Chapter Text
—
The thing no one ever says about interdimensional portals running through ley lines deeply entrenched with Earth magic is:
Exactly where they are or when they’ll appear.
It’s always ‘Oh, we’ve narrowed it down to somewhere in the vicinity of Banda Api. If you camp there until fuck knows when, surely it’ll turn up. And, um, maybe bring a case of bug spray.’ and then it’s Draco’s sorry arse getting tugged into inky, starry oblivion when a glowing, purple hole replaces the ground beneath his bare feet while he’s doing his morning ablutions in his tent.
Which brings him to the second thing no one ever says about these miserable portals.
A man can end up anywhere. Literally anywhere.
Like, say, beneath a raging, freezing waterfall, the force of which combined with his shaky landing sends him to the bottom of the lake. Draco surfaces a few metres away, sputtering and coughing copious amounts of water.
“Fuck me,” he cries in frustration, the beginning of a string of loud curses, briefly forgetting the most important thing to remember about portals which is…
It’s best to keep a low profile. After all, it’s possible to end up with anything. Or anyone.
Case in point:
“Malfoy?”
The voice clues him in immediately. Nearly ten years since Draco has heard it and yet how can one ever forget the timbre of his voice? The way his tongue rolls around the syllables of Draco’s name—a well-deserved blend of distrust and suspicion. Still, Draco refuses to believe it. Not even when he turns and finds Potter — older, (impossibly) fitter, yet so unmistakably him; the most missing wizard to ever go missing in England nine years running and going for ten, in all his naked, sun-bronzed glory at the edge of the clear, blue lake.
Well, maybe not completely naked.
But he may as well be. Draco has a good enough imagination to fill in the rest.
Potter looks as though he’d been interrupted in the middle of stripping his clothes off. He’s wearing only a pair of tight, navy pants and exactly one striped sock, the other half of which dangles from one finger as he stares, rather dumbly, at Draco through his stupid round glasses. Merlin, ten years after the war and no one’s told the Chosen One that there are other styles?
It should make for a ridiculous picture, but in all of Draco’s years of procuring rare plants and items for his filthy rich and morally bankrupt clients, he’s never faced anything more terrifying than this — the sight of a half-naked Potter snapping out of his trance and marching towards him, fierce aggression written into every line of his body.
Briefly, Draco wonders if he’d fallen into one of those hallucinatory traps, the kind that presents its victims with their deepest fantasies in the hopes of ensnaring them forever. Or at least until they die of dehydration. Because somehow, despite the overall murderous vibe he’s exuding, Potter still looks like the sum of every erotic fantasy Draco has ever or will ever have.
Broad shoulders — eminently climbable — that taper into a trim waist; taut muscles that are built just right, well-defined but not too bulky. Dark hair everywhere on his brown skin — spanning the wide breadth of his chest and down his abs, a happy trail Draco’s traitorous eyes happily follow down to the robust outline of his —
“Why are you here?”
The demand snaps Draco’s attention back to Potter’s face, which only serves to distract him even further. Gone is the rat’s nest that used to pass for hair, replaced by what Witch Weekly had recently dubbed a ‘manbun’. Potter’s had gone a little loose from his exertions, causing long, wavy tendrils to fall across his devastatingly handsome face.
Fuck Draco’s life honestly.
Here comes a living, breathing wet dream and not only is it Potter of all people, but he also seems more likely to strangle Draco than kiss him.
“Who sent you? How did you find me?”
Potter advances again and Draco backs up on unsteady legs. “Merlin’s tits, Potter. Did I fall on your property or something?” Draco does a quick scan of their surroundings. Tropical forest. Definitely magical, the air thick with its earthy energy.
Does Potter live here?
Why?
An honest-to-Merlin growl rumbles out of Potter, dragging Draco’s attention back to the crisis at hand, and he can’t help an ill-timed laugh. “Are you fucking kidding me? I was minding my own business when a hole opened up beneath me. I had no idea you’d be on the other end of it!” He gestures to his half-done shirt, wrinkled trousers, and bare feet. The distinct lack of essential belongings. “Do I look like I came here on purpose?”
