Quarantined • DRARRY •

•Chapter Six• Reprieve•

DRACO

            McGonagall arrived the next day in person, having cast a Bubble Head charm around herself as a precaution.

            It  painted a curious picture: Minerva McGonagall, the brightest witch of her Hogwarts class, looking for all the world like one of those Muggle pet fish.

            But the humor was short lived. When she arrived, her eyebrows were set closely together, and her mouth was a thin, firm line.

            And Draco knew what she was going to say before she said it.

            "Mr. Malfoy, your parents have sent you a message. Your mother has fallen ill and requests you come home at once."

            A chill went down Draco's spine. "With corona virus?"

            "No. The letter indicated that she had been ill for some time, and it has worsened." Her eyes blinked at him behind the spectacles. "Is there something I should know, Mr. Malfoy?"

            "When can I leave?" Malfoy asked, ignoring the question.

            McGonagall took a deep breath, then looked around. "Wait—is Potter awake? He shouldn't be listening to this conversation. This is confidential information."

            "We—that is to say—he—was up late last night," Draco willed himself not to glance at Potter, and betray the whole game. "Game of Thrones," he added hastily. "Just some stupid Muggle show."

            The corner of McGonagall's mouth twitched. "I see. Well, as Potter has a particular talent for eavesdropping—Muffilato—there. That ought to work."

            Draco thought he saw Harry move, but he willed himself to look back at Professor McGonagall. He didn't know how to explain what had happened last night. He wasn't sure he could explain it.

            All he knew was that Potter had the sweetest blood he'd ever tasted.

            All he knew is that he didn't ever want to stop.

            Draco's blood went cold at how close he'd come. He'd been dimly aware of something amiss, some voice at the back of his mind telling him to pay attention. Then he'd noticed that the noises Potter had been making, those noises that lit his entire body afire, had stopped.

He'd snapped into reality, terror freezing his arousal in its tracks. Potter was sagging against him.  He'd passed out. And he was so pale—

            Draco had revived him long enough to shove a Blood Replenishing Potion down his throat, then tucked him into bed.

            He hadn't been able to fall asleep; the newfound nourishment was coursing through his veins, giving him a burst of energy.

            And then there was the small matter of Potter climaxing from the mere hint of pressure, from Draco's fangs sunk into his throat.

            Draco certainly kept himself busy for an hour or so after that, reliving the experience. Imagining what would have happened if he'd waited a little while to drink, if Potter had laid him on the bed and kissed his neck, made Draco's lips bright pink and so well-bitten that they nearly swelled.

            Draco shook his head at the memory. He had to forget it. He had nearly killed Harry, nearly drained his body of its blood, and who knew how close he'd come next time? Who knew how easily he could have drank and drank, until no amount of potions or spells could bring him back?