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Wow, okay, this one is longish. Maybe the second longest in the series so far. ^_^
Title: A Slight Dilemma
Author: me
Pairing: H/D
Rating: R
Summary: Draco's feeling a bit under the weather.
Disclaimer: The HP characters don't belong to me. I don't make money off of their angst-fests.
A/N: Thanks so much to Fire for the beta! You always make me laugh my arse off, girl. *looks around for arse* Thank you to Coffee for her thoughts. ♥
Also posted on AO3 and skyehawke.
...
Previous parts:
The Arrangement ~ An Evening in August ~ Perfect Potter ~ In Comparison ~ Hypocritical (Hypocritical is f-locked due to rating, and is not especially crucial to the main storyline. It can also be found here.)
A Slight Dilemma
The first time it happened, Draco managed to be in the middle of dissecting a new Potions contract. He’d never been so glad of his office’s rubbish bin.
The second was in the middle of the night two days later, and the bathroom floor felt cold under his bare knees. The flat remained silent even after he’d washed himself up, and Harry had not even fluttered an eyelash when he crawled grumpily back into bed and tugged the blankets up under his chin, and Harry’s arm back around his chest.
The third time, Harry opened the bathroom door without preamble, work shirt half buttoned, tie flung over one shoulder. He was in the midst of shrugging a rather fetching suit coat on.
“You’re sick, you know,” Harry said in a low, amused voice. “Should see a Healer.”
Draco drew a deep breath and touched his belly with one hand. He looked Harry up and down. “Where are you off to so trussed up?”
Harry rearranged his tie properly and came into the bathroom, squatting down on the balls of his feet next to Draco. “New contractor’s considering Bill’s firm to break down a few older curses on his family’s property. I’m supposed to look presentable. Are you alright?”
“Haven’t even thrown up properly yet,” Draco quipped and sat back on his heels, not liking the strange taste in his mouth. Harry peered into the empty toilet, frowning, and squeezed Draco’s shoulder.
“How long?”
Draco shrugged. “Five days.” Of this horrid urge to vomit. The headaches… Well, that was stress and nothing more until he heard otherwise from a qualified individual.
Harry’s brows turned downward. He rubbed a hand down Draco’s back. “I could take a sick day.”
Draco shook his head, irritated. “Oh, don’t be a sot, Potter. Bloody flu.”
The corners of Harry’s delectable mouth twitched. “Right then. I’ll just leave you to it.”
Draco humphed, and then clutched the toilet, struggling to steady the roll of his stomach. Harry’s imperative floated back to him from the doorway. “Go to St. Mungo’s.”
Draco waved a hand weakly in his lover’s direction. Blast it, he wasn’t making the damn trip to that joke of a hospital. Eventually Harry departed, and the flat and Draco’s innards went quiet again. He made it halfway back to bed on unsteady legs, feeling… fairly none the worse for wear. Damnable nausea couldn’t ever seem to make up its mind. He lowered himself to sit on the bed.
And his head began to pound. Draco winced and touched his temple. “Fucking hell, all right.”
* * *
The Healer sifted through his notes, lips thin in thought, and Draco adjusted gingerly in his chair, wary of jolting his precariously steady stomach. He tapped his fingers against his lips. Looked out the window until he realised he’d been staring at the same stretch of sky for nearly a minute.
“It does look as though you’ve contracted some sort of flu.” The Healer frowned and circled something with his quill. “But you said the headaches have been occurring for a longer period of time?”
Draco roused himself and considered. “Three weeks, at least.”
Black eyes fixed on him penetratingly. “And how long before the nausea?”
“Two weeks.”
The Healer flicked his wand in a complicated series of motions, and more files appeared in the air, drifting down to the desk. He thumbed through one and something peculiar opened in his expression. “Mr Malfoy, has there been any alteration in the taste of your food? A noticeable change?”
Draco straightened, feeling something twist uneasily in his chest. “Water tastes metallic,” he said hesitantly.
The Healer nodded once, tapped the file with one finger, and let out a soft exhalation. “Well. It’s not the flu.”
Draco frowned. “And what would it be, then, if you don’t mind?”
The Healer eyed him deliberately. As if he were recalculating everything. Draco shifted uncomfortably.
“I’ll need to ask you several rather personal questions,” the man said at last.
Draco met his gaze cleanly. Gave him an un-amused smile. “By all means.”
* * *
Harry looked graceful and relaxed, draped into his chair like that. The restaurant’s lighting was almost too soft, but the black of Harry’s hair stood out, and his eyes were piercing in a way Draco didn’t often get to see.
“We can go,” Harry said for the third time. “If you’re not feeling up to it.”
Draco shook his head and eased back in his chair. He didn’t feel sick anymore, at least, but he’d long since given up on his water. “Stop mothering. You’re not good at it.”
Harry laughed. He nudged his fork further onto his empty plate, and then pushed the plate itself away. “Just thought I’d appeal to your keen sense of self-absorption.”
Draco rolled his eyes. “I haven’t bloody well lost it, Potter. Salazar. It’ll be a dark day in hell before I give up my egotism willingly. What was in your beer anyway, to make you suggest such nonsense?”
“Whisky, Draco. This would be whisky.” Harry reached long fingers and plucked the lime from the amber liquid. He held it in his hand, and a drop slid down over his thumb. “We could have stayed in.”
They certainly could have. Draco had let himself through the door to Harry’s flat to find its owner sprawled in a living room chair, tie flung over the armrest and shirt unbuttoned to reveal his entire glorious chest and stomach. Harry had looked that edgy sort of tired, the kind that knocks a person down, but won’t let him sleep.
Hey.
Harry’s eyes came just a little more to life. His smile was warm. Hey.
And suddenly Draco didn’t want to do it there. He gestured at the door. Dinner?
You up for that? Harry sat up a little straighter, but made no move to rise. Draco smirked.
I’m hungry, is what I am. Now get up, or the offer’s out.
“You’re certainly looking better.” Harry gestured at the half-eaten meal in front of Draco. “I know I couldn’t handle Bolognese on a twitchy stomach.”
Draco smiled indulgently. “Everything in moderation, Harry.”
“Well,” Harry returned, leaning forward and cocking his elbow up on the table. His forearm was bare and sinewy in the light, skin very smooth. “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.” His eyes slid over Draco warmly, and it wasn’t the heat of sex. “You’re a right prat when you’re sick.”
Draco smiled back belatedly. Picked up his glass and swirled the water inside. “I’d apologise for waking you constantly, but then, you never cared those other nights when I wasn’t sick, now did you?”
Harry’s mouth hitched up into an appreciative grin. “It’s too bad, really. Just when you’re feeling well again, and I’ve got to be in Cardiff for the entire weekend.”
Draco frowned at his napkin, wiping at his hands. “Don’t remind me.”
“You went to a Healer today, I hope?”
It wasn’t a question as much as an admonishment. Draco breathed out through his nose, narrowing his eyes. “Yes, Harry, I went.”
But the only self-righteous chastising he got was a satisfied nod. Harry looked down at his glass of whisky. Nodded again. “Good.”
Spoken almost to himself. For just a moment, Draco’s mood slipped and he heard the Healer again.
Have you been taking any potions?
A few. For the headaches.
The man had nodded, lips pursing pensively. Alright. We’ll get you sorted onto the proper potions soon enough.
“Well,” Draco said, breaking himself forcefully back into the present, the restaurant, and Harry’s sharp stare.
Harry raised an amused eyebrow. “Yes, well. Think we’ve exerted ourselves enough for the public this evening?”
Draco cocked his head at the other man. “Have something in particular in mind, Potter?”
Harry dropped the lime back into his glass and flicked the juice from his fingertips. Sucked lightly on the pad of his thumb. Draco watched, riveted.
“I was thinking the balcony. Yours. Can’t be hard to magic up a comfortable chaise lounge, and half the thrill will be whether or not the Harrisons peek over their railing.”
“The balcony, is it?”
Harry’s smile was blindingly white. “I like you in the moonlight.”
Draco smiled back, but couldn’t hold it and reached for Harry’s hand instead. His fingers closed on solid warmth. “I can’t have sex with you tonight.”
Harry’s inhalation drew long and released just as slowly. His eyebrows rose. “You have something better planned?”
Draco snorted. Shook his head. The dull, present ache in his stomach felt heavier. “Healer’s orders.”
Harry dropped his chin, a concerned twist to his features. “Merlin. They ordered you off sex?”
Draco finally gave in and snagged his glass of water for something to do, grimacing at the metallic flavour that rolled over his tongue. “Don’t think you’re getting off the hook,” he said, raising one forefinger. “It’s just until my medicine kicks in.”
A single blink. Harry looked around the table’s vicinity once, eyes roving, but Draco wasn’t sure what he was seeing. Fingers tightened around his; Draco could see the white of Harry’s knuckles. The other man leaned forward, and Draco saw immediately that Harry’s true age had at last driven out the minor vestiges of impish amusement that were usually present. “What sort of flu is this?” Harry said in a much lower voice than before.
Draco smirked, raising one hand to press against his temple, driving the tiny sliver of hurt back into submission. The air felt stagnant. “It’s…” He leaned forward, resting on his elbows, and tongued the words into some semblance of order. Normalcy, while he still had the option. “It’s the sort you contract by means of a very enjoyable and very… mutually stimulating activity. Though the result isn’t exactly up to the same standard. If you gather my meaning.”
