Chapter 8 of The Bubo
In which Draco finally gets Potter’s undivided attention.
The Great Hall was so vacant at breakfast on Saturday that Draco thought the holidays had arrived a few weeks ahead of time. Apparently, two separate parties had raged on till well after midnight—one for Diggory, thrown by the Hufflepuffs, and one for Potter, thrown by the Gryffindors. On top of that, about half the older Slytherins and Ravenclaws had gone at the break of dawn to a Forbidden Forest expedition with Hagrid for Herbology and Creatures credits.
Blaise had refused to get out of bed. Draco had heard him return to the dorm late last night but had been too mortified even to peek through his bed curtains.
“What did you do to him?” he had asked Greg in a whisper as they ascended from the dungeons.
“Don’t worry about it, boss. There isn’t a single bruise on him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we didn’t wanna hex him. Isabella can cast Priori—remember when Milli hexed Astoria?”
In early October, Isabella Sallow had impressed everyone by conjuring the ghostly memory of the hair loss curse and Astoria Greengrass’s tear-streaked face from Millicent’s wand. Millicent and Daphne had been feuding over some alleged theft since school had started and Astoria had suffered collateral damage.
Draco was surprised by Greg’s shrewdness. Everyone knew Isabella’s father was in the employ of Blaise’s father, but it hadn’t occurred to Draco that Blaise might pull the string to get back at Vince and Greg. And it should have. It would have, if panic hadn’t made him stupid.
“So, what did you do to him?” he repeated, heart climbing into his throat.
Greg shrugged. “Hit him where he won’t bruise.”
“Where’s that?”
They were at the top of the stairs. Greg glanced at Draco with an insufferable mix of protectiveness and pity writ large on his face, like an adult addressing a child. “Don’t worry about it.”
“No, I want to know.”
Greg sighed. And then Draco felt Greg’s large, hard hand on the small of his back, feeling upward till it bore into his kidneys, thumb on one, fingers on the other side of his spine. “There. It hurts like Cruciatus but doesn’t bruise.”
Draco felt the blood drain out of his face.
Had he overreacted? Like after the Champions’ tent? Had taking Vince’s potion and cultivating that thing that was growing between his legs also been a part of it? Making a production, as Mother would put it, of his anguish? Desperate for someone—desperate for Potter—to notice?
Could it be that… amid his frantic efforts to remain hidden, what he really wanted was… to be seen?
“Draco?”
He started.
“You haven’t heard a word I just said, have you?” Pansy said. She was sitting next to him, their arms touching shoulder to elbow and their thighs, hip to knee. On the other side of the table, Theo had piled some toast, eggs, and bacon on a plate and nodded at the two of them as he left, carrying it with him. For Blaise.
“Uh… yes. I mean, no.” Draco cringed. The bubo ached, pulsing ominously with his heartbeat. “Sorry. What were you saying?”
Pansy studied him, and there was something cold and calculating in her gaze that made him think she knew perfectly well where his thoughts had gone, but it was replaced by her familiar coquetry in an instant. “Are we going to the pitch with the others? Or we could—” she wound a shiny strand of her black hair around a long, varnished fingernail “—go back to the dungeons.”
Draco’s heart pounded as he held her gaze. She was offensively confident about being in charge of the proceedings, but although he didn’t like it, he was grateful, because he didn’t particularly want to take charge of the proceedings himself. Especially since, well. Unlike her, he had never done anything like this before.
He nodded, and she grinned, biting into her plump lower lip.
Half an hour later, she pushed him into a tall wingback recliner that had been conveniently maneuvered to face a secluded corner of the common room by some other enterprising couple. Draco let her. He didn’t bother trying to hide his nerves. Pansy seemed to enjoy having the upper hand, and it suited him, for now. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to put up a convincing show of… interest… if their roles were reversed.
She straddled his lap. Draco’s hands were sweaty as he lay them on her waist. He stared at the gold and jade serpent pendant that hung on a delicate chain from her neck, dipping in and out of the V of her jumper. He didn’t want to look in her eyes, afraid his misery ran too deep to hide. You only got one first kiss in life, and he had wanted, so, so badly, to share his with someone else.