Potter’s lips tighten but some of the heat in his gaze cools. “What were you doing in Banda Api in the first place?”
Draco’s heart quickens as an interest of a different kind arises in him. Not only does Potter know of Banda Api, he must have also come through the portal, a portal not even Draco or his sources had known much about, to this…this place that’s crackling with magic. It begs the question: What else does Potter know?
Could he have information on the Panacea?
Naturally, Draco can’t ever ask that, nor can he ever tell the truth. There’s far too many who would kill to get their hands on what he’s truly looking for — the legendary cure-all, the Panacea. A plant that everyone had thought to be lost to myth, until rumours of its appearance had begun to circulate in this area of the world. Given such a delicate situation, lies are easier to peddle and much easier to control.
“I was looking for a rare mushroom called the Shadow Veil,” Draco says, the lie spilling smoothly from his tongue. The magical fungi is rare, but not legendary or useful enough to warrant interest. “It’s fine if you haven’t heard of it, but that’s my job. I procure rare ingredients for clients. Potion masters, apothecaries, medical establishments, and the like.”
Potter stiffens, his eyes narrowed at the base of Draco’s throat before flicking back up to Draco’s face. “You’re lying,” he declares, then surges forward, nearly knocking Draco down if he hadn’t backed up quickly. “Your heart is racing. Your face is flushed, your pupil’s dilated, your breathing’s —”
“Alright, that’s enough!” Draco holds up his palms and Potter stops an inch away, his green eyes shooting sparks. Panicked, Draco checks his Occlumency shields to confirm they remain untouched. They are, which is even more alarming. How is Potter reading him so well? “Maybe if you stopped acting like an escaped lunatic, I wouldn’t be doing —” Draco gives a vague wave “— all of that. Did you ever think of that?”
Potter stares him down stubbornly for a few more moments before he does the oddest thing — he leans towards Draco’s neck and…sniffs. “You even smell like a liar,” he growls, lips lingering near the curve of Draco’s jaw.
Two things happen at the same time after: First, Draco’s questionable dick grows hard. And second, a three-headed snake bursts from the water like a demon behind Potter.
Now Draco has no idea what possesses him to do what he does next, but instead of legging it and leaving Potter to die, he does the opposite. He actually shoves Potter aside (Not an easy feat, the bastard is built like an Abraxan horse and thrice as stubborn) and pulls his wand from his arm holster.
“Bom —”
“Stop!”
Potter’s cry is all it takes to trip Draco and the hesitation costs him as the snake lunges and takes a good bite of his arm. The pain is instantaneous and hits him with enough force to bring him to his knees. The burning comes a moment later — like Fiendfyre in his veins, a blazing inferno that spreads from his arm to his chest.
The world quickly grows dim and hazy, any sound and light seeming to come from underwater. Distantly, he hears Potter shouting. Why is he always so shouty? Draco hopes the snake got to him too, the ungrateful wretch.
“You stupid bastard! Why did you do that?” Potter is shaking him now, looking alarmingly worried. Draco must be dying, that’s why, and now Potter has to find a place to hide his body. “Malfoy, why?”
“To save your life, dickhead,” Draco tries to say but it comes out an incoherent mumble. He’s actually shocked Potter understood it enough to respond.
“It wouldn’t have hurt me. The snake is mine.”
Well, fuck him sideways with a fork then. Draco tries, he really does, to come up with a scathing comment that will bring Potter to his knees, but all he’s able to do is throw a finger up at Potter before black spots overtake his vision and he succumbs to oblivion.
—
The first sign that Draco hadn’t dreamed up the past hour or so (Who’s to say, really? His watch didn’t portal with him) is the pain. Burning and intense, spreading from the bite on his forearm all the way to his shoulder.
Draco clutches his arm to his chest, tears welling up in his eyes as he curls into a ball. Fuck. He hasn’t felt pain like this since Aunt Bella used him for Crucio practise. Dimly, Draco registers the bandages wrapped around it. He must have received some treatment, but if he did, then why the hell does it still hurt like this?
