HD 'Damned If You Do…'

Glompfest fic req submission

Title: 'Damned If You Do…'
Author: tigersilver (tigersilver)
Recipient: bird_feather (bird_feather)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 7,000+/-
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Beta: lonerofthepack (lonerofthepack)
Summary: The dark can be a very eye-opening place.
Warning: AU, EWE. Post-war. Research Librarians!Harry & Draco; Bottom!Draco; Blind!Draco; Confident!Harry. Flangst. Happy endings.
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: bird_feather I hope I've managed to GLOMP you with all the huggles you deserve! Thank you so much, for being here:) {{{Squishes}}}

Name: bird_feather
Age: Over 18!
Era: EWE (within a couple years of DH), or Hogwarts, please!
Preferences: I like to see who they are apart, how they get together, and what they're like together (or just a good old PWP). I like a responsible, capable, born-leader Harry, and a smart, neurotic, and secretly just a little insecure Draco. I like most common clichés, an exception being unexplained/accidental MPreg. I especially like blindness fics and fics where they have to live/work/survive-an-emergency together. Happy endings are preferred, but I can do sad as long as they're together. If you're doing a PWP, I like enthusiastic blowjobs, office sex, and D/s with Dom!Harry/sub!Draco.
Squicks: Non-con, typical "hardcore" squicks (except D/s), infidelity between H/D, long hair. Absolutely no detailed descriptions of snakes, needles, or blood.
Preferred rating or range: Anything. If it's art, I'd like it to be work-safe.
Scenario: Like I said, I really like fics where one of the boys goes blind and somehow the other gets involved with helping him cope. I'd also like to read a post-DH fic where Harry is in charge of Draco during his probation, not as his parole officer, but as his boss at a Ministry-approved job or the director of a charity where he's doing community service. For art, I'd like to see a moment between them where they're in their own little world even though there's other people there. Feel free to ignore all these if you have other inspiration, though.
Other: I don't drink/smoke/use recreational drugs. That doesn't mean they can't be plot elements (I love saras_girl's Reparations/Foundations, for example), but I don't find smoking sexy, and if the POV character spends a lot of time non-sober, I will feel uncomfortable.



That was the sound the curse made, the one that left Draco Malfoy blinking. In the dark.

"Well, shite!" he swore, and that earned him his team member's attention.

"Wot'cher, Malfoy?" Potter asked. "Problems?"

"Can't fucking see," Draco replied, still blinking furiously. "Fuck."

"Here. Episky!" Draco couldn't see Potter's wand, either, but he inferred it was pointed at his face. He flinched, for old time's sake. "Give it a moment, alright?" Potter warned. "Keep blinking. Should work."

"Yeah, alright."

He could hear Potter rustling about, going through dusty papers and old manuscripts that festooned the Secretive Society for Subverting Historical Accuracy's hidey-hole in the meanwhile, but he couldn't see him—or them.

"Potter," he piped up, after another long moment of total, absolute darkness.

"Saint Mungo's?" Potter replied, with a disheartened sigh. "Again? Gods, Draco! You're a right pain."

"Thanks for that, Potter. Feeling's mutual."

"S'not. You know it."

"Shut it. Was you, last month. Now, I'd like to see properly again, if you don't mind."

Draco felt warm arms wrap around his waist and shoulders. He felt about 'til he found Potter's ribs and latched on securely. "Hold up," he said, thinking furiously, when he felt Potter's muscles gather to impel them away.


"Did you find anything worth taking with?"

"No, but we can come back. Still be here later; no hurry."

"Alright; carry on."

"Got it."

And the whirl of Disapparation was much worse when one was visually impaired—either that, or the stupid curse was more powerful than Draco thought.


It was far more powerful than Draco had thought. Of course.

"A week, then, give or take a few days?" Potter was quizzing the Healer, as if Draco wasn't right there, with ears and a mouth that still worked perfectly well. "So, Friday next?"

"Err," he said, but Potter and the Healer weren't paying attention. "Potter."