Harry did not say anything. Draco finally looked up to find his lover staring at him across the table. His eyes were unreadable, his face tense. Draco waited, having nothing else to say, and Harry took a breath and at last looked down. His shoulders hunched a bit. He met Draco’s eyes again.
“Is it serious?”
And who could have predicted that the mere uttering of words would be so tiring? Draco leaned back, still uncertain of where his eyes belonged. “Not especially. Merlin, Harry, don’t look so dour. It’s just a stupid bug.”
He felt Harry move on the other side of the table. Heard him clear his throat. “Draco.”
But he didn’t say anything else. Draco cursed himself for letting the conversation drop into such discomfort and forced himself to look up at Harry. “Look, it’s… It’s rare. They think it’s something called Erato’s Syndrome. And you’ll have to be tested, I’m afraid.”
Harry nodded once. His jaw was awfully tight. But his touch, when it came across Draco’s fingers, startled him. “Are you alright?” Harry asked quietly.
Draco blinked at him. Shrugged. “As well as I ever am. They’ve started me on a potion treatment. It’s… quieting things down.”
“Do you want…” But Harry stopped and sat back. His hand slid off of Draco’s and Draco fought the urge to reach after it. Harry took another drink of his whisky, swirling the glass. His brow furrowed. “We’ve been careful.”
Draco’s appetite, already a shaky prospect, finally deserted him for good. He set his napkin on top of his plate and smoothed the front of his shirt down. “I’d feel better if you went in and got tested.”
It sounded too clipped, even to him. Harry’s lips twisted into a faint smile, directed downward at the table. He folded his arms across the surface and met Draco’s eyes. “You want me to come over tonight?”
Perhaps it was just the lingering unease, the billowing of too many adjustments. Draco cleared his throat and signaled the waiter. “No, it’s alright. I’ve a follow-up appointment early tomorrow before work. Better if I get to sleep.”
Harry nodded. The bill arrived and he busied himself with his coat pockets. But Draco got to his first and laid the correct amount on the table. Harry looked at him silently, but Draco didn’t meet his gaze.
It wasn’t until they were nearly out the door of the restaurant, Draco leaning on the doorjamb just a little less steadily than usual to await the exit of an elderly couple, that Harry moved up behind him and took his arm. It looked casual, but Draco felt the sure grip of Harry’s hand on his elbow more distinctly than ever before.
“Come on. Shouldn’t be walking or Apparating. Let’s get a cab.”
Draco smiled faintly as Harry strode to the curb and lifted his hand, coat whipping about his knees. Harry’s collar was turned up around his throat, and his hair rushed and shifted over his forehead in soft gusts. Draco joined him at the edge of the street and waited, brushing up against the other man’s side.
* * *
“Positive, then,” Draco muttered.
The Healer smiled at him sympathetically. “Afraid so. You’ll be taking this potion, twice a day, and you may start right now.”
He handed Draco a small phial made of thick, clear glass with an iridescent violet liquid swirling around inside. “I suggest dosing just before meals so as to cover the taste of the potion afterward.”
Draco pulled the stopper free and took a cautious sip. Decided that the Healer was right. “Salazar’s unholy children.”
“Appalling, isn’t it?” The Healer snorted. “Drink up.”
Draco swallowed the rest and was unsettled a second later when the room tilted slightly. He gripped the back of the nearest chair. “And it always does that, I suppose.”
“The dizziness is mild and should dissipate in a moment. Take deep breaths.”
Draco sat down in the chair slowly, setting the empty phial on the Healer’s desktop. Within seconds, his headache had faded into a dull pressure behind his eyes. “Certainly works quickly.”
The Healer returned to his desk with several crisp rolls of parchment in hand. “I’m afraid that’s only the first progression. Patients who undergo this treatment usually experience an increase in headaches and other symptoms for the first five days or so. Then it will begin tapering off.”
Draco grimaced, brushing his hair from his eyes delicately. “You wouldn’t have any idea of when I may have… contracted this, would you?”
“Actually, we can be fairly precise about this one. Erato’s has a timeline that it sticks to rather fanatically in ninety-nine percent of cases. I’ll need to perform a few additional tests to count you out of that remaining percentile, but frankly, the inherent strength of your magical aura answers most of my questions. Your magic is most likely the reason you were susceptible to this disease in the first place.”
Draco frowned. “Just how virulent is this little malady?”
“It’s quite rare. We don’t test for it normally because the proper methods are very complex and costly. But it’s easily treatable and rarely has any lasting repercussions.” The Healer tapped his wand against the first roll of parchment, breaking the magical seal in a sparkle of blue. “Here is your preliminary blood-work. Fortunately, you came back negative for everything else, so this is it. I took the opportunity to run several tests on your magical potency as well. Your family’s capabilities are legendary. And as this condition adheres specifically and directly to an individual’s magical aura, I’m afraid you were more than a prime candidate.”
“It’s magic-specific?”
The Healer nodded. “One of a very few such illnesses, sexually transmitted or otherwise.”
Draco sat up a little straighter in his chair and licked his lips. “I am currently involved with a person who is… very much on the potent end of the magical spectrum as well. How likely is it that I’ve passed it on to him?”
“I’d need to see him to be certain, but I would say that he has a good chance of already having contracted it. However, if you’ve been utilizing magical methods of protection, he should be fine.”
Draco rubbed his eyes with his fingers. “He hasn’t been exhibiting symptoms,” he said wearily.
“And he probably wouldn’t for another few months.” The Healer flicked open another roll of parchment. “That’s the trouble, and ironically, the saving grace, of this condition. It takes a good deal of time for symptoms to manifest. How many sexual partners have you had in the last eight months, Mr Malfoy?”
Draco exhaled, thinking. “Four. Including the man I’m seeing now. Though it’s been… just him for a little over five months now.”
“Your ‘donor,’ shall we say, will have been someone you were with at least seven months ago. I can tell from your test results that he was an individual who likewise is particularly adept at magic, and especially powerful, though you will need to inform all of your partners in the last eight months about your condition so that they may be tested.”
“I’ve a couple of names that might fit the bill,” Draco muttered. “Neither of whom I’d particularly like to speak to again.”
* * *
To ______________
I apologise for the abruptness of this letter, but I feel it only necessary to inform you that I have contracted Erato’s Syndrome since the last time we were involved, and that you would be wise to undergo the proper testing with a licensed Healer in order to ascertain whether you have contracted it from me, or perhaps given it to me.
Sincerely,
Draco Malfoy
* * *
Draco’s headache was raging when he finally got the door to his flat open and stepped inside. He dropped his briefcase in the middle of the hall and pressed a hand against the wall, shoving his shoes off. Blasted sex; he was never having it again. He was halfway to the living room couch with every intention of chucking his cloak viciously at one of the lamps before he realised that said lamp was on instead of off, as he’d left it.
The sound of running water from the kitchen turned his head, and Draco thought vaguely about pulling his wand. Decided it wasn’t worth the trouble. “Bloody buggering—” He made for the doorway and stopped.
Harry was just toweling his hands dry at the sink. He still wore his work trousers, and a green shirt that had seen better days. “You’re a little late,” he said, then turned around to look at Draco properly. His eyebrows shot up. “You look terrible.”
Draco frowned, taking the opportunity to lean against the doorframe rather than stand upright. “Thought you had Cardiff.”
Harry shrugged, tossing the towel over the edge of the sink. “Cancelled it. Andy can handle things without me.”
“Hm.” Draco made his way to the nearest chair and fell into it, sliding both hands through his hair. His whole face hurt. Had to be that damnable potion, hard at work. He smirked. “Losing income because of me. They have a name for people like that, you know.”
“Oh, and what’s that?” Harry returned distractedly.
“Idiots.”
“You’re welcome,” was Harry’s reply, this time amused. Something clinked down onto the table in front of Draco, and he opened his eyes and came face to face with a fragrant, steaming plate of stir fry over basmati.
“Oh, seven gods, you’re a life saver,” Draco sighed, picking up the fork beside the plate and leaning over to bathe his face in the steam. “Thought I was going to have to call in for delivery.”
A hand rubbed the space between his shoulders briefly and lifted away. Harry kicked back into the chair next to him. His shirt stretched rather nicely across his chest and stomach. Draco put down his fork and groaned, remembering the potion. “Oh, fuck.”
“Where is it?” Harry asked. Draco shook his head.
“No, I’ll get it.” He pushed up from the table and made his way back into the living room and his cloak. A laborious search through four pockets finally yielded up a phial of purple liquid. Draco yanked the stopper out and knocked the entire thing back in one swallow that made his throat sting, then grimaced at the chalky taste. He could feel Harry watching him from the kitchen.
He sat down again at the table and indulged in a forkful of seasoned vegetables without looking at Harry. “Potion tastes bloody awful.”
Harry nodded, a slow, considering nod. He took a drink from the glass of water he’d brought out for Draco. “Picked up some groceries for you.”
Draco blinked, feeling the initial vertigo from the dose weaving through him. “Cheers.”
Harry’s lips twitched. “You were out of Devonshire.”
Draco smirked back. “Well, if someone didn’t keep finding creative methods of using it up, I wouldn’t be.”
Harry’s shoulders shook with contained laughter. “Put it on my tab.”
Draco shook his head, swallowing another mouthful. “Bloody arse.”
