darkravenwrote: (rose)
[personal profile] darkravenwrote
Author: [livejournal.com profile] darkravenwrote
Title: Don’t Treat Me Any Different
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairings: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy
Word Count: 700
Rating: G
Warnings: Draco’s injured. Nothing graphic except on line that’s rather blunt.
Prompt: For my ‘Capable’ tile on GYWO Bingo.
Author’s Notes: Not too shabby :) Hope you guys enjoy it.
Summary: After Draco is injured on a raid, Harry takes it upon himself to take care of him. Suffocatingly.

"Did you sleep well? Do you want anything to eat?" Harry asks, as he does every morning, like Draco doesn't have a perfectly good wand sitting on his bedside table within arm's reach. "I can help you take a bath this morning if you like?" he continues, rushing forward to help Draco sit up as if Draco has lost all his stomach muscles along with the use of his leg.

"I slept fine," Draco grits out instead of starting up some kind of passive-aggressive argument dance this early in the morning. Harry would know how he slept, of course, if he weren't obstinately refusing to share their bed in case he rolls over the wrong way or something as equally ridiculous. He seems to have gotten it into his thick head that Draco is suddenly some fragile little medieval maiden locked in a tower by a fierce dragon of old. Preposterous. Really, what next?

Since his accident, Harry has been treating him worse than an invalid. There have been hours upon hours of coddling and suffocating mothering. Draco can't read a page of his book without Harry wanting to help. It was a stupid auror accident and a routine injury with no complications. The fact that he's on medical leave is enough to grant Harry, in his own psyche, free rein to baby him though, apparently.

"What do you want for breakfast?"

"I'm not really hungry," Draco says, wishing for probably the first time in his life that he could make his own breakfast.

Harry bolts upright, alarmed, from where he's tucking Draco's feet under his blankets. "What? Why not? Isn't it bad when people lose their appetites? Should I call the mediwizard?"

Draco tries not to roll his eyes at him. It would be comical if it weren't so stiflingly confining. "I'm injured, not ill. I'm just not hungry. You gave me a massive dinner last night." He slumps back in bed.

Harry totters over to his bedside table and begins rearranging his books. "Here, I'll put the Tolstoy nearer to you then, although why you're so infatuated with that rubbish is beyond me, and leave you in bed a little longer. You could do with a wash though. Do you want me to bring in-" And that’s it. That’s as far as Draco’s patience is going to extend this morning.

"Harry!" Draco interrupts, slamming his palm on the table and curling his fingers around his wand. "I'm fine. On my own. You should've gone back to work days ago."


"I have this magical thing called a wand. I can use it. For many things. Like summoning my Tolstoy and my spare blanket and my bottles of pain relief. I'm perfectly capable. Now get out before I throw something at your head."



Harry scuttles from the room.

He goes to work the next morning too, after serving Draco breakfast silently and sullenly. And that night, after Draco hears him clanking around with their dirty dishes in the kitchen, he wanders through to their bedroom and gets ready for bed. He slides under the covers with Draco afterwards without saying a word.

Draco's been dozing for most of the day, so he can't nod off straight away. For a while, he thinks Harry has fallen asleep. But then a quiet voice speaks up from over his shoulder.

"I never thought you weren't capable." He pauses and Draco hears the blankets shifting as he turns over and curls up around Draco's back. "Hermione thinks I'm feeling guilty. Because it was partly my fault you got injured." He stops again. The cold skin of his nose presses against the nape of Draco's neck. Then he whispers, "I'm sorry you got hurt."

"It was more my fault that yours," Draco murmurs back, comfortable for the first time since some bastard snapped his tibia clean in half. "I wasn’t clearing my corners properly."

Harry nods, his forehead clunking lightly against the back of Draco's head. He's still sulking though.

To clear the air, Draco says, " Will you make me blueberry porridge tomorrow?" Not because he can't, but because he wants Harry to. They both know that now, which is what counts.
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