"Yes, Mr. Potter. He'll need constant supervision, too. The blindness is temporary, but there'll be dizzy periods, as well, and some nausea. He'll have to take his prescribed potion at precise intervals and, remember, no excess stress to the eyes or hurrying it along with Charms. This is an old-fashioned curse, the Stygian. No real workarounds."

"Excuse me; I've house elves available, you know?" Draco tried again, not at all enamoured of the prospect of a solid week of Potter minding him, day and night. Their relationship was tenuous enough without that. "I can manage perfectly well on my—"

"Don't be silly, Malfoy," Potter's voice was impatient, but the hands on his hips weren't. "Come along. You need to eat something light and then have a lie-down."

"Not an—"


"Invalid, Potter," Draco finished, stepping out of the Floo without a stumble, despite Potter's usual lack of grace. He clutched Potter to right him, something he could do perfectly well without sight. "Where the fuck? Your place, Potter?" He could tell by the smell. Take-away Muggle Thai, lemon-scented cleaner, eau-de-Harry. All good things to Draco's nose.

"Uh-huh and shut it, Draco, as of right now. Stop your whinging; it won't do you any good. You need a week's worth of that potion to regain your vision and you can't be left alone, so, yes, I'm so sorry and all that, but you're still stuck with me. Here, this is the sofa."

He was taken by the hand and guided, 'til the backs of his knees met the edge of Potter's shabby couch. Draco knew it was shabby because the last time they'd shagged on it, there'd been a loose coil thrusting up into his spine as he moaned his completion and if he'd not been so caught up in Potter's matching expression of bliss, he would've complained bitterly.

"Sit down; I'll get tea. You could probably do with a cuppa."

"Alright, alright," Draco said sulkily, "Though I don't see why my house elves can't—"

"Because you're stubborn, Draco, and you'll rush it. Healer says you can't, not with the Stygian Blindness, so it's me on deck in the meanwhile. Besides, you can still work on the assignment if you're here. Can't do that at the Manor. Not by yourself."

"Potter…" Draco allowed his voice to trail off as Harry's footsteps receded. "Potter."

"Yeah?" Sounded like Potter had moved off to the kitchen, and in a moment Draco heard pots and pans clanging faintly and the cool box whooshing open and shut. "Fancy a stir-fry?" Potter called out. Draco tilted his head, listening intently.

"Potter, look. This isn't going to work," Draco announced reasonably enough to the darkness that surrounded him like a stifling blanket. "I mean, it's fine for a day or two, but an entire week—"

"Why?" Potter's voice was quite near again, and Draco distinctly heard the sounds of wet hands being dried on a dishtowel. "Or rather, why not? It's no trouble, really, and besides, we need to work on the Society's records, Draco. You can be reading while I'm—"

"With no eyes, Potter?" Draco demanded sarcastically, tightening his grip on his kneecaps. "Exactly how am I supposed to do that? And anyway, what if I don't want to stay here? Have you thought about that?"

"Draco." Potter was right next to him, and Draco felt himself stiffening even further, if that were possible, until he quite thought he'd congealed. "Draco, I don't mind. Could use the company, actually. And it won't be all work and no play, either."

"I don't think shagging a blind man's going to be much fun for you, Potter," Draco replied dryly. "Fumble fuck fiddling around doesn't do it for me—"

"No different than shagging in a closet, dim bulb," Potter retorted. "Or a cellar—or a tunnel. And remember that one vault under Gringotts? Couldn't see our hands before our faces in there and Lumos wouldn't even work properly. Besides, I'll be happy to guide you, Draco. And you can use your sense of touch, can't you? And hearing—and smell? Don't blind people do that?"

"Potter, I can't simply smell out what I'm supposed to be spelling," Draco replied, though his shoulders maybe weren't as tight as they'd just been. He shifted uneasily when Potter laid a hand over one of his. "And the Healer said to expect nausea and dizzy spells. Can't imagine I'll be a load of laughs, sicking up on your carpet—or very useful, either. Look, take me home. Let the Manor elves take care of me, please—I'll Owl out this week. Take me home; it'll be easier all 'round."