Dinner was an easy affair, full of seconds that Draco didn’t know he’d be hungry for. His body craved it in ways he hadn’t expected, and when he got up at last, it was to find that that same body had let go of its stamina and was demanding that he sleep or suffer passing out right there on the floor. Draco left Harry in the kitchen and headed for the shower, slicking liquid heat over his skin until he was flushed red and deliciously tired. He fell into bed with the lamp on, casting a pool of warm light over his blankets, and listened to the sound of dishes clinking in the kitchen.
* * *
Draco woke in the blackness of his bedroom, chilled to the bone. He blinked, beyond tired, and curled his arms around his body under the piles of blankets. Couldn’t stop shivering. His muddled mind couldn’t make proper sense of why. His toes felt numb, his legs deeply cold, as if touched by bare midnight air. He pulled his knees up to his chest, as close as he could manage. Felt sore all over.
Seconds later, he was even colder.
Draco grabbed the topmost blanket and sat up, wrapping it around his body with shaking hands, unable to keep still. Beside him, Harry rolled over and mumbled something.
Gods. He was so tired. So cold. Chills, then. Draco pressed his fist to his eyes and the unknown length of the night before him stretched horribly.
A hand settled lightly against his back. Harry’s sleep-scratchy voice sounded. “Bad night?”
Draco snorted half-heartedly. Nodded. Harry rolled toward him. “C’mere. Here, come on.”
Harry coaxed him back down onto the bed and flung the multitude of blankets over them both. He tucked himself tightly against Draco’s back and embraced him, a warm, full weight of arms against his chest. Harry’s leg slid over Draco’s, as if his lover were wrapping his whole self around him. Divine heat beat into Draco’s back and limbs. Harry found his clenched fingers and snugged one hand around them, sighing sleepily.
“Alright?”
Draco nodded, blinking against the gentle sting in his eyes. Harry leaned even closer and Draco felt the soft press of lips on his nape. Again. And again.
Harry’s head came to rest in the crook of Draco’s neck. His breathing slowed. Evened. The shivering began to slip away from Draco’s body, and the exhaustion had its way once more. Draco eased Harry’s hand up and kissed the heated fingers.
Shut his eyes and sank.
* * *
He opened his eyelids again to find the familiar bleary outline of his antique dresser against the far wall. It took him some seconds to understand that the close, heavy mass atop him was a cocoon of blankets. His body felt comfortably heated, and so fatigued. Difficult to move.
The light in his room was… wrong. Draco turned over with a groan. His bed was empty, and sunlight streamed in under the drawn drapes, casting shadows too pale for dawn.
Late for work then. Hours late. He thought about it for long enough to realise that he didn’t care in the slightest.
He sat up gingerly. His head whirled a little bit, but nothing like the headache of the previous evening. Draco dragged one of the blankets over his shoulders and stood, shuffling across his room, out the door and down the hall into the bathroom. He took his potion dose and splashed his face with warm water, toweled off, then headed for the living room, one hand on the wall for purchase.
Harry sat outside on the balcony, wrapped in sunshine, the Prophet spread over his bent knees. Draco could see bare toes under the hems of jeans that clung closely to Harry’s thighs and draped enticingly over his calves. He’d put on a black button-down shirt, but left it open, and his bare chest rose and fell serenely as he breathed.
Draco waited until Harry had set down his mug of… whatever. “It’s late.”
Harry glanced up with a raised eyebrow. “Sleep well?”
Draco hugged the blanket closer about his shoulders and stretched his neck until it popped. “I’m due at work.”
The other man stood, flipping the paper shut with one hand. “I Flooed them around eight and told them you were taking a personal day.”
Draco squinted at him. His head was still swimming. “You didn’t ask me.”
“You needed it,” Harry said simply.
“I should be hexing you for that.” Draco yawned. Looked around and nodded. “But I haven’t got my wand. It’ll have to wait.”
Harry was fighting a smile. “Your mercy exceeds all bounds.”
“Prick.” Draco rubbed the back of his neck and shuffled back around toward the hall. “Going to bed again.”
“You want breakfast?”
He stopped, looking back over his shoulder at Harry. “I… Not particularly hungry yet.”
Harry just nodded. “I’ll get you up for lunch.”
“Mmm.”
* * *
To Marcus Havenfeld:
No, you bloody twat, I do not want to rekindle the old flame. The former was simply a missive to inform you of the fact that I have contracted Erato’s Syndrome and you need to get yourself tested. All I know is that I didn’t give it to you, but you may well have given it to me. Go to a Healer.
~Draco Malfoy
He wanted to gouge his own eyes out. Or maybe just lock the window before the next owl arrived. He hadn’t been expecting a bloody response.
For fuck’s sake. He should have expected it from Mark.
It hadn’t been Mark who’d given the disease to him, though. He just knew, somewhere in his bones. And the other option was a little too unsettling to contemplate right then. Merlin’s wand, he was damn lucky he hadn’t been sleeping with any Muggles in those eight months. Erato’s didn’t especially go for them, considering they were missing the certain crucial element of, oh, say, magic. But there was always that chance that he’d fuck a Muggle with latent magic, one who could contract the disease, or some form of it, and then have no way of warning said sexual partner.
They, of course, wouldn’t manifest symptoms in the same way, Mr Malfoy. There are several Muggle sexually transmitted diseases that exhibit similar symptoms. It’s not exactly unheard of; if necessary, we could find them.
The Healer had also imparted the charming news of his findings as far as the most recent blood-work went.
Erato’s was certainly a piece of work. Apparently Draco had his own unique little strain of the damnable disease running through his veins, thanks to his very particular magic and the magic of the person who’d passed it along to him. Made it easier to guess at who’d been the culprit, however.
And Draco was really hoping not to receive an owl from that person as well. God knew what it might say.
“Seven months,” he muttered, resisting the urge to crumple the scrap of parchment. “Seven— fucking hell.” He flung his quill down and slumped back onto the couch, trying to count again. He’d only counted through it fifty times, and each time gave him the same result, but he couldn’t keep his mind from venturing back down the same road again and again.
Four men. Or rather, three men and Harry. It was always “other men,” and Harry. Except for the time with the bloke from York, and then before that, when Harry’d been rather irritatingly serious about a tall brunet wizard in the broomstick trade somewhere near Manchester. Bloody brooms, the damned design was nowhere near comparable to the London-based Nimbus, or even the useless Comet series. Draco clenched the armrest and sat up, kneading his face with both hands.
“Five months you’ve been with Harry.” He must have seemed positively anal at the Healer’s, going over and over the same dates. Being told the same thing in the same calm tone. Thank the gods for patient-Healer privilege; the Prophet would bloody well sink their teeth straight through a story about a Malfoy with a sexually transmitted disease.
And a Malfoy who was inordinately obsessed with proving that he’d been monogamous with a certain lover? Oh hells, break loose and flood the fucking newsprint.
“Shite,” he hissed, and got to his feet, tossing his Eagle Owl a small treat and waving it out the open window with the new letter. His head hurt, his eyes hurt. His pelvis hurt, and that was new. He just wanted to lie down and slip off into oblivion, and who cared if Potter had a bloody emergent case? Draco didn’t want him here anyway, he’d as much as told him so an hour ago.
His flat was too damned quiet.
“Fine,” he grumbled, making for the bedroom and its dark window drapes, its large, soft bed. “Deal with your curses. Bloody desperate for undisturbed sleep anyway.”
But even now it hardly sounded as lofty as it had when he’d said it to Harry.
* * *
Two days later, Draco’s throat was a mass of raw fire and the artistic blemishes in the bathroom wall tiles were looking eerily familiar.
He heaved, feeling his shoulders crack, but there was nothing left to throw up, and he hung his head over the toilet for a dizzying moment before the sensation retreated back into the pit of his belly. Draco wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist and sat back down gingerly, leaning against the far wall. Even his thin pyjama pants felt too hot against the skin of his legs. He sought for his wand where it had fallen on the bath mat and spelled his mouth free of the sour taste yet again. But the ache deep in his throat remained.
Gods, he was sweaty and miserable, and he looked it, and he didn’t care one whit, and that was the scary part. Draco rubbed his eyes, willing his stomach to calm down.
“Can you keep down water?”
Harry stood in the doorway, brow furrowed. Draco rolled his eyes and let his head rock back and forth across the tile. “No.”
“How’s your head?”
“Doesn’t hurt anymore. As much good as that does me.” Draco shut his eyes and let the cool tile at his back breathe into his bare shoulders.
Harry’s tone was just bordering on condescending, but maybe that was the illness translating. “You need to eat something.”
“Thank you for your marvelous analysis,” Draco drawled, not bothering to open his eyes. “If I could, I would. As it stands, I haven’t got a whole lot of choice in the matter.”
He heard Harry come into the bathroom, and a second later, a warm hand was threading through his hair. Cupping his chin. Draco let himself feel it for three seconds, and then leaned away from it with a sigh and cracked an eyelid. Harry squinted at him. “What?”
“Face it, Harry,” he murmured, managing a weak smile. “My body’s a germ’s holiday.”
Harry’s green eyes sparkled and his lip curved. “I don’t care,” he said on the verge of a laugh.
The humour was too much. Draco sat upright with a jerk. “Well, you should care,” he muttered.
The other man leaned forward slowly, bracing one hand against the sink, the other mere inches away from Draco on the wall. “Don’t twist my words, Draco,” he said quietly.
Draco sighed. “Look, Harry—” He ran a hand across his forehead, wiping his damp hair away from his face. “Maybe you should just go. I’m not really in the mood for company.”
