Author: Aja (
![[info]](http://stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
bookshop)Rating: PG-13 because even given a challenge like "EROTIC MASSAGE" i cannot write anything erotic to save my life. *headdesk*
Canon: post-HBP, but it might as well be AU.
Length: five million words.
Scenario: I promise to give you an erotic massage.
Summary: It was truly barbaric in a way, the things war taught you to miss.
Disclaimer: I do not own, nor pretend to own any characters or locations within the HP Universe, they remain the sole property of J. K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Christopher Little Agency and associates. No money is made from this work, it is purely a work of fanfiction.
Notes: I was inspired by many others in this challenge to play fast-and-loose with the cheque scenario. Thank you to Cher for the inspiration for this whole project. Thank you to Reena for reading this at the last-minute and for SHAMING me into deleting all the sap. >:0 The title, er, is a reference to a Prince of Tennis theme song, however, and is quite sappy enough for anyone. YES DRACO'S MOTTO IS ACTUALLY J-POP. SHUT UP. Thanks continued here.
Seven Lines
Draco was too tired to put up the wards at their fullest strength. If anyone was lying in wait for this Death Eater, he thought as he re-entered the one-room hut, they could have him. He trudged over to his cot for a well-deserved lie-down. He ached all over, and he had cuts and bruises in places he didn�t even know he had.
War really does make you old, he thought, and fell promptly asleep.
He awoke to the intrusion of sunlight into the tiny house, and to the smell of toast and eggs. He spent a hazy, sleep-soaked moment trying to process these things before giving up and rolling to the other side of his cot with a groan.
A moment later, the cot creaked and sagged with the weight of someone sitting down on it. �That�s one hell of a job you did warding the place, Malfoy. If an army of six-year-olds had come looking for you, they wouldn�t have stood a chance.�
Draco dug his head firmly into his pillow and mumbled, �I very much hope something unpleasant happened to you on the way in.�
A light laugh. �Malfoy, your ward practically rolled over and wagged its tail for me.�
�Not even a scratch?�
In response, Draco suddenly felt warm hands lifting up his shirt. He flinched and pulled away, suddenly acutely aware of what a mess his back must look. �Speaking of scratches,� said Potter softly, ignoring Draco�s attempt at recoiling and placing his hand lightly along Draco�s spine. Draco shivered, because Potter�s touch was full of warmth.
�Presumably you didn�t rendezvous here just to grope me,� he said as gruffly as he could.
Potter�s hand stilled but did not move away. �At least let me cast a healing charm, he said. �You look terrible.�
�Here�s a concept,� snapped Draco, who already knew he looked terrible, thank you, and didn�t need to be reminded of it, least of all by Potter of all people, who Draco knew probably looked even more tired than Draco did. �Why don�t you try not being a bloody saint twenty-four hours of the day?�
Potter gave a chuckle of amusement, and Draco felt a petty resentment that he had not risen to the bait. �Fine,� he said. �I�ll just owl Voldemort and tell him to hold off the war except between the hours of nine to five, Monday through Fridays.� He reached up and yanked the cover off of Draco�s waist, and calmly went about healing Draco�s back until Draco felt more like a person and less like a retired battering ram.
He relaxed gradually underneath the touch; he was too tired to protest being manhandled anyway, and he�d long since learned that Potter did not give up until he�d gotten his way. And there was something undeniably soothing about this strange act�Potter, of all people, being arsed to make sure Draco wasn�t injured.
Draco had begun, once long ago, to offer to return the favor. Then he had realized that Potter never showed up to these meetings with injuries, because Potter had other people to heal his wounds.
"I saw you there last night," said Potter quietly over his shoulder. "I hadn't realized--" He stopped short, and Draco silently finished his sentence for him: hadn't realized that Draco had to actively pretend to be fighting against the side he was spying for? That Draco had been lucky to only give Longbottom a concussion the night before? That not killing people in a war was bloody hard work? That most people on Draco's own side didn't know he was on their side, therefore making the job of defending himself without killing anyone that much harder?