"…Draco, please?" Potter's voice was very soft by his one ear; his neck was being nuzzled. Draco lifted his hands, unerringly finding Potter's jaw and wrapping fingertips around the firm shape of it, holding it steady when Potter trailed moist butterfly kisses across his lips and his left cheekbone. He felt the warm weight of Potter swinging across his lap and then settling in, straddling him, and then there was nothing but steady snogging for a bit, 'til Draco was breathless.

"Potter…" he murmured, sitting back against the cushions flattened by years of hard use."Potter, really—"

"Please stay?" and Potter's voice was all dark chocolate and black velvet and he smelt of salt and urgency and tasted like heaven. "I want you to, really I do, Draco. Please. Don't go yet."

"Yes, alright, Potter," he allowed reluctantly, and let Potter's nimble fingers undress him. "Just don't expect much in the way of progress—"

"The project can wait, Draco. Can go hang, for all I care. Kiss me."

Draco did, since he couldn't possibly—no way in Seven Hells—contemplate not snogging Potter if he'd just been handed the opportunity to do so on a fucking platter.


He'd plenty of opportunities to do exactly that over the following week. Potter seemed bent on inventing them. Every tome he successfully waded through with the help of a rented Talking Scribe was rewarded with a heavy make-out session or a rimming; every tiny clue about the Society's convoluted history they dug up together from the assembled Minutes and crumbled-edged Reports earned an enthusiastic shag on the Library floor or sprawled across Potter's desk.

"You—are—fucking—huge!" Draco gasped when Potter had him tumbled over the back of that stupid paisley-printed sofa, digging his fingernails into the upholstery and holding on for dear life. "Fucking—enormous, Potter! Your dick goes right through me—gonna choke on you!"

"You love it," Potter replied, entirely too smug at the compliment. Draco could imagine his cheeky grin and he winced, colouring. Potter adored the sight of him helpless and gagging with want; he must, as he engineered it often enough. "You love my huge dick, Draco. You're a size queen. Admit it."

"Just…harder, alright?" he mumbled, trying not to bite right through his lower lip when Potter instantly complied, battering his arsehole into a quivering, yielding hotspot of visceral sensation. "Faster! Make…me…lose my mind! Need to come already!"


Potter groaned, and Draco could feel Potter thickening within him, his blunt-headed, he-man club of a prick swollen and ripe with semen. He clenched his cheeks and hole as tight as he could manage 'round Harry's girth, hand on his own dick frantically pulling, and howled a bit when Potter finally let go. The pressure of Potter's grip on his sweat-slippery hips was unbearable; he winced in fleeting agony and loved it. Maybe the marks would still be there come Friday, when he could see again. Something to remember fondly next weekend, when he was safely back at the Manor and everything reverted to normal. Normal being shagging only when one or the other of them had the urge and weren't busy elsewhere. Normal being never often enough.

"Draco…!" Potter moaned, and pounded into him all the harder, his incredible dick throbbing. "Oh, Draco!"

"Yesss!" he hissed, lost in the hot flood that pumped out to fill him, heart rate escalating ever higher and brain sizzling 'round the edges like a fried egg. "Potter, yes! Fuck me! Fuck me!"

Coming down after, his ribcage still heaving, Draco reflected on the fact it didn't say quite all he wanted to: 'Fuck me!' But then again, he and Potter were shag buddies solely because it was convenient and safe, so…yes. 'Fuck me!' did the job nicely. Very appropriate, really. Better that way.

"Here, budge over—I've got you," Potter ordered him ten minutes later, in the lav, and Draco felt a washcloth trailing down his spine, hot and soapy. He shivered; still sensitive to Potter's every passing touch.

"You could enlarge this thing, you know," he remarked, but stepped back obediently anyway, one side fetching up against warm tile. "So it would fit a normal-sized Wizard."

"I am a normal-sized Wizard, Draco," Harry's voice was tinged with patient good humour. "You're just an outsized freak, all elbows and knees. And very sharp and pointy they are, too. Turn 'round."

"I, Potter, am perfectly in proportion for my size," Draco replied, and then sighed when Harry's fingers began moving across his scalp, massaging in the inferior shampoo he favoured. "Oh, but that's nice, though. Keep it up."