Is Potter playing at being a Healer? Because that will explain it.
“Drink this.”
Draco opens his bleary eyes to find the culprit himself sitting on a stool by the side of the bed and staring down at him, looking every bit like a stormcloud in the shape of a human and holding out a cup containing sweet-smelling, yellow liquid. He’s covered himself up with a scruffy grey shirt this time, emblazoned inexplicably with the words ‘Sex Pistols’ across the chest. A downgrade, in Draco’s opinion, from his earlier vestments.
Draco recognises the pain potion in his hand and he’s reaching for it when hissing noises coming from the vicinity of Potter’s shoulder nab his attention. The serpent is huge, at least three metres long, with most of its olive green body, ringed with black and white bands, slithering on the ground. Its most outstanding feature is, of course, its three heads. Six pairs of glowing, golden eyes, all trained on Draco as though examining their next meal.
The pain in Draco’s arm intensifies in response. “Come to finish the job?” he croaks out.
“Just take the potion, Malfoy,” Potter says with a tired sigh, “I wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of saving your life just to kill you and you know it.”
Draco takes the drink and downs it in one go, glaring at Potter over the rim the entire time. Loath as he is to accept anything from Potter, for this argument, he needs to be clear-headed. Once done, he licks his lips, his hindbrain noting the way Potter tracks his tongue for later use, and takes a deep breath. “First of all, I saved you first, and second —” Draco holds up a finger to Potter’s face when he opens his mouth, causing him to go a little cross-eyed. Draco would have laughed if he didn’t feel like Death and Suffering had joined hands inside one unfortunate person. “—shush, I’m talking. And second — I wouldn’t have needed saving if you hadn’t distracted me, now would I?”
Potter circles his wrist and tugs it down, putting Draco’s finger at throat-level. “I told you they wouldn’t have hurt me.”
“Well, I didn’t know that, did I?”
“And your spell wouldn’t have worked anyway.” Potter’s grip tightens. “Our magic doesn’t work here.”
A stone sinks in Draco’s stomach. He shakes off Potter’s hold and reaches for his holster, a futile act given the truth and conviction of Potter’s words. Panic knocks at his throat upon finding the holster empty.
“Go on.” Potter whips out Draco’s wand from the bedside table. “See for yourself.”
Draco almost doesn’t take it from Potter. He already knows what’s going to happen and has no interest in looking like a fool. Still, the challenge stamped on Potter’s smug face forces him to try.
He aims the wand at the centre of Potter’s chest and cries, “Bombarda!”
Potter arches a thick brow. “Really?”
Draco shrugs. “Was worth a try.” He fires off a few more random spells. Some of the more creative ones manage to pull a small smile from Potter and an angry hiss from his best mate.
Draco hisses back and the snake rears its three heads in shock.
“That’s right,” Draco says. “Fuck right off.”
Potter mumbles something short and sharp in Parseltongue to the snake (snakes?), who then slithers off towards the exit, before turning to him. “Are you done?”
Draco twirls the wand in his fingers. His arm feels so much better already. King Cobra antidotes are famously difficult to procure, especially since the main ingredient is King Cobra venom which requires extremely precise dilution. An excess drop can mean the difference between life and death. Potter can extract the venom easily, sure, but is he able to perform such sophisticated techniques?
Is Draco going to drop dead an hour from now because Potter had failed to measure the correct amount of solvent to use?
“I think I am,” Draco drawls, shoving his concern into the dusty box he keeps in the back of his mind, along with all his other unaddressed concerns, most of which come from his mother. “So let me get this straight. No magic. No friends. Just you, alone and — and everyone thinks you’re either dead or a mole person, did you know that?” Potter remains nonplussed and Draco rolls his eyes. “Nevermind. So it’s just you, your murderous snake, and this hovel. My question is…why?”
Potter had everyone in England eating out of the palm of his hand. He could have lived off that goodwill and fawning admiration for the rest of his life, but instead he disappeared, and each one of his closest friends had been more tight-lipped than a Crup with a bone about his new whereabouts. At least in Draco’s imaginings (the one where he sometimes, barely, occasionally wonders what the Chosen One is up to), Potter is living it up on some private island off the coast of Greece with a slinky harem or two. He’d never thought Potter would be doing…this.