"You need to be more careful," Potter said. his hand hovered just above Draco's shoulderblade - Draco could feel the magic from his wand tingling along his oversensitized skin. "You nearly got killed a dozen times."
Despite the note of concern in Potter's voice Draco had to laugh, which quickly led to wincing because his ribs were still sore. "Why should I be careful, Potter?" he asked dryly. "Because I might get captured? Because I might get killed?"
He felt Potter grip his shoulder. His fingers tightened around it, and Draco found he wanted to roll over and look into Potter's face.
"Yes," said Potter. "Because you might get hurt. Or killed. Or captured."
Draco fought the urge to ask why on earth any of those things could possibly matter, least of all to the person who was telling him that they should.
"I don't want to worry about you," Potter said.
"Then don't," Draco snapped automatically, burrowing into the cot and his pillow and wondering why Potter made him feel like a first-year.
"Don't give me a reason to," said Potter reasonably from somewhere above him, "and I won't have to."
"What makes you think you have to," muttered Draco.
Potter was totally silent for just long enough for Draco to think he had gotten him, and then he said flatly, "We're in a war, Malfoy. People are depending on you."
Draco had no response to this, because of course Potter was right, and of course that should have been the only answer necessary. Draco didn't want to think about why this answer didn't satisfy him in the least.
The cot creaked again, and Draco felt all the warmth leave him as Potter stood up.
"I made us breakfast," he said. "Get up and eat before it gets cold."
"You're hurt," Potter observed.
"I know that," said Draco hoarsely. "Don't act so bloody surprised, what did you think was going to happen?"
"I thought you were going to be careful like I asked you to," said Potter irritably.
"I had two people training wands on me, my aunt and your bloody fiancee, Potter," Draco hissed. "Have you ever been crucioed by two wands at once?"
"But Ginny knows you're a spy," said Potter, narrowing his eyes.
"Yes, well, apparently she had misgivings, what with the whole 'having to pretend to fight for the bad guys' routine," Draco said bitterly. "Anyway, she knows now."
"Why, what--"
"I killed my aunt," said Draco shortly.
Potter went shocked all over, and Draco found a part of him still felt the way Potter looked.
Draco took the opportunity to stop talking. The act of speaking was, apparently, a little more than he could manage at the moment. Potter collected himself quickly and said "Turn over, and let me see how bad it is." Draco did as he was bid, and for a few moments Potter worked his way over Draco's back without talking, pausing whenever Draco winced and moving gently over scars and bruises as he healed them.
"You're really fucked," he said at length.
Draco rolled his eyes. He felt like a mess. He was tired and angry and sore, and it didn't help that Potter of all people had to be there watching. And mothering.
Potter leaned forward and looked down at Draco carefully, his expression veiled. Draco looked back, inexplicably wary.
"Are you okay?" Potter asked. "Really."
Draco rolled over and glared. "I just killed one of my nearest relations, Potter. How would you be?"
"I'd feel like shit," said Potter automatically, "and I'd be pissed at anybody who asked if I was okay." He looked down at Draco's stomach, where a faint line of bruises were visible beneath the hem of his shirt. Then he laughed. "You must think I'm a complete ass."
"Oh, stop making everything about yourself," said Draco irritably. "Just hurry up and defeat the bloody Dark Lord, already. I don't think my back appreciates being used as target practice."
Potter laughed again. "Yeah, I'll get right on it." He looked up. "Take your shirt off."
Oh, thought Draco. If only this were going somewhere. He said nothing, but sat up and removed his shirt. And then let himself crack a smile while Potter healed his stomach, because it wasn't quite morning and Potter probably couldn't see it.
"She's not my fiancee," said Potter abruptly some time later.
"Oh," said Draco.