Pansy leaned in, all apple-scented bubblegum and candy-floss of lip gloss, her fingers icy on the back of his neck, and Draco shut his eyes, trembling. Her lips were moist and soft when they touched his. He let out a breath.
But then Pansy placed her thumb on his chin and pushed gently. “Open your mouth,” she whispered. Then she laughed. “Not all the way. Just a little.”
Draco tried to loosen his jaw so she could adjust it, and then her tongue was in his mouth, large and wet and searching, and it wasn’t awful, but he might as well have been tonguing his own hand. He couldn’t picture Potter, not with Pansy’s slight frame in his arms and her quiet mewling in his ears, not with the saccharine taste of her gum overwhelming all his other senses. He had wondered… he had hoped… but he couldn’t detect even the slightest stirring of arousal. How far had Pansy gone with other boys? Could he come up with a believable excuse to postpone going farther than this? His eyes stung. The future he dreaded—he had not expected it to be upon him so soon.
They broke apart and Pansy rested her forehead on Draco’s, a bit breathless. “I knew it,” she muttered.
“Hm?”
“I knew you’d be a good kisser.”
Draco made himself smirk. “Of course.”
“Did you like it?”
“Yes,” he lied. She drew breath to speak more, but he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her into another kiss. Better get used to it.
* * *
It happened after lunch. The sun was already low, but after many days under thick cloud cover, everyone wanted a piece of it, and no place was better for it than the western terraces. The Gryffindors were there in force when Draco came out with Pansy on his arm and Vince and Greg on each side of them. Theo had gone back to the dorm to keep Blaise company.
The two elder weasels started wolf-whistling and making rude smacking noises, presumably addressed at Draco and Pansy. She flipped them off, which resulted in more whistling, but when Draco made to lead her away, she followed without resistance. “Morons,” she declared, and it looked like that would be that.
The four of them settled in the opposite corner of the terrace. Greg and Vince took the stone bench, and Draco leaned on the balustrade with Pansy huddling against him for warmth. The sun was in his back and he had an unobstructed view of the Gryffindors. Finnigan was there, looking sickly and morose. Perhaps it hadn’t been Draco’s curse that had put him in the hospital after all—but it would be by the end of the day, if he had any say in it. Thomas stood by Finnigan’s side, trying to engage him in the pointless project of keeping a round pebble upright with a Levitation Charm. Weasley seemed engrossed in some argument with Granger, who soon dug a book out of her bag and started flipping through it furiously.
Someone yelled, “Fred? George!” from under the colonnade and the weasel twins departed, turning once to blow kisses in the direction of the Slytherins.
And leaving Potter unattended.
He was leaning on the balustrade too, a mirror image of Draco, only his arms were empty. It looked like he didn’t know what to do with them. He crossed them over his chest, then dropped them by his sides, then stuffed them in his pockets, all the while resolutely staring at the ground. He managed to stay put for fully five seconds before propping himself up to sit on the balustrade. But the stone was cold and damp, and unlike Vince and Greg, Potter had no padding on his bony bottom to keep him comfortable, so he came back down in practically the same movement.
Pansy chose that precise moment to worm her hands under Draco’s robes, and then into the back pockets of his trousers. Her fingers were freezing even through two layers of his clothes, but he didn’t mind. Even from across the terrace, Potter’s presence kept him warm. It also made his bubo ache, in that dubiously pleasant way, like an untouched erection.
“Alright?” she whispered into his neck.
He kissed her temple in the way of an answer. And Potter chose that precise moment to look up. His glasses reflected the sun right into Draco’s eyes.
“Bugger off, Potter,” he muttered.
“Hm?” said Pansy.
“Nothing.”