“It’s a cabin.”
Draco stares and Potter stares back, appearing almost serpentine in his unblinking intensity. “I beg your pardon?” Draco prompts.
“It’s a cabin, not a hovel,” Potter says, frowning. “And you’ll learn to appreciate it if you’re going to stay here.”
“Stay here?” Draco’s voice rises several octaves. He swings over the edge of the creaky bed. “Maybe for the next thirty seconds. Long enough to walk to the door.”
Potter is obviously deranged. Living like a hermit on this island with no magic should have been Draco’s first clue. It’s best to leave him to his delusions, go through the portal, then come back more prepared to —
“The portal won’t return for another month.”
Draco stares again and Potter stares back silently as is, apparently, his custom after breaking terrible news. “What did you say?” Draco spits out once he is able to.
“It comes like clockwork. Every thirty days at high noon, it opens for thirty minutes. I’ve been here long enough to know, but feel free to check.” Potter gestures to the open door of his cabin, notes of that same taunting challenge threaded in his voice.
Draco folds his arm across his chest. “Has anyone ever told you what a giant arse you are?”
“Sure. But this is the same giant arse offering you a place to live.”
Draco can’t argue with that.
And yet he tries to anyway.
“This isn’t my first isolated magical island, Potter. I’ve survived worse.” Of course what Draco doesn’t add is that this is the first time he’s been without his magic and it feels as vulnerable as going starkers in the snow.
A position Draco actually found himself in once, with no wish for a repeat performance.
“I won’t have your death on my conscience, Malfoy,” Potter argues. “You don’t even have shoes on.”
Draco flushes. He slips his bare feet back under the covers. “So certain I’d die then?”
Potter glances at his arm meaningfully before standing. “Do you want the tour or not?”
Clearly, fraternising exclusively with reptiles has done irreparable damage to whatever dubious manners Potter once had because he doesn’t even wait for Draco to answer before he turns on his heel and starts pointing at various corners of the cabin, barking words in rapidfire succession.
“Kitchen. Living room. That’s my chair —”
At Potter’s sharp look, Draco removes his hand from the chintz armchair.
“Pantry. Closet. Obviously that’s the do —”
“Oooh, what’s this?” Draco reaches his hand towards a pile of papers scattered on the coffee table, but Potter beats him to it. He has the papers scooped up before Draco can so much as breathe on them.
“None of your business.”
Luckily, Draco has built his career on being nosy and sneaky. Potter’s writings are surprisingly neat and Draco caught a fair bit before the papers were taken away. Sketches of plants and some critters, along with fairly specific descriptions. If Draco didn’t know any better, he’d say they looked like the detailed notes of a researcher.
He nearly laughs at the thought. Potter? A scholar?
Draco’s eyes rove Potter’s disheveled, albeit attractive, form from head to toe. He looks like he should be in some dark alley, asking drunk idiots if they’re interested in trying a new variant of gillyweed, rather than studying magical biomes. But then again, what does Draco really know about this Potter? If he has as much knowledge of the plants here as his papers indicate, then wouldn’t that be a boon for Draco?
Shouldn’t Draco try to get on his good side?
“Is there anything here I’m allowed to touch?” Draco asks with an exaggerated huff. Ultimately, it’s probably best not to make any drastic changes to his demeanour. No doubt anything resembling pleasantry or manners will just set Potter off. “Perhaps the toilet?” he prompts. “Surely that one you can share.”
Potter’s lip twitches. “I can do that. Come with me.”
The genial tone in Potter’s voice immediately puts Draco on edge. All the more so when Potter starts heading for the door.
“Wait.” Potter stops abruptly and Draco barely avoids bowling him over. He watches as Potter grabs a pair of sandals from the side of the door and crouches before him. “You’ll need these. Merlin, your feet are a mess. We’ll need to clean —”
“I can do that!” Draco exclaims, stepping back, flames bursting on his face. “I can also put my shoes on by myself, thank you very much.”
