when he tried to use the limbs was still prickling at him.

Shifting his weight on his feet, he rubbed his right hip with his left hand, taking a few careful steps towards the curtains, the wash of receding scarlet heat from the sun flickering across his back.

Opening the drapes with one hand, he peered out cautiously, half-expecting the rampaging mother hen, Pomfrey, to come hurtling down the ward, squawking that he should still be resting and letting the bones recover.

There was no sign of anyone, the ward silent.

Limping out of the drapes, he knew it was just being petty, but he couldn´t resist the urge to go and taunt Potter over the fact that Gryffindor hadn´t won. Even though he had not caught the snitch, either, he felt smug in the satisfaction that Gryffindor and - more importantly - Potter hadn´t won.

The only other bed in use in the ward was also curtained off. Madam Pomfrey clearly knew it definitely wasn´t a good idea to let him and Potter see one another, for fear that homicide would no doubt follow.

Pushing the drapes open, Draco paused in the opening, looking in.

Potter was lying on his back, still as death, his arms resting by his sides on top of the blankets. His face was still bruised, which made Malfoy smirk, recalling the moment when the bludger had hit him.

His right eye was swollen completely shut, the right side of his face the colour of a bruised plum. The impact of the hefty speeding ball against his cheek had split open the skin across his angular cheekbone, leaving a thick, dark scab, which would heal in time, no doubt.

The other half of his face was white as the pillow that his head lay on, only marked by a few faint scratches and a light bruise on his temple, barely visible beneath the dark curls of his hair.

Approaching the bed, he couldn´t help noticing that Potter´s hair had parted over his forehead, revealing the reddish, lightening-shaped scar that defined him, the thing that made him famous.

Draco had to stare.

He had seen it many times, over their seven years of school, but never so close and he had never had the chance to really look at it, wondering what it felt like, if it was smooth or raised.

Had Potter been conscious, he would never have dreamed of touching it, but Potter looked closer to death than consciousness.

Hesitantly, Draco´s pale hand, marred by the thin lines of blue of his veins, moved towards Potter´s face, pausing less than an inch from Potter´s disfigured forehead, as he deliberated.

His fingers were close enough to feel the heat radiating out from Potter´s ever-rosy skin, the scar within touching distance.

"Dammit, Draco," he whispered to himself. "Just do it."

A hand snapped up and caught his wrist in a vice-like grip, green eyes opening, filled with malice. "Don´t even think about it," Potter growled.

A cry of pain escaped Draco, the unbreakable grip on his right wrist reminding him just how recently the bones had been pieced together. Trying to jerk his wrist free only made it worse, his eyes burning with agony, his breath tore in his lungs.

"Let go of me, Potter!"

His vision was blurring and he felt like he was going to be sick with the pain, his head swimming. Blackness was ebbing on the outskirts of his sight and his hand was shaking violently.

Potter glared at him. "Say the magic word, Malfoy," he spat.

Draco stared at him, his mind dulled by the sheer agony of a freshly mended broken wrist being twisted in the iron-tight grip of a Quidditch player. Magic word? What magic word? There were hundreds! Which one?

"Potter... I don´t know... know what you´re talking about," he gasped, chilling sweat streaming down his face. Nothing could compare to the pain that was burning through him. Desperation grappled him. "Let go...please..."

To his shock and astonishment, Potter released him.

Sinking down onto his knees, unable to hold himself upright a moment longer, he cradled his arm to his body, shielding it like a wounded animal. He could feel the heat in his face and he was panting from the pain.

"Oh, Merlin... Merlin... Merlin..." he whispered over and over, a hot sweeping wave of sickness gushing through him as he tried to focus on anything but the pain.

He could hear fabric rustling and the creak of the bed. "Malfoy?"

His throat had contracted in an effort to quell sobs and smothering his voice, leaving him unable to do anything but make pitiful choking sounds and try and telepathically curse Potter into oblivion.

"Malfoy? Are... are you hurt?"

Damnit, Potter! You practically snap my bloody wrist that´s just been fixed and you wonder if I´m hurt! I´m on my knees and I look like I´m about to start crying and you stand there and ask such bloody stupid questions!

Strange that his violent outburst came out as a choked whine of agony.

A hand touched his shoulder and he shrugged it off, his teeth clenched, ragged pants whispering between them. Flashing a malevolent glare up at Potter, who was standing just in front of him, he saw the other boy recoil at the hatred in his eyes.

"You... bastard..." Draco managed to spit, glaring up from beneath his brows.

Potter looked confused, the anger that had been etched on his face a few moments before giving way to worry. "Malfoy, do you need help?" he started to ask, which set Draco laughing tightly.