“And leave you here half unconscious on your bathroom floor? Sorry, Draco, but no. I’ve only done that once, and that was because I was just as drunk as you.” Harry straightened up and leaned against the sink, crossing one leg over the other. He smelled of health and warmth, earthy and sunlit. “Can’t have you dying all alone. Your ghost would be far too melodramatic.”
“Not going to die, Potter,” Draco huffed. He stared at the wall and thought about water that he certainly didn’t feel up to drinking again. Ah, wishful thinking. “Forgive me for wanting to retain some of my dignity. Arsehole.”
“Draco,” came the easy reply, “neither of us has any dignity left after what happened at that hotel in Perth two years ago. But for the sake of argument, I’d like you to know that you don’t look foolish or undignified. It’s alright to be sick. Happens to everyone.”
“Oh, yes, well, when it happens to you, be sure to open your doors to the public eye,” Draco snapped, glaring up at his lover. “I’ll be more than happy to come over and spoon-feed you like some sniveling child just for the occasion.”
Harry’s body had gone a little rigid. “I’m only trying to help you.”
“In some vague sense of the word,” Draco muttered.
“What the hell’s gotten you in such a bad mood?” Harry said caustically, his forehead furrowed.
Draco swung his head toward his lover, not even bothering to temper his words anymore. “You bloody well didn’t have to stay, you know.”
“No, I didn’t have to. I chose to.” Harry’s jaw clenched, and the look in his eyes had turned steely. Draco felt a shiver run down his spine, and he let it fuel his annoyance, let his tongue lash out where it desperately wanted to instead of going down the less comfortable path his thoughts had been pushing on him for the last week.
So much easier to be angry.
“Well, maybe you should choose to go back home,” he snapped, and turned away, clenching his hands into fists atop his knees. “I’m perfectly capable of being sick in solitude.”
There was a brief, heated silence.
“Fine, Malfoy.” Harry stood, wiping his palms on his jeans. “But if you think this show of bad attitude is going to drive me out, think again. I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction. We’ll both be here; we’ll just do it without speaking to each other.”
Draco rubbed his face, feeling like he was swaying. Like the room was swaying. He listened as Harry’s footsteps receded. It was building in his chest, threatening to pour out of him. “Harry—”
He heard the other man stop. Heard him breathing quietly just out in the hall.
“I’m—”
Sorry? Yes. But the word was pushed aside. Draco exhaled and leaned back, resting against the wall and drawing his knees even closer. Didn’t like feeling so opened. He stared up at Harry, at the vague impatience, the irritated clench of the other man’s fists.
“Harry, I didn’t sleep around on you,” he said at last, softly.
The tumble of Harry’s expression was startling. His brows drew together and his mouth opened as if he would speak. He came slowly back into the bathroom and crouched down, one hand on the sink for balance. His other hand rose and touched down on Draco’s left knee. “I… Draco. Is that what you—”
He stopped. Draco shrugged, too worn out to deal with it anymore. He shut his eyes and concentrated on the chilly tiles leeching his heat away. Gods, what a mess.
“I never thought that,” Harry said quietly. Draco opened his eyes.
“What?”
Harry stared at him, face solemn and boyish behind his glasses. He squeezed Draco’s knee. “You. Sleeping around.”
Draco shivered, unable to stop the quake of his shoulders. “Harry, I swear,” he whispered. “There’s a timeline, and it’s just not possible—”
Harry touched his face, a tiny smile on his lips. “Draco, I know the Erato’s timeline. I’m familiar with how it works.”
“You are.”
Harry’s hand stroked his knee soothingly. He tilted his head. “Not exactly your everyday STD. But I’ve come across it before.”
Draco just looked at him, incapable of doing much else. Harry sighed. “Look. It happens. Could have been a lot worse.”
“I might have given it to you, Harry,” Draco said.
“And I’ll get tested. Alright?”
Again, Draco’s voice failed him. Harry reached up and brushed his sweaty fringe back off of his forehead. “Draco, I know you were sleeping with a lot of people. We were both sleeping with a lot of people. You do know that I trust you, yeah?”
“I prefer to think so,” Draco muttered. “But I also prefer to face facts and we both know neither of us has had the best track record for monogamy in recent years. It’s the kind of thing a person could get used to. Comfortable with.”
Harry’s brow pinched. He tapped a finger on Draco’s knee absently. “Well… Do you think I’ve been sleeping with other people?”
“No.”
“Would you like me to?”
Draco scowled, squeezing his fingers against his legs. “You know the answer to that.”
Harry nodded, and it wasn’t until his face gained some colour that Draco realised it had lost any to begin with. His lover licked his lips and drew his hands away, sitting up straighter. Draco didn’t especially like the look on his face.
“I remember liking… sleeping with a lot of men. And I know you liked it, don’t even start, Draco. There are just some things that I’d rather—” Harry’s lips thinned. He looked directly at Draco. “If it’s ever about that, I’d want you to say something.”
Draco looked back for a long moment before it hit him. He rested his head back on the wall and covered his face with both hands. “Oh, bloody buggering— I’m not getting tired of this, Harry. Of us. Fucking hell.” His stomach rolled in a very timely reminder, and he pressed his forehead to his knees and groaned. “It’s just a stupid STD. Not supposed to bring our entire relationship into question.”
Harry’s hands closed over his. “The questions would still be there, Draco.”
“Look.” Draco pushed away from the wall and ripped some tissue off of the toilet paper roll, wiping his forehead and neck before settling back again. “I just want to get this out of my system, and then forget I ever had the bloody thing.”
Harry’s thumb tracked small circles over his knee. It was the kind of touch Draco couldn’t get enough of, and it was so simple and so very… unique. He’d had enough lovers, enough longtime lovers even, to know that not everyone did that kind of thing.
Hoped from time to time, when he lay awake in the dark with Harry breathing quietly beside him, that Harry hadn’t done it with anyone else.
“You know who gave it to you?” Harry asked in a low voice.
Draco squirmed, scowling. “I have a good idea. And I don’t care to rehash it, if it’s all the same to you.”
Harry shrugged. “It’s the same either way. I’m not upset about him.”
“And you shouldn’t be. I had to write to him about it, and I don’t particularly want to hear back from him.”
“It’s just a letter, Draco.”
He sneered at Harry, feeling a wave of sickness sweep up and fade back again. “You know, unlike the golden saviour, I’m not proud of some of the people I’ve slept with, and he’s one of them.”
Harry frowned. “You think I’ve had the perfect run of lovers, do you?”
Draco sighed. “I just don’t like the memories that come with him, alright? I wasn’t exactly happy then, if you’ll remember. It was right before the two of us…” He gestured between himself and Harry, and let his hand drop. “I wasn’t happy. Alright?”
Harry nodded. Draco felt so awkward, and it clutched at his belly in an entirely new sort of way. Salazar. Harry and he talked about old lovers all the time. Shared stories. Shared bungles and sometimes even found they’d shared lovers. It shouldn’t have made him feel so strange. But this one was most definitely awkward.
Oh, yes, please, banter with me about the arse who infected my body with this charming ailment, Harry. Care for a crumpet?
Let’s just discuss the stupid things we did while wishing for another person.
He wondered, not for the first time, if Harry had particular things he regretted.
“Are you happy now?” Harry asked presently.
Draco met his gaze. “Aside from this horrid urge to vomit?”
Harry snorted. Draco swallowed once, and nodded. “I’m fairly content. Yes.”
“Good to know,” was all Harry said. Draco studied his lover’s face intently across the small space, suddenly unwilling to drag his eyes away. He’d seen Harry Potter in just about every light, witnessed the way that light played over each curve and fall of muscle, each expanse of skin. It felt a little desperate, a little helpless, to need to touch a certain person so often. If he hadn’t been dealing with it for years already, Draco would have felt terribly exposed by it.
“Harry,” he said, and stopped. He reached up and stroked Harry’s face, ran his fingertips down the side of his throat. Trailed down his shoulder all the way to his hand and threaded his fingers between Harry’s darker ones. Pulled lightly, not so much drawing Harry to him as drawing himself toward Harry.
The other man’s eyes were rich and dark, and they trained on his face intimately. Harry leaned closer, until Draco could smell his hair. He’d meant for the kiss to be soft, chaste, but his lips trembled against the corner of Harry’s mouth. Harry let out a tiny breath and turned into it, opening his mouth and letting the kiss deepen, stroking his tongue against Draco’s and taking control right out of his hands with shocking ease. Draco cupped his hand around the back of Harry’s neck and slumped into it, feeling loose and woozy and all sorts of unfettered.
At last Harry broke the kiss with a gentle press of his mouth to Draco’s chin. Draco sighed, but opened his eyes again when Harry gripped his hand and pulled him away from the wall. “What—”
Harry kept one hand flat against his shoulders as he crawled forward on his knees and slipped behind him, settling back with legs bent on either side of Draco’s. He urged Draco backward as well, until he could feel himself pressed all along Harry’s front, his hips resting in the warm crook of Harry’s thighs. He sighed again and shut his eyes. Licked his lips. “Now I know it’s love,” he murmured.
Harry’s chest vibrated with a gentle chuckle. “And how do you figure?”
“Kissed me,” Draco returned. “Sick and all.”
Harry’s hand rubbed the top of his right thigh. “Don’t get too excited. I saw you clean your mouth earlier.”
Draco huffed tiredly and relaxed against Harry. The window spilled golden sunlight over their bent legs, warming the silence.
~fin~
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Part 7: Table Talk
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Post-fic notes: Erato's Syndrome was named after Erato, the Greek muse of erotic poetry and song. You can find more information about her on this Wikipedia page.