Red colours the back of Potter’s neck and he drops the sandal on the floor. “Right,” he says, getting up. “Sorry.”
Draco’s face is still heated so he keeps his head down as he puts on the sandals. They’re a bit large on him, Potter’s feet being a little longer and wider than his, but overall, comfortable. “So the toilet?” Draco may as well wash up while he’s in there. Potter wasn’t exaggerating. His feet do look horrendous.
Potter’s eyes are already on him when Draco finally looks up. “This way.”
Draco reluctantly steps out the door, the bright sun immediately burning his eyes. “Outside?” he asks, holding a hand before him to block the glare.
“We’re on an island with no magic, Malfoy.” Potter laughs and the rich, honey sound is enough to make Draco lower his hand and stare. “You didn’t think there’d be fancy indoor plumbing, did you?” Potter smirks.
Draco’s first instinct is to curse. Possibly scream. Pesky biological functions had never been an issue on missions so long as he had his magic, but now he’s stuck here.
Powerless and facing down Harry Potter who’s waiting for him to crack.
Well, he’ll have to die unsatisfied because Draco refuses to give him the pleasure. He braces himself and plasters a smile on his face. “Of course not,” he says sweetly. “Lead the way.”
If Voldemort couldn’t break him, an outhouse certainly won’t.
—
Potter’s good humour lasts as far as the privy — an experience that’s definitely first on Draco’s Obliviation list once he escapes this hellhole. Sure, he’s been in worse places and worse conditions, but having magic had solved a lot of his…biological issues. Potter’s not helping, the way he’s so obviously enjoying Draco’s misery. A hint of a smile actually plays on his lips when he presents Draco with the amenities.
After Draco conducts his business and washes his feet, though, Potter reverts to his old, broody self. He takes Draco on a monosyllabic tour of the vegetable garden, the chicken coop, and with much reluctance, his workshop. Well, the exterior of it at least. Despite Draco’s application of his best wheedling techniques, Potter still refuses to show him the inside.
“It’s none of your business,” Potter says for possibly the hundredth time in the past hour.
“This is where you keep the bodies then?” Draco asks, leaning casually against the door while keeping his ears peeled for hints of what’s inside, at which point Potter declares the tour over and banishes Draco to the cabin. In the meantime, Potter locks himself in his workshop, where he spends the rest of the day…and most of the night.
Draco sits on the bed hours later, watching the starry sky through the white curtains on the window. A breeze drifts through in waves, cooling the sweat that had clung to his skin. Overall, he still feels sticky and heated, but that’s not the cause of his foul mood. The last thing Draco expected to contend with in a mysterious island with no magic is boredom.
Somehow it feels worse than getting bit by a snake.
He’s already snooped into every corner and loose floorboard in Potter’s cabin and he’s come up with only two interesting things:
Potter is definitely a researcher or academic of some sort. He’s hidden his papers but his bookshelves are lined with books relating to nature, plants, animals, and the like. Skimming them also reveals Potter’s random scribbles on the edge of the pages — little notes and questions for himself, Draco assumes at first, until another person’s handwriting comes up to answer and all of a sudden, Draco realises…
Potter is not this cabin’s sole occupant. At least he didn’t used to be. A picture of intimate domesticity had begun to materialise with this new knowledge Draco had uncovered. Two cushy armchairs in the living room, two sets of plates and cutlery, pieces of clothing in the wardrobe that would fit a taller man, a bed far too large for one.
Also, the bottles of lube in the drawer.