But it was so much more than nothing. If there’d been any doubt in Draco before whether Potter was uncomfortable seeing him with Pansy, there could be none now. He tried to avert his eyes, gazing in the direction of Weasley and Granger, but he couldn’t, and soon Draco was blinded by the reflection from his glasses again—just as Potter must’ve been blinded by the sun. But Draco didn’t need his sight to sense the intensity of Potter’s attention.
Pansy shifted against Draco, the soft swell of her hip brushing over his semi. He angled himself to get it out of the way and she angled herself to chase after it, her grin growing teeth against his skin.
“Don’t,” he said, and shifted again, his eyes never leaving Potter.
“Aww,” she purred. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
A wave of irritation rose inside him but he clamped it down. “Not here,” he added, though it made him want to cry. Nothing would stop her now from trying to get inside his pants the next time they were alone. And then what? His arousal had nothing to do with her invasive proximity, and everything to do with the fact that he and Potter were staring at one another again after what felt like a dry spell of a hundred days. Sooner or later, Pansy would discover the extent of Draco’s disinterest and then the whole school would be laughing behind his back: not for being bent, but for being impotent, which was almost equally bad, should word of it reach Father. Perhaps there were potions for it. Perhaps alcohol could loosen Draco’s imagination enough to forget whose warm body was pressing into his. Gods. When he’d pilfered half a bottle of firewhiskey from Madam Hooch’s office on his last outing with the Invisibility Cloak, he hadn’t imagined it would be the beginning of his predestined marital alcoholism.
Pansy drew back a little and pecked the corner of his mouth. Her gum was minty now. On the stone bench next to them, Greg’s voice rumbled louder as he and Vince got into one of their arguments about the merits of weight in Screaming Sevens compared to Quidditch. From across the terrace, Potter scowled more fiercely than ever. Tilting his head to avoid the sun’s glare, he caught Draco’s gaze and mouthed: ten foot pole.
Wild excitement surged through Draco and he could barely keep from laughing out loud with triumph. Potter had memorized every word of their confrontation, just like Draco.
Staring brazenly in Potter’s eyes, Draco took hold of Pansy’s chin and pushed his tongue into her mouth. She moaned. He almost did too, because Potter’s mouth fell open, and for a few tremendous heartbeats, he looked like he had indeed been struck by lightning.
Then he turned his back to the terrace, face crimson, and Draco let his eyes flutter shut, the better to hold the image of Potter’s stunned expression in his mind. He could picture it, now. Potter in his arms, instead of Pansy, the rough kiss one of true passion. One he could enjoy.
“Let her breathe, boss,” Greg said, and Vince giggled.
The moment was over. Draco let go of Pansy and she plopped limply onto his shoulder. On the other side of the terrace, Thomas had joined the discussion between Weasley and Granger and all three of them were bent over her book. Potter’s head hung below his shoulder blades, elbows planted wide on the banister.
Having taken up the challenge of the upright pebble, Finnigan stood apart: preoccupied, alone, and unobserved.
Feeling untouchable, invincible—divine!—Draco shook his wand from his sleeve into his hand. “Keep still,” he whispered to Pansy. Then, “Porcipilum crescere,” as he made the simple gesture.
“Come on,” he said, louder. “Let’s get out of here.”
Although the madman’s exuberance had not yet abandoned him entirely, some semblance of his common sense was returning and he realized that, one, the hex would not prevent Finnigan from fighting. That, two, this meant the Gryffindors seriously outnumbered them, since Pansy wasn’t likely to join a fight that wasn’t her own. And last, but certainly not least, that Potter was royally pissed off; Draco had made sure of that.
“Aaarhh,” yelped Finnigan. “What is this?”
By then, Draco had long extricated himself from Pansy and was halfway to the door, not looking back to see if the others were following.
“Seamus?” shrieked Granger. “What on earth—”
From the sound of Greg’s rolling laughter, Draco inferred that his friends hadn’t moved from the stone bench. But there was no time to worry about that. Just a few more steps—
“Someone hexed him,” cried Weasley.
“Slytherin scum!” spit Thomas.
“Oi, what?” Vince exclaimed, a tone of genuine shock in his voice. “We didn’t do nothing!”