"Help? From you?" he choked out, his breathing levelling out, although he didn`t relinquish his own grip on his wrist. "I think I would rather have Lockhart perform a contraceptive charm on my privates."

Much to his astonishment, he heard Potter laugh. It wasn´t just a muted snicker, it was a genuine burst of natural, amused laughter, which completely caught him off-guard and he stared at the boy.

It was the first time he had ever had that particular sound from his enemy. The first time in nearly seven years.

"What?" Potter demanded, apparently noticing the stare.

"You laughed."

His thin shoulders rose in a shrug. "And?"

Draco shook his head. "Never noticed you do it before."

Potter gave him a very odd look. "Why would I laugh in front of you, Malfoy?" he asked. "All you do is insult me and my friends."

"True," Draco acknowledged, wincing as he shifted to cradle his right wrist in his left hand. He could see bruises blossoming, staining the alabaster skin, as if blooms of black ink had been injected beneath the surface. "But you make it so very easy."

Potter looked at his wrist. "Are you all right?"

"Do you really care if I am or not?"

"Of course, I do!" Draco snorted. "I might hate you, but that doesn´t mean I wanted to hurt you." An eyebrow rose. "All right, I don´t care if you´re hurt, then. Do you need help?"

"Would I ever be on my knees in front of you voluntarily, Potter?"

Potter gave him that very odd look again, offering a hand, which Draco reluctantly took and was hauled to his feet. "I don´t know what direction your tastes run in, Malfoy, so you might," he replied, in a strange tone of voice.

Draco couldn´t quell a snicker.

Potter was trying to be mocking, while trying not to feel bad about doing it. Guilt and mocking in one tone of voice. He´d never imagined it to be possible. One or the other, yes, but both in one sentence... Potter truly had a gift.

"Oh yeah, Potter," he said in a monotone, sarcasm dripping in near-physical strands off every word. "You´re just so edible. All I ever wanted to do was snog you but since I couldn´t I made your life hell."

To his surprise, Potter released another laugh, which he hastily tried to smother.

Twice in less than ten minutes.

"You have a strange sense of humour, Malfoy," Potter remarked.

"You´re the one who laughed at it, Potter," he countered with a smirk, shifting his arm to rest against his chest. The blackened bruises looked even more obvious against the pale, silvery fabric of his pyjamas. "Oh, and I ought to tell you that Madam Pomfrey is going to be rather put out to repair my wrist again."

Potter gave him a look, sitting on the edge of the unmade bed. "You´re the one that snuck in on me and tried to grope me, Malfoy."

"Grope...?" Draco echoed incredulously.

"You know? Feel, touch up, fondle, poke, prod..."

"I know what grope means, you idiot! I was not groping you! I was just going to..."

"Touch me?" Potter finished the sentence, raising his eyebrows.

"Well, technically, but..." Draco trailed off as Potter grinned at him, a genuine and not-at-all mocking grin. His left eye was glinting with amusement, his right barely a slit because of the swelling, but Draco could swear it was twinkling too. "You know, Potter, it´s becoming increasingly obvious that the blow to the head has damaged your already unstable brain."

"Getting scared, Malfoy?"

"Of you? I doubt it."

"Even if I said I was beginning to find you oddly attractive?" Potter smirked when Draco took a step back. "Wimp."

"You have a sick mind, Potter."

"At least I can blame the concussion," Potter countered. "What´s your excuse?"

Draco was horrified to realise he actually laughed.

"I think I´m going to leave now," he announced, turning to dramatically stalk out and immediately walking into the curtains, missing the connecting fold by about three feet. Potter was laughing hysterically by the time he found the opening and stomped out. "Oh, and just so we´re absolutely clear," he added, sticking his head back through the curtains. "I´m going to wipe the floor with you at the next game."

"I think you´ll find it´s sweep the floor," Potter answered, sitting himself back on the bed properly. "And that´s what I´ll be doing to you."

"What?"

"Well, we are on broomsticks."

Draco stared at him. "How is it possible that you are so unfunny?"

"This coming from the person who lives by the rules of sarcasm, the lowest form of humour?"

"At least I have humour, Potter," Draco retorted.

"So you say, Malfoy," Potter answered with a half-grin, leaning back against the pillows. He winced briefly, but the half-grin returned almost instantly. "Don´t let the curtains hit you on the bum on the way out."

Returning to his own bed on the other side of the room, Draco sat down on the mattress and pulled the blankets and sheets back over his legs, an expression of confusion on his face.

Had he just had a quazi-civilised and almost amusing conversation with Potter, his hated nemesis, who had made his school life utterly miserable?

Maybe, he mused, he was the one who was hit on the head by the bludger after all.