Draco recalls the giant fuss Potter had caused when he’d been outed by the new rag Skeeter launched after the war. Potter had then followed up the sordid article with a string of what Draco had thought (with reluctant admiration) were defiant public dates with the Huffletwat, Finch-Fletchley. Then in no particular order and paired with their most memorable traits:
Terry Boot (awful hair)
The Puddlemere Beater (awful swerves)
Some Italian businessman (awful suits)
Zacharias Smith (awful in general)
Charlie Weasley (...alright, he’ll give this one to Potter)
Now Draco isn’t the kind of person who keeps track of people’s personal lives, but Pansy insists on keeping him abreast of the local gossip whenever they meet up. Something about how knowledge is power and if Draco could stop being a ‘boring tit’ and ‘this is drag brunch for Merlin’s sake, what are you wearing?’. Draco had been wearing a custom pinstriped suit that was tailored perfectly to show off his exquisite arse, but that’s not the point. The point is this is also how Draco knows that all of Potter’s previous flings are accounted for and certainly wouldn’t be stupid enough to get stranded here, except maybe Smith. Also, going by Potter’s actions and general demeanour, he clearly hadn’t been shagged in a good while. So whoever this mystery lover is, it’s clear he’d long wised up and left.
Now if only Draco could too.
Draco draws his knees to his chest where he rests his chin. Potter’s three-headed friend stares back at him, unnerving as always. The rest of its body is looped around the bed like a nest, effectively trapping Draco, but somehow he can’t find it in him to be afraid. Call it cabin fever but he’s starting to find the serpent’s company comforting. Certainly an improvement from the cabin’s other occupant.
“I feel compelled to apologise for the fact that Potter has been your only exposure to humans,” Draco says. “I swear most of us aren’t boorish louts. Does he abandon you quite often?”
All three heads tilt to the side curiously.
“Or is it just me?” Draco prompts. “Probably just me. We kind of have a history. I’d rather not go into specifics.”
The middle head gives a sharp hiss. He’s taken to calling this one Pansy. Something in the eyes, Draco thinks. Pure evil, possibly.
“Bossy, aren’t you? But if you insist.” Draco lets out a big sigh. “Where do I even start? I mean, first year alone would take so much time.”
The answering silence, broken solely by the sound of crickets and the occasional flutter of branches, reminds Draco that time is, in fact, all he has. The snakes have not moved, their golden eyes still trained on Draco and the unwavering attention stirs something long dormant within him.
A long time ago, Draco often held court in the Slytherin dungeons to an enraptured audience. Telling stories, doing impressions, peddling badges he’d painstakingly charmed one by one. Pansy had called it attention-seeking behaviour borne out of a desperate need for validation or simply — ‘Daddy Issues’. But she’d also hung on to his every word back then so, really, who’d been seeking whose attention?
Now Draco is relegated to a crowd of three, none of them human, none of which understand English. And yet what’s his other option? Go knocking at Potter’s door asking for company? No, Draco would much rather attempt conversation with a reptile.
So he does.
“Picture this, my friends,” he begins with dramatic aplomb, “a young boy of eleven, minding his own business in a robe shop…”
Draco knows he has his audience when they start hissing furiously as he tells the story of being turned into a ferret. They quiet, though, at the mention of Nagini and the summer Draco had after his 5th year, their faces almost solemn. As much as snakes can look solemn anyway. Draco, for his part, is firmly reminded of the reason why he doesn’t speak about this time of his life, or any time since.
Every story worthy of being told needed an epic ending or at least a meaningful one. The hero wins, the evil defeated. So and so lived happily ever after with their two perfect spawns and a Shetland pony named Mr. Wiggles. Stories like the great Harry Potter’s, not his.
Or so Draco used to think.
But seeing the current state of the lauded Chosen One makes Draco wonder if perhaps there are only epic moments. After which, life simply goes on. For better or for worse.
Draco skims most of the war and skips everything after that. No one wants to hear about how he took his NEWTs while on house arrest, or how he’d lost his inheritance to reparations and his father the year after, or how he’d struggled to find a decent living in England. How if Theo had not introduced him to some of his associates, he’d probably still be working for scraps in some shady back-alley apothecary in Knockturn Alley.
“So anyway, that’s why I’m here.” Draco leans back against the headboard and casts a glance at the window. The light in Potter’s workshop is still on. “What does he even do in there, do you know?”
The snakes remain tight-lipped.
“Hmm, loyal. I respect that.” Draco slides down the bed until his head hits the pillow. He’s finding it difficult to fight the heavy exhaustion seeping into his bones. “You won’t let him kick me out of bed when he comes, will you?”