Greg growled, “Who you calling scum, scum?”
And then everyone was shouting all at once, till Potter’s bellow cut through the din. “MALFOY!”
Draco yanked the door open and ran.
* * *
Up the short, wide stairs, skipping three at a time, to the first passage that led out of the arched hallway and—“MALFOY!”—a hex hit the stone column a split second after Draco’s hand slid from it as he made the tight turn at full speed. It was going to be wands then, not another round of wrestling. Just as well! Draco’s wand was already in his hand but there was no time to turn. The suits of armor lining the wall of the long, sun-streaked corridor snapped to attention in a rapid-fire sequence as Draco sprinted past them—and then again when Potter followed.
“I’m gonna kill you!”
On pure instinct, Draco swerved to the left and another hex singed his right ear, barely missing him. As he reached the dark mouth of the stairwell, he cast a sticking charm on the hardwood floor behind him, but he had just gained the first landing when he saw Potter leap over the charmed boards, easily carried by the momentum of his fury. He was gaining on Draco. He was smaller and faster, on foot as in the air. Draco bound upwards, but Potter’s stomping footsteps were getting closer and closer and soon they would be on the same leg of the stairs and there’d be nowhere to hide from incoming spellfire.
The staircase—though Draco could’ve sworn he had never laid foot on it before—ended at the third-floor hallway with the Salem Trials tapestries. If he took the right turn at the T-intersection, eventually he would emerge at the lounge near the Defense classroom, and there were always people there. Witnesses, should Potter make good on his threat. It certainly sounded like he was about to give it his best shot.
“Malfoy! Stop running, you coward!”
He caught up just as Draco’s foot landed on the final tread, but he stepped on the hem of his robes and went down on hand and knee, the same hand and the same knee he had hurt on Thursday tripping over the same overlong robes. But the sharp pain that flashed through him and made him yelp wasn’t from that. He had pinched the bubo. It felt like getting stabbed.
The fall, however, had saved him from Potter’s hex, which burned a hole in the nearest tapestry instead. Mindless with panic, Draco scrambled to his feet. He made to run again when something pulled him back, tightening across his chest. Potter had got hold of his robes. He yanked on them so savagely that Draco tipped backward, and would’ve fallen down the stairs, possibly to his death, if Potter hadn’t rushed at him from behind.
They collided. There was a brief, blind struggle as Draco tried to twist out of Potter’s grip to no avail. Wand still in hand, Potter grabbed Draco by the lapels of his robes, gathering handfuls of jumper, shirt and skin besides, and such was his rage that he nearly lifted Draco off the ground. Yet his momentum hadn’t been spent and they stumbled over one another’s feet till Draco was pummeled into a wall.
If not for the tapestry, Potter would’ve bloodied the stone with Draco’s cracked skull.
A dull ache bloomed from the back of his head. Time slowed and all the noises faded out till all that remained was the frantic thud of his heart and the drag of blood through his veins.
Potter’s face filled Draco’s vision. It was contorted into a frenzied snarl, teeth bared and jaw tight, spittle flying off his lip on some plosive or another. He was saying something, likely shouting, but Draco couldn’t hear. Potter’s glasses were askew from their scuffle. His hair curled in every direction and moved as he spoke, as if it had a mind of its own. The scar on his forehead looked like an open wound. Sweat beaded on his upper lip, and in the nearly horizontal, orange rays of the setting sun from the west-facing window, Draco could make out the fine, barely visible baby hair there. And so, his question was answered: Potter wasn’t shaving yet. For the first time, Draco noticed that Potter’s lower teeth were crowded and slightly crooked. And that the shiny brown skin on his nose and cheekbones was strewn with tiny dark freckles.
And then Draco’s senses rushed back all at once.
“—with you, Malfoy?!”
What the fuck is wrong had been the rest of it.