Title: A Slight Dilemma
Author: me
Pairing: H/D
Rating: R
Summary: Draco's feeling a bit under the weather.
Disclaimer: The HP characters don't belong to me. I don't make money off of their angst-fests.
A/N: Thanks so much to Fire for the beta! You always make me laugh my arse off, girl. *looks around for arse* Thank you to Coffee for her thoughts. ♥
Also posted on AO3 and skyehawke.
...
Previous parts:
The Arrangement ~ An Evening in August ~ Perfect Potter ~ In Comparison ~ Hypocritical (Hypocritical is f-locked due to rating, and is not especially crucial to the main storyline. It can also be found here.)
A Slight Dilemma
The first time it happened, Draco managed to be in the middle of dissecting a new Potions contract. He’d never been so glad of his office’s rubbish bin.
The second was in the middle of the night two days later, and the bathroom floor felt cold under his bare knees. The flat remained silent even after he’d washed himself up, and Harry had not even fluttered an eyelash when he crawled grumpily back into bed and tugged the blankets up under his chin, and Harry’s arm back around his chest.
The third time, Harry opened the bathroom door without preamble, work shirt half buttoned, tie flung over one shoulder. He was in the midst of shrugging a rather fetching suit coat on.
“You’re sick, you know,” Harry said in a low, amused voice. “Should see a Healer.”
Draco drew a deep breath and touched his belly with one hand. He looked Harry up and down. “Where are you off to so trussed up?”
Harry rearranged his tie properly and came into the bathroom, squatting down on the balls of his feet next to Draco. “New contractor’s considering Bill’s firm to break down a few older curses on his family’s property. I’m supposed to look presentable. Are you alright?”
“Haven’t even thrown up properly yet,” Draco quipped and sat back on his heels, not liking the strange taste in his mouth. Harry peered into the empty toilet, frowning, and squeezed Draco’s shoulder.
“How long?”
Draco shrugged. “Five days.” Of this horrid urge to vomit. The headaches… Well, that was stress and nothing more until he heard otherwise from a qualified individual.
Harry’s brows turned downward. He rubbed a hand down Draco’s back. “I could take a sick day.”
Draco shook his head, irritated. “Oh, don’t be a sot, Potter. Bloody flu.”
The corners of Harry’s delectable mouth twitched. “Right then. I’ll just leave you to it.”
Draco humphed, and then clutched the toilet, struggling to steady the roll of his stomach. Harry’s imperative floated back to him from the doorway. “Go to St. Mungo’s.”
Draco waved a hand weakly in his lover’s direction. Blast it, he wasn’t making the damn trip to that joke of a hospital. Eventually Harry departed, and the flat and Draco’s innards went quiet again. He made it halfway back to bed on unsteady legs, feeling… fairly none the worse for wear. Damnable nausea couldn’t ever seem to make up its mind. He lowered himself to sit on the bed.
And his head began to pound. Draco winced and touched his temple. “Fucking hell, all right.”
* * *
The Healer sifted through his notes, lips thin in thought, and Draco adjusted gingerly in his chair, wary of jolting his precariously steady stomach. He tapped his fingers against his lips. Looked out the window until he realised he’d been staring at the same stretch of sky for nearly a minute.
“It does look as though you’ve contracted some sort of flu.” The Healer frowned and circled something with his quill. “But you said the headaches have been occurring for a longer period of time?”
Draco roused himself and considered. “Three weeks, at least.”
Black eyes fixed on him penetratingly. “And how long before the nausea?”
“Two weeks.”
The Healer flicked his wand in a complicated series of motions, and more files appeared in the air, drifting down to the desk. He thumbed through one and something peculiar opened in his expression. “Mr Malfoy, has there been any alteration in the taste of your food? A noticeable change?”
Draco straightened, feeling something twist uneasily in his chest. “Water tastes metallic,” he said hesitantly.
The Healer nodded once, tapped the file with one finger, and let out a soft exhalation. “Well. It’s not the flu.”
Draco frowned. “And what would it be, then, if you don’t mind?”
The Healer eyed him deliberately. As if he were recalculating everything. Draco shifted uncomfortably.
“I’ll need to ask you several rather personal questions,” the man said at last.
Draco met his gaze cleanly. Gave him an un-amused smile. “By all means.”
* * *
Harry looked graceful and relaxed, draped into his chair like that. The restaurant’s lighting was almost too soft, but the black of Harry’s hair stood out, and his eyes were piercing in a way Draco didn’t often get to see.
“We can go,” Harry said for the third time. “If you’re not feeling up to it.”
Draco shook his head and eased back in his chair. He didn’t feel sick anymore, at least, but he’d long since given up on his water. “Stop mothering. You’re not good at it.”
Harry laughed. He nudged his fork further onto his empty plate, and then pushed the plate itself away. “Just thought I’d appeal to your keen sense of self-absorption.”
Draco rolled his eyes. “I haven’t bloody well lost it, Potter. Salazar. It’ll be a dark day in hell before I give up my egotism willingly. What was in your beer anyway, to make you suggest such nonsense?”
“Whisky, Draco. This would be whisky.” Harry reached long fingers and plucked the lime from the amber liquid. He held it in his hand, and a drop slid down over his thumb. “We could have stayed in.”
They certainly could have. Draco had let himself through the door to Harry’s flat to find its owner sprawled in a living room chair, tie flung over the armrest and shirt unbuttoned to reveal his entire glorious chest and stomach. Harry had looked that edgy sort of tired, the kind that knocks a person down, but won’t let him sleep.
Hey.
Harry’s eyes came just a little more to life. His smile was warm. Hey.
And suddenly Draco didn’t want to do it there. He gestured at the door. Dinner?
You up for that? Harry sat up a little straighter, but made no move to rise. Draco smirked.
I’m hungry, is what I am. Now get up, or the offer’s out.
“You’re certainly looking better.” Harry gestured at the half-eaten meal in front of Draco. “I know I couldn’t handle Bolognese on a twitchy stomach.”
Draco smiled indulgently. “Everything in moderation, Harry.”
“Well,” Harry returned, leaning forward and cocking his elbow up on the table. His forearm was bare and sinewy in the light, skin very smooth. “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.” His eyes slid over Draco warmly, and it wasn’t the heat of sex. “You’re a right prat when you’re sick.”
Draco smiled back belatedly. Picked up his glass and swirled the water inside. “I’d apologise for waking you constantly, but then, you never cared those other nights when I wasn’t sick, now did you?”
Harry’s mouth hitched up into an appreciative grin. “It’s too bad, really. Just when you’re feeling well again, and I’ve got to be in Cardiff for the entire weekend.”
Draco frowned at his napkin, wiping at his hands. “Don’t remind me.”
“You went to a Healer today, I hope?”
It wasn’t a question as much as an admonishment. Draco breathed out through his nose, narrowing his eyes. “Yes, Harry, I went.”
But the only self-righteous chastising he got was a satisfied nod. Harry looked down at his glass of whisky. Nodded again. “Good.”
Spoken almost to himself. For just a moment, Draco’s mood slipped and he heard the Healer again.
Have you been taking any potions?
A few. For the headaches.
The man had nodded, lips pursing pensively. Alright. We’ll get you sorted onto the proper potions soon enough.
“Well,” Draco said, breaking himself forcefully back into the present, the restaurant, and Harry’s sharp stare.
Harry raised an amused eyebrow. “Yes, well. Think we’ve exerted ourselves enough for the public this evening?”
Draco cocked his head at the other man. “Have something in particular in mind, Potter?”
Harry dropped the lime back into his glass and flicked the juice from his fingertips. Sucked lightly on the pad of his thumb. Draco watched, riveted.
“I was thinking the balcony. Yours. Can’t be hard to magic up a comfortable chaise lounge, and half the thrill will be whether or not the Harrisons peek over their railing.”
“The balcony, is it?”
Harry’s smile was blindingly white. “I like you in the moonlight.”
Draco smiled back, but couldn’t hold it and reached for Harry’s hand instead. His fingers closed on solid warmth. “I can’t have sex with you tonight.”
Harry’s inhalation drew long and released just as slowly. His eyebrows rose. “You have something better planned?”
Draco snorted. Shook his head. The dull, present ache in his stomach felt heavier. “Healer’s orders.”
Harry dropped his chin, a concerned twist to his features. “Merlin. They ordered you off sex?”
Draco finally gave in and snagged his glass of water for something to do, grimacing at the metallic flavour that rolled over his tongue. “Don’t think you’re getting off the hook,” he said, raising one forefinger. “It’s just until my medicine kicks in.”
A single blink. Harry looked around the table’s vicinity once, eyes roving, but Draco wasn’t sure what he was seeing. Fingers tightened around his; Draco could see the white of Harry’s knuckles. The other man leaned forward, and Draco saw immediately that Harry’s true age had at last driven out the minor vestiges of impish amusement that were usually present. “What sort of flu is this?” Harry said in a much lower voice than before.
Draco smirked, raising one hand to press against his temple, driving the tiny sliver of hurt back into submission. The air felt stagnant. “It’s…” He leaned forward, resting on his elbows, and tongued the words into some semblance of order. Normalcy, while he still had the option. “It’s the sort you contract by means of a very enjoyable and very… mutually stimulating activity. Though the result isn’t exactly up to the same standard. If you gather my meaning.”