There’s an answering hiss as the snake curls itself tighter around him. Eventually, the heads settle on his chest, eyes peering at him with their usual predatory focus. This is the point where it would have been wise to stay awake, but Potter’s bed is shockingly comfortable for how spartan it looks. And Draco’s eyelids are so, so heavy, he feels no inclination to stop their decline.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Draco mumbles before letting himself succumb to sleep.
—
The first thing Draco notices is the bed firmly beneath his back. A welcome relief given that he’d fully expected to wake up on the floor. The second is Potter’s face just above his, bathed in the warm rays of early morning. Maybe it’s the light, softening the hard angles of his masculine face, but for once, Potter isn’t looking at Draco as though he’s swallowed something vile.
He still appears too serious by far; his brow puckered, full lips red from being bitten, eyes deep and intent. Draco nearly jumps when those eyes flick to him.
“Done staring?” Potter’s lips quirk at the corners. “Hold still.”
Finally, Draco notices the bandages around his arm have already been unwrapped halfway, with Potter quickly undoing the rest. Merlin, how did he miss this? It isn’t like him to sleep so deeply. He’s usually up at the slightest noise and ready to fight if need be.
Now he’s groggy and distracted, watching Potter who’s wearing a black vest that offers Draco a clear view of his rippling muscles while he works on Draco’s wound.
Draco is still staring when Potter says, “It looks much better.”
“Mhmm…” Draco hums, eyes slipping syrupy slow from Potter’s forearm to his, whereupon they nearly pop out from their sockets. “What the fuck? Better? My arm looks like the fucking Aurora Borealis.”
His pale skin has turned a mottled red up to his elbow with areas of dark, splotchy bruising. The intersecting veins in his arm resemble angry, slashing purple branches. Meanwhile, the area where he’d been bitten is dark – almost black, ringed with green.
“Maybe the Aurora Australis. We are in the Southern hemisphere after all,” Potter says lightly, the corners of his lips lifting. Of course the one time Potter smiles would be in response to Draco’s permanent disfigurement. “And it hasn’t rotted and fallen off so yeah, definitely much better.”
Draco snatches his arm to his chest protectively. “Was that a real risk?”
“Yes,” Potter says without preamble. “But not anymore. So long as I keep treating it every day for at least a week.”
Draco can’t argue with that.
Nor does he want to.
He watches in silence as Potter’s deft fingers begin their work, dabbing and pouring a mix of potions over his ruined skin. There’s still pain, but it's numbed into discomfort, and Draco barely flinches when Potter slices into the area where he was bitten.
Draco turns to the wall so he doesn’t have to see. “Do this often, then?” he asks, because prolonged silence has always made him itchy.
“Enough times.”
“For yourself or for your ex-boyfriend?”
Silence lasts for only a second before his arm starts burning like hell as Potter dumps the vial of antidote unceremoniously on Draco’s open wound.
“Fucking hell, what the fuck is—”
“Stay still.”
“You could have just declined to answer instead of burning off my arm, you wanker.”
“I said stay still.”
Draco tells himself it’s not Potter’s commanding tone that makes him obey. And he’s not obeying, really. He’s allowing Potter to clean and wrap his arm because it’s optimal for his well-being and sanity for it to stop hurting like a thousand knives stabbing him endlessly. And if Draco wants this to finish swiftly and with as little pain as possible, it’s probably wise to stop poking Potter with the proverbial stick.
Of course, Draco’s mouth has ideas of its own. “It didn’t seem like you were hiding your relationship,” he starts. Like a complete idiot. “Or at least you weren’t doing a good job at hiding. I’m just curious, is all.”
Potter’s hard, unreadable eyes meet his and Draco quickly backtracks. Potter still has his wounded arm in his hands after all.
“You know what, forget it,” Draco says quickly. “Consider my business minded and —”
“I had to treat him a few times, yes,” Potter interrupts. His lips stretch into a grim smile. “I don’t really have a problem with snakes.”