Draco blinked. Potter was not only in his face. He was leaning on Draco with the entire length of his body so that they were flush against each other from knees to shoulders. A dream come true, minus the consummate wrath in Potter’s eyes. He and Potter were so close that Draco’s rapid breaths, still minty from Pansy’s bubblegum, put Potter’s hair in motion. Potter smelled of chicken and potatoes and his strawberry shampoo and just barely, at the edge of Draco’s senses—or remembrance—of cedarwood and lemons.
Draco became aware that his hands were gripping Potter’s wrists. His wand was gone, but he was no longer frightened. He was dazed, drunk, drugged. They were so close that he couldn’t tell whose heart was beating harder or faster. Heat of the contact seeped through shirts, jumpers and robes, rising with every breath. Their bellies rubbed together, abdominals flexing with adrenaline. Lower still, the bubo throbbed. And the erection that had flagged from all the running returned in a rush so hot and abrupt that it left Draco lightheaded.
Potter felt it.
His grimace gave way to confusion. The focus of his blazing eyes switched to the air between them and Draco could practically hear the gears in Potter’s head turning as he tried to figure out what it was, exactly, that he felt. He looked at Draco’s hands, then at the floor to Draco’s right. Not the wand. A wand wouldn’t be that wide or that blunt. A wand wouldn’t be that warm. A wand would definitely not twitch.
Potter’s eyes snapped back to Draco’s, wider than ever. Draco watched the pupils in them expand into glistening black holes till only a thin ring of bright viridian remained. It was the loveliest thing he’d ever seen. Distantly, he felt a blush rise from his neck into his face as a matching flush blossomed over Potter’s cheeks.
And then, Draco felt it.
Potter was getting hard too, snug against Draco’s left thigh. His lips fell open to let out a shuddery breath, and when Draco wet his own, Potter’s eyes dipped to follow the motion.
I could kiss him.
Potter’s mouth trembled. The column of his hardon pressed right into the bubo and it hurt, it hurt, but it hurt so bloody good.
He would let me.
Draco moved. He was going to do it. He couldn’t believe it, but he was going to do it. He was going to kiss Potter.
He was less than an inch away when Potter kicked him in the balls.
A searing, nauseating pain exploded from the base of Draco’s spine and made him seize with a throaty oomph.
“What?” Potter said, but Draco was unable to answer. It was so bad, he couldn’t even scream, couldn’t even breathe. “Malfoy?”
It hadn’t been Potter. It hadn’t been the balls. Hot liquid gushed down Draco’s thigh. The bubo. It had burst!
“What’s the matter?” Potter sounded concerned, frightened, and Draco could only imagine what his face looked like.
The pain subsided but something kept pouring between Draco’s legs and he didn’t want to think it, he better not think it, but it was likely—
“Malfoy!” Potter shook him. “What’s wrong?”
—piss! Yes, it felt just like piss, and any moment now, Potter would feel the dampness and think Draco had pissed himself from fear or something—
Draco forced himself to open his eyes. They were blurry. His face was streaked with tears. Potter stared at him. He had moved away a little, but he was still holding Draco by the lapels of his robes: not against escaping, but against collapsing.
“Let go, Potter,” Draco croaked, pushing weakly on Potter’s shoulders. When Potter wouldn’t budge, Draco pushed harder. Quite a bit harder, in fact, than he’d thought possible in his current state.
Which had two unwanted consequences.
One, Potter tripped, going backwards, and teetered precariously at the edge of the stairs just long enough for Draco to picture him falling and breaking his neck. Their eyes met, full of horror, but then Potter grabbed the banister and found his balance. When he looked at Draco again, some of his familiar anger had found its way back into his expression and it was oddly relieving to see it.
Two, the exertion had caused a new gush of—no, don’t think it, it isn’t, it isn’t—blood to well from Draco’s groin.
He looked down. Nothing could be seen on his black trousers. But on the floor, in a long strip of dying sunlight where he’d stood a moment ago, lay a large, undeniable splatter or dense, crimson blood.
Draco’s stomach turned. He made a wobbly step towards the coveted T-intersection, and then all was dark.
Author notes:
The Screaming Sevens are basically wizarding rugby. Taken from everything you could ever want by eleadore.