Harry did not say anything. Draco finally looked up to find his lover staring at him across the table. His eyes were unreadable, his face tense. Draco waited, having nothing else to say, and Harry took a breath and at last looked down. His shoulders hunched a bit. He met Draco’s eyes again.
“Is it serious?”
And who could have predicted that the mere uttering of words would be so tiring? Draco leaned back, still uncertain of where his eyes belonged. “Not especially. Merlin, Harry, don’t look so dour. It’s just a stupid bug.”
He felt Harry move on the other side of the table. Heard him clear his throat. “Draco.”
But he didn’t say anything else. Draco cursed himself for letting the conversation drop into such discomfort and forced himself to look up at Harry. “Look, it’s… It’s rare. They think it’s something called Erato’s Syndrome. And you’ll have to be tested, I’m afraid.”
Harry nodded once. His jaw was awfully tight. But his touch, when it came across Draco’s fingers, startled him. “Are you alright?” Harry asked quietly.
Draco blinked at him. Shrugged. “As well as I ever am. They’ve started me on a potion treatment. It’s… quieting things down.”
“Do you want…” But Harry stopped and sat back. His hand slid off of Draco’s and Draco fought the urge to reach after it. Harry took another drink of his whisky, swirling the glass. His brow furrowed. “We’ve been careful.”
Draco’s appetite, already a shaky prospect, finally deserted him for good. He set his napkin on top of his plate and smoothed the front of his shirt down. “I’d feel better if you went in and got tested.”
It sounded too clipped, even to him. Harry’s lips twisted into a faint smile, directed downward at the table. He folded his arms across the surface and met Draco’s eyes. “You want me to come over tonight?”
Perhaps it was just the lingering unease, the billowing of too many adjustments. Draco cleared his throat and signaled the waiter. “No, it’s alright. I’ve a follow-up appointment early tomorrow before work. Better if I get to sleep.”
Harry nodded. The bill arrived and he busied himself with his coat pockets. But Draco got to his first and laid the correct amount on the table. Harry looked at him silently, but Draco didn’t meet his gaze.
It wasn’t until they were nearly out the door of the restaurant, Draco leaning on the doorjamb just a little less steadily than usual to await the exit of an elderly couple, that Harry moved up behind him and took his arm. It looked casual, but Draco felt the sure grip of Harry’s hand on his elbow more distinctly than ever before.
“Come on. Shouldn’t be walking or Apparating. Let’s get a cab.”
Draco smiled faintly as Harry strode to the curb and lifted his hand, coat whipping about his knees. Harry’s collar was turned up around his throat, and his hair rushed and shifted over his forehead in soft gusts. Draco joined him at the edge of the street and waited, brushing up against the other man’s side.
* * *
“Positive, then,” Draco muttered.
The Healer smiled at him sympathetically. “Afraid so. You’ll be taking this potion, twice a day, and you may start right now.”
He handed Draco a small phial made of thick, clear glass with an iridescent violet liquid swirling around inside. “I suggest dosing just before meals so as to cover the taste of the potion afterward.”
Draco pulled the stopper free and took a cautious sip. Decided that the Healer was right. “Salazar’s unholy children.”
“Appalling, isn’t it?” The Healer snorted. “Drink up.”
Draco swallowed the rest and was unsettled a second later when the room tilted slightly. He gripped the back of the nearest chair. “And it always does that, I suppose.”
“The dizziness is mild and should dissipate in a moment. Take deep breaths.”
Draco sat down in the chair slowly, setting the empty phial on the Healer’s desktop. Within seconds, his headache had faded into a dull pressure behind his eyes. “Certainly works quickly.”
The Healer returned to his desk with several crisp rolls of parchment in hand. “I’m afraid that’s only the first progression. Patients who undergo this treatment usually experience an increase in headaches and other symptoms for the first five days or so. Then it will begin tapering off.”
Draco grimaced, brushing his hair from his eyes delicately. “You wouldn’t have any idea of when I may have… contracted this, would you?”
“Actually, we can be fairly precise about this one. Erato’s has a timeline that it sticks to rather fanatically in ninety-nine percent of cases. I’ll need to perform a few additional tests to count you out of that remaining percentile, but frankly, the inherent strength of your magical aura answers most of my questions. Your magic is most likely the reason you were susceptible to this disease in the first place.”
Draco frowned. “Just how virulent is this little malady?”
“It’s quite rare. We don’t test for it normally because the proper methods are very complex and costly. But it’s easily treatable and rarely has any lasting repercussions.” The Healer tapped his wand against the first roll of parchment, breaking the magical seal in a sparkle of blue. “Here is your preliminary blood-work. Fortunately, you came back negative for everything else, so this is it. I took the opportunity to run several tests on your magical potency as well. Your family’s capabilities are legendary. And as this condition adheres specifically and directly to an individual’s magical aura, I’m afraid you were more than a prime candidate.”
“It’s magic-specific?”
The Healer nodded. “One of a very few such illnesses, sexually transmitted or otherwise.”
Draco sat up a little straighter in his chair and licked his lips. “I am currently involved with a person who is… very much on the potent end of the magical spectrum as well. How likely is it that I’ve passed it on to him?”
“I’d need to see him to be certain, but I would say that he has a good chance of already having contracted it. However, if you’ve been utilizing magical methods of protection, he should be fine.”
Draco rubbed his eyes with his fingers. “He hasn’t been exhibiting symptoms,” he said wearily.
“And he probably wouldn’t for another few months.” The Healer flicked open another roll of parchment. “That’s the trouble, and ironically, the saving grace, of this condition. It takes a good deal of time for symptoms to manifest. How many sexual partners have you had in the last eight months, Mr Malfoy?”
Draco exhaled, thinking. “Four. Including the man I’m seeing now. Though it’s been… just him for a little over five months now.”
“Your ‘donor,’ shall we say, will have been someone you were with at least seven months ago. I can tell from your test results that he was an individual who likewise is particularly adept at magic, and especially powerful, though you will need to inform all of your partners in the last eight months about your condition so that they may be tested.”
“I’ve a couple of names that might fit the bill,” Draco muttered. “Neither of whom I’d particularly like to speak to again.”
* * *
To ______________
I apologise for the abruptness of this letter, but I feel it only necessary to inform you that I have contracted Erato’s Syndrome since the last time we were involved, and that you would be wise to undergo the proper testing with a licensed Healer in order to ascertain whether you have contracted it from me, or perhaps given it to me.
Sincerely,
Draco Malfoy
* * *
Draco’s headache was raging when he finally got the door to his flat open and stepped inside. He dropped his briefcase in the middle of the hall and pressed a hand against the wall, shoving his shoes off. Blasted sex; he was never having it again. He was halfway to the living room couch with every intention of chucking his cloak viciously at one of the lamps before he realised that said lamp was on instead of off, as he’d left it.
The sound of running water from the kitchen turned his head, and Draco thought vaguely about pulling his wand. Decided it wasn’t worth the trouble. “Bloody buggering—” He made for the doorway and stopped.
Harry was just toweling his hands dry at the sink. He still wore his work trousers, and a green shirt that had seen better days. “You’re a little late,” he said, then turned around to look at Draco properly. His eyebrows shot up. “You look terrible.”
Draco frowned, taking the opportunity to lean against the doorframe rather than stand upright. “Thought you had Cardiff.”
Harry shrugged, tossing the towel over the edge of the sink. “Cancelled it. Andy can handle things without me.”
“Hm.” Draco made his way to the nearest chair and fell into it, sliding both hands through his hair. His whole face hurt. Had to be that damnable potion, hard at work. He smirked. “Losing income because of me. They have a name for people like that, you know.”
“Oh, and what’s that?” Harry returned distractedly.
“Idiots.”
“You’re welcome,” was Harry’s reply, this time amused. Something clinked down onto the table in front of Draco, and he opened his eyes and came face to face with a fragrant, steaming plate of stir fry over basmati.
“Oh, seven gods, you’re a life saver,” Draco sighed, picking up the fork beside the plate and leaning over to bathe his face in the steam. “Thought I was going to have to call in for delivery.”
A hand rubbed the space between his shoulders briefly and lifted away. Harry kicked back into the chair next to him. His shirt stretched rather nicely across his chest and stomach. Draco put down his fork and groaned, remembering the potion. “Oh, fuck.”
“Where is it?” Harry asked. Draco shook his head.
“No, I’ll get it.” He pushed up from the table and made his way back into the living room and his cloak. A laborious search through four pockets finally yielded up a phial of purple liquid. Draco yanked the stopper out and knocked the entire thing back in one swallow that made his throat sting, then grimaced at the chalky taste. He could feel Harry watching him from the kitchen.
He sat down again at the table and indulged in a forkful of seasoned vegetables without looking at Harry. “Potion tastes bloody awful.”
Harry nodded, a slow, considering nod. He took a drink from the glass of water he’d brought out for Draco. “Picked up some groceries for you.”
Draco blinked, feeling the initial vertigo from the dose weaving through him. “Cheers.”
Harry’s lips twitched. “You were out of Devonshire.”
Draco smirked back. “Well, if someone didn’t keep finding creative methods of using it up, I wouldn’t be.”
Harry’s shoulders shook with contained laughter. “Put it on my tab.”
Draco shook his head, swallowing another mouthful. “Bloody arse.”
Dinner was an easy affair, full of seconds that Draco didn’t know he’d be hungry for. His body craved it in ways he hadn’t expected, and when he got up at last, it was to find that that same body had let go of its stamina and was demanding that he sleep or suffer passing out right there on the floor. Draco left Harry in the kitchen and headed for the shower, slicking liquid heat over his skin until he was flushed red and deliciously tired. He fell into bed with the lamp on, casting a pool of warm light over his blankets, and listened to the sound of dishes clinking in the kitchen.