A number of Slytherins will surely take umbrage with that statement (the ones that aren’t dead anyway), but Draco wisely decides not to say so. Potter acknowledging he had an ex is already the equivalent of him spilling his guts out. Draco doesn’t want to waste this good will.
He needs to start searching for the Panacea as soon as possible. Something tells him it’s somewhere on this island and following Potter will lead him to it.
“So what are we doing today?”
Potter lifts a brow. “You’re going to stay here and rest. There’s still venom inside your veins.”
“I feel fine,” Draco argues. “And what are you going to do? Hole up in your little shed like a turtle?”
Potter hands him his arm back, all wrapped and tied neatly with a bow. “I’m going out,” is all he says.
“Out?”
“Out.” Potter stands, taking his tools with him.
“Illuminating.” Draco follows after him as he heads for the door. “I already know you’re here for some kind of research, Potter. I could be an asset if you let me.”
Draco takes some satisfaction from seeing Potter’s shoulders stiffen while he turns to him with a scowl.
“Good thing you’re a researcher and not a spy, yeah?” Draco leans against Potter’s armchair, grinning. “You literally have your name and title inscribed inside one of your notebooks, Mr. Magical Ecology professor at Universitas Gadah Madja. Though I’ll admit I thought the venom was making me hallucinate it, at first.”
Potter runs a hand through his hair, effectively messing up his bun. “You’re so…” He breaks off on an exasperated breath.
“Clever?” Draco wags his brows. “Resourceful? Missed my calling as a private eye?”
“Annoying,” Potter finishes.
Draco pouts. “I honestly don’t see the issue here. I’ve made a career out of finding rare plants. I probably know about them as much as you do.”
Potter’s brow lifts dubiously, making it abjectly clear what he thinks of Draco’s capabilities, the arrogant tit.
“Only one way to find out, right? What are you studying? Take me with you,” Draco cajoles. “I swear I’ll die of boredom if I stay here another day with only your snake—”
A hiss from the corner.
“No offence,” Draco adds to which Pansy sticks her forked tongue out.
“You’re more likely to die if you go out there. I don’t have the time to watch you,” Potter says, “You’re still injured and the island…it’s not like a normal island. It has its own magic and it doesn’t react well to humans.”
Draco frowns. “What does that mean?”
“It’ll play tricks on you. Try to get you lost.” Potter glances at the snake. “Put deadly traps in your path.”
For once, Draco doesn’t have an immediate response. It doesn’t seem outlandish, what Potter is saying. Draco feels it himself, in the way the humidity has gotten significantly worse as soon as he stepped off the bed. As if the island didn’t want him outside. He hates to think what else is in store for him if he actually starts exploring. Draco takes in Potter in all his scruffy, hardened glory and wonders if perhaps the muscles aren’t simply for show. But then again, Draco has his own set of skills too. “I’ll be fine. I assure you I’ve had numerous places attempt to murder me too.”
Draco thinks of the ice labyrinth in the Himalayas and shudders.
Potter's lips tighten. “You seem to be mistaken. This isn’t a negotiation, Malfoy. You’re staying here for your own good.”
Draco grits his teeth. He’s long learned when to pick his battles and judging by the tilt of Potter’s stubbled jaw, this is one of them. It doesn’t mean he has to like it though. “Tomorrow then?” Draco asks hopefully.
Draco already knows the answer before Potter even opens his mouth to say, “No.”
Draco resists the urge to demand “Why the fuck not?” and instead acquiesces gracefully. Sort of.
“Fine,” he grumbles. If Potter is surprised he backed down, he doesn’t show it.
“Breakfast is on the table and there’s more canned food in the pantry. I’ll be back before dark,” Potter tells him before he turns to leave.
Draco fully expects him to be in a rush to go so he’s still holding out his middle finger when Potter pauses at the threshold to look back. Their eyes meet, Draco’s finger between them, as upright as a flag.
Potter smirks. “Oh and try not to burn the cabin down.”
To which, Draco holds up a second finger.
Once Potter is gone, Draco’s attention drifts to the tiny kitchen, a hint of that old mischief bubbling inside him.
No?
He’ll have to see about that.
—