"Isn't it?" Potter chuckled. "You can do the same for me in a minute. Work on sharpening up your other senses, Draco. Feel your way, yeah?"

"Huh," Draco scoffed. "Hardly worth the trouble to learn, is it? Wednesday already. Be over soon enough."

Potter was silent as he rinsed away the shampoo, and Draco fancied he could literally feel them, the unspoken words trembling in the steamy air that separated them. But then there was a blunt finger poking gently at his hole, gradually working its way in, and he saw a flash of red lust instead. That was all right with him. Could do that again.

The finger was followed by another and then, soon enough, Potter's dick. Draco gulped as he spread his legs, swallowing hot, soap-tainted water and unwanted confessions.

Better rendered silent by good old reliable lust than be left babbling on of how he had dreamt of this, being with Potter day and night. He bowed his head instead, and felt Potter lick and suck away at the jut of his shoulder blade, and knew the moisture on his lashes and the hitch in his breath could just as easily be attributed to the heat and force of the shower spray.

"Let's just think about the here and now, Draco," Potter murmured, and Draco nodded blindly.


"I think that's it, Draco," Potter announced, and Draco heard the flutter of parchment shuffling itself into order and a QuikQuill scratching out the final report. Potter would Owl the Ministry Archives personnel tomorrow, after Draco's final appointment at Saint Mungo's, and they'd hand over a copy personally to Susan Bones, Head Research Librarian, as well. Tomorrow—Friday—he should be able to see normally again, and this uncomfortably intimate time spent at Potter's flat would be ended.

"Hungry? Want to go out?"

"And dump my food all over my trousers, Potter? I don't think so, thanks."

"We can go Muggle, Draco. Then it won't matter." Draco heard a soft pop and then there was an oblong object being pressed into his hand. "Take this; perfect excuse for wearing your meal."

"You're such an arse, Potter," Draco remarked. "What is this, anyway?"

"White cane," Potter had risen; Draco could tell by the shift in air currents. "Universal Muggle mark of blindness. Should work."

"Great," Draco replied acidly. "The Muggles can perceive me as disabled. Which I'm not, really. Not exactly according to Hoyle, is it? Potter, I don't think this a good—"

"Draco, I'm hungry and so are you. I don't feel like cooking and I don't want any more take-away. We've had enough of that this week. We're going out."

"You never listen, Potter," Draco was moved to point out. "We could Apparate to the Manor; the elves can put together a decent meal in minutes if you're so famished."

"I would like a chance to treat you, Draco," Potter had come closer; Draco could feel breath move against the whorl of his ear. His hair, tucked back so that it wouldn't tickle his jaw when he was leaning over the Society's record books, shifted, swinging forward with a silken rush. He could smell Potter's taste: a gust of their tea's Earl Grey blend and strawberry-infused butter and leftover spearmint from the morning. "You've been so very patient, despite everything," Potter sounded vaguely proud of him. "Hardly said a negative word, all this week, and I know you've been frustrated by it—"

"Potter, stop," Draco commanded, drawing back. Certainly he'd been frustrated, but more so because he couldn't gauge Potter's emotions the way he was accustomed: by noting the way Potter's lips moved or his eyes flashed. Potter was damned skilled at speaking volumes only with his vivid gaze and the way he carried his thin, athletic body. Draco had lost a whole week's worth of observing Potter up-close due to the Stygian curse and he wasn't best pleased. But…

"Just stop. There's no point in me complaining about what can't be helped, is there? I'm not that much of an arsehole," he pointed out impatiently, turning his chin sharply away. "No matter what you may think. Now, I suppose I should conjure up some dark glasses to go with this cane?"

"No," Potter murmured, and Draco felt Potter's hands settle onto his upper arms. Potter's weight followed, pressing Draco into the leather armchair Potter kept in his study. Draco felt the tufted buttons dig into his spine. Somewhere off in the near distance, the QuickQuill still scratched away, compiling facts and dry-as-dust data on the defunct Society. Another week's work complete, despite his own temporary setback. "No, Draco. You're not that. Not an arsehole, at all."