* * *
Draco woke in the blackness of his bedroom, chilled to the bone. He blinked, beyond tired, and curled his arms around his body under the piles of blankets. Couldn’t stop shivering. His muddled mind couldn’t make proper sense of why. His toes felt numb, his legs deeply cold, as if touched by bare midnight air. He pulled his knees up to his chest, as close as he could manage. Felt sore all over.
Seconds later, he was even colder.
Draco grabbed the topmost blanket and sat up, wrapping it around his body with shaking hands, unable to keep still. Beside him, Harry rolled over and mumbled something.
Gods. He was so tired. So cold. Chills, then. Draco pressed his fist to his eyes and the unknown length of the night before him stretched horribly.
A hand settled lightly against his back. Harry’s sleep-scratchy voice sounded. “Bad night?”
Draco snorted half-heartedly. Nodded. Harry rolled toward him. “C’mere. Here, come on.”
Harry coaxed him back down onto the bed and flung the multitude of blankets over them both. He tucked himself tightly against Draco’s back and embraced him, a warm, full weight of arms against his chest. Harry’s leg slid over Draco’s, as if his lover were wrapping his whole self around him. Divine heat beat into Draco’s back and limbs. Harry found his clenched fingers and snugged one hand around them, sighing sleepily.
“Alright?”
Draco nodded, blinking against the gentle sting in his eyes. Harry leaned even closer and Draco felt the soft press of lips on his nape. Again. And again.
Harry’s head came to rest in the crook of Draco’s neck. His breathing slowed. Evened. The shivering began to slip away from Draco’s body, and the exhaustion had its way once more. Draco eased Harry’s hand up and kissed the heated fingers.
Shut his eyes and sank.
* * *
He opened his eyelids again to find the familiar bleary outline of his antique dresser against the far wall. It took him some seconds to understand that the close, heavy mass atop him was a cocoon of blankets. His body felt comfortably heated, and so fatigued. Difficult to move.
The light in his room was… wrong. Draco turned over with a groan. His bed was empty, and sunlight streamed in under the drawn drapes, casting shadows too pale for dawn.
Late for work then. Hours late. He thought about it for long enough to realise that he didn’t care in the slightest.
He sat up gingerly. His head whirled a little bit, but nothing like the headache of the previous evening. Draco dragged one of the blankets over his shoulders and stood, shuffling across his room, out the door and down the hall into the bathroom. He took his potion dose and splashed his face with warm water, toweled off, then headed for the living room, one hand on the wall for purchase.
Harry sat outside on the balcony, wrapped in sunshine, the Prophet spread over his bent knees. Draco could see bare toes under the hems of jeans that clung closely to Harry’s thighs and draped enticingly over his calves. He’d put on a black button-down shirt, but left it open, and his bare chest rose and fell serenely as he breathed.
Draco waited until Harry had set down his mug of… whatever. “It’s late.”
Harry glanced up with a raised eyebrow. “Sleep well?”
Draco hugged the blanket closer about his shoulders and stretched his neck until it popped. “I’m due at work.”
The other man stood, flipping the paper shut with one hand. “I Flooed them around eight and told them you were taking a personal day.”
Draco squinted at him. His head was still swimming. “You didn’t ask me.”
“You needed it,” Harry said simply.
“I should be hexing you for that.” Draco yawned. Looked around and nodded. “But I haven’t got my wand. It’ll have to wait.”
Harry was fighting a smile. “Your mercy exceeds all bounds.”
“Prick.” Draco rubbed the back of his neck and shuffled back around toward the hall. “Going to bed again.”
“You want breakfast?”
He stopped, looking back over his shoulder at Harry. “I… Not particularly hungry yet.”
Harry just nodded. “I’ll get you up for lunch.”
“Mmm.”
* * *
To Marcus Havenfeld:
No, you bloody twat, I do not want to rekindle the old flame. The former was simply a missive to inform you of the fact that I have contracted Erato’s Syndrome and you need to get yourself tested. All I know is that I didn’t give it to you, but you may well have given it to me. Go to a Healer.
~Draco Malfoy
He wanted to gouge his own eyes out. Or maybe just lock the window before the next owl arrived. He hadn’t been expecting a bloody response.
For fuck’s sake. He should have expected it from Mark.
It hadn’t been Mark who’d given the disease to him, though. He just knew, somewhere in his bones. And the other option was a little too unsettling to contemplate right then. Merlin’s wand, he was damn lucky he hadn’t been sleeping with any Muggles in those eight months. Erato’s didn’t especially go for them, considering they were missing the certain crucial element of, oh, say, magic. But there was always that chance that he’d fuck a Muggle with latent magic, one who could contract the disease, or some form of it, and then have no way of warning said sexual partner.
They, of course, wouldn’t manifest symptoms in the same way, Mr Malfoy. There are several Muggle sexually transmitted diseases that exhibit similar symptoms. It’s not exactly unheard of; if necessary, we could find them.
The Healer had also imparted the charming news of his findings as far as the most recent blood-work went.
Erato’s was certainly a piece of work. Apparently Draco had his own unique little strain of the damnable disease running through his veins, thanks to his very particular magic and the magic of the person who’d passed it along to him. Made it easier to guess at who’d been the culprit, however.
And Draco was really hoping not to receive an owl from that person as well. God knew what it might say.
“Seven months,” he muttered, resisting the urge to crumple the scrap of parchment. “Seven— fucking hell.” He flung his quill down and slumped back onto the couch, trying to count again. He’d only counted through it fifty times, and each time gave him the same result, but he couldn’t keep his mind from venturing back down the same road again and again.
Four men. Or rather, three men and Harry. It was always “other men,” and Harry. Except for the time with the bloke from York, and then before that, when Harry’d been rather irritatingly serious about a tall brunet wizard in the broomstick trade somewhere near Manchester. Bloody brooms, the damned design was nowhere near comparable to the London-based Nimbus, or even the useless Comet series. Draco clenched the armrest and sat up, kneading his face with both hands.
“Five months you’ve been with Harry.” He must have seemed positively anal at the Healer’s, going over and over the same dates. Being told the same thing in the same calm tone. Thank the gods for patient-Healer privilege; the Prophet would bloody well sink their teeth straight through a story about a Malfoy with a sexually transmitted disease.
And a Malfoy who was inordinately obsessed with proving that he’d been monogamous with a certain lover? Oh hells, break loose and flood the fucking newsprint.
“Shite,” he hissed, and got to his feet, tossing his Eagle Owl a small treat and waving it out the open window with the new letter. His head hurt, his eyes hurt. His pelvis hurt, and that was new. He just wanted to lie down and slip off into oblivion, and who cared if Potter had a bloody emergent case? Draco didn’t want him here anyway, he’d as much as told him so an hour ago.
His flat was too damned quiet.
“Fine,” he grumbled, making for the bedroom and its dark window drapes, its large, soft bed. “Deal with your curses. Bloody desperate for undisturbed sleep anyway.”
But even now it hardly sounded as lofty as it had when he’d said it to Harry.
* * *
Two days later, Draco’s throat was a mass of raw fire and the artistic blemishes in the bathroom wall tiles were looking eerily familiar.
He heaved, feeling his shoulders crack, but there was nothing left to throw up, and he hung his head over the toilet for a dizzying moment before the sensation retreated back into the pit of his belly. Draco wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist and sat back down gingerly, leaning against the far wall. Even his thin pyjama pants felt too hot against the skin of his legs. He sought for his wand where it had fallen on the bath mat and spelled his mouth free of the sour taste yet again. But the ache deep in his throat remained.
Gods, he was sweaty and miserable, and he looked it, and he didn’t care one whit, and that was the scary part. Draco rubbed his eyes, willing his stomach to calm down.
“Can you keep down water?”
Harry stood in the doorway, brow furrowed. Draco rolled his eyes and let his head rock back and forth across the tile. “No.”
“How’s your head?”
“Doesn’t hurt anymore. As much good as that does me.” Draco shut his eyes and let the cool tile at his back breathe into his bare shoulders.
Harry’s tone was just bordering on condescending, but maybe that was the illness translating. “You need to eat something.”
“Thank you for your marvelous analysis,” Draco drawled, not bothering to open his eyes. “If I could, I would. As it stands, I haven’t got a whole lot of choice in the matter.”
He heard Harry come into the bathroom, and a second later, a warm hand was threading through his hair. Cupping his chin. Draco let himself feel it for three seconds, and then leaned away from it with a sigh and cracked an eyelid. Harry squinted at him. “What?”
“Face it, Harry,” he murmured, managing a weak smile. “My body’s a germ’s holiday.”
Harry’s green eyes sparkled and his lip curved. “I don’t care,” he said on the verge of a laugh.
The humour was too much. Draco sat upright with a jerk. “Well, you should care,” he muttered.
The other man leaned forward slowly, bracing one hand against the sink, the other mere inches away from Draco on the wall. “Don’t twist my words, Draco,” he said quietly.
Draco sighed. “Look, Harry—” He ran a hand across his forehead, wiping his damp hair away from his face. “Maybe you should just go. I’m not really in the mood for company.”
“And leave you here half unconscious on your bathroom floor? Sorry, Draco, but no. I’ve only done that once, and that was because I was just as drunk as you.” Harry straightened up and leaned against the sink, crossing one leg over the other. He smelled of health and warmth, earthy and sunlit. “Can’t have you dying all alone. Your ghost would be far too melodramatic.”