Potter continued to drink his coffee in silence. Draco did too, hoping that was the correct response.
Draco was grateful that Potter only drank his coffee one way, black. It was easier to fix and easier to remember that way.
The wards were already down when he entered, and he knew something was wrong from the absolute stillness of the place.
Potter was sitting stiffly on the cot, and Draco had a moment to berate himself for not transfiguring a chair or something proper to sit in before registering that Potter was sobbing quietly.
Draco sat down beside him, and decided against asking who died. Their sides touched and Potter was warm all over next to him. Potter didn't look up, didn't stop sobbing. Draco reached up, put a tentative hand on Potter's back, and then let it rest. Potter didn't react, but Draco hadn't expected him to, so he kept it there.
At some point later, he began to trace slow circles over Potter's back. Later, he told himself, he would have a stern talk with himself about taking advantage of people in desperate situations, especially when 'people' was Potter, and 'desperate' involved everyone's favorite saviour having a complete and utter breakdown on Draco's bed.
At the moment, however, Draco couldn't think of anything to do except continue rubbing Potter's back, which developed into scratching Potter's back the way his mother used to do when Draco was very small.
They sat there until gradually Potter stopped crying, which proved to be a very, very long time; and Draco tried not to think about what or who could matter to Potter so much that he would cry this way, this much--or about what it said that he had come there to do his crying.
Draco figured it was only fair. Potter had seen Draco beaten up more than once since they'd started this routine. He could stand to have the tables turned.
Although Draco strongly suspected he now had snot on his trouser leg, which was considerably overdoing it. If Potter was going to ruin his wardrobe, dammit, he was going to enjoy the experience.
"Potter," he said softly, after who knew how long. "Hey, Potter."
Potter looked up then, his eyes swollen and red behind his glasses, which had slipped completely down his nose. He looked as if he had been there for hours. For all Draco knew he had been.
"Keep doing that," Potter said softly.
"Okay," said Draco, matching his tone. He was still in a state of bewilderment, which Potter had put him in: Potter who was crying and who wanted Draco to scratch his back and who just expected him to drop everything on his busy schedule and comfort him, which Draco was doing because Potter was infuriating and crying and impossible.
"But wipe your nose," he added.
Potter laughed brokenly and charmed himself a box of tissues. For a moment Draco thought he was going to break into a sob, but instead he sat back slowly. Draco kept moving his hand in light patterns over Potter's back.
"There was a rainbow out there today," said Potter abruptly. "In Kent. People were fighting and killing each other and the sky cleared and suddenly there was this rainbow." He paused, and then started to laugh again, sharp and shrill. "Ron died under a rainbow."
Draco went cold all over and he didn't know why. Weasley was dead. Weasley was dead. He had never thought of Weasley as someone who would someday not be there. The Weasleys weren't people Draco put in that category, not people who would someday be gone and leave him feeling surprised and wondering what had happened. But now Weasley was dead. And Draco suddenly wished he had been there, that Snape hadn't sent him on some errandboy mission halfway across the country, that he had been able to fight and somehow pay his respects and exchange one last insult with Weasley about his family.
It was truly barbaric in a way, the things war taught you to miss.
His hand still traced circles over Potter's back.
"My family has an old saying," Draco heard himself say. "Reach for the seventh line."
Potter looked at him. Draco looked down, feeling self-conscious and awkward. "There are seven colors in the rainbow, but the human eye can usually only see six, if that many. It's human nature to reach for the top. Strive past what we can see." He shrugged. "It's just a saying."
Potter was quiet for a moment. Then he straightened up.
"Malfoy," he said, looking at him.
Now Draco felt cold for a reason that had nothing to do with rainbows or death.
"Potter," he said.
Potter leaned in, and Draco closed his eyes in pure helplessness for a moment, soaking up Potter's unbearable closeness, before standing up. "I'll get you something to drink."
Potter was quiet for a moment. Finally he said, "Okay," in a tone that told Draco nothing.
