Chapter 2 - A Gun to the Head, A Scar on the Chest
Draco didn’t need to open his eyes to know there was someone sitting off to his right. The heat radiating off the body was enough to warn anyone. Especially this heat. There was something decidedly masculine about it. It was almost overpowering as the owner of such heat leaned in toward him. He could feel hot breath on his face, the in and out, and then it disappeared as the body returned to its previous position.
“Open your eyes, Malfoy. I know you’re awake.”
Potter. Of all the people in the world, it just had to be Potter.
Draco opened his eyes to find a pistol, his own at that, aimed at his chest and Harry’s face staring placidly at him from behind it. There was a split second of panic before understanding set in. This was just a scare tactic, one to show that Potter was in charge. If he had wanted to shoot him, he would have done it already.
Slowly, he reached out and placed a hand around the barrel of the gun. “Come now, Potter, you don’t really want to shoot me.”
“Don’t I?” He brought the pistol up to aim it directly between Draco’s eyes. “Truth is, Malfoy, I really should after all the crap you’ve done to me. On the other hand, I’ve never followed the rules, now have I?” He chuckled and just like that, pulled the pistol back and stuck it in the waistband of his jeans. “I think I need a little more information first, like what the hell were you doing in Saint Michael’s?”
“That’s none of your business,” Draco snapped. He was tired of this. “I’m leaving.” He started to pull back the sheets but stopped when he realized he was wearing nothing beneath them. “What the hell have you done with my clothes?!” He practically yelled at the man. He tried not to think of the fact that Potter had seen him naked, all of him.
“I hung them up to dry. I couldn’t exactly leave you in them. You were soaked through,” he said calmly.
“Well, I’d like them back. I want to get far away from you as soon as possible.” He crossed his arms haughtily over his chest and glared at Harry.
“You’re not going anywhere, Malfoy. You’re still running a high fever and you’ve been out of it for two days. I won’t be responsible for your death.”
“What? Are you a nurse now, Potter? How sweet. But I don’t give a shit what you think. I’m leaving–”
Whatever else the blond had been about to say was silenced the second he found the gun pointed at him again.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, Potter? Have you gone completely mental? Why would you even want to keep me here?”
“I told you, Malfoy,” he sighed. “I don’t want to be responsible for your death is all. I’ll bring you some food. You can eat, rest a bit and then in the morning, if you feel better, you can go. I won’t stop you. But not till tomorrow. Deal?”
Draco let out a frustrated growl and plopped back down onto the pillows. “Fine, whatever.” Harry lowered the gun and stared at Draco for a minute, then spoke.
“I’ll be back with some food in a bit. Rest up,” he called over his shoulder as he left the room.
What the hell is going on with Potter? Draco thought angrily. The second he opened his eyes, he expected to be thrown out on his ass. Instead, he was being held here against his will. Not that he really had anywhere to go. After spending the last two months sleeping on the streets in cardboard boxes and under bridges, it was like heaven to wake up in a nice warm bed instead of the cold pavement. Resignedly, he lay back and drifted off to sleep. It was almost an hour later when he woke up to Potter shaking his shoulder.
“You need to eat,” he murmured, close to his ear. Potter helped him sit up and propped a couple of pillows behind his head, then placed a tray over his lap. Draco took one look at the bowl of soup and slice of bread and started devouring it instantly. It felt so good to finally have a nice hot meal in his stomach. It had been so long since the last one. He only slowed down when he heard Harry chuckle beside him.
“What?” His tone was defensive and he glared at the dark-haired man.
“Hungry, Malfoy?” He laughed again and walked out of the room, shaking his head. Draco finished his food, set the tray on the floor beside the bed and dozed back off into sleep.
When he came to, he could hear music filtering in from one of the other rooms, muggle music. The beat was heavy and dark. Definitely the kind of thing he would never have imagined Saint Potter listening to. Then again, he wasn’t exactly the Harry Potter he had known back at Hogwarts.
Curiosity found him climbing carefully out of bed. His clothes were folded neatly on a chair by the bed, the one Potter had been sitting in earlier, and he slipped them on. He noticed the holes from when he fell the other night were repaired and made a note to thank Potter later. Right now, he needed to find the loo. He went to the bathroom, relieved himself, then made his way down the hall toward the music.
The door to Harry’s room was ajar and he peered in to find the other man lying flat on his back, shirtless and smoking a cigarette. Draco could do nothing but stare at the rhythmic rise and fall of Harry’s chest. Combined with the music and the darkness of the room, the site of Potter lying there sent an erotic thrill through Draco’s body. Uneasy, he started to back out of the room when Potter’s voice stopped him.
“You can come in if you want,” Harry drawled. He didn’t move, just took another drag from his cigarette and blew a series of smoke rings into the air above him.
Draco stepped through the door and looked around the room. It was like being bathed in milky whiteness: white sheets, white pillows, white rug, the list went on and on. The only thing that broke the monotony was the darkness of Potter: raven hair, bronzed chest, ebony pants and tan toes hanging off the edge of the bed.
Draco found his eyes glued to the long pink scar on Harry’s chest. It ran from his left shoulder blade, down the center of his chest, and across to end right under a pert chocolate nipple. There the wound was puckered as if whatever had created it was thrust deeper into his flesh.
“Go on.” Harry’s voice sounded unnaturally loud and Draco looked up to find him staring at the ceiling. “You can touch it.”
Draco looked back at the scar and hesitated. Truth be told, he was dying to know what it would feel like beneath his fingertips. How could something so horrible look so beautiful? he thought.
Before he knew it, Harry had seized his wrist and placed Draco’s now trembling hand on his heated skin. Instinct took over as he traced the scar from top to bottom, fingers flitting lightly over the marred flesh.
“When did it happen?” His voice was soft as he reluctantly pulled his hand away and lay down next to Harry on the bed.
“The war.” His voice was flat as if he were stating the time.
“Did he do it?”
“Voldemort? No.”
Draco was a little surprised at that fact and then felt a shadow creeping over him. “Then who?” What if it had been his own father? Is that why Potter was keeping him here? As some sort of revenge?
Harry was quiet for a few minutes but when he spoke there was such sadness in his voice that it broke Draco’s heart.
“Someone I once considered a friend.”
There was a finality in his tone that Draco didn’t want to challenge, so he closed his eyes and concentrated on the sound of their breathing. A few minutes later, he felt the bed shift beside him and opened his eyes to find Harry on his side, staring at him.
“How are you feeling?” He reached out a hand and brushed a stray lock of blond hair out of Draco’s eyes.
“A little-” he cleared his throat. “A little better, thanks.”
Potter was too close to him right now, way too close. He felt the heat creeping into his cheeks. Harry’s chest was brushing his arm and his leg was flush against Draco’s own. They stared at each other, neither willing to close the gap but both wanting to. It was the screeching of a woman’s voice that brought them out of the trance.
“Potter? Where the hell are you? You better be home!”
“Shit!” Harry sat up and ran a hand through his hair.
“Girlfriend?” Draco asked with an amused smirk.
“No,” he grumbled. “Granger.”