“Not going to die, Potter,” Draco huffed. He stared at the wall and thought about water that he certainly didn’t feel up to drinking again. Ah, wishful thinking. “Forgive me for wanting to retain some of my dignity. Arsehole.”
“Draco,” came the easy reply, “neither of us has any dignity left after what happened at that hotel in Perth two years ago. But for the sake of argument, I’d like you to know that you don’t look foolish or undignified. It’s alright to be sick. Happens to everyone.”
“Oh, yes, well, when it happens to you, be sure to open your doors to the public eye,” Draco snapped, glaring up at his lover. “I’ll be more than happy to come over and spoon-feed you like some sniveling child just for the occasion.”
Harry’s body had gone a little rigid. “I’m only trying to help you.”
“In some vague sense of the word,” Draco muttered.
“What the hell’s gotten you in such a bad mood?” Harry said caustically, his forehead furrowed.
Draco swung his head toward his lover, not even bothering to temper his words anymore. “You bloody well didn’t have to stay, you know.”
“No, I didn’t have to. I chose to.” Harry’s jaw clenched, and the look in his eyes had turned steely. Draco felt a shiver run down his spine, and he let it fuel his annoyance, let his tongue lash out where it desperately wanted to instead of going down the less comfortable path his thoughts had been pushing on him for the last week.
So much easier to be angry.
“Well, maybe you should choose to go back home,” he snapped, and turned away, clenching his hands into fists atop his knees. “I’m perfectly capable of being sick in solitude.”
There was a brief, heated silence.
“Fine, Malfoy.” Harry stood, wiping his palms on his jeans. “But if you think this show of bad attitude is going to drive me out, think again. I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction. We’ll both be here; we’ll just do it without speaking to each other.”
Draco rubbed his face, feeling like he was swaying. Like the room was swaying. He listened as Harry’s footsteps receded. It was building in his chest, threatening to pour out of him. “Harry—”
He heard the other man stop. Heard him breathing quietly just out in the hall.
“I’m—”
Sorry? Yes. But the word was pushed aside. Draco exhaled and leaned back, resting against the wall and drawing his knees even closer. Didn’t like feeling so opened. He stared up at Harry, at the vague impatience, the irritated clench of the other man’s fists.
“Harry, I didn’t sleep around on you,” he said at last, softly.
The tumble of Harry’s expression was startling. His brows drew together and his mouth opened as if he would speak. He came slowly back into the bathroom and crouched down, one hand on the sink for balance. His other hand rose and touched down on Draco’s left knee. “I… Draco. Is that what you—”
He stopped. Draco shrugged, too worn out to deal with it anymore. He shut his eyes and concentrated on the chilly tiles leeching his heat away. Gods, what a mess.
“I never thought that,” Harry said quietly. Draco opened his eyes.
“What?”
Harry stared at him, face solemn and boyish behind his glasses. He squeezed Draco’s knee. “You. Sleeping around.”
Draco shivered, unable to stop the quake of his shoulders. “Harry, I swear,” he whispered. “There’s a timeline, and it’s just not possible—”
Harry touched his face, a tiny smile on his lips. “Draco, I know the Erato’s timeline. I’m familiar with how it works.”
“You are.”
Harry’s hand stroked his knee soothingly. He tilted his head. “Not exactly your everyday STD. But I’ve come across it before.”
Draco just looked at him, incapable of doing much else. Harry sighed. “Look. It happens. Could have been a lot worse.”
“I might have given it to you, Harry,” Draco said.
“And I’ll get tested. Alright?”
Again, Draco’s voice failed him. Harry reached up and brushed his sweaty fringe back off of his forehead. “Draco, I know you were sleeping with a lot of people. We were both sleeping with a lot of people. You do know that I trust you, yeah?”
“I prefer to think so,” Draco muttered. “But I also prefer to face facts and we both know neither of us has had the best track record for monogamy in recent years. It’s the kind of thing a person could get used to. Comfortable with.”
Harry’s brow pinched. He tapped a finger on Draco’s knee absently. “Well… Do you think I’ve been sleeping with other people?”
“No.”
“Would you like me to?”
Draco scowled, squeezing his fingers against his legs. “You know the answer to that.”
Harry nodded, and it wasn’t until his face gained some colour that Draco realised it had lost any to begin with. His lover licked his lips and drew his hands away, sitting up straighter. Draco didn’t especially like the look on his face.
“I remember liking… sleeping with a lot of men. And I know you liked it, don’t even start, Draco. There are just some things that I’d rather—” Harry’s lips thinned. He looked directly at Draco. “If it’s ever about that, I’d want you to say something.”
Draco looked back for a long moment before it hit him. He rested his head back on the wall and covered his face with both hands. “Oh, bloody buggering— I’m not getting tired of this, Harry. Of us. Fucking hell.” His stomach rolled in a very timely reminder, and he pressed his forehead to his knees and groaned. “It’s just a stupid STD. Not supposed to bring our entire relationship into question.”
Harry’s hands closed over his. “The questions would still be there, Draco.”
“Look.” Draco pushed away from the wall and ripped some tissue off of the toilet paper roll, wiping his forehead and neck before settling back again. “I just want to get this out of my system, and then forget I ever had the bloody thing.”
Harry’s thumb tracked small circles over his knee. It was the kind of touch Draco couldn’t get enough of, and it was so simple and so very… unique. He’d had enough lovers, enough longtime lovers even, to know that not everyone did that kind of thing.
Hoped from time to time, when he lay awake in the dark with Harry breathing quietly beside him, that Harry hadn’t done it with anyone else.
“You know who gave it to you?” Harry asked in a low voice.
Draco squirmed, scowling. “I have a good idea. And I don’t care to rehash it, if it’s all the same to you.”
Harry shrugged. “It’s the same either way. I’m not upset about him.”
“And you shouldn’t be. I had to write to him about it, and I don’t particularly want to hear back from him.”
“It’s just a letter, Draco.”
He sneered at Harry, feeling a wave of sickness sweep up and fade back again. “You know, unlike the golden saviour, I’m not proud of some of the people I’ve slept with, and he’s one of them.”
Harry frowned. “You think I’ve had the perfect run of lovers, do you?”
Draco sighed. “I just don’t like the memories that come with him, alright? I wasn’t exactly happy then, if you’ll remember. It was right before the two of us…” He gestured between himself and Harry, and let his hand drop. “I wasn’t happy. Alright?”
Harry nodded. Draco felt so awkward, and it clutched at his belly in an entirely new sort of way. Salazar. Harry and he talked about old lovers all the time. Shared stories. Shared bungles and sometimes even found they’d shared lovers. It shouldn’t have made him feel so strange. But this one was most definitely awkward.
Oh, yes, please, banter with me about the arse who infected my body with this charming ailment, Harry. Care for a crumpet?
Let’s just discuss the stupid things we did while wishing for another person.
He wondered, not for the first time, if Harry had particular things he regretted.
“Are you happy now?” Harry asked presently.
Draco met his gaze. “Aside from this horrid urge to vomit?”
Harry snorted. Draco swallowed once, and nodded. “I’m fairly content. Yes.”
“Good to know,” was all Harry said. Draco studied his lover’s face intently across the small space, suddenly unwilling to drag his eyes away. He’d seen Harry Potter in just about every light, witnessed the way that light played over each curve and fall of muscle, each expanse of skin. It felt a little desperate, a little helpless, to need to touch a certain person so often. If he hadn’t been dealing with it for years already, Draco would have felt terribly exposed by it.
“Harry,” he said, and stopped. He reached up and stroked Harry’s face, ran his fingertips down the side of his throat. Trailed down his shoulder all the way to his hand and threaded his fingers between Harry’s darker ones. Pulled lightly, not so much drawing Harry to him as drawing himself toward Harry.
The other man’s eyes were rich and dark, and they trained on his face intimately. Harry leaned closer, until Draco could smell his hair. He’d meant for the kiss to be soft, chaste, but his lips trembled against the corner of Harry’s mouth. Harry let out a tiny breath and turned into it, opening his mouth and letting the kiss deepen, stroking his tongue against Draco’s and taking control right out of his hands with shocking ease. Draco cupped his hand around the back of Harry’s neck and slumped into it, feeling loose and woozy and all sorts of unfettered.
At last Harry broke the kiss with a gentle press of his mouth to Draco’s chin. Draco sighed, but opened his eyes again when Harry gripped his hand and pulled him away from the wall. “What—”
Harry kept one hand flat against his shoulders as he crawled forward on his knees and slipped behind him, settling back with legs bent on either side of Draco’s. He urged Draco backward as well, until he could feel himself pressed all along Harry’s front, his hips resting in the warm crook of Harry’s thighs. He sighed again and shut his eyes. Licked his lips. “Now I know it’s love,” he murmured.
Harry’s chest vibrated with a gentle chuckle. “And how do you figure?”
“Kissed me,” Draco returned. “Sick and all.”
Harry’s hand rubbed the top of his right thigh. “Don’t get too excited. I saw you clean your mouth earlier.”
Draco huffed tiredly and relaxed against Harry. The window spilled golden sunlight over their bent legs, warming the silence.
~fin~
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Part 7: Table Talk
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Post-fic notes: Erato's Syndrome was named after Erato, the Greek muse of erotic poetry and song. You can find more information about her on this Wikipedia page.