Draco stirred the coffee for far too long, considering they both drank it with nothing in it, and hoped beyond hope that when the war was over, Potter would try that move again.
"Turn over."
"No."
"Malfoy, you have to turn over or I can't see how bad it is."
"There's nothing to see, Potter, now leave me alone."
"And that's precisely the thing to inspire my absolute confidence," snapped Potter. "Shut up and roll over or I'll put you into a body-bind."
"You are such a fucking do-gooder," Draco hissed, but he reluctantly (and slowly) rolled over.
Potter looked at his chest and went white.
Draco was suddenly reminded of their conversation from weeks earlier about taking better care of himself, and suddenly felt extremely guilty because he hadn't been, because he hadn't thought it mattered, because suddenly his survival seemed to matter to Potter, and things suddenly fell into place in a way that mattered very much to Draco.
"There wasn't anything I could do," he said. "I tried to run, I would have if I could."
Potter stared at the constellation of open wounds on Draco's skin. "I need to get you to Hogwarts," he said. His voice was slightly shrill, and it alarmed Draco almost more than the look on his face.
"I'm going to be fine, Potter," he said. "But my cover is blown. They know about me."
"Good," said Potter firmly. "I want you out of this war."
Draco growled, "I'm not a child, Potter," though the effect of this sentence was lessened as he winced in pain.
Potter leaned over him. "Malfoy," he said. "This isn't about you," he said. "It's about me not needing to worry about you. I'm taking you to Hogwarts and letting Pomfrey treat you, and then you're going under the protection of the Order. "
"Everything has to be about you," said Malfoy bitterly.
"Basically, yeah," said Potter impatiently, putting a hand under his back and helping him up. "It has to be, at least until the war is over."
"Plenty of people worry about you, but no one is trying to keep you from fighting," said Draco.
"That's because they're depending on me," said Potter hollowly.
"I thought you said people were depending on me," said Draco savagely. "Or was that just a line for when I was actually useful as a spy?"
"God damn it, Draco," replied Potter. "In case you haven't noticed I've been depending on you for months."
Draco closed his mouth in astonishment.
Harry closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against Draco's, and Draco suddenly, strongly wished he wasn't injured and barely able to stand up. "I'm depending on you to survive," Harry said. "You have to survive, and give me a reason to look foward to ending this war."
Draco let Potter's hot breath fall on his cheek and leaned into the strange half-embrace. "Why," he murmured. "What happens when the war's over?"
Potter placed his lips against Draco's temple, just barely, as if he couldn't bear to turn it into anything so permanent as an actual kiss. "After this war," he said, "I'm going to spend entire days touching you."
Draco's legs suddenly went rubbery, and he had no idea if it was because he was wounded or because Potter was still talking.
"Do you know how hard it is to touch you," Potter said, "to move my hands over your back every week, week after week, and stop?"
"I don't recall ever telling you to stop," Draco rasped, his voice suddenly as weak as his knees.
"When this is all over," said Potter darkly, "I won't. I'm going to feel you until I know every inch of you."
Draco lifted his head and looked at Potter directly. "I never thought I'd say this in such a position, but please, God, get me to a hospital."
Potter smiled at him a little faintly, and then kissed him, hard. It was rough and messy and good, and Draco suddenly felt as if months of tension he hadn't even known he carried were floating away, leaving him lighter and full all at once.
"I'm not going to stop fighting," Draco said when they broke away. "This is just for a while, until I'm better."
Potter looked as if he wanted to hit Draco, or possibly kiss him again.
"Besides," said Draco. "Fighting with you is a lot more convenient than fighting against you. And much easier on my back."
Potter gave him a look that slowly turned insufferably confident. "I wouldn't say that," he said.
Draco arched an eyebrow. "I hope you're planning to become my personal masseuse."
Potter smirked. "Malfoy," he said. "You have no idea."
